oscarmark - REAL MEN AREN'T AFRAID OF ANYTHING
Mark is not a man who likes change. He's not afraid of it, because real men aren't afraid of anything, but he greatly dislikes it. In fact, he'll go to extreme lengths to keep everything in his life the exact same even if it means he'll suffer for it.
The Ann of it all still dragging him along decades later because a divorce would make people talk and we can't have that, can we? Not after all that I've done for you, Mark. His reputation of a washed up racer turned helicopter parent that follows him through the paddock, the knowing looks seeing straight through to the rotten core of him. None of it really matters, though. He's good at putting his head down and bearing his burdens. It doesn't even hurt that much anymore.
Anyways, the suffering makes him feel like he's earned it. The singular beacon of light in his life that stops him from drowning all of his regrets with liquor or blowing it all to shit in an interview on national television or climbing into one of his fucking sports cars he doesn't even fit in anymore because he's old and fat and driving off the edge of a fucking cliff—
If there's anything that Mark can take pride in, it's Oscar. He doesn't know what the boy saw in him all those years ago that made him want Mark to be his mentor. He was good when he was driving but he wasn't the best. He was handsome enough when he was younger and he's tried to keep fit but there's more gray in his beard than not and he's taken to wearing sports coats to hide the way his gut hangs over his belt.
Sometimes, when Mark is very drunk and a bit weepy, he likes to think that maybe Oscar likes him just as he is.
Mark has always been a creature of need. He needs to be surrounded by other people to remember that he's an actual person that exists and has a body, in turn, he needs people to depend on him. He needs someone to need him so much that it keeps him accountable, keeps him nice and tidy and sober.
Oscar needs Mark. He needs his money and connections and he needs his guidance most of all. Oscar didn't grow up with a father, not properly, and Mark doesn't have the obligation to be that but he does have to look out for him.
And isn't that what a father is meant to do? Look after his boy? So Mark doesn't have to be some kind of father figure for Oscar but he already kind of is and he sort of likes it. It's only right, after all that Oscar has done for him. He's a better man after knowing Oscar.
Only, it's sort of difficult to look after someone that refuses to be seen in the same room as him.
The break was a fucking nightmare, with all the fluff articles and press photos circulating online, each headline declaring that Oscar had decided some distance between him and Mark would be best for his career. It was worse because Oscar had actually followed through on what Mark thought was a bluff to get Oscar's publicity person off their back.
The distance between them makes each little change that much more monumental to Mark. It starts with a decrease in calls and then texts and then being left on read by a boy half his age. Then he has to see on fucking Instagram the way Oscar's tees start to strain against the breadth of his shoulders and the swell of his biceps and how Oscar has taken to letting his stubble grow in, thicker and darker than it's ever been before.
Years ago, Mark had been the one to teach Oscar how to get a good, close shave without nicking himself. Has he forgotten already?
The way Mark had lathered his special soap and expensive oil along his jawline and carefully scraped the razor around acne spots and dry patches so Oscar wouldn't bleed? How Mark had cradled his face in a warm towel and soothed away any irritation with gentle pressure and endless patience when Oscar whined and squirmed away from his damp touch?
Did it not matter to Oscar the same way it mattered to him?
Mark can be reasonable about this. He doesn't go on any drunken tirades or spend days moping under the covers. He does pour his favorite whiskey down the sink, though, just in case. He doesn't lash out at Oscar even though he tends to get mean when he's scared and he's a little scared right now.
Being scared isn't the same thing as being afraid. Fathers aren't supposed to hurt their sons. Mark can be good at this.
"Oh! Hey," Oscar greets, when he opens his door and finds Mark looming on his front step.
Oscar's hair is long enough to curl around his ears and the nape of his neck in soft waves. His sharp jaw is softened by stubble that looks days old. He's dressed in an unzipped hoodie and a pair of boxer shorts. Little white socks that end at his calves. He looks indecent.
Mark clears his throat and shoves his hands into his pockets.
"Hey, Osc," Mark says. He glances down at his shoes and then up at Oscar's neutral expression. "I was, uh. In the neighborhood. You hungry?"
Oscar's brows crease, one of his thinking frowns that isn't necessarily unhappy.
"It's alright if you're busy," Mark hurries to say, even though he'd probably hole up in the dingiest bar he could find and kill his liver dead if Oscar said he was too busy for him. "I know you probably have better things to do than spend your free time with an old man."
"Actually, no. Not really," Oscar hums. "Funny you mention it."
He scratches his belly absentmindedly, long nails slipping under his waistband, and Mark does not look. He is being good about this.
"I was supposed to film with the guys but they had to cancel," Oscar shrugs. "We were actually gonna do one of those mukbang videos so I haven't eaten since breakfast. You feel like pasta?"
"Yeah. Yeah, absolutely. Whatever you want," Mark says, even though he knows he's going to be bloated from all the carbs and spend the rest of the night fighting heartburn.
Mark doesn't bring up how pasta isn't in Oscar's meal plan for this week, which he knows because he keeps a copy of it in his Notes app. Mark thinks Oscar shouldn't even have a diet plan because there's only so much littler his little boy can get. Mark wants to give Oscar everything he wants.
Mark wants to watch Oscar smear creamy béchamel sauce all over his mouth and suck the juice from crispy shrimp heads and smile, stuffed and sated with heavily lidded eyes, as he thanks him for the meal.
"Just let me go make myself presentable and then we can head out," Oscar says. He wrinkles his nose. "Do I have to put on real pants or do you think shorts are fine?"
"Yes. You can wear whatever you want. And I–I like your new look," Mark blurts, gesturing at his own chin.
He's lying. He's fucking lying, but he has no idea how he'll be able to sit across from Oscar without bringing it up so he figures he might as well rip the bandage off now.
It isn't a big deal. It is very much insane that Mark cares so much about the faint shadow on the bottom half of Oscar's face. Actually, now that he's looking at it up close and in person instead of on Instagram, the scruff is so sparse that it doesn't even take up half of Oscar's face.
But it's different and new and Oscar is changing when he was supposed to be the last good thing left in Mark's life.
"Really? Thanks," Oscar says, eyes curved into pleased crescents. The tips of his ears pinken. "I actually got inspired by an old picture of you I saw. From the Red Bull days, you know?"
Mark knows. He remembers moving across an ocean and into the house of an older woman who held his future in her manicured hands because his dream, like most other little boys, was to drive fast cars and become the world champion.
He remembers being told that the sponsors said that his driving was average, his size wasn't ideal, but him? He had sex appeal. And he wanted to be a race car driver no matter what, didn't he? So he posed for the strange photoshoots and cut his hair shorter and grew his facial hair out even though his father used to tell him that it made him look unkempt. He wasn't unkempt—he was sexy. Desirable. Sellable.
"Be right back. I have some beers in the fridge if you want," Oscar calls over his shoulder as he turns to walk down the hall, leaving the door open behind him in invitation.
"Yeah, of course," Mark replies, belatedly because he was focused on the curve of Oscar's ass and the soft backs of his knees and the jut of his ankles in his little socks.
Mark doesn't follow Oscar into his apartment.
He doesn't go into the fridge and crack open the six-pack of Tooheys that Oscar stocks just for him.
He doesn't trail after Oscar into the bathroom so he can pin him meanly to the counter and rub his beard all over his neck until it's raw and red and burning, Feel this? This is a real man's beard. Is this what you want? You're not big enough yet, son. Stop trying to grow up so fast. Don't try so hard. You're breaking my heart.
Mark thinks about it for a minute. Indulges in the fantasy of running a clean blade, sharp as anything, over Oscar's jaw while Oscar holds still and keeps quiet and lets Mark take care of him. Then, after the minute has passed, he closes the door quietly and makes a reservation at Oscar's favorite bistro.
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