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"What are you going around with a fake ID for, anyway?" Jackson asks.
They're sitting in a booth at a bar; Holland is being good and sipping on sparkling water, and Jackson is being bad and sipping on a rum and coke. They sit on the same side, facing the door. For safety reasons, obviously.
Holland frowns.
"Fake ID?"
"Yeah," Jackson says, reaching across him and taking Holland's wallet from his inside jacket pocket.
They've been some kind of something for the past few months — it started with some desperate kissing in a motel room, then it was fooling around while Holly was at a friend's, and now it's... Well. They're 'something' enough that Holland doesn't flinch when Jackson goes for his jacket.
He pulls out Holland's driver's license.
"This says you're... 43?" Jackson scoffs, doing the math in his head. "You should have shot for younger if you're trying to throw people off."
Holland is... Still frowning.
"Let me see that," he says, and takes his license back.
He studies it for a long moment, eyes flicking between it and Jackson, before he finally licks his lips nervously and takes his wallet back.
He puts his license away.
"Jack?" he asks. "How old do you think I am?"
It's Jackson's turn to frown, now — he hasn't said anything about his license being fake or not, and he's looking more disturbed by the second. What's going on here?
"Like... A twink-y 33?" Jackson admits slowly
Holland balks.
"You —" Holland starts, then cuts himself off with a laugh.
"What?" Jackson asks, gruff to try to fight the blush rising in his cheeks. How off was he? Holland can't be that much younger than him.
Holland has to cover his face with his hand. He can't stop laughing, big laughs followed by giggles like he's calming down and then launching into a new bout of laughter.
"What's so funny?" Jackson asks, elbowing him, and Holland finally stops laughing with an ow.
Okay, there's one more giggle. But that's it.
"You're a flatterer, you know that?" Holland says, smirking and taking another sip of his good-boy sparkling water.
Jackson thinks he might smack the drink out of his hand if Holland doesn't let him in on the punchline soon.
"I'm a flattering guy," he says flatly. "How old are you really?"
"Man," Holland sighs, "you had me scared my license was wrong. I'm 43."
Jackson goes cold.
There is no way in hell Holland is eight years older than him.
It's a joke. It has to be.
"You're fucking with me," Jackson states, scoffing. "You're too good at that, y'know? You had me going."
Holland is still smiling.
"I'm not fucking with you," Holland swears, putting his free hand over his heart. "Jack, I'm 43."
Jackson takes a long, long drink, eventually setting his near-empty glass down on the table.
"You're fucking with me," he repeats, more insistant.
There's another fucking giggle.
"I'm really not," Holland promises. "Seriously."
Jackson looks him in the eye, waiting for him to break, but he doesn't.
He means it.
Holland is older than him. Holland is almost a decade older than him, despite looking a decade younger than him.
Jackson considers this new information.
"Jesus," he finally says.
Holland shrugs.
He takes another sip of sparkling water, wincing at the way the bubbles assault his tongue. He'd rather have a burning throat, but he's trying to cut back. For Holly. And for Jack.
"This doesn't make things weird, does it?" Holland asks, almost shyly.
Jackson smiles at him.
"Of course not," he assures him, one hand moving to hold Holland's skinny thigh. "Just makes you kind of a cradle-robber."
Holland elbows him back for that, but they both laugh.
"Besides, I don't think it's too big a difference," Jackson admits, squeezing his leg. "If we'd met when we were younger, maybe, but we're both grown men, aren't we?"
Holland nods, eyes locked on his drink.
"Yeah, yeah," he agrees. "You're only... How much older are you, anyway?"
Now it's Jackson's turn to balk.
"You think I'm older than you?" Jackson asks in disbelief.
Holland pales.
"Aren't you?" he asks, also in disbelief.
"No," Jackson laughs.
"But I — you look older than me," Holland fumbles, trying to explain himself.
"That's why I was surprised you're older," Jackson says, still laughing. A less confident man might be insulted, but Holland doesn't look his age, either.
"How old are you?" Holland practically squeaks.
"I'm 35."
Holland opens his mouth to say something, but snaps it shut.
"What?" Jackson challenges, grinning.
"You just...?" Holland starts, then shrugs, still refusing to look at him. "You're hot for 35."
Jackson is about to say that doesn't make any sense, what's wrong with being 35, but then it hits him.
"You're into older men," Jackson realizes, like being run over by a bus. "You think I'm hot."
"Of course I think you're hot, you're my — we're — you know," Holland stammers, finally looking at him again. "Why wouldn't I think you're hot?"
Jackson shrugs.
"Jack, you know you're hot," Holland insists.
"Am I?" he teases, sliding the hand still on Holland's thigh up, higher, like a suggestion of let's get out of here.
Holland gulps.
"Yeah," Holland says, surprisingly soft despite the heat in his voice. "You want me to prove it?"
Jackson raises his eyebrows.
"Yeah?" He gives Holland a glance over.
He really does look younger. Maybe it's the bad posture, the hip young clothes, the big wide eyes, but it's hard to reconcile the new knowledge that he's older with what Jackson sees in front of him.
"Yeah," Holland breathes. "Let me show you."
Oh, he's in trouble. Jackson knows that voice — that's the voice that comes before the rough voice, the voice croaked out of a throat that's been bruised with cock. That's the voice that means Holland is going to get down on his knees the second they're alone.
"Alright, old man," Jackson teases. "I got time before my curfew."
That breaks the spell a bit, Holland laughing, but the soft smiles that remain are no less fond for all their jokes.
Man.
They should name whatever this is.