Re: Capital: Jamie & Seven - Saturday Morning
Jamie didn't think of himself, as like, a talker. He had been the youngest, until he wasn't and then he hadn't been until he was again, kinda and he'd been the only boy in a class full of girls over and over until his voice was drowned out - kinda. He didn't have a lot to say, nothing surface. He could have like, reached for what he meant to say but it was like getting tangled in weed, swimming too far deep, he couldn't say what he meant or what he meant didn't sound right and after like YEARS of learning how to express yourself in how you moved, instead of what you said? Yeah, Jamie didn't think he talked, like, a LOT. There was patter, which was the whole thing in a bar, how you kept someone pinned, contained or whatever. Talking then was like, how you kept them into YOU instead of someone else who walked in, and Jamie who was like, fed on applause since like, young enough to learn to need it, unconsciously needed validation, no matter how it came.
But he didn't say a lot. He thought about it, but he didn't say it, or he said the wrong shit. He kept his mouth shut on the important shit, and the stuff he said to Seven was like, junk. It was the stuff that scudded on the surface, the stuff that was easy or provoked shit. So Jamie, awake would have like, totally complained about being called noisy, but he wasn't awake-awake. Far enough in, and far enough deep that deniability rode alongside the actual obliviousness, and the two like, curled in together into the sweet, warm deep of the cocoon of blankets and kept Jamie company. He didn't care about shit, except comfort and Jamie's comfort was the kind of heat that ran high. He was cold, always, part ballet studios and metabolism and partly Floridan tolerance for the sticky kind of summer that didn't exactly make room for snow and bitter winds.
The guy was one second behind him, the faint murmur of sound that Jamie ignored because asleep, and then enveloped him. Heat, and more heat and Jamie made a soft sound, mostly breath of sheer fucking bliss as he was swallowed in it. There was nothing self-conscious because there was nothing way conscious, and Jamie crammed himself into the fractional cracks of cool air between him and the guy until the seam between warm skin and warmer skin was fucking impossible to pry. Jamie, pitched comfortably on the swaying ground between asleep and almost-awake, slid deeper, warmly into actual sleep.