Re: Capital: Jamie & Seven Friday night
Nah, okay, he couldn't MAKE the guy. But that was the point, right? The fact was, there was a sliver of flex between the strictly sex, no talk rules that were designed to what, contain the guy in the front seat who wore a thousand dollar suit like a pair of jeans and who was running a car into the driveway of a hotel that looked like it made people cry or whatever, and the whatever, the yawning chasm of whatever the fuck people did. Because like, if anything hammered home how unlikely the like, convo over flickering screen and the curling of doubt in Jamie's lower gut, it was this. But the point was, maybe he could have negotiated: sex in trade for like, a ride that wasn't a bus or an Uber. Jamie was low on energy, it wasn't empty-headed so much as shit hurt and packed behind his temples, but he could drum up filthy talk from the passenger seat just to see if the guy got sprung.
But Seven slid back into his own element. He was smiling, but the kind of absent that looked at the road more often than it didn't - which ftr, Jamie was like, happy about that, but like, he watched street light cut across Seven's face, guttering into shadows and he listened to the music, letting it filter in to the space between his ribs and his lungs. "Pre-pro class. Athletics, asshole," he said, with his eyes half-shut, "I'm not too tired to get it up if I'm getting like, room service out of this." Which felt a little Pretty Woman. Which was really fucking gay.
But like. As the car oozed into a driveway that cost more than Jamie's current apartment, it was pretty clear they had zero in common. This wasn't Ren, who was like, washed up on the shore of Repose to figure out life kinda like Jamie, the guy tossed his keys to the valet or whatever and they entered the maw of a hotel that was glossy, expensive as fuck and the kind of ostentatious that breezily took in taste. Jason, the guy with the keys, slid sideways and Seven walked in like he owned the place, which ... well, yeah. Money. It didn't do shit for Jamie. It didn't make the guy any different, but Seven himself like, got comfortable in a way that wasn't broken in couches or walls with the pictures knocked wild.
"Nice setting. Rob a bank? I think I saw those at MOMA," Jamie said, about the lamps writhing overhead, "Knock-off?" He grinned in Seven's direction. There was lit no chance this shit was bubbling anywhere, un-contained, he had this locked.