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"Okay, okay, I have a good one: Why are the skeletons down in the mines so calm?"
"I don't know," Clint says, looking wary.
"Because nothing gets under their skin," Marcos says, grinning, and Clint groans even as he chuckles. "Come on, that was hilarious!"
"You have a terrible sense of humour," Clint says, but his cheeks hurt from laughing and his chest has never felt so light. The stars seem brighter than he's ever remembered seeing, glinting above them.
"Incorrect. No one appreciates the classics as much as I do," Marcos says, and spins on the ball of his foot as they reach the junction in the path, the mass of his bronze-coloured curls bouncing as he settles. The track to the farm stretches out to the right, the lonely trail towards town to the left, the bus from the city already puttering off down the tunnel behind them. "Well. I had a lovely evening, Mister Blacksmith. You can take me out any time," he says, his back to the farm.
Clint grins, and then his face falls. "How will I know...I mean, when it's Emily...how will I know how it went?"
Well," Marcos says, looking up to the stars above as he thinks. "Emily's very nice, so she would tell you if she had a good time." His gaze drops, landing on Clint, and suddenly there's a curious glint in his eyes.
"And then, if it went really well, she would probably stand very close, like this," Marcos says, stepping so near that Clint suddenly thinks he can feel the heat of him. The whole of his front goes very warm, anyway. "And she would tilt her head up, like this," he says, angling his chin in a way that makes Clint look at his eyes (they're very dark, Clint realises, but there's a hint of green he's never noticed before, like shards of jamborite catching the light), and then his mouth.
"And then, she would do this," Marcos says, soft as a whisper, except several seconds pass and Marcos does absolutely nothing and Clint looks back to his eyes to find himself being studied close and intense. His stomach does something strange, swooping and heavy at the same time like molten iridium being poured into a mould.
Something flickers in Marcos' expression, a fleeting ember that Clint can't catch, and then Marcos pushes up on his toes to close the couple of inches between them. He presses his warm lips to the very corner of Clint's mouth and Clint suddenly feels like metal pulled from the furnace and twisted into a new shape, pinned and tense and glowing.
Marcos pulls away and looks, for the first time that evening, something less than entirely confident.
"Like that," he says, and swallows. "Good luck with Emily," he says, stepping back, and a moment later his grin reappears bright and dazzling.
"Emily," Clint says, slightly dazed. "Right."