Re: Capital: Jamie & Seven Friday night
Jamie knew like, anger. He knew it fetid and fettered, curled in the in-between and tapped when otherwise it roiled too darkly up the throat to stay in. He didn't know it by like, name or anything because Jamie was firmly convinced he didn't feel deep shit about anything. But he recognized anger fine. He got that like, there were layers churning below layers in the room that probably wasn't used to seeing anything that wasn't like, way rich people sacking out or fucking or whatever. He got that, instinctive. But he pressed his chin into denim until the stubble rasped and he looked like, Seven dead-on when the guy asked his question.
Because like, they BOTH knew that wasn't the question Jamie asked. It was like, pretending he'd skipped the question even with Seven draped over the couch like he'd had all the shit kicked out of him instead of yk, metaphorically doing the like, kicking or whatever. Seven talked, and Jamie's cheek scraped and scraped against his knee and he watched the guy like, fold himself away so he wasn't looking at anything, including Jamie, except the drape of his own arms over his face. But he was still folded like an umbrella, half-closed on the edge of the couch.
He felt the like weight of the assessment settle flatly, heavily like lead, belly deep. It wasn't like, panic. Jamie could feel the prickle of fear climb the inside of his throat until saliva burned bitter on the inside of his cheek, but it wasn't panic. "You keep coming the fuck back though." He smiled. Audibly, he smiled. Because if Jamie was good at anything, it was making shit light. But like, calm and chill or whatever. He didn't know what the guy meant and he looked him over when he said he didn't expect shit.