13. Data/Marshall

THIRTEEN

Data/Marshall

The pile of stuff almost seems insurmountable, but then I remind myself of the platitude I uttered to Marsh: one bite at a time. I'm definitely the faster, more efficient packer between us, but it wouldn't be fair to have this fun game be a complete blowout.

I start a box and leisurely fill it with half-burned candles. I suppose I could throw them out, but they still smell good. I do love a quality handmade candle. Underneath them, I find a familiar Moleskine notebook with Marsh's name inscribed on the cover. His first joke journal. A present from me for our first Hanukkah together.

He used to jot down ideas on scraps of paper and then hoped he didn't lose them. I encouraged him to consolidate. He carried it everywhere, as it fit in his back pocket. I'd find him around our apartment and the cabin, smiling to himself as he scribbled something down. A first step to a new career. It would be a colossal waste of time to go down memory lane seeing as we're in such a time crunch to pack. But some treasures demand our attention.

His penmanship resembles a fourth grader's and to make it worse, he insists on writing in all caps. As I flip it open, I notice the pages contain a plethora of ideas for jokes and sketches. He used to try his material out on me, his "toughest audience," as a litmus test. If it made me laugh, he starred the entry.

Just as I'm methodical with numbers, he's methodical with words, arranging and rearranging sentences to hit the punchline right, organizing material so topics flow into each other. There is a science to telling good jokes, and he is constantly experimenting. He works hard at what he does, but unlike pouring fourteen hours a day into a job he abhors, this is his passion.

When I turn around to show Marsh the journal, I notice he's actually taking the game seriously. He's a one-man assembly line, filling his box up, his arms almost robotic in their laser focus. He tapes the box shut, pushes it against the wall, and collects his cookie reward from the stairs. That's when I notice there's three boxes against his wall.

Marsh - 3. Data - 0.

"Delicious," he says, winking at me, his mouth full of Mallomar.

Oh, hell no. I can't let Marsh eat the entire box of Mallomars. Neither his cholesterol nor my pride can handle it.

I slip the joke journal in my back pocket and get to work. If he's a packing assembly line, I'm a packing Terminator. I pack as feverishly as I can, leaving no stone of clutter unturned in my half of the basement. I don't have time to fall into nostalgia traps. Hasta la vista, memories.

"Question," Marsh calls from his side of the basement. "What tastes better: victory or Mallomars?"

"I'll let you know when I win," I say, pushing a box against my basement wall and racing to the stairs for my reward. I take a bite and smile at Marsh, showing off the half-chewed graham cracker and chocolate in my teeth.

Who's twelve now? Me.

I open a new box and shove who-knows-what inside. We can deal with it back in the city .

Time speeds by as the clutter of the basement is replaced by neat stacks of boxes against the walls. I find an old radio and turn on the local station. "All music, all the time" is their tagline, which really means they have no budget for anything more than a randomized playlist of ancient mellow hits. Yes, this was a waste of precious packing time, but we need background noise. Marsh takes the game so seriously, he's not making his usual quips.

I hear the rustle of the Mallomars box. Marsh pops another one into his mouth.

"There's only one left," he says. "And I'm almost done with my side."

"Your items were less bulky and easier to pack," I say with a smile. "Rigged."

"See if there's a participation trophy in your stack that you can cry into." Marsh rubs his fist against his cheeks, mimicking a crybaby.

"I demand an audit of your box to make sure they're sufficiently packed."

"We're supposed to be packing, not bantering, Marshall." He wiggles his eyebrows at me, knowing how that turns me on, but I refuse to be distracted.

I zero in on my final box, my mind locking into focus as if I'm staring at my four screens at work. I pack with such ferocity my arms begin to tire, but I can't stop. I won't stop. In relationships, most times you want to see your partner succeed. But then there are times when you want to kick his perfectly plump ass. Lovingly, of course.

I scramble to throw in books, posters, a picnic set, an old pack of gum that I should toss but the garbage is too far away. Excitement lights my body on fire when I fill my box. I launch the tape over the top, pressing it shut, as I hear Marsh jump up from his spot.

I shove the box against the wall, leap up, and dash to the stairs, the finish line in my sights. Our hands jam into the Mallomar box at the same time.

"I got here first," he says.

"But my hand was on the Mallomar first."

We keep our fingers wrapped around the treat. No tug of war. We don't want this delicate creature to break apart.

And then Marsh, in a most unsportsmanlike move, tickles my side.

I let out a yelp but manage to hold on to my precious prize.

And I, in an equally unsportsmanlike move, whack him on the dick. I'm laughing so hard from the tickling and the adrenaline, tears pool at my eyes. Marsh doubles over, loosening his grip on the Mallomar. I jump off the stairs. This time, it's my turn for a victory dance.

"Cheater." He rushes at me, laughing just as hard, face all red.

He pulls me close, tries to grab my reward, but I won't let go. I evade his grasp as we find ourselves shuffling backward. I trip over a rogue ski and fall back into the pile of cushions for our outdoor furniture. Marsh tumbles on top of me.

Miraculously, the Mallomar stays intact. It's me who's on the verge of falling apart.

His lips hang inches from my face, his eyes two deep pools entrancing me, his body heat searing into my flesh.

"I win," I gasp out. I'm about to cram the Mallomar in my mouth in a surge of victory, when Marsh grabs my wrist. Silence blankets the room and my heart beats so fast I worry it might escape my chest. The mood in the basement shifts instantly.

"If you're going to eat the last Mallomar, you gotta savor it," he says, a raspy undertone in his voice. He opens my hand, his grip firm, my fingers powerless to resist.

Marsh takes the confection and hovers it above my face. He stares directly into my eyes, producing more fire than our stove could ever provide.

"Smell the sweet chocolate shell. Savor it," he commands.

I lift my head up to sniff, the scent of chocolate swirling up my nose, filling my head with pleasure.

"What do you smell?"

"Chocolate. Sweet. Tasty." Breath rattles in my lungs.

"Good," he says. "Lick it." I open my mouth and he pulls the cookie away. "Just the tip."

The chocolate-covered marshmallow part is shaped like a dome that comes to a point at the top. Marsh used to joke that Mallomars have nipples.

My tongue slides out slowly and slithers up to the Mallomar in his hand. The tip of my tongue swirls around the pointed end of the cookie, much like how I would on Marsh's nipple. The sweetness mixes with his warm breath as he lowers the cookie to give me better access.

Like tractor beams, his eyes have not left my gaze. They light up as I lick. While the chocolate melts under the heat of my tongue, my cock hardens in my pants.

"How's the chocolate?"

"So good," I gasp out.

"Lick around the base."

My dick throbs at his order and I slick my tongue around the rounded dome, covering every inch, letting it melt on my taste buds. The sugary hit of marshmallow floods my senses. I lick across the dome, sucking on it gently, hitting the tip again, showing Marsh exactly what I'd do to his dick, my restraint and resolve dissolving as fast as this chocolate shell.

His bottom lip quivers as he studies me. There's a sparkle in Marsh's eyes as a low rustled groan vibrates in my chest and escapes my parted lips. He brushes the Mallomar over my top lip, then my bottom lip, then back inside my mouth.

I moan as the sweetness hits my tongue again .

"You know, you really whacked me hard before. You should apologize."

"All's fair in love and packing wars," I snark back, but his gaze doesn't falter. "Sorry."

"Why don't you make it feel better?" He guides my hand to his crotch, where his cock is a fucking hammer trying to escape. I groan with a guttural want as my fingers caress over his bulge.

He circles the Mallomar around my lips with agonizing slowness as I slip my hand into his sweatpants and grip his fat cock. Even though I enjoyed it yesterday, waiting still feels unbearable.

Marsh unleashes groans above me as I stroke him. The heat from his dick warms my palm and I moan into the Mallomar that dips into my mouth. My other hand shoots into his pants.

I jerk him harder, faster, lost in a spell of sugar and heat. I lift my head and take the whole Mallomar and the fingers holding it into my mouth. Sucking. Swallowing. Savoring every morsel of sweetness and Marsh.

"Fuuuuck," Marsh lets out in a low, blissed-out moan. He fucks his cock into my grip and my breath hitches as his stomach presses me down in place.

"I'm gonna come. Fuck, I'm gonna come."

I nibble his skin in my mouth, his thick fingers on my tongue, my breath unable to keep up, lust coursing through my veins.

I bite into the cookie as hot jets of cum blast over my fist.

"Data, fuck." Marsh's face is a knot of red, eyes rolling back as he unloads.

He holds himself up, although I can tell he wants to tumble onto me.

"How does it taste?" Marsh asks, catching his breath.

"Amazing. But it needs one more thing." I pull my hands from his sweatpants and take the Mallomar from him. My cum-soaked fingers coat the cookie. I take another bite, relishing the icing he's given the treat. The bitterness mixes perfectly with the sweetness. Marsh's jaw flops open in shock and lust.

"Eat it." I place the last bite into his mouth.

Our eyes lock as we chew and swallow. My entire body tingles with satisfaction as the last bit of Mallomar-Marsh deliciousness goes down my throat.

"Delicious."

"Hmm." Marsh rolls off me. He looks down at the soaked spot on his sweatpants and chuckles to himself. "If this is my last Mallomar, it'll be one I'll never forget," he says, licking the last crumbs from his fingers.