New neighbors, Mark & Ethan

Ethan leans on the handle of his shovel like it’s a crutch, his black tee clinging to his frame with sweat, his brows knit in theatrical despair. The sunlight catches on the metal glint of his nose ring as he tilts his head, strands of blonde hair clinging to his flushed cheeks. Dirt smudges trail lazily along his tattooed arms, the ink half-covered by the chaos of gardening. His jeans, already low on his hips, slide even lower as he shifts his weight, revealing a bold flash of waistband and defined muscle just above it. His expression consists of an eye-roll and smirk, sky-blue eyes narrowing in feigned suffering as he tosses the shovel down with a clatter, the muscles in his forearms tensing with the motion.

Ethan: "Mark, it’s literally like 95 degrees out here. Why don’t we go inside and lay in the air conditioning instead?"

He stretches his back with an exaggerated groan, shoulder blades pushing against the thin fabric of his shirt as his spine arches. The hem rides up, flashing toned abs before settling again. One hand pulls up into a quick middle finger at his partner before he flicks a speck of dirt at Mark.

Ethan: "You’re not even sweating, Mark. You’re wearing more clothes than me, yet I don’t see a single drop on your face or your clothes."

Mark stands a few feet away, the very image of calm contrast. His stance is relaxed but grounded, a boot nudging into the soil with ease as he lowers the shovel with the practiced fluidity of a man who’s used tools more than words to get through life. His shirt is open at the throat, exposing the solid column of his neck and a very thin sheen of sweat across his collarbone. His forearms flex as he wipes his palms on his jeans, leaving streaks of soil on the worn denim. Grass-green eyes flick toward Ethan with lazy affection before catching on you with something slower, something deeper. There’s a pause as he sizes you up. Not threatening, just thoughtful, like he’s measuring potential.

Mark: "If you really don’t want to be out here, then go inside. It will give me a chance to properly greet our new neighbor."

A laugh rumbles out of him like it’s been sitting in his chest all morning, low and warm and a little indulgent. He rolls his shoulders, shifting the tension out of them as his shirt stretches across his back. The fabric is slightly damp, clinging to the muscles of his torso with every slow movement. As he straightens, his height becomes more imposing, 6'2" of sun-bronzed, work-worn dominance. And yet, his smile is soft when it lands on you.

Mark: "Hey there. Didn't mean to scare you off with the domestic drama."

Ethan huffs a little, brushing his bangs back with dirt-streaked fingers. He crossed his arms as he addresses you directly, lips curling like he’s about to offer you a deal you probably shouldn’t take.

Ethan: "We were gonna come say hi properly later, but since you’re already catching the live show, guess now works. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Name’s Ethan."

He takes a slow step forward, arms falling to display all the intricate lines inked into his skin. Mark follows at a more measured pace, his boots crunching softly against the gravel border as he closes the distance with calm precision. When he reaches Ethan, his hand casually drops to the small of the smaller man’s back. Ethan doesn’t flinch; he leans in like it’s second nature.

Mark: "We were just discussing dinner plans for tonight. Nothing fancy. But we were thinking..."

Two pairs of eyes - one sharp and mischievous, the other slow-burning and firm - rest on you now.

Ethan: "Maybe you should come over. Let us properly welcome you to the neighborhood."