Chapter Text
“No fucking way!”
It's the first thing Mark thinks and shouts, his voice sounding high-pitched and squeaky, matching the laughter that follows from his so-called friends. Having been on HRT for two years he's surprised by how high his voice can still sound when he forces it like this. But it wasn't a conscious action, rather a loss of filter between his brain and his mouth, carried away by the shock of what he had just heard.
Never in his 21 years has he felt so offended. He looks at his two friends, sitting on the opposite side of the table they shared, and wonders if they have gone completely mad or if the bartender had spiked their drinks before they even had time to get drunk.
Otherwise, Eve and William were seriously out of their minds. They share laughs and knowing glances, gestures that make him snort and stretch the skin on his cheeks in exasperation.
“Why are you even laughing? This isn't funny! I'm not doing that!”
“Why not?” William asked, Mark huffs and resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the stupid question.
“Why not?” he repeated, incredulous, venom shot out in darts toward those who should be his best friends. “You're out of your minds.”
Because, why on Earth should Mark have a reason not to want to accept a game like that?
It wasn't how he had planned to spend the night. He wanted to have fun, have a good time free from college pressures. And he did, it was entertaining until Eve and William revealed a deceptive and unknown partnership, a plot against him on what was supposed to be his 21st birthday celebration.
It wasn't actually his birthday, though, but rather the celebration after it. He had turned 21 three weeks earlier, celebrating with a private party with his mother, father, and younger brother. William and Eve had also attended, It was a quiet party that ended early, as Oliver was still a teenager with classes to attend the next day. It was fine. Mark didn't really live there anymore, but in the university dorms sharing a room with William. Despite that, his parents still sat him down and made him feel like he was 18 again. And 13, when he got his period. And 15, when they caught him kissing Amber. And 17, when they let him get his driver's license... And basically any age because he had a pair of overprotective parents who were like hawks hunting their prey.
«Just be careful with alcohol.» He's sure Nolan and Debbie already know that Mark wasn't exactly a novice, but just like with STDs, and teen pregnancy prevention, and traffic accidents, and the horrible dangers that would await him in prison if he ever committed a crime, they never missed an opportunity to warn him about how dangerous the world was. There was no doubt why his father was a fiction writer. He sure can think of fatal outcomes. His mother? She was just a woman whose heart was too big. Every risk she could imagine was just that love seeking to protect him. And Mark had no problem with that, after all, they were his parents. But most of their warnings were things he was already aware of.
He had had a few experiences with alcohol. At 16, when William's boyfriend, who was two years older and a jock with a fake ID, bought them cheap beer, and at 18, when his own parents let him have a (small) glass of champagne. And Mark was now in college, not being 21 wasn't going to stop him from having a little fun at parties after exams. But those days of drinking on the sly were over. He was 21. He was a grown-up. Responsible, and had gone to the best (well, second best, they were three college students, they didn't have that much money) bar in town to have fun before worrying about college projects and courses again. And it was supposed to be fun.
Until William and Eve made him play that stupid game.
A twisted game of truth or dare where you could only choose dare, and they had been playing it since the first time they drank alcohol together. Getting naked, kissing someone, flirting. He knew the risks of playing this game. Mark had given his first blowjob because of those stupid dares. He wasn't a coward, but what they had asked for? That was so off limits!
“Sleep with him!?” He asked again, as if to give them a chance to repent, or to purify their souls. They both needed it. “This is insane.”
«Take the oldest man at the bar to bed.» Had been the specific dare. Mark felt his stomach turn upside down and his feet sink into burning lava. The malicious smile on his friends' faces didn't waver one bit.
May he be damned. Because when he turned to look at the bar, he didn't see a guy in his thirties, or thirty-five, or even someone approaching middle age, but a fucking old man in his late middle age, with receding hairline and bald spots on top of his head and hair entirely white with gray, wrinkled like a raisin with a face that looked like he was in a foul mood. And neither William nor Eve cared that this was his fate if he accepted the challenge, which Mark was NOT going to do.
...Although the old man wasn't ugly.
But that wasn't the point, it wasn't the point! Mark was not going to lower himself or lose his dignity like that.
“You scared?” Eve asks sarcastically. Mark looks at her with a slight blush on his cheeks, clearly the result of alcohol, not the furtive glance he gave the man across the bar. “I thought you liked older men.”
“Older, not ancient,” Mark says, snorting, coming to his senses and glaring at his friend. “And I don't like older men!”
“As if Daddy Issues weren't your last name.”
Mark scoffs and guides his gaze toward William. Okay, they both teamed up to make his life miserable. Fuck his life and their friendship.
“All right, enough with you two. I'm not going to do it. Eve, didn't you say you were going to introduce me to that friend of yours, Rex, tomorrow? I don't want to start a date with guilt.”
“You're not even going on a date, and he's not the best match. You're not together yet, which means you're free to fuck whoever you want.” Eve responds mechanically, emotionless as she takes a sip of her beer. To Mark, this is the look of a traitor. “But it's okay, you don't have what it takes.”
Oh.
Mark falls silent abruptly, pressing his lips together, his friend's triumphant glow completely changing the weight that the bar's erotic lighting had on them. He leans back in his seat as if to restrain himself, staring in amazement as his two friends, the people he trusts most in the world, take a low blow to appeal to his ego.
It wasn't going to work.
“I don't have what—” Mark chokes, his throat closing up, breaking his words. His fist hits the table and make the plates vibrate. “I can take that old shit to bed with me and make him cum until he blows dust out of his wrinkled balls!”
And maybe he was talking too loud. The table next to him is occupied by four ladies around his mother's age, wearing matching T-shirts and caps, as well as a suitcase that, judging by the logo, indicates they have just come from bowling, and they give him a reproachful look that only a mother can give. The waitress serving them has thick brown hair, glasses, and full lips, she gives him a curious look and an amused laugh. The rest of the diners look at him with disgust or ignore him completely. But Mark doesn't care, and so he blames it on the alcohol (and his bruised pride).
William and Eve look at each other and nod. A complicity has been forged, one that ignites a dangerous spark that causes a momentary emptiness in Mark's chest.
“Prove it,” they both say at once.
Mark frowns. Prove it? He didn't have to prove anything. He pushes his half-eaten order of fries and a burger forward until it's in front of the pair of treacherous snakes and kicks the table leg they were sitting on lightly with his foot. He stands up, planting his hands on the table and looking at them both with eyes sparkling with pure, hard, bitter pride and a defiance that was only so vivid in his father's eyes because, well, Mark Grayson did have daddy issues! This has nothing to do with that.
“Is this how you want to play?” He asks, for the last time, and the smirks on his friends' faces are all he needs. “Alright, then fucking watch me.”
They will pay for this. They will pay dearly. Mark walks away grumbling, hearing his friends' giggles growing fainter in the distance, each sound annoying him more and more. How dare they? Playing with his ego like that. Well, to hell with it, Mark had no problem showing them that this was nothing to him, and if that meant gargling with the joystick of an old, senile geezer, so be it.
Still lost in his thoughts, devising revenge against that pair of Judases, Mark barely notices when he's already in front of his target. His steps stopped just behind the older man, whose silver hair fell over his shoulders, welcoming him. Seeing that thin back, bent by the years, his stomach churned with panic again, finally realizing what he was doing. Could he do it?
Mark glances over his shoulder at his friends, both of whom gesture encouragingly, but even from a distance, Mark detects the underlying mockery in their expressions. In his mind, he can read what their lips are whispering: “Are you afraid?”
Mark was no coward.
He sighs, pulls up a chair at the bar right next to the old man, takes a deep breath, controls his body's true reactions, and fills himself with vigorous air. He has a grin on his lips, turns to face him, without pretense or modesty, and finally takes in the figure of the mysterious man.
He's undoubtedly a man well into middle age. There are wrinkles across his face and a slight dryness on his lips, a thin line drawn seriously across them. His skin is white, and though his eyes are closed, Mark would bet that he also has blue ones. Wearing a business suit, clearly tailor-made from the way it fits his body. Is skinny, but it seems more due to a natural complexion rather than due to malnutrition or disease, an elegant thinness, and hands with slight discolored spots on his skin. Finely trimmed nails, and a gold watch on his right hand. His fingers are long, ideal for playing with. No wedding ring. Internally, he curses, because that would have been his salvation. He could bat his eyelashes if he ever wanted a free drink, but he wasn't a home wrecker; he had too many daddy issues for that.
Mark shakes his head and huffs softly, the sound not disturbing the apparent serenity of the old man next to him, which only makes him focus more on him. His face is as thin as the rest of his body, with sunken cheeks and dark circles under pronounced wrinkles beneath his eyes. Despite his semi-baldness and obvious age, he's not that bad. There's something about the way he furrows his brow and covers his face with his hand. Mark can't even describe him as an old British charmer, because everything about the man screams USA. As if the little flag sewn onto his lapel wasn't enough of a clue. From his straight, slightly pointed nose to his thick white eyebrows, he has the imposing figure that one imagines could grace the cover of a magazine featuring the richest men of the moment. It's the kind of face you could only identify if you looked at the Senate seats, and Mark wouldn't be surprised if this guy worked for the government.
Most of the time, he doesn't fall into the stereotype of the 100% American man, but then again, there's just something, just something, that makes him strangely attractive.
A serious, straight face, carefully chiseled over time, whose only flaw rests on his right cheek. A large scar from the corner of his lips that reaches almost to his ear, covering half his face. It unbalances the symmetry of his face, and up close, it's uncomfortable to look at. Mark grimaces, but even so, it's not enough to discourage him from his mission. Besides, the rest of him isn't so bad. He clears his throat and, still lost in the details hidden behind the man's wrinkles, lets out a simple word, muffled like a croak.
“Hey,” he calls out in a clumsy, trembling voice.
He's completely ignored.
Mark tries again, a “Hi” slipping from his mouth in a stronger tone of voice, and the man finally looks at him. Mark was right, he has striking cerulean blue eyes, which contrast vividly with the maturity of the rest of his features. The old man stares at him and yet seems not to, Mark resists the urge to ask if he's too old for his senses to function properly and why he looks in his direction as if he were looking at a tiny, squeaky annoying dog, rather than finding the hunger of a wolf instigated on a sheep.
It's how he's used to being seen by guys his age.
The stranger quickly looks away. Mark's stomach knots with offense, shyness, and embarrassment. All right, he could acceptable that he's a little spoiled, but humility aside, he knows he's hot. He's used to receiving compliments, so blatant that border on discomfort. Silent but direct contempt is the last thing he expected to encounter when he sat down there. But he's not giving up.
He calls the bartender, an older, stocky guy with a beard that starts at his sideburns with no mustache, who seems to know the old man when they address each other by their first names. Mark sharpens his hearing to listen, and as he refills his glass with a strong, expensive-smelling liquor, he catches his name. Cecil.
Mark was going to sleep with Cecil that night.
When he hears his voice, he needs to pretend to cough as he chokes on his drink. He has just found another attractive feature in the old man, and Mark now knows that he will have that slight southern accent panting his name tonight. William and Eve go to the extreme of choosing the hotel where they will stay, two streets down, accessible enough for his card. He knows the reason behind that instruction. They want to be able to see him go in. Mark knows that those two would stay up until dawn watching the doors just to make sure Mark doesn't run away in the middle of the night without completing the challenge, but he doesn't think that's entirely a problem.
Mark listens to him talk, short words muttered under his breath with a tone of mild annoyance that tickles him inside. He has a masculine, confident tone, a firm voice that exudes confidence, a natural leadership that comes through in every sentence. It's not deep, it's not sharp, just as the man is not the tallest or the shortest, and he should with all his might downgrade him to the category of an average man, but Mark can't do it.
Nor can he describe what this magnetic charm is that has such a unique glow. It's... it's just...
Something.
An impression. That shakes him to the core.
And he was ignoring Mark again, excellent.
Mark spends the next few minutes trying to get his attention, all smiles and batting his eyelashes as he becomes more and more enveloped in this guy's orbit. Before he knows it, the scar that had repulsed him so much begins to become pleasing. It's frustrating not to know where the desire to raise his hand and touch comes from, or the willpower that breaks with each new sip of alcohol. Perhaps that's what's distracting him enough to ignore the warning signs that his subtle flirting is failing miserably, until Cecil himself finally approaches him, only not in the way he wanted.
“Can you leave me alone?” Mark stops his chatter immediately, leaving incoherent babbling to die away. He has the expression of a fawn caught in the headlights of a car. Except instead of headlights, it's icy eyes. “Isn't it past your bedtime or something?”
“Excuse me?”
“Excuse you?” Cecil ignores the offense Mark leaves hanging in the air, just as he has ignored every attempt at flirting for the past ten minutes. The man settles himself more comfortably in his seat so he can face him, one hand on the bar, his expression dark and exhausted. He looks annoyed with Mark. “A kid like you shouldn't even be out at this hour. Don't you have to go back to high school?”
Mark begins to wonder if his parents ever warned him about the consequences of hitting a senior citizen, and how satisfying it would be to smash this old man's face in.
“I'm not a kid,” he protests, defending himself with the most childish excuse. Cecil's laughter mentally returns him to a much poorer, much smaller state. He scrapes the wood of the stool he's sitting on.
“Are you even old enough to drink?”
“Of course I am!” Mark complains with an urge to stamp his feet on the floor, his brow furrowed and his face slightly tilted as he answers. “I'm 21. I'm not a child.”
Mark decides to omit the part where he's only been 21 for three weeks, the important thing is to make it clear that he's not a kid, he's a man.
Cecil laughs in his face, raises his elbow, downs his drink, gasps as the burning sensation passes through his throat and tenses his jaw, tilting his face to show the straight line of his grimace, pointing to his right cheek, which is fully exposed, the stretch covered from the corner of his lips to his earlobe by the grotesque scar. Under the orange lighting of the bar, it is a captivating scene.
“Kid, this scar is older than you.”
Oh.
Mark doesn't have the courage to respond to that. He has nothing in his stomach, not even alcohol in his system, when the realization of those words settles in his body like a veil that is quickly stripped away, leaving him naked. Hearing that shouldn't have sent an electric shock through him that made every hair on his body stand on end. Every. Hair. And surely the characteristic tingling under his belly shouldn't have appeared just because he was directly being called a kid, but damn it...
Maybe he was sick in the head too.
This man must be in his fifties, when Mark was born, he was probably already well into his thirties. Imagining Cecil as a young man shakes him almost as much as the exciting idea of sleeping with old Cecil. Looking at him like that, almost straight out of an advertisement for the “traditional” beauty that the media promotes for the average American man, he could almost bet that his hair used to be blond.
Cecil teases him again about his sudden paleness, Mark downs the rest of his drink and feels his cheeks burn, this time not entirely blaming the alcohol.
What is it about this man that is so hypnotic?
“Listen, Bark.”
“My name is Mark.” He corrects him, not even bothering to get annoyed because, at least, the man paid attention to half of what he said if he could remember his name.
“Whatever," Cecil waves a hand in front of him, then points accusingly, but beyond that, there is also a soft, protective warmth shining out of him. Oh, damn it, Mark is melting with that look. "Go bother someone else, kid. I'm way too old for you. I'm sure there are plenty of guys your age here who'll be interested. I'm sure as hell there are some older men who'll give you what you're looking for any time of day if that's what you're into, but not me, not someone this old. Go away, kid."
...Fuck.
Screw the challenge, Mark needs this man.
In that deep way of speaking, that layer of sweet concern, or in the slight scent of skin cinnamoned by time, he wants to feel his liquor-scented breath collide with his neck. He barely realizes how he's about to get up and leave him when Mark freezes there, sitting while staring at him like a fool because, for God's sake! It's as if he's mixed his daddy issues and his need for attention, the size of his ego and the desire for eyes to look at him as if they care about him, in a blender, driving Mark's desire to get up and squeeze his arm before he walks away.
“Wait,” he calls out with the last glimmer of hope, Cecil has a weary attitude ready to reject him, but the annoyance doesn't get in the way of that air of mature wisdom. “Please, I need this.”
“An old man's dick?” Mark is surprised by the boldness of his words, Cecil doesn't show the same embarrassment that he does. “Kid, just really, leave me alone.”
“N-No, it's not that.” A little bit, yes, but that wasn't the main thing. Stronger than desire, Mark's pride twists in his chest at the possibility of failing the dare. He can still feel his friends' mockery from the other table. Not believing he's stooped so low. “...My friends made me accept a challenge, and I have to have sex with you to complete it.”
Cecil snorts, but then a soft, frustrated grin appears on his lips, one that Mark wants to run his fingers over. The older man glances surreptitiously over his shoulder and shakes his head.
“Leave me out of your stupid jokes.”
“It's not a joke,” Mark pulls harder on the sleeve of his suit, pouting. “It's a dare, stupid, I know, but please, please. If I don't do it, they'll never let me hear the end of it.”
He doubts it's his words, but perhaps it's the pathetic tone of his voice, sounding like a plea that works, for a brief moment, because Cecil notices him. Mark gives it his best puppy-dog eyes and prays that all men are the same inside, and that deep down, the old man is also burning with lustful excitement at the thought of fucking someone so young.
“Please?” He asks again. “Listen, it's just sex, at most you get to fuck someone young, what have you got to lose?”
Cecil hesitates, it's the crack Mark needs, he pouts more and lets Cecil's moral compass run its course. The old man narrows his eyes, and Mark puts more effort into his “good boy, but not so good depending on what you want me to do” look, straightens his posture, and...
He clicks his teeth, growling like someone who has accepted defeat.
Mark smiles even before hearing his answer.
“Fine,” he mutters through clenched teeth, and Mark puffs out his chest, totally proud of himself. “I have a car, we can go to...”
“Oooh, no. Actually, it has to be at the hotel two blocks back. You know it? I can't really remember its name, but it has to be there so my friends can see that I completed the challenge.”
Mark says this with the biggest smile he can muster, ignoring Cecil's complaint and exasperated sigh. The guy had already agreed, and something told him he wasn't the type to back out. That's okay, neither is Mark. It could be something they have in common.
“Fine. Whatever.” Cecil says, somewhat exhausted by the conversation and the ridiculous situation he's gotten himself into. He leaves money on the bar, and what a nice touch, he pays for Mark's drinks without asking, leaving a tip as well. And now, it's him who wraps his hand around Mark's wrist as they walk towards the exit, with Mark making victory signs to his friends at the table who look at him with a mixture of amazement and amusement. Cecil walks to the exit, pushing the door open, then stops and inspects him from head to toe. Despite the slight contempt perpetually tattooed on his brow, Mark begins to sense the hunger hidden behind his gaze. “You better be worth it.”
Mark bites his lower lip, whispers internally same here and then lets himself be led like a dog in the moonlight, his fingers intertwined with those of the older man, on the way to the hotel, his breath turning into cold humor under the freezing late hours in the city.
He can't back down now, and of course there was an excitement tugging at his nerves as he taste how is to be desired by someone like this, but his expectations are not really that high. If he can at least get an orgasm out of this old man that rates at least a 4 on his scale, then he'll be moderately satisfied. With that face, he just hopes he doesn't fuck that badly.
He won't admit to being excited to find out, but the broth of excitement building under his belly certainly does.