Work Text:
There’s muffled footsteps above his head. He’s in the kitchen- somewhere.
A drawer closes, a cabinet slams shut. Dust drifts down from the ceiling. Petey’s wearing- it’s a little scratchy. A red and blue robe. Naked underneath. Wonders distantly if that’s gonna bother the guy upstairs.
Mark, obviously.
He’s got a big pair of boots that stomp against the stairs. Up and down, down and up, it’s kinda like he’s constantly coming down to check Petey hasn’t snuck out, or seized, or trashed the place.
His feet are fucking freezing. It’s fucking freezing.
The basement door creaks open again, and thunk thunk thunk, Mark hovers near the bottom and looks at him cautiously. “I don’t have any.”
“What?”
His brow furrows. “You asked for raisins.”
“Oh.” Petey says. Scratches his jaw, loudly. “Uh. Don’t worry about it.”
“Right.” Mark Scout says. “I don’t- really have anything. If I’m being honest.”
The overhead light flickers, faintly. Petey watches a moth bump into it.
Mark descends another step, cautious, like he’s approaching a wild animal. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Never been better.” Petey says. “You got a phone?”
“Why?”
“Order something in.”
.
Something turns out to be pretty decent pizza. He lives on the other side of town, so it’s not his usual haunt. He chews on the crust and watches Mark pick at it, like he’s an old, haggard, hen, pecking at scraps.
“Not a fan?” Petey asks.
Mark looks up. “Hm? Uh, yeah. It’s fine.”
He doesn’t know what to do with that. “You always this ambivalent?”
Mark drops his slice of pizza. Wipes his hands on a napkin, drawing out the moment before he’s very clearly about to say something fussy. “You keep mentioning a supply closet.”
Petey blanks.
Mark just shrugs. Starts tearing off the corner of the napkin, a long strip that he then rolls into itself.
“Right.” Petey says, and scratches his head. “I don’t… know. Probably important.”
Mark raises an eyebrow, then drops his elbows onto his knees. Leans forward, a casual series of motions he’s never seen in him before. Unrestrained and comfortable.
It suits him. Everything else doesn’t.
“Seemed important.” Mark hedges, and scans Petey’s face, curiously.
Petey shrugs. “If I had a simple answer, we wouldn’t be here in the first place.”
.
Next morning, he wakes with a pounding headache, and a mouth that is unbelievably dry. The visual static of his computer flickers through the air, random numbers layered into the ceiling. The sound of Dylan fidgeting with a pen drifts through his left ear.
Petey gets up with a wheezing groan, and stumbles over to the bathroom. Smacks around for the light, and then he’s sticking his open mouth beneath the faucet. Ice-cold water stings his mouth, runs down his jaw and trickles down his throat.
There’s no evidence of last night’s pizza party. Not even the little tower of bottle caps they’d made on the edge of the table. Wiped clean, from what he can tell. There’s a now distinct lack of dust.
There’s more creaking upstairs, which leads Petey up the staircase on unsteady feet. Still freezing, still trying to keep the robe tied tight.
His feet pad against the carpet, rounds the corner to see 12:04 displayed on the microwave clock. There’s a loud sound from the garage, and then a door swings open.
Mark’s wearing a dark green sweater, grayish pants, and stumbling out of his snow boots. “Oh.” He says, giving Petey a look, brow furrowed beneath his shaggy hair. He hasn’t shaved. “I uh..” He points a thumb backwards.
Petey cuts him off. “Thought you were going to work?”
Mark looks almost guilty. He’s missed that look. Petey raises an eyebrow, crosses his arms over his chest. “Playing hooky?”
Mark rolls his eyes, and moves past him into the kitchen.
There’s a bag in his hand, and it thumps onto the counter top, half spilling over when it slouches.
Petey hovers, peering down into the bag. “What’s that?”
“Trail mix.” Mark says, immediately putting things away. “You got all..” He pauses, then looks up.
Whatever he sees in Petey’s expression, leads him to add- “You got really upset about the raisin thing.”
Petey huffs, then smiles the more he thinks about it. Then he’s actually just laughing, both hands flat on the counter while he shakes his head. Faintly, he hears a huff of amusement from across the kitchen.
When Petey looks up, Mark’s got this crooked, slight grin. Kind of looks like himself. Like he’s about to throw a ball of paper at his head.
“I don’t even fuckin’ like raisins.” Petey tells him. And then they’re both laughing.
.
Some time later, he’s brushing his teeth in the upstairs bathroom, wearing sweatpants that are too short, and a t-shirt slightly too tight. He needled Mark into handing over a pair of socks, and they’re, for whatever reason, neon orange. Mark shrugged, and told him buy his own if he didn’t like them.
Mark’s hovering. Scrolling on his phone in the hallway, Petey can hear the low volume of whatever video he’s watching playing through the open door.
He eventually spits out the toothpaste, and wipes his mouth dry. When he turns, Mark’s phone is gone, and he’s just staring.
“What?”
Mark leans against the doorway, still looking at him.
If he was feeling like himself, he’d give Mark crap for checking him out so blatantly, but that headache’s coming back, and he’s aware of the hypocrisy in that statement anyway.
“Petey.” Mark’s outie asks. “What is supply distribution?”
“Not here.”
He sticks his hands in his pockets, and stands half in the doorway, letting Mark go first. Their shoes echo in the hall, and Petey leads him to the double doors. “Any stationery your heart desires.” He says, and Mark gives him a flat look.
“Petey?”
He blinks. Looks down at Mark, who’s now only inches away from his face. Shiny brown eyes looking up at him. Just like himself.
“Where do you keep going?” Mark asks, eyes looking between his.
Petey just shakes his head. He moves past Mark, and stumbles down to the kitchen, pulling out a glass. He chugs some water, feeling the icy sharp burn of mint in his mouth.
.
Mark doesn’t relent. He’s an annoying little fucker when he wants to be. He stands in the doorway, while Petey’s just looking at the damn fish.
“You gonna keep hovering?”
Mark freezes. It makes his heart hurt. It’s that same damn expression, and he knew he’d miss the guy, but shit. This is almost impossible. Mark just stands there for a second, then pops a raisin into his mouth. “The fish are fine. You can’t feed them more.”
“I wasn’t-”
Petey sighs, and moves away from the tank. “I know I’m out of it, but I’m not that out of it.”
He rounds the edge of the couch, sits down with a grunt.
Mark’s expression is flat, pops another raisin into his mouth. “Really?”
“God.” Petey groans. “I’m glad I was the boss down there, and not you.”
Mark’s mouth ticks up again, and he kind of shifts on his feet.
He wets his lower lip, then asks, half curious, half something else, almost entertained. “You have to reprimand me a lot?”
Petey raises an eyebrow. Makes a show of getting himself comfortable on the couch, neon socks kicked out ahead of the spotless coffee table. “Early on, sure. But you mellowed out. Learned how to listen.”
Mark got very good at listening. And so did Petey, honestly. They got up to a lot.
Mark chews on another raisin, then pads back into the kitchen. He closes up the bag of trail mix and neatly puts it away.
When he comes back into the living room, he slumps down onto the other end of the couch, a sigh of exhaustion leaving his mouth.
He rubs his jaw, fingers prodding against the shadow of facial hair growing in. “You… wanna watch something?”
“Like?”
Mark shoots him a glance, kind of genuinely curious, kinda like he’s being a dick. “Do you.. know any movies?”
Petey tugs the remote from his grasp with an eye roll.
They don’t really watch anything specific. He gets caught up in half a documentary, then the commercials keep him occupied, and then they start watching whatever comes up in Mark’s recommended feed. Aquarium care, history lectures, Russian literature.
Somehow, he loses track of more time. Empty beers get lined up neatly on the edge of the table, with Mark reaching forward to precariously balance another bottle-cap, shooting an offended look when Petey snorts.
Mark takes another swig of beer, then speaks with that shitty, snarky lilt to his voice, pointing out some inaccuracy, because every version of him is a smartass, apparently.
There’s less flickering, more aligning. Kind of like an overlay, until the images converge- and Petey feels firmly planted on his ass in the present moment.
Eventually, they’re laughing about something. He can’t even remember what, but Mark’s arm presses into his, the two of them slouched into the couch, warm, and familiar.
Still, Petey’s barely used to it. The darkness, the late hour, the warmth of soft fabric against his skin- and the mirror image of the man beside him.
He likes to think he knows Mark pretty damn well- likes to think he’s getting the hang of deciphering this one, too. The expression on his face looks like he wants to say something, but doesn’t know how.
It might be the beers, the lack of actual food other than raisin themed trail-mix to go with it, but Mark glances over at Petey with brown, glassy eyes, while an ad plays in the background.
It’s kind of mid-laugh, them drifting through the topics so fast Petey forgets what they were even talking about in the first place. Something about college. Something about closets. “Did.. we ever..?”
Petey lowers the beer from his mouth. “Why?” He asks dubiously, mainly because he’s got no clue how to navigate this. Wonders if the run-off is how he knows. The same thing Petey felt standing outside his sister's house the other night. The things he felt listening to that tape he snuck out.
Mark scans his eyes, hazily. Petey does the same, and the air feels thick. Mark’s throat bobs, and there’s something else he wants to say- but doesn’t know how to say it.
Petey turns his head after another few seconds. He sits up- places his empty beer onto the coffee table, clinking it into his last.
When he settles back, Mark’s eyes move up, heavy in the motion. Almost guilty. Almost waiting.
Sitting back against the couch only presses their thighs together firmer, and Petey turns. It’s a risk, but he’s willing to take the chance.
He raises him arm along the back edge of the couch, watching Mark’s face as he grazes the longest strands of his shaggy hair with his fingers. A line across his nape, faint enough for Mark to pull away from. He doesn’t.
Mark stays motionless, his face moving so eerily similar to his other self - slightly off guard, his cheeks tinged pinkish in the low light.
They’re both drunk, clearly, but there’s no sense of discomfort or wariness in Mark’s eyes. Curiosity, shock, maybe.
Petey just goes for it, at that point. Slides his hand fully into Mark’s dark, messy hair.
Mark’s eyes immediately flutter, and his throat bobs.
“Thanks for buying that trail mix.” Petey jokes, and Mark’s mouth moves up in an amused smile, his head still tilted back- chasing the hand Petey lazily moves through his hair.
He’s like a dog, in that way. Loves having his hair played with, to the point where it knocks him out sometimes, halfway through the work day.
Petey tugs slightly, and watches Mark’s mouth fall open. Just barely, then his tongue running along his lower lip, just watching Petey watch him. The couch isn’t great for this, but he’s gonna enjoy giving Mark shit for it when they’re both sore, later.
He’s drunk enough to feel warm and dizzy, but not enough to not feel the visceral ache of missing the person right in front of you. Fuck, what he’d do to be looking at his Mark right now. This one’s good, too, but, he doesn’t know. He’s got two whole years to catch up on.
But Petey keeps running his hand through his hair, like he’s trying to fuckin’ wake up Mark’s innie, somehow. Pavlovian response to stimuli, or some bullshit.
And he’s busy staring at the shape of Mark’s mouth- still twisting strands of his hair when Mark leans forwards.
It’s hesitant for a split second, and then Mark gets even closer, opens his mouth-
The first thing that flits through Petey’s head is that it’s scratchy, cause they’re not at work, and there’s no need to shave. Soft, though, kind of hesitant until he meets him halfway, and Mark sighs into his mouth. His palm splays across Petey’s knee.
It’s different out here. Surreal, almost heavier. Mark’s more sure of himself- presses himself closer, slides his hand up Petey’s thigh with a low, surprised, and half-bitten groan reverberating from his chest, at the slip of his own hand up the back of Mark’s t-shirt.
Their breath is heavy, and the movement of their mouths breaks. The mutual scratch of stubble- it burns low, and heavy in his stomach.
He shifts, pushes Mark by the shoulders, and then the hips- to lay flat on his back against the couch, dragged back down to fit where Petey wants him. He’s small enough to move easily, manhandle him until his thighs open, tented where he’s straining in his sweatpants.
Petey follows, crawling over him, brought down by grabby, slightly impatient hands. Mark yanks at his shoulder- cups a hand at the back of Petey’s neck, and then Petey lowers himself, cradled between Mark’s thighs, their bodies pressing together. Two grown men don’t quite fit on this couch right, but they're making a valiant effort, anyway.
Mark groans against his jaw, shifts beneath him, and Petey moves, grinding down.
Something rougher pours out from his mouth, a harsh noise that Mark swallows down with his own. He grinds down again, holds himself up with unsteady hands sinking into the couch on either side of Mark’s head. Mark’s hands keep moving, flitting along his arms, his neck, sliding down his chest, like he can’t decide where to touch, or he’s trying to figure out how.
It’s not enough, and Petey pulls away from Mark’s mouth, drags his lips along the scratch of his stubble, the thin skin of his neck.
“Lift up.” Petey rasps, and Mark moves on instinct, raising enough for Petey to slip his hand beneath the waistband of his sweats. He barely tugs them down, just moves like there’s a time limit above their heads, like they’re not in Mark’s house, drenched in darkness and privacy. Petey spits into his palm, reaches down.
Mark chokes on a breath, arches up beneath him.
He wraps his hand tighter around Mark’s leaking cock, strokes him steadily. Mark’s raspy breaths turn to something closer to whimpers, he’s tilting his hips up, eyes shut tight and mouth ajar. He rocks up again, and again, chasing Petey’s spit slick fist, up, and down.
His wrist twinges- and he pauses, despite Mark’s choked noise in response. He drags Mark’s sweats further down his pale thighs, rucks up his sweatshirt; exposing the hair covering his stomach. Enough room to take in the sight, to touch him better.
He wraps his hand around Mark’s dick again, flushed head dribbling, the hair at the base of his dick coated in spit, and sweat. He looks like a mess, with his eyes closed, his head tilted back.
Petey’s not far off that, either. His cock is straining unbelievably tight in his sweats, feels slightly lightheaded. Mark’s hips jolt up again, his hand grasping tight at Petey’s arm. He practically fucking sobs when Petey thumbs his tip, drags back down to the base of his dick. It’s probably insane to get a first time handjob from someone who knows your body intimately.
Petey lowers his head, grazes his teeth against Mark’s ear, his throat, what skin he can reach that isn’t covered by the collar of his sweatshirt. He really regrets not taking that off.
“You close?” Petey asks, and his voice feels hoarse. Mark seems beyond words, instead taking another breath, shuddering beneath Petey’s hand, a mess of broken sounds, soft moans. “Yeah, you’re close.” Petey rasps, watching Mark’s face. “Come on, Mark.” He murmurs, with the slick and heavy draw of his fist, up, and down. “Show me.”
Mark comes with a choked-out groan, cum painting his lower stomach, the crease of his shirt rumpled up around his mid-section. Petey works him through it, up until the point where his moans turn to whimpers.
“Fuck.” Mark eventually swallows, and blindly reaches up. He latches on to Petey’s hand, then uses his other to cup the outline of his crotch. Petey sucks in a breath, hips jerking at the contact. “Fuck-”
“Show me.” Mark swallows, rough, and his eyes heavy. Drifting across Petey’s face. He’s only faintly lit by the far off light by the stairs, power saving mode switching on the tv. Petey tugs his borrowed sweats down, drags a tight fist along his dick. “Ah, shit.” He hisses, and Mark watches, hand drifting up the side of his hip.
It’s rough, and it won’t last long- and then Mark’s dark eyes flit across his body like he’s cataloging. On a drag down, Mark’s hand somehow replaces his, and he begins fisting Petey’s dick in a tight fist, uncertain at first, then steadier, tighter, until it’s perfect, like he fucking remembers how to do it. He’s always been a fast learner. Petey curses- swallows down a groan.
Mark’s eyes are dark, moving down his body, then back up, meeting Petey’s eyes and running a tongue along his lower lip. He tilts his head up, and his mouth presses hot to Petey’s jaw, tongue running over stubble. Petey catches him by his mouth, groans low at the way Mark tightens his hand, pumps his fist messier.
Petey comes with a low groan, across Mark’s exposed stomach.
Catches his breath, eventually, listens to Mark’s breathing. The house is quiet, aside from the distant murmur of the tv.
It takes a second to push himself up again, right himself and sit back where he was, slouched down in exhaustion, his back already starting to hurt. Gives himself a solid five seconds, then forces himself up to grab tissues.
Mark’s still slumped out when he turns back, barely cracks his eyes open the whole time, up until the point where Petey slouches back down into the other side of the couch again, moving Mark’s legs as he rearranges himself through a yawn. He’s way too old for this shit.
“That’s what we’re doing at work?” Mark eventually rasps, and Petey grunts out a laugh.