'miserable people meeting at a wedding' AU; Mark/Ray
Mark hates this.
The last wedding he attended, he was with Clyde; they both went stag and drunkenly laughed about all the bridesmaids that kept casting longing looks their way across the awfully decorated room.
The last wedding he was supposed to attend was Clyde’s own. He had the fucking engagement ring safely tucked away in his bedside table the night of the explosion. Mark still can’t believe that Clyde’s stupid girlfriend was okay with him being a bank robber, but she couldn’t handle him being a meta.
Mark’s not even sure why he was invited. Probably because Snart felt stupid having his sister fill the shoes of best man, usher, bridesmaid AND his sole wedding guest. It’s not surprising: Mark often feels like he’s a Rogue just for the numbers, too.
Every stupid thing reminds him of Clyde here. They never got as far as planning his little brother’s wedding: Clyde was all star-eyed expectations and uncertainty before it all happened. And Mark can’t very well picture his brother giving two fucks about serviettes and flower arrangements, but it still doesn’t change the fact that Mark keeps thinking about him through the ceremony, wondering how Clyde would’ve looked, wearing a tux and the same stupidly blissed-out expression Mark can now see on Snart’s and Allen’s faces.
It’s even harder, sitting thirty feet away from Clyde’s killer, watching the man get all teary-eyed over his foster son’s wedding. Mark laughs when West says something appropriately snide about his son’s choice in a spouse, but it rings hollow in his ears, so he downs another drink to get rid of the aftertaste of that sound in his throat.
He has to actively fight down his powers: Snart sent him a death glare at the beginning of the reception, when the appropriately beautiful August skies gathered clouds, and Mark has been trying his best not to create a downpour ever since. It gets easier once he moves out of the room, to the gardens, and stares at the setting sun. It should be beautiful and moving and all that crap, but it just makes Mark crave another drink.
As if on cue, the sliding door swishes open and somebody steps out; Mark doesn’t care enough to turn and look.
Ice cubes clink loudly against the tall glass that is set onto the balustrade, right next to Mark’s elbow. He looks up then, and is met with a blinding smile.
“Long Island Iced Tea,” the guy explains, as if Mark asked. “You don’t look nearly drunk enough for someone who’s single at a wedding.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Mark grumbles, but accepts the drink and gulps down a good half of it. He can’t feel the burn, not really, so he hopes for it to kick in a little later.
He eyes his alcoholic fairy godmother: the guy’s tall-dark-and-handsome in the classical sense, wearing a suit that Mark can’t price just by looking, but it fits a lot better than Mark’s rental tux, so he assumes it’s expensive and turns away. The sun has set completely, leaving a slight chill in the late summer air, and a thought of bonfires and Clyde’s laughter surfaces in Mark’s mind.
“I’m Ray,” the guy says, without prompting. Mark can’t say he cares, but now, he has a name to connect with the face. Ray Palmer - that explains the expensive suit and also the carefully cut and styled hair, so unlike Mark’s messy mop. He’s run his hands through his hair far too much today, and he can feel stubble on his chin - he could never go a full day without shaving, not after he left his teenage years behind.
“Okay,” Mark shrugs, and wants to ask what the guy - Palmer - wants, but he needs the last fucks he has to give for the day to keep the clouds from gathering again, so he doesn’t.
“Wanna dance?”
That has Mark’s head turning, until his mouth is almost buried into his shoulder as he glares at Palmer. Who’s giving him a thousand-Watt smile, all crinkly eyes, perfect pearly-whites and a ridiculous dimple in his chin.
“I’m not gay,” Mark grouses.
The smile doesn’t even waver.
“I’m not either. At least I think I’m not. I don’t know. I never really gave it much thought. But you’re single, I’m single, and there’s good music on, and you look like you could use a distraction. Y’know. So it doesn’t start raining or something.”
So he knows who Mark is; curious. People tend to give him a wide berth once they know. But maybe Mark shouldn’t be so surprised - they are at a wedding of a Rogue and a cop.
(Snart would probably argue. He’s so touchy about his boyfriend being ‘just’ a CSI.)
He pushes away from the balustrade and straightens his back. It feels a little like he’s bracing for a fight, but that stupid labrador smile aimed at him full-blast is making it hard to stay angry. Mark downs the rest of his Long Island and sighs, then shrugs.
“Ah, what the fuck.”
Palmer’s smile brightens - how is that even possible? - and he steps forward. That’s when Mark realizes Palmer intends for them to dance out here, to the soft sound of music filtering into the garden through the open door.
“This is stupid,” he says, frowning, but Palmer moves into his personal space effortlessly, an almost imperceptible cloud of cologne trailing after him. Mark takes a deep breath and gets a lungful of the fleeting scent. It’s not unpleasant, but Mark feels weird anyway.
Their hands bump when they both instinctively reach for the other’s waist. Mark scowls, and Palmer backs down easily, laughing as he reaches up, his long fingers wrapping around Mark’s shoulders. He starts swaying, and at that point it feels more ridiculous not to follow, so Mark lets his hands close that last inch to Palmer’s waist and moves with the man.
They’re the same height. Palmer’s eyes are ridiculously dark and it should be unnerving how he just stares at Mark, smiling, but it’s not. It’s easy to follow Palmer’s lead and sway to the rhythm, let this whole day just break off and fall away, piece by piece. Mark finds himself thinking about how long has it been since he was this close to another person, this easily, simply close. Months, probably; years, likely. He hasn’t been with anyone for far too long, and even if he likes blaming it on his mood shifts, related to his meta powers, he knows that he’s been alone long before that reactor exploded. He never minded overmuch: mostly, he had Clyde there with him, for everything that mattered. But now, having just watched the guy who was probably voted ‘Most Unlikely to Get Married’ get hitched to someone who makes his eyes go bright and alive every time they look at each other… Mark can’t help but wonder if he’s not missing something crucial after all. If he hasn’t been missing it for a while without even realizing the origins of that bottomless pit in his stomach.
Palmer sways closer; their chests brush. Mark doesn’t move away, not for long minutes, not until Palmer leans in and his long, dark lashes flutter over his eyes.
“I thought you said you weren’t gay,” Mark snarls as his heartbeat quickens. He can hear himself mask insecurity with anger; he tends to do that, from time to time. Is it the Long Island? Has the alcohol finally kicked in and now he can’t tell what he wants, or who he wants it from?
Palmer laughs. The warm sound of it brushes against Mark’s cheek.
“Does it matter?” he asks. His fingers keep kneading into Mark’s biceps, like he can’t stop his hands from moving. Mark decides that it really, really doesn’t matter at all. When Palmer searches his eyes, he must find the sort of an elaborate answer he’s looking for, because he leans back in and this time, Mark doesn’t move away.
He knows a thing or two about lightning, now - he doesn’t think it’s ever felt like this when he created it alone. It shivers at the bottom of his stomach, tingles through his whole body, and his hands slide a little on the custom-cut wool of Palmer’s jacket. Mark has no idea how this translates into anything past the next few minutes, but for now, he’s content swaying to the music he doesn’t even hear anymore, his mouth warmer than it has been in years when he opens it to let Palmer slip him the tongue.
The skies stay clear through the night.