Re: Capital: Jamie & Seven Friday night
Jamie got it. The invisible shit, the lurking, bobbing shadow of what was there but wasn't. He didn't know what exactly Seven thought as the guy disappeared out of view to shower and he tried to not think about it, about what exactly the guy contemplated stood under the water. He could imagine the water, and the guy just fine. It was the other shit, when Jamie registered uncertainty in the wash of blue gaze even with Seven's like, perpetual laid-back smirk.
He startled when the bag came down on the chair. Eyes open, and jerked aware - not awake, because he hadn't passed out, just drifting, somewhere where the faint gush of the shower was white noise and the bliss of being completely and utterly fucking exhausted resurrected itself under the hum of static anxiety that crackled on surface. Jamie watched Seven climb into sweatpants, unabashedly: the light glistening over damp skin and Jamie's gaze resting brief as butterfly-wings on the muscle of the guy's ass, on the weight of the guy's cock limp against his thigh, lowered lids. And there was literally nothing, read: nothing wrong with taking in the floorshow if the guy was going to put it out there. Naked, Seven looked less businessman and more like the setting was superimposed over the guy: high thread-count and what looked like old bullet-wounds. They didn't like, match.
He smiled upward into the guy's face as his hand came down against his good knee. Jamie flexed his foot upward, until it buttressed the outside the guy's thigh, warm in damp cotton. "If I was asleep. I'm not asleep." Which was delivered maybe a little smug, but Jamie was tired, and it had climbed into his throat and grazed his vocal cords. He looked at the guy, quizzically, and Jamie like, brought his back up from the couch back, compressing stomach muscle to be almost upright.
Conversationally. "You're not like, into me, are you?"