lapis lazuli (1/2)
title: lapis lazuli
pairing: mark/jackson, jb/jr
rating: nc-17
summary: in which mark is a businessman and jackson is a fencer.
The interior of the club is plush and classy, lights tastefully dimmed, the cloying aroma of expensive cigars and the finest liquors filtering to the booth where Jackson is sitting with his fencing teammates. The atmosphere is pleasantly tranquil, only punctuated by the clinking of glasses and murmur of quiet conversation. Jackson crosses his legs in the skintight black ripped jeans he had had to pour himself into and tries to look in his element as he sips his peach mocktail and half-listens to Bambam chattering a mile a minute about his latest crush from the girls’ fencing team.
After some time, he becomes aware of the familiar weight of a stare, already knowing before he looks up that they will belong to some mysterious stranger with boldly appraising eyes raking his gaze from Jackson’s head to toes as he swirls his glass of wine.
When Jackson peeks up through his eyelashes in a practiced manoeuvre, he is proven right. The stranger sitting on a stool by the bar is dressed in a sleek, sharply-cut suit with impeccably coiffed auburn hair tousled in a way too careful to be accidental, dark, arresting eyes and an obnoxiously handsome face. He has the delicately pale and unblemished skin of the very wealthy and pampered who have never been exposed to a ray of sun. In his line of work, Jackson is used to seeing good-looking people, but there is something about the intensity in this man’s eyes, the aristocratic lines of his profile that take his breath away for an instant. His slender, tapered fingers are clasped lightly over the stem of his glass with an easy grace.
Is he a model? A celebrity? Jackson idly wonders. Probably just a pasty-faced salaryman, lonely and sexually frustrated. Whoever he is, Jackson feels reassured that he will be safe from any advances. It’s the benefit of going to an exclusive, private club like this. It was a rare blessing to get entrance to an invitation-only club and Jackson had been looking forward to spending a night getting intoxicated with his friends for once without worrying about pesky and smarmy men trying to hit on him.
Something about the electric warmth of the man’s gaze spikes his adrenaline, boosting his ego and making him reckless. He flips his hair out of his eyes and gestures animatedly, laughing with his mouth open and talking loudly enough for it to carry across the room. He feels buoyant and weightless, loose with alcohol and his friends’ encouraging laughter and the attention of an undeniably gorgeous person. When he sneaks another veiled glance, he is surprised to see a corner of the man’s lips curling up in a smile that gives Jackson the inexplicable feeling that he knows exactly what Jackson is thinking and finds him amusing.
Unsettled, Jackson finds his cheeks growing warm, his wisecracks trickling to a halt. The man’s gaze locks with his and before he knows it the stranger is tapping his cigarette on the ashtray and getting to his feet, striding across the room with a commanding confidence that Jackson can’t take his eyes off. Abruptly, he finds himself staring up at the man as he stops at their table and smiles charmingly.
“May I buy you a drink?” he addresses them, but his eyes are still on Jackson’s. His voice is unexpectedly low, the vowels of his Chinese slurred with an unidentifiable accent. Up close, his hair is the fiery red shade of maple leaves in autumn, and his eyes are even more bewitching, softened by bristly black lashes.
Beside Jackson, Jinyoung seethes at his audacity. “Sorry, but this is a members-only gathering,” he says in the snooty voice that usually puts even the most thick-skinned pursuers in their place.
As expected, the man is undaunted, his smile stretching even wider, positively smug. He leans down, placing a heavily-ringed hand on the table and bending his lips to Jackson’s ear. His hot breath brushes Jackson’s skin and he stifles a shiver. “Why don’t you ditch these kids? I can show you how to have a good time.”
When Jackson raises his head, the hungry invitation in the man’s eyes is unmistakable. There’s something about looking into them that feels like being sucked into quicksand, being pulled inexorably deeper. Jackson tears his own eyes away with difficulty, throwing back a gulp of his drink with shaky hands.
“Kids?” Bambam squawks in outrage. “Excuse me, I happen to be legal -”
“And we happen to be leaving,” the man rejoins smoothly, his hand closing over Jackson’s arm and pulling him to his feet. Before he knows what’s happening, he is being steered firmly across the room, feeling his teammates’ dumbfounded and open-mouthed stares on his back.
Jackson shakes off the man’s grip as they near the washrooms. His teammates have left him to his own devices, knowing that Jackson has his own secret weapon, his killer move to whip out and slay the opponent at the last minute. The man looks startled at Jackson’s unceremonious brusqueness, then amused as he leans against the wall and cocks his hip, taking out a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and placing one between his lips. He removes an embossed lighter from his suit lapel and flicks his thumb over it, bending to touch the cigarette to the flame. Jackson could turn on his heels and bolt anytime, but the man seems certain he won’t as he casually exhales a plume of smoke and narrows his eyes at Jackson, his forehead creasing.
“Spend the night with me,” he says. “Name your price.”
Jackson exhales sharply, the air knocked out of him by the man’s sheer guts. He takes a deep breath. “I,” he says in crisp English, affecting a snobby accent, “am not a prostitute. Go fuck yourself.”
He lets his lip curl up in a satisfied sneer, waiting expectantly for the way the man’s mouth will drop open, embarrassed, his eyes widening with ashamed incomprehension. He is completely unprepared for the deep laugh that bubbles from the man’s throat, the way his eyes dance as he replies in fluid English, “I’d prefer to fuck you.”
“Y-you - you’re... You know English?” Jackson spits out lamely at last.
The man ducks his head in mock humility, but Jackson isn’t having any of it. “Born in LA,” he says. “Educated at Brown.”
That explained his halting, foreign-sounding Mandarin, the brisk American accent that sounds strangely incongruent with his exterior flowing from his lips. There’s something about this paradox that makes Jackson take a step forward, pushing a knee between the man’s legs and grinding it against his cock until he draws a soft gasp and feels it hardening. Jackson smirks, taking the cigarette from his unresisting fingers and inhaling a mouthful of sweet smoke. He catches the man’s hand before it falls, studying his refined, knuckled fingers heavy with rings. His gaze lands on the biggest one, gleaming with inset diamonds that Jackson can identify at a glance. Swarovski.
"This,” he says decisively, reaching out roughly to pull it off the man’s finger. The man’s eyes widen as he shakes Jackson’s hand away.
Jackson frowns with displeasure. “I thought you said I could have anything,” he says, slightly mocking.
“That’s... that’s a family heirloom,” the man mutters, seeming uncertain for the first time.
“Oh?” Jackson hums, baring his teeth triumphantly. “Well, then... see you.”
His hand is caught by a strong grasp as he turns to leave. He swivels around to find the man sliding the ring onto his finger. It had been on the man’s pinky, but it fits Jackson’s index finger snugly. When he looks up, his breath hitches at the man’s glittering orbs.
“Tonight, you’re mine,” he whispers into Jackson’s ear, and escorts him out of the doors to his waiting car.
The man opens the door of a midnight blue Porsche with deliberate courtesy, shielding Jackson’s head with his hand as he climbs in. He shuts the door and crosses to the driver’s seat, getting in. The car has the distinguished scent of leather and nicotine, the chrome interior spotlessly shiny. There’s an obvious difference to the way this car moves, gliding soundlessly down the streetlamp illuminated asphalt, accelerating with lightspeed at the merest touch, the gears shifting as easily as flowing water. Jackson catches sight of the man’s hands on the steering wheel, so large and powerful they make it seem like a toy. It strikes him that he knows nothing about this man, that he could be a criminal or a pervert and Jackson is all alone with him in this car. It’s the first time he’s done something so reckless and risky, and Jackson feels the shot of adrenaline like a needle straight into his veins that he usually only experiences looking down the blade of a sword.
The man pulls the car out of the next exit, driving into the brightly-lit lobby of a reputable hotel. Jackson heaves a sigh of relief. At least if he’s a douchebag, he’s a rich douchebag. The man handles Jackson out of the car with the same polite deference, so antiquated that Jackson thinks he’s going to kiss his hand. Placing his hand on the small of Jackson’s back, he guides Jackson into the hotel as the doormen hold the doors open, bowing ninety degrees.
The man settles Jackson gently down on one of the armchairs in the lounge while he strides across the lobby importantly, bending his head for a brief exchange of words with the receptionist. After a few minutes, he receives a key, tucking it discreetly inside his suit and traces his steps back to where Jackson is waiting obediently, a faint smile on his lips.
They take the elevator up in awkward silence. Jackson fidgets, wondering if it’s just him or the air is suddenly ten degrees hotter, thick with a tension that makes his skin tingle. When the man places a hand on his arm to lead him out, Jackson jumps at the electrical current that leaps between their bare skin.
The moment he lets Jackson into the hotel room, the man slams him against the door and licks filthily into his mouth, his tongue finding Jackson’s. He kisses Jackson like Jackson is air and he’s drowning, his hands moving down to slide beneath his shirt, spanning his hipbones possessively. They move to cup Jackson’s ass, fingers tightening over it as he presses his tented crotch hard against Jackson’s, showing him how much he wants him.
“Holy shit,” Jackson pants against the man’s mouth, their lips detaching with a pop, saliva trailing wetly from the corners. “Who are you?”
The man pauses before breaking into a feral smile. “Mark Tuan,” he breathes, blowing hot air against Jackson’s ear and making a shiver ripple through his whole body. “But you can call me Mark.”
He goes down on his knees, trailing his tongue over the slivers of skin exposed by Jackson’s ripped jeans. Jackson gasps and writhes, but Mark’s hands rest firmly on his hips, anchoring him. “You were driving me crazy in these fucking pants,” he says, voice pitched bedroom low, and Jackson shudders.
Mark unzips his pants with his teeth, ghosting scorching breaths against the thin cotton of Jackson’s boxers until he’s canting his hips forwards, straining towards the warmth of Mark’s mouth.
“Oh God, please-” Jackson whimpers brokenly, but Mark only smiles and slips his hand into Jackson’s boxers, closing it around his cock. The tight warmth of Mark’s rough palm is too much to take and Jackson breathes labouredly as Mark pumps his fist over his cock in languid strokes, his rings digging tracks of agonizing pleasure into Jackson’s cock.
When Jackson comes with a strangled cry, Mark catches him as his legs give and sweeps him up into his arms, carrying him to the bed and dumping him on it. He clambers over Jackson, straddling him and Jackson can feel the hardness of his cock straining against the fabric of his pants.
Mark unzips his fly and closes a rough hand around Jackson’s shoulder, rolling him onto his front and hauling him into a kneeling position.
“What’s your name, baby?” Mark drawls, and Jackson hisses as he works a finger into his ass, dizzyingly close to his prostate. He grinds helplessly down on Mark’s finger, barely able to speak. “J-jackson.”
“Jackson,” Mark repeats thoughtfully, and the sound of his name in Mark’s deep voice nearly makes him come there and then. By now, Mark is three fingers in, knuckle deep, and Jackson nearly sobs at the loss of them, clenching over empty space as Mark pulls out abruptly.
“Bend over,” he orders, and then his cock is nudging at the cleft of Jackson’s ass, thrusting deeply into his tightness. Jackson hasn’t been loosened for a long time, and the friction of Mark’s cock against his walls is almost unbearable, his ass sucking it in greedily. He arches his back to meet Mark’s thrusts, his pelvis slapping against Jackson’s ass with shamelessly lewd sounds. Mark drives relentlessly into him with a quickening rhythm, fucking Jackson into the bed until he sees stars, his cock so big and hard that Jackson feels like it’s going to rip him in half.
When Jackson blinks awake in an unfamiliar bed the next morning, he starts when he turns to see Mark’s sleeping face unnervingly up close, his eyelashes startlingly long. Jackson brushes a cautious thumb against his cheek and feels the faint scrape of his stubble.
He edges across the bed, wincing a little at the soreness in his lower body, and swings his feet to the cool floor. He spots Mark’s suit jacket, carelessly strewn over the floor and wanders over, fingering the silky material.
“You look good in that,” a gravelly voice makes him leap out of his skin as he spins around guiltily, clad in nothing but Mark’s suit jacket falling to his thighs. He’s relieved to see Mark propped up on one elbow and smiling unperturbedly, eyes hooded and admiring. “You can keep it.”
Jackson’s mouth falls open, unable to believe his generosity. He knows he should decline, that Mark is testing him, but he can’t bring himself to and Mark’s grin broadens at his utter lack of dignity.
Jackson ignores it. “Is this Armani?” he asks casually, fingers running excitedly over the impossibly soft lapels.
“Louis Vuitton,” Mark says, the words tinged with a soft-spoken accent.
“Do you speak French?” Jackson says, dread creeping up his spine. His fears are confirmed when Mark flashes two rows of pearly white teeth. “A little.”
“I can show you how to have a good time,” Jinyoung mimics, drawing a throaty chuckle from his filthy rich boyfriend, Jaebum as they fill him in on the first person who had ever successfully picked Jackson up in a club. In elegant terms, Jaebum is Jinyoung’s sponsor. In inelegant ones, he’s Jinyoung’s sugar daddy.
“Jeez,” Jaebum says, shaking his head. “What a cheesy loser.”
“Not really,” Jackson interjects defensively. “I’ve heard worse.”
An abrupt silence descends on the table as they both stare at him with disbelieving eyes. “What?” Jackson huffs.
Jinyoung clicks his tongue sympathetically. “You’re seriously screwed.” Jaebum nods grimly.
Jackson rolls his eyes.
“But you neglected to mention the most important part,” Jinyoung urges, and Jaebum leans forward expectantly.
Jackson wrinkles his brow, confused.
Jinyoung heaves an exasperated sigh. “The fact that he was drop. Dead. Gorgeous,” he stage-whispers.
Jaebum frowns. “Drop-dead gorgeous?” he repeats, voice menacingly low.
Jinyoung groans and gets out of his chair, sitting on Jaebum’s knee and practically climbing into his lap in front of the whole restaurant. “Aww, come on, hyung. I’m not blind, even if I am yours.”
The last word works as intended, effectively appeasing Jaebum and making his eyes disappear in a pleased smile, his arms tightening over Jinyoung’s waist as he bounces him in his lap.
“You guys.” Jackson gags. “We’re in public, for god’s sake. And -” he adds, pointing his fork at Jinyoung, “he was not gorgeous.”
“Oh, please. He’s a smoking hot sexy motherfucker, and you should be counting your lucky stars,” Jinyoung says bluntly, making Jaebum’s smile waver.
“Okay, maybe he was a bit hot,” Jackson concedes. “Fine, really hot. He was smoking hot, okay?” He glares at Jinyoung. “But I’m not such a bad catch either.”
Jinyoung snickers, and Jaebum takes a drink to hide his smile. “I don’t know, man. You have an okay face, but... your legs are kind of short. Your height is kind of short. In fact, almost everything on your body is short, except -”
“Shut up,” Jackson growls. “I get it.”
Jackson is leaving the studio after practice with the team, the guys shoving and laughing rowdily, their spirits high as they discuss which bar to hit this evening for happy hour. When he sees a strikingly familiar midnight Porsche parked in front of the building, he stops in his tracks, standing stock still as his world tilts precariously on its axis. Looking like a mirage, Mark is leaning against the side of his car in a business suit, checking his watch with his other hand shoved into his pocket.
Jinyoung notices him and nudges Jackson. “What’s lover boy doing here? I didn’t know you were serious.”
“We’re not,” Jackson hisses, ignoring Jinyoung’s knowing grin as he approaches Mark, heart slamming against his chest. Mark raises his head, looking sheepish and curiously shy.
“How did you find this place?” Jackson demands without preamble.
Mark looks away guiltily for a moment, before raising his eyes to meet Jackson’s with an enigmatic smile. “I have my ways.”
“... That’s kind of creepy,” Jackson deadpans, and laughs when Mark’s face falls. “But I’ll forgive you because you’re cute.”
Mark looks up, eyes wide and hopeful. A cocky smirk tugs at his lips. “Did you just call me cute?” he drawls, and Jackson reddens like a tomato.
“Yo, Jackson!” one of his teammates calls, and Jackson realizes they’re hovering curiously behind him, gossiping and tittering. “You coming with us?”
Jackson opens his mouth, but Mark forestalls him. “No,” he says, and suddenly his hand is firm on Jackson’s arm, his other opening the car door. He practically shoves Jackson into the passenger seat, slamming the door closed and crossing swiftly to the driver’s seat, getting in.
"Did you just kidnap me?” Jackson shrieks incredulously as they zoom off, leaving his teammates in a cloud of exhaust.
Mark turns, eyes imploring but smile devilish. “I have a new ring, pure gold,” he starts conversationally. “I thought you might be interested...”
Gradually, a kind of unspoken arrangement develops between them - Mark appears spontaneously outside his studio after practice, and Jackson wordlessly gets into his car. Sometimes he comes for days in a row, others he disappears for weeks. They check into different hotels every time, but Jackson never gets that dirty, disgraceful feeling of regret after he checks out. Because Mark is faultlessly classy, never booking anything but the most expensive presidential suites and receiving the most discreet service befitting royalty. When he wakes up in the morning, alone in bed with sweaty sheets tangled around his legs, there is no note or trace of Mark except the fading scent of his cologne on the sun-drenched linen, a new ring around one of Jackson’s fingers, and a lavish breakfast on the bedside table, room service, the coffee still warm. Jackson lifts the ring to his lips, brushing it. The silver is cool against his mouth and Jackson wonders what is this dull ache beneath his throat.
Jackson knows that he should feel cheap, even shameless about selling himself for what is as good as money, but he wonders how Mark manages to make him feel like nothing less than a million bucks. He makes Jackson feel like he is the one in control, like Mark is entirely at his mercy and Jackson is the one granting him favours. Sometime along the way, the rings had become an excuse to meet, inconsequential, a reward paling in comparison to one caring word from Mark, one fleeting caress.
When all of Jackson’s fingers are completely weighted down by rings and Mark’s hands have become completely bare, looking oddly naked without them, Jackson thinks that this fling, whatever it is, has finally come to its end.
But five days later, his heart leaps out of his throat when Mark is standing outside his studio again, missing in his eyes and fingers glinting with so many new rings the sun’s rays bounce off them in fractured rainbows.
“So, I heard from Jinyoung that you’re still seeing that guy from the club,” Jaebum says on one of their dates Jinyoung has invited Jackson along to play third wheel again. Jackson doesn’t really mind because he gets to eat in fancy restaurants and Jaebum always picks up the tab.
Jackson saws at his steak noncommittally.
"When are you going to introduce us? We could go on a double date,” Jaebum probes.
“What car does he drive?” Jaebum nags.
“He drives a Porsche convertible, okay?” Jackson finally shoots back, exasperated.
“Hmph.” Jaebum makes an unimpressed noise. “I drive a Ferrari,” he brags, like the whole world doesn’t already know. “Hyung, you’re so hot,” Jinyoung swoons obligingly.
“At least he bought it with legitimately-earned money,” Jackson counters. Jaebum grins unabashedly. His shady moneymaking ventures are well-known among business circles. Jinyoung has the decency to look embarrassed.
“What’s his name?” Jaebum finally voices out the leading question, eyes widening when Jackson tells him. “I know him.”
“You do?” Jinyoung echoes in wonder.
Jaebum nods. “Our fathers used to be golf buddies. But we lost touch after he went to Brown.”
Jackson and Jinyoung exchange impressed glances. Jaebum’s father is a second-generation chaebol, so Mark’s family must be pretty well-off if they are acquainted with him.
“What does he work as?” Jackson asks apprehensively.
Jaebum looks surprised. “Didn’t he tell you? He’s the heir of Tuan Empire,” he says, naming one of the biggest business conglomerates in Southeast Asia. Jackson swallows hard, stunned. He had known that Mark was rich, but he hadn’t imagined the extent of his wealth or his status.
Jinyoung leans forward eagerly. “What are you waiting for? Tell us more about him!” Jackson’s breath catches, waiting for Jaebum’s next words.
Jaebum looks stumped. “What do you want to know?”
“His dirty laundry, any scandals or rumours etcetera...” Jackson says quickly, and Jinyoung nods impatiently.
Jaebum chuckles, taking a swig of his wine. “As far as I know, he doesn’t have any dirty laundry. He’s really private, so I don’t know much about him. But Jackson-ah,” he meets Jackson’s eyes across the table. “He might be boring, but he’s a good guy. Try not to break his heart, okay?”
Jackson scoffs, and Jaebum laughs. Jackson doesn’t know why everyone acts like he’s going to cut his teeth on Mark’s heart, when in reality Mark is the one who has Jackson wrapped around his little finger - at this thought, Jackson stops cold. Mark has him wrapped around his little finger? That’s impossible. There’s never been a single person, male or female, who could resist Jackson’s charm. Why should Mark be an exception?
The first time Mark takes Jackson to his apartment, Jackson feels the way he did after he won his first medal at fifteen - like he was soaring, invincible. The gesture is seemingly intangible, but Jackson senses that it is colossal, an important development in their complex, dysfunctional relationship. He doesn’t know whether he’s happy or sad, and he constantly reminds himself that they are in unprecedented territory, that he should advance with caution. Jackson isn’t sure he is ready for a serious relationship, and he’s afraid Mark will get too emotionally attached and invested, turning clingy and demanding like some of his previous partners, destroying their fragile and tenuous beginning with roughness.
But somewhere along the way, Jackson is surprised to realize that he has become the one wanting more, the one that doesn’t feel like Mark is giving enough. Jackson has always had the bad habit of wanting things he can’t have, unable to leave any stone unturned, any challenge unconquered. So the more Mark withdraws, the more crazy about him Jackson becomes.
Mark’s apartment is just as Jackson expected - a minimalistic bachelor pad understatedly but tastefully furnished in shades of chrome and white, with floor-length picture windows opening up to breathtaking views of the ocean in the day and city lights at night. Only the antiques displayed in corners, the abstract paintings hanging from the walls and the solid gold tap in the bathroom belie the degree of his affluence. Jackson’s favourite place in Mark’s house is his den, which has cozy throw pillows strewn over the wooden floorboards, the latest model Playstation tucked against the wall, almost new and practically untouched, carelessly neglected. When Jackson pleads to use it, Mark laughs and ruffles his hair. “Knock yourself out.”
“Play with me!” Jackson demands childishly, and Mark sighs indulgently and settles down on the floor beside him, picking up the controls. He lets Jackson win at all the games but denies when Jackson accuses him of cheating.
After that first wild night, Jackson discovers that Mark’s confidence and suave brutality were just a front. He’s maddeningly gentle in bed, treating Jackson with elaborate courtesy. Jackson always gets the feeling that he’s holding himself back, consciously restraining his strength. He never loses control, no matter how much Jackson goads him. He doesn’t even move a muscle or make a sound as Jackson lowers himself painfully over his cock, sinking down until Mark’s full length fills him. Mark rolls his hips up, thrusting erratically into Jackson as Jackson rides him, but he never allows a loose moan or words of endearment to escape his mouth, the only sign of his feelings the staccato heartbeat beneath Jackson’s hands and barely perceptible hitches of his breathing.
Jackson wants to tell Mark that he hates slow and languorous lovemaking, that he likes it hard and violent. He likes it to hurt, the more painful the better. He wishes Mark would stop being such a gentleman, because Jackson is no princess. He’s a masculine, strapping man, easily as strong as Mark, not a fragile porcelain vase or a frail woman, for fuck’s sake. He wants Mark to fuck him senseless, until he can’t walk, until Mark’s touch is imprinted on his body like an indelible tattoo, branding him for life. But he doesn’t know a way to say this without seeming easy. And Jackson realizes that he cares about how Mark sees him. He cares a lot.
Mark is monosyllabic and mysterious, his eyes impenetrable behind the rings of smoke he exhales languidly from the imported Cuban cigars he indulges in as they lie in bed spent, legs tangled together. Sometimes he lets Jackson have a taste, lowering his lips to Jackson’s and blowing the ashy menthol smoke into his mouth. When they kiss later, Jackson can’t tell whether it’s him or Mark who tastes like bittersweet regret.
“Jaebum-hyung told me that Mark said something about you,” Jinyoung says with a cryptic smile over martinis after practice.
Jackson freezes, the glass almost slipping from his trembling fingers. He manages to steady it but his grasp is clammy.
“Don’t you want to know what he said?” Jinyoung prompts.
“I don’t care,” Jackson says flatly, averting his eyes.
Jinyoung laughs, reading him like a book. “Mark said he was out of his depth.”
Jackson waits, but Jinyoung doesn’t elaborate. “The hell does that even mean?” he bursts out.
Jinyoung shrugs. “Beats me.”
“What else did he say?” Jackson presses desperately, beyond faking nonchalance.
“That’s all I managed to get out of hyung,” Jinyoung says apologetically. “You know how tight-lipped he is about his work. Do you know how many blowjobs I had to -”
“Ugh, too much information,” Jackson interrupts. “But... thanks,” he says grudgingly. "You’re a good friend.”
Jinyoung punches his shoulder. “Anytime, buddy.”
“What do you mean you’re out of your depth?” Jackson blurts out the next day, making Mark look up from lavishing butterfly kisses on his inner thighs, his eyes suddenly intently focused on Jackson’s.
“Who told you that?” he says, and Jackson squirms uncomfortably under his attention.
“That’s not important,” Jackson says evasively, already regretting the question. He runs a hand down his thigh invitingly, trying to recapture the mood, but Mark refuses to be distracted. “Was it Jaebum? That -” he curses under his breath.
Jackson laughs nervously. “Look, forget it. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“What else did he say?” Mark questions urgently, his body finally slackening in relief when Jackson shakes his head.
Jackson shivers as a glimmer of mischief enters Mark’s eyes. “Were you asking about me?” he asks, voice silky as he peppers a trail of blazing kisses down Jackson’s torso. “Can I take this as a sign of interest?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Jackson snarks, choking on the words as Mark scrapes his teeth experimentally over his cock.
“What did you mean, though?” Jackson can’t resist prodding as Mark finally, thankfully takes Jackson’s aching cock into the warmth of his mouth again.
Mark doesn’t reply, too busy bobbing his head over Jackson’s length and swallowing over the head. After Jackson comes with a strangled cry, he raises his head, smirking and licking his lips.
“You’re a piece of work, Jackson Wang,” he says, the harshness of the words softened by the warm admiration in his voice.
“Mark,” Jackson crawls onto the bed, notching his chin over Mark’s shoulder. His brain freezes at the sight of the neverending squiggly lines of figures on Mark’s laptop screen. Jackson loves the serious look in Mark’s eyes behind the wire-rimmed glasses he wears for nearsightedness when he’s working. “Maaaaark,” he lisps petulantly. “Play with me.”
“Shhh, baby. Just let me finish this, okay?” Mark barely looks at him, petting his head with a placating hand, fingers running distractedly through Jackson’s hair. Jackson snuffles contentedly at his touch and pretends to growl and nip at his fingers with his teeth, making Mark laugh.
Jackson continues gazing adoringly at Mark with his chin propped on his shoulder and eyes unblinking because he doesn’t want to miss a single, precious second until a faint rosy blush dusts deliciously across Mark’s cheekbones. He looks like a ripe apple and Jackson wants to take a big bite.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Mark finally takes his hands off the keyboard and covers his eyes, groaning.
“Like what?” Jackson says innocently.
“You -” Mark turns abruptly, bringing their faces heartstoppingly close. Jackson inhales audibly and jerks away, but Mark places his hands on his shoulders and pins him down, gazing deeply into Jackson’s eyes. “Do you even know the things you do to me?”
Mark shakes his head, voice hoarse. "You have no idea, do you?”
Jackson smiles seductively up at him, lifting his shirt to reveal a sliver of skin, and Mark’s eyes darken with want but he pulls himself back with an effort and returns to his computer.
Disappointed but undeterred, Jackson resumes his valiant, everlasting battle with Mark’s work for his attention. Jackson is aware that Mark deals in six-figure sums, that he’s probably interrupting some multi-million dollar transaction right now, but he doesn’t really care.
“Mark~” Jackson singsongs. “Mark-hyung?”
No response. A brilliant idea strikes him.
“Ge,” Jackson says tentatively. “Yi-en ge.”
It’s the first time he’s called Mark’s Chinese name. Although Chinese is their native language, they mostly communicate in English and find it more comfortable. But Jackson doesn’t expect the way Mark drops his laptop and turns, his eyes wide and stricken and soft, like Jackson has said something immense and momentous.
“Say that again,” Mark says quietly, and Jackson is shaken by the full intensity of Mark’s attention suddenly focused on him. He had forgotten how empowering it was, how much it felt like flying.
“Why?” he can’t resist jibing mercilessly. “Does it turn you on? Do you have a kink for cute girls wearing pinafores calling you gege?”
Mark looks taken aback, before he bursts out laughing, eyes glinting so mischievously Jackson’s heart skips a beat. “Only cute boys.” He winks greasily.
Jackson pouts and Mark pokes his cheeks until they deflate. “Say it again,” Mark whines, making a sad blowfish face, and Jackson swears. He had forgotten how adorable Mark could be when he wanted to.
“Yi-en ge?” Jackson repeats uncertainly, and Mark’s smile slips. He turns away, and Jackson is startled to see a suspicious glimmer in his eyes. Gently, Jackson takes Mark’s chin and tilts it up to see his face.
“Jackson,” Mark breathes reverently, smothering him in a hug that crushes Jackson’s ribs and robs him of oxygen. “I miss Taiwan. I miss my parents,” he says in Chinese, muffled against Jackson’s neck.
It’s kind of unsettling seeing Mark so vulnerable. There’s something too raw about his misty eyes that makes Jackson uncomfortable and sad and happy, all at the same time, so he wraps his arms around Mark’s broad but fragile shoulders and hugs back tighter.
Mark takes Jackson to a street of designer boutiques, making the rounds of Prada and Gucci and Giorgio Armani. In every shop, the posh salesgirls rush up simpering and trip over themselves to serve him. Mark runs his fingers expertly over the racks, picking out suits and dress shirts and accessories with practiced ease, draping them over the growing pile in Jackson’s arms.
When the pile has grown so high Jackson has disappeared entirely behind it, Mark is finally satisfied. He ushers Jackson to the fitting room and shoves him in. Doubtfully, Jackson pulls on a dress shirt, navy blazer and pressed silk pants that feel like eiderdown against his skin.
When he opens the door and steps out tentatively, Mark’s eyes widen almost comically. He takes in Jackson, running his gaze over every inch of his body until Jackson feels his face burning up.
“You clean up well,” Mark murmurs, voice grazing Jackson’s ear as he gently turns Jackson around to look in the mirror. When Jackson sees himself, he inhales softly.
He almost can’t recognize himself. He could pass off as one of Mark’s colleagues or subordinates in the starched, immaculate suit dripping with class. Of course, he doesn’t look nearly as imposing as Mark standing behind him in his charcoal three-piece suit and tie, but Jackson has never been one to be modest about his own attractiveness, and he looks pretty damn attractive right now.
Mark’s hands are inordinately gentle as he fastens cufflinks around Jackson’s sleeves, his eyes so hushedly worshipful as he fixes Jackson’s collar, fingers grazing his clavicles that Jackson grabs him by his own collar and hauls him into the fitting room, kicking the door shut behind them. Fisting his hands in the lapels of Mark’s suit, he pulls him down for a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss that quickly turns heated as Mark cages him against the wall of the fitting room and slides his hands beneath Jackson’s blazer, tweaking his nipples through the thin fabric. Jackson whines, hands tightening over Mark’s back and nails raking down his suit. Mark clamps a heavy hand over his mouth as he pushes Jackson’s collar back and presses his mouth to the sensitive skin of his neck, sucking an exquisitely painful mark into Jackson’s skin.
When he pulls away, Jackson feels entirely molten, his legs barely able to support him. He slumps limply against Mark’s frame until he feels strong enough to stand alone, then gasps when he catches sight of the crimson love bite stark against his pale skin. But when he anxiously tugs his collar over it, trying to hide it, Mark’s fingers close around his and he undoes the button again, opening Jackson’s collar wide. “I want everyone to see that you belong to me,” he says huskily, and Jackson’s blush spreads down to his neck.
They step out of the room together, breathless and sheepish. The salesgirls are pretending not to watch them, huddled together and looking scandalized. Mark clears his throat and tosses out his credit card. “We’ll take everything.”
“I reserved a table at a restaurant,” Mark says, glancing over affectionately as they speed down the highway. Mark’s hands seem especially large on the steering wheel, taking up half of it and encompassing the stick shift as he gracefully changes gear. The top of the convertible is down and the wind runs gentle fingers through his russet hair, ruffling it boyishly. His profile looks cut straight out of the burnished copper of a coin, and his smile is so carefree that it makes Jackson’s heart do cartwheels.
“What’s the special occasion?” he teases, not expecting a serious answer, but Mark smiles shyly. “It’s been exactly six months since we met,” he says softly, removing his hand from the gear to cover Jackson’s on his lap. “This sounds really cheesy... but I guess it’s our six-month anniversary?” His eyes laugh at himself even as they shine with excitement, and it tugs deeply at Jackson’s heart. He can’t believe that Mark had remembered the exact date they met, that it was so important to him that he had gone to such lengths to commemorate it. Jackson has always hated cliché and commercialized holidays like Valentine’s Day and all that anniversary bullcrap, but now that it’s Mark celebrating it with him, it somehow changes everything.
When they arrive at the restaurant, Mark passes his keys to a valet and opens Jackson’s door, taking his hand to help him out. Bach fugues flow from the overhead speakers as they enter the restaurant, their footsteps soundless as the polished leather shoes that Mark had personally picked out for Jackson and cost a small fortune sink into the plush velvet carpet. A hostess glides out to guide them to a private room.
Jackson can’t hide his surprise when the private room turns out to be the size of a small apartment, containing an ivory baby grand piano and a mahogany violin on a stand lined against the far wall. He allows Mark to pull out his chair and sits down in it, feeling a little dizzy. Mark settles down opposite him, across the table on which three lighted candlesticks are burning.
“Are you okay?” Mark says solicitously.
“Um, yeah! I just...” Jackson flaps his hands, gesturing helplessly at the surroundings. “I just didn’t expect an orchestra.”
Mark smiles sweetly. “I heard you like music.”
“I like you,” Jackson says, cringing inwardly with the corniness of his own words, but it’s worth it just to see the blinding smile that transforms Mark’s face.
“What do you want to eat?” Mark asks, and Jackson opens the menu. The words are all in French. “Uh... I’m easy, really,” he stutters and giggles nervously.
“Shall I order for you then?” Mark says, and Jackson nods in relief.
Mark beckons the waiter with a click of his fingers. Jackson finds the low incomprehensible murmur of his French soothing as he orders smoothly. In a few minutes, the waiter is back with a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice.
“To another six.” Mark tips his glass towards him, and Jackson toasts it. “Months?” he jokes lightly, but Mark smiles so earnestly that Jackson’s breath catches. “Years.”
They sip their champagne in comfortable silence. In the golden glow of the candlelight, shadows flicker across Mark’s face, his eyes luminescent. Jackson’s mouth falls open uncontrollably, foolish confessions bubbling to the tip of his tongue. Luckily, he is saved from saying anything stupid and irrevocable by the discreet entrance of the waiter bearing plates emanating mouth-watering aromas.
Immediately after the waiter uncovers his plate with a flourish, Jackson dives into his food with relish, almost forgetting his manners. He realizes that he’s attacking his food like a bumpkin when Mark chuckles softly, and blushes.
Mark exchanges their plates. “I’ve helped you cut it,” he says.
“Oh... uh, thanks,” Jackson stammers, cautiously forking a bite-sized piece of meat and bringing it to his lips. The burst of flavours that explodes in his mouth makes him sigh in bliss. “What is this?” he marvels.
“Foie gras duck terrine,” Mark says proudly.
“Ah.” Jackson’s eyes glaze over. Mark is watching him closely, and Jackson quickly disguises his awe, keeping his expression blank and unimpressed as he chews boredly. He’s already made enough of a fool of himself, and he’s worried that if he reveals how intimidated and overwhelmed he really is by all of this, it will make it even more obvious how glaringly unmatched they are, how Mark is totally, completely out of his league.
Mark looks oddly disappointed, lowering his gaze. “You must be used to things like this,” he says lightly, picking at his own food.
Jackson looks up, stupefied. “What do you mean?” he croaks.
Mark looks up, eyes uncharacteristically solemn. “Jackson,” he says. “I hardly know anything about you, your past, the things you’ve eaten and the places you’ve gone, how many - how many men you’ve been with -” he swallows, throat working. “And it drives me crazy.”
Jackson flinches at the implications of his words, although he knows that Mark doesn’t mean them in a derogatory way. He can’t bring himself to blame Mark when he himself frequently lies awake filled with resentment and torturing himself with thoughts of the people Mark has loved before him. So instead, he avoids the pressing issue and addresses the topic at hand. “You think... you think I eat like this on a daily basis?”
Mark shrugs.
Jackson facepalms. “You must be kidding me. Just one meal like this could make me bankrupt.”
The words are brutally honest, casting in high relief the vast differences in their statuses, the way he’s as much a pauper as Mark is a prince. Jackson wonders how to tactfully tell Mark that the bouquets of 100 roses Mark delivers to his studio every week seem more like a burden than a gift. The way Mark is breathtakingly extravagant only serves to accentuate how Jackson is hopelessly inferior, a good-for-nothing, penniless second-rate fencer. But Jackson doesn’t flinch away from the truth this time, and Mark’s eyes soften unexpectedly.
“So what do you like to eat?” he asks, a teasing note in his voice.
“My favourite food is McDonald’s. I play online games way too much. I like to watch soccer, but can’t play it to save my life. I’m actually just... a really normal person.”
Once the words are out, Jackson realizes how bland and dull and mind-numbingly boring they make him sound. With a sinking feeling, he realizes he can’t pretend to be mysterious and compelling anymore, or even hold any bit of intrigue for Mark. Not for the first time, he hates his impulsiveness and compulsive honesty.
Mark looks taken aback, but he quickly regains his composure to look at Jackson with a searching, unreadable gaze. Finally, he says, “Do you support Manchester or Liverpool?”
Jackson pauses. “Manchester,” he replies eventually, and the way Mark’s face lights up tells him that it’s the right answer.
“But you know,” Jackson continues babbling as another bite melts in his mouth, “It doesn’t take a gourmet to tell that this is delicious.”
Mark laughs. “Do you want more?”
When Jackson looks up, gaping, Mark is holding out a forkful of meat, eyes indulgent. Jackson opens his mouth obediently but self-consciously, and Mark delivers the morsel in successfully. Without warning, he reaches out to brush a smear of sauce from the corner of Jackson’s lips. Jackson’s fork drops as Mark brings his thumb to his own mouth and licks it clean, before his face flushes a hot, blotchy red.
Alarmed, he quickly says, “I-I’m full.”
“So fast?” Mark looks startled.
“Oh, um, yeah. I’m kind of on a diet,” Jackson lies.
“A diet?” Mark looks concerned. “But why? You’re not fat.”
“I’m fatter than you,” Jackson says glumly.
“No you’re not,” Mark protests.
“Am too.”
Suddenly, Mark is out of his chair and beside him, lifting Jackson off his feet and sweeping him up bridal style, eyes laughing down at him.
“Stupid Mark, cut it out, we’re in a restaurant -” Jackson sputters with laughter, hitting Mark until he sets him back gently in his chair.
“See? You’re light as a feather.” He winks.
Jackson stifles an incoherent groan. “Just because you’re strong doesn’t mean I’m not fat.”
Mark looks surprised but pleased. “You think I’m strong?” he says, leaning across the table to brush Jackson’s lips. Mark’s lips taste deliciously of bubbly strawberry champagne and Jackson’s head spins. “What else do you think about me?”
Jackson cuts his eyes at him. “I think you’re a boorish and uncivilized Neanderthal with a public voyeurism fetish.”
“Don’t worry, we’re all alone here,” Mark says calmly, eating his foie gras with far more grace and delicacy than Jackson.
“That’s why I’m worried,” Jackson grumbles, and Mark laughs, finishing his food and wiping his mouth with his napkin, but his eyes still look hungry.
“I hope you still have room for dessert,” he says, and Jackson moans and complains about a food coma, but perks up anyway when the waiter walks in with two plates of his favourite Tiramisu.
“Compliments from the chef, sir,” the waiter says deferentially, and Jackson notices that Mark’s cake has an extra heart traced in pink icing over it. His stomach clenches. “Do you know the chef?”
Mark shifts uneasily, avoiding his eyes. “Um, yeah... she was kind of my ex-girlfriend...”
Jackson puts his fork down, nausea replacing his hunger. “You brought me to your ex-girlfriend’s restaurant for our anniversary?” He doesn’t recognize the tight knot in his gut, but it feels something like anger.
“Jackson,” Mark pleads frantically. “I swear, I didn’t mean it that way at all -”
“God,” Jackson mutters under his breath, throwing back a big gulp of champagne. “You’re so insensitive.”
“Would you like to listen to some music?” Mark hastily changes the subject.
Jackson has barely nodded curtly before Mark presses a button on his cell phone and a door Jackson hadn’t noticed in the wall opens, two young men clad in dapper suits entering with a bow. The man wearing the white suit settles down at the piano and opens it. “That’s my boy, Youngjae,” Mark says warmly, and Youngjae nods and flashes a friendly smile to Jackson. He gestures to the other man dressed in black. “Nice to meet you. This is my friend -”
“Yugyeom?” The word slips from Jackson’s mouth, stunned, as Yugyeom recognizes him at the same time, looking stricken.
“Do you know him?” Mark looks confused.
Jackson clears his throat awkwardly. “He’s... uh... my ex-boyfriend.”
Yugyeom looks like he wishes the floor would open up and swallow him as Mark swings his gaze sharply on him.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know -“ Mark fixes Jackson with contrite eyes.
“It’s okay,” Jackson quickly reassures him, but he can’t hide the pain that flickers across his face when Yugyeom strips him boldly with his gaze, grinning sleazily. “Lookin’ good, Jackson-ah.”
In a flash, Mark is on his feet, looking ready to lunge across the room and tackle Yugyeom. Jackson can see his hands curling and uncurling and he prepares to make a grab for Mark if he loses it. Thankfully, after a few deep breaths, Mark regains his composure, but his voice is cool and warning in a way Jackson has never heard before as he says evenly, “I’m sorry, but could you leave?"
Youngjae nudges Yugyeom, looking mildly terrified, and for a moment Jackson is afraid Yugyeom is going to make a scene before he relents and breaks Mark’s glare, sloping towards the door. He’s just as tall and lithe as he used to be, legs going on for miles and eyes dangerously sexy, but Jackson is surprised to find that he doesn’t feel anything. Not one single pang of missing. Instead, he finds all his attention monopolized by Mark watching him leave, his gentle eyes angry and profoundly sad that he had hurt Jackson in any way.
The room sinks into a stilted silence after Yugyeom leaves. Youngjae quickly sits down at the piano and promptly launches into a melancholic rendition of River flows in you. Jackson lets the music carry him off, washing away all his thoughts except for the unbearably precious proximity of the man sitting in front of him.
“Jackson?” Mark says hesitantly as they are taking a moonlit stroll on the nearby beach later. When Jackson turns, Mark is smiling sheepishly at him, eyes beseeching.
“Actually,” he confesses. “I feel really uncomfortable in suits and ties and fancy restaurants too.” He tugs the noose of his tie loose, unbuttoning his shirt. “I just wanted to impress you.”
Jackson stares at him wordlessly for a few beats, before grabbing the noose of Mark’s tie and dragging him down for a hard kiss, all teeth and tongue, running his fingers through Mark’s perfectly slicked back hair and messing it up.
When he lets go, Mark looks dazed and breathtakingly happy. He threads their fingers together. “Do you want to stay over tonight? We can order McDonald’s and play online games and watch soccer all night.”
Jackson beams brightly. “Sounds like a plan.”
They stay up till dawn to watch the sunrise dyeing the clouds violet and marigold, cuddling drowsily in blankets in Mark’s living room, and Mark laughs when Jackson yawns widely and picks him up effortlessly, still wrapped in the quilt, carrying him up the stairs to his bedroom.
Mark lays Jackson gently on the bed, tucking him in, then slides in beside Jackson, turning to face the wall and curling into himself. Although Mark hasn’t said anything, Jackson senses that he’s been acting oddly all night, pensive and detached. While Jackson gets louder and more bawdy when he’s angry, Mark is the opposite, getting steadily quieter and quieter. Jackson finds it frustrating when Mark clams up and starts brooding, bottling up all his problems.
Not knowing how to approach when Mark’s walls are up like that, Jackson sneaks an apprehensive hand over his arm. Mark stiffens as Jackson strokes his chest, but finally rolls over to take Jackson into his arms. Jackson snuggles closer, the irregular rhythm of Mark’s heartbeat evening against his ears soothingly.
As Jackson is drifting off into sleep, Mark says in a small voice, “Your ex is really tall.”
Jackson starts awake immediately, wondering if this is what’s been bothering Mark all night. “Mmm-hmm,” he hums cautiously.
"Do you like tall guys?” Mark says, sounding strangely insecure, and Jackson’s heart goes out to him.
He pretends to consider the question seriously. “Hmm,” he says eventually. “Not really. They make me feel short.”
The way Mark’s body sags in relief against his makes Jackson muffle a giddy giggle.
“Thank God I’m not tall then.” Mark’s voice rumbles against Jackson’s ear, his eyelashes fluttering closed, so easily satisfied.
"Yeah,” Jackson replies instinctively. “Thank God.” It’s only as he says the words that he realizes how true they are, because if Mark were taller, he wouldn’t be Mark, and - dear God, Mark is perfect. Every single thing about him; the way he’s just slightly taller than Jackson so Jackson fits right into the hollow between his chin and shoulder, the way he’s deceptively quiet but steady and immovable, unfailingly reliable, the way Jackson feels so safe in his arms like nothing could hurt him, the way his heart is so immeasurably wide that Jackson could fall into it forever, his guileless, compassionate smile and deep, kind eyes.
It’s crazy and ridiculous because Mark isn’t Jackson’s type. Jackson’s type is experienced and smooth, men who understand his fear of commitment and don’t mind no-strings-attached flings, who know that he likes it rough in bed and satisfy his desires. It’s definitely not Mark, who is clumsy and inept, mumbles too much and trips over the ends of his own words. Jackson can’t stand Mark Tuan and his stupid accent and brilliant smile and the way he’s so stupidly gentle that Jackson doesn’t even know what to do with him.
When they had first met, Jackson had dismissed Mark as a vapid pretty boy, shallow and weak and spineless. He hadn’t expected to find that beneath Mark’s flawlessly sculpted exterior there lay an even more exquisite heart, that one day this stranger called Mark Tuan would come to mean the entire universe to him.
“You need to start treating yourself better,” Jinyoung tells him, knowing exactly what Jackson is thinking even without him saying it out loud.
“What?” Jackson blinks, playing dumb.
Jinyoung just smiles wisely, patting his shoulder. “You deserve a guy like Mark,” he says simply, the words Jackson suddenly realizes he has been waiting for someone to tell him the moment Jinyoung does.
part 2
pairing: mark/jackson, jb/jr
rating: nc-17
summary: in which mark is a businessman and jackson is a fencer.
The interior of the club is plush and classy, lights tastefully dimmed, the cloying aroma of expensive cigars and the finest liquors filtering to the booth where Jackson is sitting with his fencing teammates. The atmosphere is pleasantly tranquil, only punctuated by the clinking of glasses and murmur of quiet conversation. Jackson crosses his legs in the skintight black ripped jeans he had had to pour himself into and tries to look in his element as he sips his peach mocktail and half-listens to Bambam chattering a mile a minute about his latest crush from the girls’ fencing team.
After some time, he becomes aware of the familiar weight of a stare, already knowing before he looks up that they will belong to some mysterious stranger with boldly appraising eyes raking his gaze from Jackson’s head to toes as he swirls his glass of wine.
When Jackson peeks up through his eyelashes in a practiced manoeuvre, he is proven right. The stranger sitting on a stool by the bar is dressed in a sleek, sharply-cut suit with impeccably coiffed auburn hair tousled in a way too careful to be accidental, dark, arresting eyes and an obnoxiously handsome face. He has the delicately pale and unblemished skin of the very wealthy and pampered who have never been exposed to a ray of sun. In his line of work, Jackson is used to seeing good-looking people, but there is something about the intensity in this man’s eyes, the aristocratic lines of his profile that take his breath away for an instant. His slender, tapered fingers are clasped lightly over the stem of his glass with an easy grace.
Is he a model? A celebrity? Jackson idly wonders. Probably just a pasty-faced salaryman, lonely and sexually frustrated. Whoever he is, Jackson feels reassured that he will be safe from any advances. It’s the benefit of going to an exclusive, private club like this. It was a rare blessing to get entrance to an invitation-only club and Jackson had been looking forward to spending a night getting intoxicated with his friends for once without worrying about pesky and smarmy men trying to hit on him.
Something about the electric warmth of the man’s gaze spikes his adrenaline, boosting his ego and making him reckless. He flips his hair out of his eyes and gestures animatedly, laughing with his mouth open and talking loudly enough for it to carry across the room. He feels buoyant and weightless, loose with alcohol and his friends’ encouraging laughter and the attention of an undeniably gorgeous person. When he sneaks another veiled glance, he is surprised to see a corner of the man’s lips curling up in a smile that gives Jackson the inexplicable feeling that he knows exactly what Jackson is thinking and finds him amusing.
Unsettled, Jackson finds his cheeks growing warm, his wisecracks trickling to a halt. The man’s gaze locks with his and before he knows it the stranger is tapping his cigarette on the ashtray and getting to his feet, striding across the room with a commanding confidence that Jackson can’t take his eyes off. Abruptly, he finds himself staring up at the man as he stops at their table and smiles charmingly.
“May I buy you a drink?” he addresses them, but his eyes are still on Jackson’s. His voice is unexpectedly low, the vowels of his Chinese slurred with an unidentifiable accent. Up close, his hair is the fiery red shade of maple leaves in autumn, and his eyes are even more bewitching, softened by bristly black lashes.
Beside Jackson, Jinyoung seethes at his audacity. “Sorry, but this is a members-only gathering,” he says in the snooty voice that usually puts even the most thick-skinned pursuers in their place.
As expected, the man is undaunted, his smile stretching even wider, positively smug. He leans down, placing a heavily-ringed hand on the table and bending his lips to Jackson’s ear. His hot breath brushes Jackson’s skin and he stifles a shiver. “Why don’t you ditch these kids? I can show you how to have a good time.”
When Jackson raises his head, the hungry invitation in the man’s eyes is unmistakable. There’s something about looking into them that feels like being sucked into quicksand, being pulled inexorably deeper. Jackson tears his own eyes away with difficulty, throwing back a gulp of his drink with shaky hands.
“Kids?” Bambam squawks in outrage. “Excuse me, I happen to be legal -”
“And we happen to be leaving,” the man rejoins smoothly, his hand closing over Jackson’s arm and pulling him to his feet. Before he knows what’s happening, he is being steered firmly across the room, feeling his teammates’ dumbfounded and open-mouthed stares on his back.
Jackson shakes off the man’s grip as they near the washrooms. His teammates have left him to his own devices, knowing that Jackson has his own secret weapon, his killer move to whip out and slay the opponent at the last minute. The man looks startled at Jackson’s unceremonious brusqueness, then amused as he leans against the wall and cocks his hip, taking out a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and placing one between his lips. He removes an embossed lighter from his suit lapel and flicks his thumb over it, bending to touch the cigarette to the flame. Jackson could turn on his heels and bolt anytime, but the man seems certain he won’t as he casually exhales a plume of smoke and narrows his eyes at Jackson, his forehead creasing.
“Spend the night with me,” he says. “Name your price.”
Jackson exhales sharply, the air knocked out of him by the man’s sheer guts. He takes a deep breath. “I,” he says in crisp English, affecting a snobby accent, “am not a prostitute. Go fuck yourself.”
He lets his lip curl up in a satisfied sneer, waiting expectantly for the way the man’s mouth will drop open, embarrassed, his eyes widening with ashamed incomprehension. He is completely unprepared for the deep laugh that bubbles from the man’s throat, the way his eyes dance as he replies in fluid English, “I’d prefer to fuck you.”
“Y-you - you’re... You know English?” Jackson spits out lamely at last.
The man ducks his head in mock humility, but Jackson isn’t having any of it. “Born in LA,” he says. “Educated at Brown.”
That explained his halting, foreign-sounding Mandarin, the brisk American accent that sounds strangely incongruent with his exterior flowing from his lips. There’s something about this paradox that makes Jackson take a step forward, pushing a knee between the man’s legs and grinding it against his cock until he draws a soft gasp and feels it hardening. Jackson smirks, taking the cigarette from his unresisting fingers and inhaling a mouthful of sweet smoke. He catches the man’s hand before it falls, studying his refined, knuckled fingers heavy with rings. His gaze lands on the biggest one, gleaming with inset diamonds that Jackson can identify at a glance. Swarovski.
"This,” he says decisively, reaching out roughly to pull it off the man’s finger. The man’s eyes widen as he shakes Jackson’s hand away.
Jackson frowns with displeasure. “I thought you said I could have anything,” he says, slightly mocking.
“That’s... that’s a family heirloom,” the man mutters, seeming uncertain for the first time.
“Oh?” Jackson hums, baring his teeth triumphantly. “Well, then... see you.”
His hand is caught by a strong grasp as he turns to leave. He swivels around to find the man sliding the ring onto his finger. It had been on the man’s pinky, but it fits Jackson’s index finger snugly. When he looks up, his breath hitches at the man’s glittering orbs.
“Tonight, you’re mine,” he whispers into Jackson’s ear, and escorts him out of the doors to his waiting car.
The man opens the door of a midnight blue Porsche with deliberate courtesy, shielding Jackson’s head with his hand as he climbs in. He shuts the door and crosses to the driver’s seat, getting in. The car has the distinguished scent of leather and nicotine, the chrome interior spotlessly shiny. There’s an obvious difference to the way this car moves, gliding soundlessly down the streetlamp illuminated asphalt, accelerating with lightspeed at the merest touch, the gears shifting as easily as flowing water. Jackson catches sight of the man’s hands on the steering wheel, so large and powerful they make it seem like a toy. It strikes him that he knows nothing about this man, that he could be a criminal or a pervert and Jackson is all alone with him in this car. It’s the first time he’s done something so reckless and risky, and Jackson feels the shot of adrenaline like a needle straight into his veins that he usually only experiences looking down the blade of a sword.
The man pulls the car out of the next exit, driving into the brightly-lit lobby of a reputable hotel. Jackson heaves a sigh of relief. At least if he’s a douchebag, he’s a rich douchebag. The man handles Jackson out of the car with the same polite deference, so antiquated that Jackson thinks he’s going to kiss his hand. Placing his hand on the small of Jackson’s back, he guides Jackson into the hotel as the doormen hold the doors open, bowing ninety degrees.
The man settles Jackson gently down on one of the armchairs in the lounge while he strides across the lobby importantly, bending his head for a brief exchange of words with the receptionist. After a few minutes, he receives a key, tucking it discreetly inside his suit and traces his steps back to where Jackson is waiting obediently, a faint smile on his lips.
They take the elevator up in awkward silence. Jackson fidgets, wondering if it’s just him or the air is suddenly ten degrees hotter, thick with a tension that makes his skin tingle. When the man places a hand on his arm to lead him out, Jackson jumps at the electrical current that leaps between their bare skin.
The moment he lets Jackson into the hotel room, the man slams him against the door and licks filthily into his mouth, his tongue finding Jackson’s. He kisses Jackson like Jackson is air and he’s drowning, his hands moving down to slide beneath his shirt, spanning his hipbones possessively. They move to cup Jackson’s ass, fingers tightening over it as he presses his tented crotch hard against Jackson’s, showing him how much he wants him.
“Holy shit,” Jackson pants against the man’s mouth, their lips detaching with a pop, saliva trailing wetly from the corners. “Who are you?”
The man pauses before breaking into a feral smile. “Mark Tuan,” he breathes, blowing hot air against Jackson’s ear and making a shiver ripple through his whole body. “But you can call me Mark.”
He goes down on his knees, trailing his tongue over the slivers of skin exposed by Jackson’s ripped jeans. Jackson gasps and writhes, but Mark’s hands rest firmly on his hips, anchoring him. “You were driving me crazy in these fucking pants,” he says, voice pitched bedroom low, and Jackson shudders.
Mark unzips his pants with his teeth, ghosting scorching breaths against the thin cotton of Jackson’s boxers until he’s canting his hips forwards, straining towards the warmth of Mark’s mouth.
“Oh God, please-” Jackson whimpers brokenly, but Mark only smiles and slips his hand into Jackson’s boxers, closing it around his cock. The tight warmth of Mark’s rough palm is too much to take and Jackson breathes labouredly as Mark pumps his fist over his cock in languid strokes, his rings digging tracks of agonizing pleasure into Jackson’s cock.
When Jackson comes with a strangled cry, Mark catches him as his legs give and sweeps him up into his arms, carrying him to the bed and dumping him on it. He clambers over Jackson, straddling him and Jackson can feel the hardness of his cock straining against the fabric of his pants.
Mark unzips his fly and closes a rough hand around Jackson’s shoulder, rolling him onto his front and hauling him into a kneeling position.
“What’s your name, baby?” Mark drawls, and Jackson hisses as he works a finger into his ass, dizzyingly close to his prostate. He grinds helplessly down on Mark’s finger, barely able to speak. “J-jackson.”
“Jackson,” Mark repeats thoughtfully, and the sound of his name in Mark’s deep voice nearly makes him come there and then. By now, Mark is three fingers in, knuckle deep, and Jackson nearly sobs at the loss of them, clenching over empty space as Mark pulls out abruptly.
“Bend over,” he orders, and then his cock is nudging at the cleft of Jackson’s ass, thrusting deeply into his tightness. Jackson hasn’t been loosened for a long time, and the friction of Mark’s cock against his walls is almost unbearable, his ass sucking it in greedily. He arches his back to meet Mark’s thrusts, his pelvis slapping against Jackson’s ass with shamelessly lewd sounds. Mark drives relentlessly into him with a quickening rhythm, fucking Jackson into the bed until he sees stars, his cock so big and hard that Jackson feels like it’s going to rip him in half.
When Jackson blinks awake in an unfamiliar bed the next morning, he starts when he turns to see Mark’s sleeping face unnervingly up close, his eyelashes startlingly long. Jackson brushes a cautious thumb against his cheek and feels the faint scrape of his stubble.
He edges across the bed, wincing a little at the soreness in his lower body, and swings his feet to the cool floor. He spots Mark’s suit jacket, carelessly strewn over the floor and wanders over, fingering the silky material.
“You look good in that,” a gravelly voice makes him leap out of his skin as he spins around guiltily, clad in nothing but Mark’s suit jacket falling to his thighs. He’s relieved to see Mark propped up on one elbow and smiling unperturbedly, eyes hooded and admiring. “You can keep it.”
Jackson’s mouth falls open, unable to believe his generosity. He knows he should decline, that Mark is testing him, but he can’t bring himself to and Mark’s grin broadens at his utter lack of dignity.
Jackson ignores it. “Is this Armani?” he asks casually, fingers running excitedly over the impossibly soft lapels.
“Louis Vuitton,” Mark says, the words tinged with a soft-spoken accent.
“Do you speak French?” Jackson says, dread creeping up his spine. His fears are confirmed when Mark flashes two rows of pearly white teeth. “A little.”
“I can show you how to have a good time,” Jinyoung mimics, drawing a throaty chuckle from his filthy rich boyfriend, Jaebum as they fill him in on the first person who had ever successfully picked Jackson up in a club. In elegant terms, Jaebum is Jinyoung’s sponsor. In inelegant ones, he’s Jinyoung’s sugar daddy.
“Jeez,” Jaebum says, shaking his head. “What a cheesy loser.”
“Not really,” Jackson interjects defensively. “I’ve heard worse.”
An abrupt silence descends on the table as they both stare at him with disbelieving eyes. “What?” Jackson huffs.
Jinyoung clicks his tongue sympathetically. “You’re seriously screwed.” Jaebum nods grimly.
Jackson rolls his eyes.
“But you neglected to mention the most important part,” Jinyoung urges, and Jaebum leans forward expectantly.
Jackson wrinkles his brow, confused.
Jinyoung heaves an exasperated sigh. “The fact that he was drop. Dead. Gorgeous,” he stage-whispers.
Jaebum frowns. “Drop-dead gorgeous?” he repeats, voice menacingly low.
Jinyoung groans and gets out of his chair, sitting on Jaebum’s knee and practically climbing into his lap in front of the whole restaurant. “Aww, come on, hyung. I’m not blind, even if I am yours.”
The last word works as intended, effectively appeasing Jaebum and making his eyes disappear in a pleased smile, his arms tightening over Jinyoung’s waist as he bounces him in his lap.
“You guys.” Jackson gags. “We’re in public, for god’s sake. And -” he adds, pointing his fork at Jinyoung, “he was not gorgeous.”
“Oh, please. He’s a smoking hot sexy motherfucker, and you should be counting your lucky stars,” Jinyoung says bluntly, making Jaebum’s smile waver.
“Okay, maybe he was a bit hot,” Jackson concedes. “Fine, really hot. He was smoking hot, okay?” He glares at Jinyoung. “But I’m not such a bad catch either.”
Jinyoung snickers, and Jaebum takes a drink to hide his smile. “I don’t know, man. You have an okay face, but... your legs are kind of short. Your height is kind of short. In fact, almost everything on your body is short, except -”
“Shut up,” Jackson growls. “I get it.”
Jackson is leaving the studio after practice with the team, the guys shoving and laughing rowdily, their spirits high as they discuss which bar to hit this evening for happy hour. When he sees a strikingly familiar midnight Porsche parked in front of the building, he stops in his tracks, standing stock still as his world tilts precariously on its axis. Looking like a mirage, Mark is leaning against the side of his car in a business suit, checking his watch with his other hand shoved into his pocket.
Jinyoung notices him and nudges Jackson. “What’s lover boy doing here? I didn’t know you were serious.”
“We’re not,” Jackson hisses, ignoring Jinyoung’s knowing grin as he approaches Mark, heart slamming against his chest. Mark raises his head, looking sheepish and curiously shy.
“How did you find this place?” Jackson demands without preamble.
Mark looks away guiltily for a moment, before raising his eyes to meet Jackson’s with an enigmatic smile. “I have my ways.”
“... That’s kind of creepy,” Jackson deadpans, and laughs when Mark’s face falls. “But I’ll forgive you because you’re cute.”
Mark looks up, eyes wide and hopeful. A cocky smirk tugs at his lips. “Did you just call me cute?” he drawls, and Jackson reddens like a tomato.
“Yo, Jackson!” one of his teammates calls, and Jackson realizes they’re hovering curiously behind him, gossiping and tittering. “You coming with us?”
Jackson opens his mouth, but Mark forestalls him. “No,” he says, and suddenly his hand is firm on Jackson’s arm, his other opening the car door. He practically shoves Jackson into the passenger seat, slamming the door closed and crossing swiftly to the driver’s seat, getting in.
"Did you just kidnap me?” Jackson shrieks incredulously as they zoom off, leaving his teammates in a cloud of exhaust.
Mark turns, eyes imploring but smile devilish. “I have a new ring, pure gold,” he starts conversationally. “I thought you might be interested...”
Gradually, a kind of unspoken arrangement develops between them - Mark appears spontaneously outside his studio after practice, and Jackson wordlessly gets into his car. Sometimes he comes for days in a row, others he disappears for weeks. They check into different hotels every time, but Jackson never gets that dirty, disgraceful feeling of regret after he checks out. Because Mark is faultlessly classy, never booking anything but the most expensive presidential suites and receiving the most discreet service befitting royalty. When he wakes up in the morning, alone in bed with sweaty sheets tangled around his legs, there is no note or trace of Mark except the fading scent of his cologne on the sun-drenched linen, a new ring around one of Jackson’s fingers, and a lavish breakfast on the bedside table, room service, the coffee still warm. Jackson lifts the ring to his lips, brushing it. The silver is cool against his mouth and Jackson wonders what is this dull ache beneath his throat.
Jackson knows that he should feel cheap, even shameless about selling himself for what is as good as money, but he wonders how Mark manages to make him feel like nothing less than a million bucks. He makes Jackson feel like he is the one in control, like Mark is entirely at his mercy and Jackson is the one granting him favours. Sometime along the way, the rings had become an excuse to meet, inconsequential, a reward paling in comparison to one caring word from Mark, one fleeting caress.
When all of Jackson’s fingers are completely weighted down by rings and Mark’s hands have become completely bare, looking oddly naked without them, Jackson thinks that this fling, whatever it is, has finally come to its end.
But five days later, his heart leaps out of his throat when Mark is standing outside his studio again, missing in his eyes and fingers glinting with so many new rings the sun’s rays bounce off them in fractured rainbows.
“So, I heard from Jinyoung that you’re still seeing that guy from the club,” Jaebum says on one of their dates Jinyoung has invited Jackson along to play third wheel again. Jackson doesn’t really mind because he gets to eat in fancy restaurants and Jaebum always picks up the tab.
Jackson saws at his steak noncommittally.
"When are you going to introduce us? We could go on a double date,” Jaebum probes.
“What car does he drive?” Jaebum nags.
“He drives a Porsche convertible, okay?” Jackson finally shoots back, exasperated.
“Hmph.” Jaebum makes an unimpressed noise. “I drive a Ferrari,” he brags, like the whole world doesn’t already know. “Hyung, you’re so hot,” Jinyoung swoons obligingly.
“At least he bought it with legitimately-earned money,” Jackson counters. Jaebum grins unabashedly. His shady moneymaking ventures are well-known among business circles. Jinyoung has the decency to look embarrassed.
“What’s his name?” Jaebum finally voices out the leading question, eyes widening when Jackson tells him. “I know him.”
“You do?” Jinyoung echoes in wonder.
Jaebum nods. “Our fathers used to be golf buddies. But we lost touch after he went to Brown.”
Jackson and Jinyoung exchange impressed glances. Jaebum’s father is a second-generation chaebol, so Mark’s family must be pretty well-off if they are acquainted with him.
“What does he work as?” Jackson asks apprehensively.
Jaebum looks surprised. “Didn’t he tell you? He’s the heir of Tuan Empire,” he says, naming one of the biggest business conglomerates in Southeast Asia. Jackson swallows hard, stunned. He had known that Mark was rich, but he hadn’t imagined the extent of his wealth or his status.
Jinyoung leans forward eagerly. “What are you waiting for? Tell us more about him!” Jackson’s breath catches, waiting for Jaebum’s next words.
Jaebum looks stumped. “What do you want to know?”
“His dirty laundry, any scandals or rumours etcetera...” Jackson says quickly, and Jinyoung nods impatiently.
Jaebum chuckles, taking a swig of his wine. “As far as I know, he doesn’t have any dirty laundry. He’s really private, so I don’t know much about him. But Jackson-ah,” he meets Jackson’s eyes across the table. “He might be boring, but he’s a good guy. Try not to break his heart, okay?”
Jackson scoffs, and Jaebum laughs. Jackson doesn’t know why everyone acts like he’s going to cut his teeth on Mark’s heart, when in reality Mark is the one who has Jackson wrapped around his little finger - at this thought, Jackson stops cold. Mark has him wrapped around his little finger? That’s impossible. There’s never been a single person, male or female, who could resist Jackson’s charm. Why should Mark be an exception?
The first time Mark takes Jackson to his apartment, Jackson feels the way he did after he won his first medal at fifteen - like he was soaring, invincible. The gesture is seemingly intangible, but Jackson senses that it is colossal, an important development in their complex, dysfunctional relationship. He doesn’t know whether he’s happy or sad, and he constantly reminds himself that they are in unprecedented territory, that he should advance with caution. Jackson isn’t sure he is ready for a serious relationship, and he’s afraid Mark will get too emotionally attached and invested, turning clingy and demanding like some of his previous partners, destroying their fragile and tenuous beginning with roughness.
But somewhere along the way, Jackson is surprised to realize that he has become the one wanting more, the one that doesn’t feel like Mark is giving enough. Jackson has always had the bad habit of wanting things he can’t have, unable to leave any stone unturned, any challenge unconquered. So the more Mark withdraws, the more crazy about him Jackson becomes.
Mark’s apartment is just as Jackson expected - a minimalistic bachelor pad understatedly but tastefully furnished in shades of chrome and white, with floor-length picture windows opening up to breathtaking views of the ocean in the day and city lights at night. Only the antiques displayed in corners, the abstract paintings hanging from the walls and the solid gold tap in the bathroom belie the degree of his affluence. Jackson’s favourite place in Mark’s house is his den, which has cozy throw pillows strewn over the wooden floorboards, the latest model Playstation tucked against the wall, almost new and practically untouched, carelessly neglected. When Jackson pleads to use it, Mark laughs and ruffles his hair. “Knock yourself out.”
“Play with me!” Jackson demands childishly, and Mark sighs indulgently and settles down on the floor beside him, picking up the controls. He lets Jackson win at all the games but denies when Jackson accuses him of cheating.
After that first wild night, Jackson discovers that Mark’s confidence and suave brutality were just a front. He’s maddeningly gentle in bed, treating Jackson with elaborate courtesy. Jackson always gets the feeling that he’s holding himself back, consciously restraining his strength. He never loses control, no matter how much Jackson goads him. He doesn’t even move a muscle or make a sound as Jackson lowers himself painfully over his cock, sinking down until Mark’s full length fills him. Mark rolls his hips up, thrusting erratically into Jackson as Jackson rides him, but he never allows a loose moan or words of endearment to escape his mouth, the only sign of his feelings the staccato heartbeat beneath Jackson’s hands and barely perceptible hitches of his breathing.
Jackson wants to tell Mark that he hates slow and languorous lovemaking, that he likes it hard and violent. He likes it to hurt, the more painful the better. He wishes Mark would stop being such a gentleman, because Jackson is no princess. He’s a masculine, strapping man, easily as strong as Mark, not a fragile porcelain vase or a frail woman, for fuck’s sake. He wants Mark to fuck him senseless, until he can’t walk, until Mark’s touch is imprinted on his body like an indelible tattoo, branding him for life. But he doesn’t know a way to say this without seeming easy. And Jackson realizes that he cares about how Mark sees him. He cares a lot.
Mark is monosyllabic and mysterious, his eyes impenetrable behind the rings of smoke he exhales languidly from the imported Cuban cigars he indulges in as they lie in bed spent, legs tangled together. Sometimes he lets Jackson have a taste, lowering his lips to Jackson’s and blowing the ashy menthol smoke into his mouth. When they kiss later, Jackson can’t tell whether it’s him or Mark who tastes like bittersweet regret.
“Jaebum-hyung told me that Mark said something about you,” Jinyoung says with a cryptic smile over martinis after practice.
Jackson freezes, the glass almost slipping from his trembling fingers. He manages to steady it but his grasp is clammy.
“Don’t you want to know what he said?” Jinyoung prompts.
“I don’t care,” Jackson says flatly, averting his eyes.
Jinyoung laughs, reading him like a book. “Mark said he was out of his depth.”
Jackson waits, but Jinyoung doesn’t elaborate. “The hell does that even mean?” he bursts out.
Jinyoung shrugs. “Beats me.”
“What else did he say?” Jackson presses desperately, beyond faking nonchalance.
“That’s all I managed to get out of hyung,” Jinyoung says apologetically. “You know how tight-lipped he is about his work. Do you know how many blowjobs I had to -”
“Ugh, too much information,” Jackson interrupts. “But... thanks,” he says grudgingly. "You’re a good friend.”
Jinyoung punches his shoulder. “Anytime, buddy.”
“What do you mean you’re out of your depth?” Jackson blurts out the next day, making Mark look up from lavishing butterfly kisses on his inner thighs, his eyes suddenly intently focused on Jackson’s.
“Who told you that?” he says, and Jackson squirms uncomfortably under his attention.
“That’s not important,” Jackson says evasively, already regretting the question. He runs a hand down his thigh invitingly, trying to recapture the mood, but Mark refuses to be distracted. “Was it Jaebum? That -” he curses under his breath.
Jackson laughs nervously. “Look, forget it. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“What else did he say?” Mark questions urgently, his body finally slackening in relief when Jackson shakes his head.
Jackson shivers as a glimmer of mischief enters Mark’s eyes. “Were you asking about me?” he asks, voice silky as he peppers a trail of blazing kisses down Jackson’s torso. “Can I take this as a sign of interest?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Jackson snarks, choking on the words as Mark scrapes his teeth experimentally over his cock.
“What did you mean, though?” Jackson can’t resist prodding as Mark finally, thankfully takes Jackson’s aching cock into the warmth of his mouth again.
Mark doesn’t reply, too busy bobbing his head over Jackson’s length and swallowing over the head. After Jackson comes with a strangled cry, he raises his head, smirking and licking his lips.
“You’re a piece of work, Jackson Wang,” he says, the harshness of the words softened by the warm admiration in his voice.
“Mark,” Jackson crawls onto the bed, notching his chin over Mark’s shoulder. His brain freezes at the sight of the neverending squiggly lines of figures on Mark’s laptop screen. Jackson loves the serious look in Mark’s eyes behind the wire-rimmed glasses he wears for nearsightedness when he’s working. “Maaaaark,” he lisps petulantly. “Play with me.”
“Shhh, baby. Just let me finish this, okay?” Mark barely looks at him, petting his head with a placating hand, fingers running distractedly through Jackson’s hair. Jackson snuffles contentedly at his touch and pretends to growl and nip at his fingers with his teeth, making Mark laugh.
Jackson continues gazing adoringly at Mark with his chin propped on his shoulder and eyes unblinking because he doesn’t want to miss a single, precious second until a faint rosy blush dusts deliciously across Mark’s cheekbones. He looks like a ripe apple and Jackson wants to take a big bite.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Mark finally takes his hands off the keyboard and covers his eyes, groaning.
“Like what?” Jackson says innocently.
“You -” Mark turns abruptly, bringing their faces heartstoppingly close. Jackson inhales audibly and jerks away, but Mark places his hands on his shoulders and pins him down, gazing deeply into Jackson’s eyes. “Do you even know the things you do to me?”
Mark shakes his head, voice hoarse. "You have no idea, do you?”
Jackson smiles seductively up at him, lifting his shirt to reveal a sliver of skin, and Mark’s eyes darken with want but he pulls himself back with an effort and returns to his computer.
Disappointed but undeterred, Jackson resumes his valiant, everlasting battle with Mark’s work for his attention. Jackson is aware that Mark deals in six-figure sums, that he’s probably interrupting some multi-million dollar transaction right now, but he doesn’t really care.
“Mark~” Jackson singsongs. “Mark-hyung?”
No response. A brilliant idea strikes him.
“Ge,” Jackson says tentatively. “Yi-en ge.”
It’s the first time he’s called Mark’s Chinese name. Although Chinese is their native language, they mostly communicate in English and find it more comfortable. But Jackson doesn’t expect the way Mark drops his laptop and turns, his eyes wide and stricken and soft, like Jackson has said something immense and momentous.
“Say that again,” Mark says quietly, and Jackson is shaken by the full intensity of Mark’s attention suddenly focused on him. He had forgotten how empowering it was, how much it felt like flying.
“Why?” he can’t resist jibing mercilessly. “Does it turn you on? Do you have a kink for cute girls wearing pinafores calling you gege?”
Mark looks taken aback, before he bursts out laughing, eyes glinting so mischievously Jackson’s heart skips a beat. “Only cute boys.” He winks greasily.
Jackson pouts and Mark pokes his cheeks until they deflate. “Say it again,” Mark whines, making a sad blowfish face, and Jackson swears. He had forgotten how adorable Mark could be when he wanted to.
“Yi-en ge?” Jackson repeats uncertainly, and Mark’s smile slips. He turns away, and Jackson is startled to see a suspicious glimmer in his eyes. Gently, Jackson takes Mark’s chin and tilts it up to see his face.
“Jackson,” Mark breathes reverently, smothering him in a hug that crushes Jackson’s ribs and robs him of oxygen. “I miss Taiwan. I miss my parents,” he says in Chinese, muffled against Jackson’s neck.
It’s kind of unsettling seeing Mark so vulnerable. There’s something too raw about his misty eyes that makes Jackson uncomfortable and sad and happy, all at the same time, so he wraps his arms around Mark’s broad but fragile shoulders and hugs back tighter.
Mark takes Jackson to a street of designer boutiques, making the rounds of Prada and Gucci and Giorgio Armani. In every shop, the posh salesgirls rush up simpering and trip over themselves to serve him. Mark runs his fingers expertly over the racks, picking out suits and dress shirts and accessories with practiced ease, draping them over the growing pile in Jackson’s arms.
When the pile has grown so high Jackson has disappeared entirely behind it, Mark is finally satisfied. He ushers Jackson to the fitting room and shoves him in. Doubtfully, Jackson pulls on a dress shirt, navy blazer and pressed silk pants that feel like eiderdown against his skin.
When he opens the door and steps out tentatively, Mark’s eyes widen almost comically. He takes in Jackson, running his gaze over every inch of his body until Jackson feels his face burning up.
“You clean up well,” Mark murmurs, voice grazing Jackson’s ear as he gently turns Jackson around to look in the mirror. When Jackson sees himself, he inhales softly.
He almost can’t recognize himself. He could pass off as one of Mark’s colleagues or subordinates in the starched, immaculate suit dripping with class. Of course, he doesn’t look nearly as imposing as Mark standing behind him in his charcoal three-piece suit and tie, but Jackson has never been one to be modest about his own attractiveness, and he looks pretty damn attractive right now.
Mark’s hands are inordinately gentle as he fastens cufflinks around Jackson’s sleeves, his eyes so hushedly worshipful as he fixes Jackson’s collar, fingers grazing his clavicles that Jackson grabs him by his own collar and hauls him into the fitting room, kicking the door shut behind them. Fisting his hands in the lapels of Mark’s suit, he pulls him down for a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss that quickly turns heated as Mark cages him against the wall of the fitting room and slides his hands beneath Jackson’s blazer, tweaking his nipples through the thin fabric. Jackson whines, hands tightening over Mark’s back and nails raking down his suit. Mark clamps a heavy hand over his mouth as he pushes Jackson’s collar back and presses his mouth to the sensitive skin of his neck, sucking an exquisitely painful mark into Jackson’s skin.
When he pulls away, Jackson feels entirely molten, his legs barely able to support him. He slumps limply against Mark’s frame until he feels strong enough to stand alone, then gasps when he catches sight of the crimson love bite stark against his pale skin. But when he anxiously tugs his collar over it, trying to hide it, Mark’s fingers close around his and he undoes the button again, opening Jackson’s collar wide. “I want everyone to see that you belong to me,” he says huskily, and Jackson’s blush spreads down to his neck.
They step out of the room together, breathless and sheepish. The salesgirls are pretending not to watch them, huddled together and looking scandalized. Mark clears his throat and tosses out his credit card. “We’ll take everything.”
“I reserved a table at a restaurant,” Mark says, glancing over affectionately as they speed down the highway. Mark’s hands seem especially large on the steering wheel, taking up half of it and encompassing the stick shift as he gracefully changes gear. The top of the convertible is down and the wind runs gentle fingers through his russet hair, ruffling it boyishly. His profile looks cut straight out of the burnished copper of a coin, and his smile is so carefree that it makes Jackson’s heart do cartwheels.
“What’s the special occasion?” he teases, not expecting a serious answer, but Mark smiles shyly. “It’s been exactly six months since we met,” he says softly, removing his hand from the gear to cover Jackson’s on his lap. “This sounds really cheesy... but I guess it’s our six-month anniversary?” His eyes laugh at himself even as they shine with excitement, and it tugs deeply at Jackson’s heart. He can’t believe that Mark had remembered the exact date they met, that it was so important to him that he had gone to such lengths to commemorate it. Jackson has always hated cliché and commercialized holidays like Valentine’s Day and all that anniversary bullcrap, but now that it’s Mark celebrating it with him, it somehow changes everything.
When they arrive at the restaurant, Mark passes his keys to a valet and opens Jackson’s door, taking his hand to help him out. Bach fugues flow from the overhead speakers as they enter the restaurant, their footsteps soundless as the polished leather shoes that Mark had personally picked out for Jackson and cost a small fortune sink into the plush velvet carpet. A hostess glides out to guide them to a private room.
Jackson can’t hide his surprise when the private room turns out to be the size of a small apartment, containing an ivory baby grand piano and a mahogany violin on a stand lined against the far wall. He allows Mark to pull out his chair and sits down in it, feeling a little dizzy. Mark settles down opposite him, across the table on which three lighted candlesticks are burning.
“Are you okay?” Mark says solicitously.
“Um, yeah! I just...” Jackson flaps his hands, gesturing helplessly at the surroundings. “I just didn’t expect an orchestra.”
Mark smiles sweetly. “I heard you like music.”
“I like you,” Jackson says, cringing inwardly with the corniness of his own words, but it’s worth it just to see the blinding smile that transforms Mark’s face.
“What do you want to eat?” Mark asks, and Jackson opens the menu. The words are all in French. “Uh... I’m easy, really,” he stutters and giggles nervously.
“Shall I order for you then?” Mark says, and Jackson nods in relief.
Mark beckons the waiter with a click of his fingers. Jackson finds the low incomprehensible murmur of his French soothing as he orders smoothly. In a few minutes, the waiter is back with a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice.
“To another six.” Mark tips his glass towards him, and Jackson toasts it. “Months?” he jokes lightly, but Mark smiles so earnestly that Jackson’s breath catches. “Years.”
They sip their champagne in comfortable silence. In the golden glow of the candlelight, shadows flicker across Mark’s face, his eyes luminescent. Jackson’s mouth falls open uncontrollably, foolish confessions bubbling to the tip of his tongue. Luckily, he is saved from saying anything stupid and irrevocable by the discreet entrance of the waiter bearing plates emanating mouth-watering aromas.
Immediately after the waiter uncovers his plate with a flourish, Jackson dives into his food with relish, almost forgetting his manners. He realizes that he’s attacking his food like a bumpkin when Mark chuckles softly, and blushes.
Mark exchanges their plates. “I’ve helped you cut it,” he says.
“Oh... uh, thanks,” Jackson stammers, cautiously forking a bite-sized piece of meat and bringing it to his lips. The burst of flavours that explodes in his mouth makes him sigh in bliss. “What is this?” he marvels.
“Foie gras duck terrine,” Mark says proudly.
“Ah.” Jackson’s eyes glaze over. Mark is watching him closely, and Jackson quickly disguises his awe, keeping his expression blank and unimpressed as he chews boredly. He’s already made enough of a fool of himself, and he’s worried that if he reveals how intimidated and overwhelmed he really is by all of this, it will make it even more obvious how glaringly unmatched they are, how Mark is totally, completely out of his league.
Mark looks oddly disappointed, lowering his gaze. “You must be used to things like this,” he says lightly, picking at his own food.
Jackson looks up, stupefied. “What do you mean?” he croaks.
Mark looks up, eyes uncharacteristically solemn. “Jackson,” he says. “I hardly know anything about you, your past, the things you’ve eaten and the places you’ve gone, how many - how many men you’ve been with -” he swallows, throat working. “And it drives me crazy.”
Jackson flinches at the implications of his words, although he knows that Mark doesn’t mean them in a derogatory way. He can’t bring himself to blame Mark when he himself frequently lies awake filled with resentment and torturing himself with thoughts of the people Mark has loved before him. So instead, he avoids the pressing issue and addresses the topic at hand. “You think... you think I eat like this on a daily basis?”
Mark shrugs.
Jackson facepalms. “You must be kidding me. Just one meal like this could make me bankrupt.”
The words are brutally honest, casting in high relief the vast differences in their statuses, the way he’s as much a pauper as Mark is a prince. Jackson wonders how to tactfully tell Mark that the bouquets of 100 roses Mark delivers to his studio every week seem more like a burden than a gift. The way Mark is breathtakingly extravagant only serves to accentuate how Jackson is hopelessly inferior, a good-for-nothing, penniless second-rate fencer. But Jackson doesn’t flinch away from the truth this time, and Mark’s eyes soften unexpectedly.
“So what do you like to eat?” he asks, a teasing note in his voice.
“My favourite food is McDonald’s. I play online games way too much. I like to watch soccer, but can’t play it to save my life. I’m actually just... a really normal person.”
Once the words are out, Jackson realizes how bland and dull and mind-numbingly boring they make him sound. With a sinking feeling, he realizes he can’t pretend to be mysterious and compelling anymore, or even hold any bit of intrigue for Mark. Not for the first time, he hates his impulsiveness and compulsive honesty.
Mark looks taken aback, but he quickly regains his composure to look at Jackson with a searching, unreadable gaze. Finally, he says, “Do you support Manchester or Liverpool?”
Jackson pauses. “Manchester,” he replies eventually, and the way Mark’s face lights up tells him that it’s the right answer.
“But you know,” Jackson continues babbling as another bite melts in his mouth, “It doesn’t take a gourmet to tell that this is delicious.”
Mark laughs. “Do you want more?”
When Jackson looks up, gaping, Mark is holding out a forkful of meat, eyes indulgent. Jackson opens his mouth obediently but self-consciously, and Mark delivers the morsel in successfully. Without warning, he reaches out to brush a smear of sauce from the corner of Jackson’s lips. Jackson’s fork drops as Mark brings his thumb to his own mouth and licks it clean, before his face flushes a hot, blotchy red.
Alarmed, he quickly says, “I-I’m full.”
“So fast?” Mark looks startled.
“Oh, um, yeah. I’m kind of on a diet,” Jackson lies.
“A diet?” Mark looks concerned. “But why? You’re not fat.”
“I’m fatter than you,” Jackson says glumly.
“No you’re not,” Mark protests.
“Am too.”
Suddenly, Mark is out of his chair and beside him, lifting Jackson off his feet and sweeping him up bridal style, eyes laughing down at him.
“Stupid Mark, cut it out, we’re in a restaurant -” Jackson sputters with laughter, hitting Mark until he sets him back gently in his chair.
“See? You’re light as a feather.” He winks.
Jackson stifles an incoherent groan. “Just because you’re strong doesn’t mean I’m not fat.”
Mark looks surprised but pleased. “You think I’m strong?” he says, leaning across the table to brush Jackson’s lips. Mark’s lips taste deliciously of bubbly strawberry champagne and Jackson’s head spins. “What else do you think about me?”
Jackson cuts his eyes at him. “I think you’re a boorish and uncivilized Neanderthal with a public voyeurism fetish.”
“Don’t worry, we’re all alone here,” Mark says calmly, eating his foie gras with far more grace and delicacy than Jackson.
“That’s why I’m worried,” Jackson grumbles, and Mark laughs, finishing his food and wiping his mouth with his napkin, but his eyes still look hungry.
“I hope you still have room for dessert,” he says, and Jackson moans and complains about a food coma, but perks up anyway when the waiter walks in with two plates of his favourite Tiramisu.
“Compliments from the chef, sir,” the waiter says deferentially, and Jackson notices that Mark’s cake has an extra heart traced in pink icing over it. His stomach clenches. “Do you know the chef?”
Mark shifts uneasily, avoiding his eyes. “Um, yeah... she was kind of my ex-girlfriend...”
Jackson puts his fork down, nausea replacing his hunger. “You brought me to your ex-girlfriend’s restaurant for our anniversary?” He doesn’t recognize the tight knot in his gut, but it feels something like anger.
“Jackson,” Mark pleads frantically. “I swear, I didn’t mean it that way at all -”
“God,” Jackson mutters under his breath, throwing back a big gulp of champagne. “You’re so insensitive.”
“Would you like to listen to some music?” Mark hastily changes the subject.
Jackson has barely nodded curtly before Mark presses a button on his cell phone and a door Jackson hadn’t noticed in the wall opens, two young men clad in dapper suits entering with a bow. The man wearing the white suit settles down at the piano and opens it. “That’s my boy, Youngjae,” Mark says warmly, and Youngjae nods and flashes a friendly smile to Jackson. He gestures to the other man dressed in black. “Nice to meet you. This is my friend -”
“Yugyeom?” The word slips from Jackson’s mouth, stunned, as Yugyeom recognizes him at the same time, looking stricken.
“Do you know him?” Mark looks confused.
Jackson clears his throat awkwardly. “He’s... uh... my ex-boyfriend.”
Yugyeom looks like he wishes the floor would open up and swallow him as Mark swings his gaze sharply on him.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know -“ Mark fixes Jackson with contrite eyes.
“It’s okay,” Jackson quickly reassures him, but he can’t hide the pain that flickers across his face when Yugyeom strips him boldly with his gaze, grinning sleazily. “Lookin’ good, Jackson-ah.”
In a flash, Mark is on his feet, looking ready to lunge across the room and tackle Yugyeom. Jackson can see his hands curling and uncurling and he prepares to make a grab for Mark if he loses it. Thankfully, after a few deep breaths, Mark regains his composure, but his voice is cool and warning in a way Jackson has never heard before as he says evenly, “I’m sorry, but could you leave?"
Youngjae nudges Yugyeom, looking mildly terrified, and for a moment Jackson is afraid Yugyeom is going to make a scene before he relents and breaks Mark’s glare, sloping towards the door. He’s just as tall and lithe as he used to be, legs going on for miles and eyes dangerously sexy, but Jackson is surprised to find that he doesn’t feel anything. Not one single pang of missing. Instead, he finds all his attention monopolized by Mark watching him leave, his gentle eyes angry and profoundly sad that he had hurt Jackson in any way.
The room sinks into a stilted silence after Yugyeom leaves. Youngjae quickly sits down at the piano and promptly launches into a melancholic rendition of River flows in you. Jackson lets the music carry him off, washing away all his thoughts except for the unbearably precious proximity of the man sitting in front of him.
“Jackson?” Mark says hesitantly as they are taking a moonlit stroll on the nearby beach later. When Jackson turns, Mark is smiling sheepishly at him, eyes beseeching.
“Actually,” he confesses. “I feel really uncomfortable in suits and ties and fancy restaurants too.” He tugs the noose of his tie loose, unbuttoning his shirt. “I just wanted to impress you.”
Jackson stares at him wordlessly for a few beats, before grabbing the noose of Mark’s tie and dragging him down for a hard kiss, all teeth and tongue, running his fingers through Mark’s perfectly slicked back hair and messing it up.
When he lets go, Mark looks dazed and breathtakingly happy. He threads their fingers together. “Do you want to stay over tonight? We can order McDonald’s and play online games and watch soccer all night.”
Jackson beams brightly. “Sounds like a plan.”
They stay up till dawn to watch the sunrise dyeing the clouds violet and marigold, cuddling drowsily in blankets in Mark’s living room, and Mark laughs when Jackson yawns widely and picks him up effortlessly, still wrapped in the quilt, carrying him up the stairs to his bedroom.
Mark lays Jackson gently on the bed, tucking him in, then slides in beside Jackson, turning to face the wall and curling into himself. Although Mark hasn’t said anything, Jackson senses that he’s been acting oddly all night, pensive and detached. While Jackson gets louder and more bawdy when he’s angry, Mark is the opposite, getting steadily quieter and quieter. Jackson finds it frustrating when Mark clams up and starts brooding, bottling up all his problems.
Not knowing how to approach when Mark’s walls are up like that, Jackson sneaks an apprehensive hand over his arm. Mark stiffens as Jackson strokes his chest, but finally rolls over to take Jackson into his arms. Jackson snuggles closer, the irregular rhythm of Mark’s heartbeat evening against his ears soothingly.
As Jackson is drifting off into sleep, Mark says in a small voice, “Your ex is really tall.”
Jackson starts awake immediately, wondering if this is what’s been bothering Mark all night. “Mmm-hmm,” he hums cautiously.
"Do you like tall guys?” Mark says, sounding strangely insecure, and Jackson’s heart goes out to him.
He pretends to consider the question seriously. “Hmm,” he says eventually. “Not really. They make me feel short.”
The way Mark’s body sags in relief against his makes Jackson muffle a giddy giggle.
“Thank God I’m not tall then.” Mark’s voice rumbles against Jackson’s ear, his eyelashes fluttering closed, so easily satisfied.
"Yeah,” Jackson replies instinctively. “Thank God.” It’s only as he says the words that he realizes how true they are, because if Mark were taller, he wouldn’t be Mark, and - dear God, Mark is perfect. Every single thing about him; the way he’s just slightly taller than Jackson so Jackson fits right into the hollow between his chin and shoulder, the way he’s deceptively quiet but steady and immovable, unfailingly reliable, the way Jackson feels so safe in his arms like nothing could hurt him, the way his heart is so immeasurably wide that Jackson could fall into it forever, his guileless, compassionate smile and deep, kind eyes.
It’s crazy and ridiculous because Mark isn’t Jackson’s type. Jackson’s type is experienced and smooth, men who understand his fear of commitment and don’t mind no-strings-attached flings, who know that he likes it rough in bed and satisfy his desires. It’s definitely not Mark, who is clumsy and inept, mumbles too much and trips over the ends of his own words. Jackson can’t stand Mark Tuan and his stupid accent and brilliant smile and the way he’s so stupidly gentle that Jackson doesn’t even know what to do with him.
When they had first met, Jackson had dismissed Mark as a vapid pretty boy, shallow and weak and spineless. He hadn’t expected to find that beneath Mark’s flawlessly sculpted exterior there lay an even more exquisite heart, that one day this stranger called Mark Tuan would come to mean the entire universe to him.
“You need to start treating yourself better,” Jinyoung tells him, knowing exactly what Jackson is thinking even without him saying it out loud.
“What?” Jackson blinks, playing dumb.
Jinyoung just smiles wisely, patting his shoulder. “You deserve a guy like Mark,” he says simply, the words Jackson suddenly realizes he has been waiting for someone to tell him the moment Jinyoung does.
part 2