As with many things, it starts with a stupid dare of Gavin's. Not the kind of thing anyone could back out of, nothing illegal or offensive or significantly self injurious. Just something that makes Trevor feel like an idiot asshole, probably much like everyone at the table at this bar. The drunk Brit has a theory that one in a hundred people are telepathic, but just no one talks about it, and in order to catch the person out they're supposed to think at them.
If there's any telepaths in the room, cough, Trevor thinks, extremely annoyed at himself for even mentally entertaining his friend. He's too sober to excuse himself listening to Gavin.
Suddenly a guy's in his face. Up in his grill, as his dumb douchey friends would say. There's no reason for it. It's not an overly crowded bar, any patron could get past their group without breaking someone’s personal bubble. That said, Trevor doesn’t really mind being brushed against. The guy is cute. Looks bizarrely like Trevor does, except he's Filipino or Hispanic or East Indian. Trevor would say his skin is like luxurious caramel, except he's pretty sure food metaphors are kinda racist. Based on looks alone, he’s definitely the lean and lanky type Trevor likes to take home.
Any present thoughts of bed cohabitation are crushed though, when the guy coughs directly into his face. The disgust hits first. Just because he can’t feel speckles of spit on his cheekbones doesn’t mean they’re not there. He is not sleeping with a dude with manners that terrible. Realisation hits second. He had a dumb thought about coughing, and someone coughed. Could it really be-?
Keenly aware that half a dozen friends are watching with a modicum of interest, possibly taking bets on whether or not poor single Trevor’s going to hook up tonight, Trevor cocks his head towards the large dance floor. If he stays where he is, there won’t even be the illusion of privacy. At least on the sparsely attended floor, they can speak low enough to not be heard by people in the booths.
“Why me?” It’s not the most pressing question, but Trevor is curious.
The pretty man smiles at him. “Out of your whole group, you're the only one who didn't think either something genital related or to buy them a beer.”
“So you can just hear what people are thinking?”
“What does that mean?”
“I'm more Professor X than just telepathy. I can control people. Also, I’m Alfredo, by the way. I’ve found if I don’t give my name at this part of the explanation people’s thoughts switch from descriptors to just calling me Prof X, and I’d like to think I have a better booty than ole’ Charles.”
Either Alfredo is a truly honest, no holds barred kind of guy, or he’s tipsy enough to not care that he’s telling a stranger all his secrets. If Trevor was completely sober himself he might react differently, but as it is, he’s gonna milk the man for all the information he can get.
“Control? Like that scene where he freezes everyone in the museum?”
Alfredo shrugs. “I mean, I could. I wouldn't. I don't do shit without permission, but I could. ”
“Do me,” he says immediately.
“You sure? I don't want you to freak out when I’m done and try to stab me.”
Trevor goggles at him. “Has that happened?”
“Sometimes people don't like their realities changed. Skewing the time stream fucks ‘em up.”
“So then you wipe their memories?”
“I said Professor X, not Men In Black. No, I just stopped him and ran away.”
“I promise I'm not going to stab you. Just try it.”
Alfredo sighs, but nods his head. What happens next is one of the strangest feelings of Trevor's life. With no input from his own brain, Trevor's hands raise and drift together until they collide. Trevor watches the slow movement with wide eyes. It's a different type of proof than just answering a question. Trevor is too smart to not believe in outliers in the human condition -not to mention splinter universes and extraterrestrial life- but Gavin could have planned that somehow, paid Alfredo ten bucks to gaslight Trevor as a prank. Alfredo making him clap is something Gavin could not have had a hand in, and it's totally surreal.
Trevor waits until Alfredo releases his hands and his arms drop to his side before saying anything. “Next time, I want-”
“Next? Why didn't you just ask? I didn't say you couldn't talk.”
“Could you? Stop me talking?” Trevor asks, a frisson of something like thrill winding in him.
“I mean, probably? I don't think you're getting the consent factor here.”
Fuck, why does the idea make Trevor horny? Making out with Alfredo, squeezing his ass, getting his ass squeezed, then going to tell him they should move this to the bathroom, except Alfredo’s stolen his voice and no words come out. What does it say about Trevor that he thinks he’d just let everything keep going, not run away from the man with the power?
“Next time,” Trevor repeats, “I want to try to resist. Except I don't. Like if I win it's okay, but I don't want you to feel that I'm trying to resist and stop because you think I mean it.”
“You are an interesting boy, babygirl.” Trevor frowns for a second. Gender presentation is a slippery topic these days, but Alfredo doesn't think he's something he's not, does he? Alfredo must be reading his mind still, because he continues. “Relax, it's a gender neutral nickname.”
That’s a weird thing to be gender neutral, considering the gender in the term itself, but as long as Alfredo doesn't think he's flirting with a butch looking woman, it's fine.
Once again Alfredo makes him start to clap. This time Trevor tries to stop it. It's as futile as yelling at your thigh to stop cramping, or your eyelid to stop twitching. Alfredo has full control of Trevor’s body. And that? That strikes a chord in Trevor he didn't know he had. Sure there's the BDSM porn, but who doesn't watch a bit of bondage, a porn scene of some pretty man or woman being held down? It’s practically a vanilla act in the Pornhub world. Maybe he’s sorta into the idea of not being able to say no. That fantasy is still a long way from actually getting half hard in a bar because someone is forcing an act upon him.
“Alfredo do you want me to buy you a drink? Or do you want to be sober when we fuck?”
“Cocky for someone I straight up told I responded to because they weren't thinking about genitals.”
Trevor shrugs. “What can I say? You're hot as shit, and I want to spend the evening with you. But if we stay here, you’ll have to hang out with my dick joke friends.”
“Well, you're not thinking about killing me and wearing my skin, so that's a plus.”
“Seriously man, we can stay here if you're not into it. But I think you would have said something if you're straight.” Trevor gets his answer in the form of Alfredo leaning in for a kiss. He tastes like beer, and Trevor loves it.
“Tell your friends you're leaving, I'll get a Lyft.”
Trevor finds the closest of the friends who came out tonight, most of them having dispersed from their claimed table. He tells Lindsay he's taking off, and endures a good natured joke about abandoning them all for some sweet shev, which must be what Gavin's calling it this week, Lindsay and Michael the most likely to pick up his nonsense words. It's a proximity thing, and everyone knows you can't get closer than an occasional invitation into bed.
In the back of the Lyft, Trevor puts his hand on Alfredo's thigh. It's all his decision, wanting to keep the connection going, the arousal going, before they get back to Alfredo's and it can boil over. It's still one of the sexier things he can imagine; Alfredo making him do it. If Alfredo wanted to, he could make Trevor finger himself open in the back seat of this car, and Trevor and the driver couldn't do a single thing about it. Trevor can just picture it: bracing his feet on either side of the drivers headrest, ass scooted to the edge of his seat, spit soaked fingers diving in.
“Jesus Christ, dude,” Alfredo gasps.
Trevor's smile unfurls. He didn't think it to turn Alfredo on, it was just what he had in his head, but it's good to know Alfredo has the mental image now too. Maybe it’ll give Alfredo more ideas for what to ‘force’ Trevor to do, once they get behind a lockable door.