Re: Capital: Jamie & Seven Friday night
Jamie didn't think about the gulf, or the gulley. It had like, been crossed, bridged with Amy. It didn't like, matter a whole lot after. He couldn't brick shit up and keep it separate, and besides, if the guy was a friend, he was a friend. Like Ren, who could be shared instead of sub-divided. There was like, nothing to box up if this wasn't a thing, if there wasn't even a risk of a thing. He felt rooted, in the press of the guy's thumbs against his lower stomach, the heat of the guy's breath against his cheek, the harsh exhalation that dried his front teeth. He could have punched heat into the whole thing, into the slide of Seven's tongue over his own, the divot of his thumbs in Jamie's hips but he didn't. He didn't feel like riptides and whirlwinds and that was confusing as fuck but he didn't want to feel around at that either, like a lost tooth.
He wasn't like, wholesale relief the guy wanted to turn off the conversation, because Jamie got that they were done because Jamie wanted to be done. Seven looked way comfortable talking, like shit was easy the second it spun away from the fissure of cold that had sliced in brief. Maybe it was selfish, or whatever, that he let Seven spool loose, easy, his head sank back against the cushions and momentarily, looking at the sweep of sandy eyelashes, the soft way the guy was smiling, the gleam of warm skin under the overhead light, Jamie felt it warm, glow ember-dark low down.
He levied his weight back, like, unhooked the guy's fingers one at a time from his own jeans, before sliding back. Like, bed sounded fucking incredible, and if the guy was a friend, it was totally cool, even if the couch was right there and he'd been half-way asleep (not ALL the way) before the guy had gotten out of the shower. Jamie rolled upright, and yawned simultaneously, the long, cheek-cracking sort and yanked his shirt over his head, with a month of classes' worth of ab-work and fat-loss in the muscle and the fan of ribs.
"Like, I'm not saying no." Which was lit the theme rn, if he thought about it, which he wasn't. Jamie was thinking about thread-count and the number of pillows hotel beds had, and his smile stretched loose, soft, and a little fucking relaxed. He held out a hand, to like, haul Seven upward, wedged in the couch cushions in the pants that frankly, Jamie didn't like on principle. "And I'm pretty sure you can't whine about getting crammed in or whatever."