You're Up Awfully Late {Septiplier}

Just for the Intention

Jack shuffles backstage, the guard on duty much more lax than the one he encountered yesterday. He tugs on his sleeves nervously, looking for the familiar fluff of black hair. He didn't think far enough to text Mark, wasn't brave enough to even give him a warning of his arrival.

He catches a familiar voice from across the way, trotting towards the deep sound. His fingers fiddle with the pendant around his neck, but he forces himself to let it go, hide it beneath his shirt, preparing himself to go without. He swallows hard, cramming his hands into his pockets.

He turns a corner and catches sight of Mark. His heart jumps into his throat, nerves firing in absolute panic. He's with a stagehand, who's fiddling with a small microphone.

Jack glances at his watch, finding himself far earlier than the lunchtime deadline. He turns, hoping to slip away before he's spotted. He won't demand to talk before Mark's panel again, won't put that stress on his dear friend.

"Jack!" Mark calls from across the room. Jack pauses, cursing his neon green hair, before spinning around to face his friend. Mark waves him over.

Trying to pretend his stomach isn't churning his breakfast into butter, Jack approaches Mark with a small smile, a bit forced. The American is smiling broadly, as if he never expected the Irishman to make an appearance.

"It's a bit early, isn't it?" Mark asks, glancing at his watch.

"A bit," Jack offers with a small chuckle. He won't dare admit he only gave himself enough time because he thought it would take that long to get the nerve to call Singe. "But, I'm just going to go sit down. You seen busy."

"I've got time," Mark insists, glancing at the stagehand for confirmation. The black clothes woman makes no indication she is listening nor that she knows anything aside from her immediate task. She secured the receiver to Mark's belt, disappearing wordlessly when she is finished.

The guilt from dismissing Jack yesterday settles fresh in Mark's heart. He knows he should be there for his friends, that their problems don't come at his convenience. The image of panic in those blue eyes is still fresh in his mind, a stab of shame at the memory of his own harsh words. He should be better to his friends.

"Oh, no, that's okay," Jack offers, already partially turned for an escape. His heart has calmed at the idea of postponing their conversation, having just a little longer to figure out what to say. "I'll talk to you afterwards. It's really not-"

"Jack?!" a voice interrupts, sounding far more distant. A set of curtains ruffles before a brown haired man appears from the black sheets, smiling broadly.

"Dan?" Jack calls back, equal parts excited to see him and terrified to stay next to Mark.

"Jack!" Dan calls, throwing his arms around the Irishman in a tight hug. "I expect to see you here!"

"I wasn't planning on it, but you know, stuff happens," he offers lamely, squeezing the Brit with the same force.

Dan releases him, smile never falling for his lips. "You've gotta be in the panel!" Dan insists. "There's gonna be so much talent on stage! I'm sure I could get you a chair!"

"Oh, uh, that's okay," Jack denies quickly, awkward. "I won't want to cause any problems. I'm not even supposed to be back here, you know."

"Nonsense!" Dan decides, no indication that he can sense the green haired man's distress. "Plus, you have to! For Mark! He's the only big gamer that made it to his PAX. Poor guy is going to be up there all by himself."

Jack opens his mouth to deny again, but Dan has already turned, "I'll go find someone to bring you a mic!"

The brown haired man disappears through the curtain, leaving only Jack and Mark. The Irishman's heart beating too fast to ignore, he wipes the sweat forming on his forehead, fingers drumming nervously against his thigh.

"Why don't you want to do the panel?" Mark asks softly, brown eyes locked on the fidgety Irishman.

"I just," Jack sighs, thoughts not ready to become words, "I have to talk to you. And I don't want to pretend like everything is okay anymore. I just want to figure things out between us."

Mark nods but says nothing as Dan returns with another stage hand. The black clothed man gets to work on Jack, securing the microphone to his pants and winding it up to catch his voice.

"Hey, Dan," Mark calls, earning the attention of the man. "You think you could give us like, I don't know, ten minutes for a quick talk?"

Dan checks his watch, frowning. "You'll be late to the panel."

"I know," Mark replies. "But I would really, really appreciate it."

Dan glances at the time again, tossing the request around in his head. "Yeah, okay. I can stall them for a few minutes."

"Thanks, buddy," Mark smiles. "I owe you one."

Jack's heart returns to his throat, anxiety squeezing his lungs. He takes a deep breathe, trying to pretend like he isn't suffocating in perfectly good air. His stomach does flips, all thoughts of his grand speech to Mark gone.

The stage hand finishes with him a bit too quick, leaving when his job is complete. Dan looks at his watch again, jumping at the time. "Ten minutes!" he reminds them as he strides away, disappearing again.

Mark glances around the backstage, waving for Jack to follow him. The American takes them through the maze of set pieces, dunking behind curtains and sound equipment to a quiet corner, far enough from the commotion of PAX to make their meeting feel private.

"What's on your mind?"