Re: Capital: Jamie & Seven Friday night
It wouldn't have been literal. Like, the trade. Jamie didn't think of sex as a for-money thing. Which was why, ftr, judge porn jokes aside he couldn't like, really think about it. He thought about sex for money and he had really complicated af feels about how his sister was making money, and about his brother who like, Jamie's memory held plenty of phone calls about Si selling any shit that wasn't nailed down for drugs. But like, the legitimacy of the trade argument was gone, and with Seven out of the serious power-show of a car, it felt like, idk the air had room for Jamie to breathe in it.
But yeah, there was the difference. Seven's laughter pissed on the idea he'd picked out the sconces or whatever, and Jamie kinda started to loosen the fuck up, like the guy's good humor, the way his shoulders slackened in the expensive suit as his rib-cage opened, uncurled clenched fingers. So he'd built it. Jamie had literally no idea what that meant, vague impressions, of like, trucks and stuff but it was a fully built hotel with a check-in desk and a woman in a suit that looked quietly expensive. If it had been like, his, or credit cards involved, the hydra of ambivalence, way anxious shit and disquiet over the serious like, gulf between the guy and himself would have knotted around Jamie's guts and twisted. But it wasn't.
"So who's paying the bill?" He'd left the bag in the car. Which was dumb as fuck, because his keys were tossed in the side-pocket and that was like, way dumb especially because the bottle of ibuprofen was stashed inside. Jamie wasn't limping, but he was getting way close and when the elevator doors yawned wide, Jamie looked at himself in the glass interior, the fact that he had beat written across his face. He didn't look at Seven so much as look at Seven in the mirror, the sliding, quicksilver of bichromatic gaze over the guy's face. He looked for the shades in the guy's face, the exhaustion that wreathed him like a ghost, or the stuff that was sharply and abruptly naked sometimes. It was hard, maybe to get lost in a place you owned, but Jamie didn't like, see need written across the guy's face right this second.
Jamie was tired but he was like, here. He was more here than the house in the neighborhood that felt more surreal than real now he lived with the mundane bullshit of clogged bathtub plugs and cleaning a tiny kitchen that didn't exactly allow two people to turn around. He didn't need like immediate, like an open-wound. Anxiety was faintly sour on his tongue, Jamie didn't like, KNOW why.
"So is it like, a thing, you build it and you're like, able to get a room like that? I want your job," but he didn't, not really. Jamie felt like, want for his old one stab through him immediate, like ice and ignored it. They were like, mostly to a room right now, and Jamie felt the vague pitch and roll of his belly as like, he glanced sideways at Seven - tall, ridic confident, and wide-shouldered loosely in stride with Jamie, and it was kinda like eye-contact with a stranger, when it was near certain you were going to slide off your stool to go fuck; a stab of awareness, of the flicker of attraction flaring under skin, of your mouth drying out.
Which was okay. The b part of fwb shit wasn't in like, question. Jamie didn't know what to DO with it, but he waited as far as the door.