Billy K/Jamie M: the Mayers apartment
If there was like a word, for how Jamie was right then, it would have been like, the equivalent of a knotted piece of string that had frayed and frayed around each single, stubborn kink until unpicking them broke fucking nails, and took time and patience and energy Jamie didn't like, have. If the studio had been open, running a class, then he would have bailed. But it wasn't, and getting to the Capital was a capital P Production esp as he didn't drive. He had showered. After the cold, and the memory of dirt crammed into his skin, he had showered and he'd pulled a sweater out of the back of his closet which was kind of fuzzy, a cranberry kind of red that shed fuzz over the blanket on the back of the couch where he'd been sitting, idling with his phone until Mars got home, and then after. And yeah, since the last time he'd met up w/Billy, there had been way more dance class and less pizza in his past, but it didn't like show in a fuzzy sweater. His chin was sharper, and his jeans were riding low on his hipbones, dark, much-washed denim. The skin there was pale and warm, and he was barefoot, because the heat in the apartment was high.
And yeah. Okay, there were like OPTIONS for getting mindless. It wasn't the same as it had been w/Ren. Ever, now., it wasn't the same. It wasn't like working shit out and then moving on, it was like finding slivers of shit under his skin and working through until idk, the sweat or something had pushed everything out. Jamie hit the buzzer, let the guy in through the front door and up the steps until he opened the door and leaned into it. "Hey." The smell in the apartment was vague vanilla and shit, and Jamie himself was like, lemons and the kind of bathroom soap bought in packs from a store relatively upmarket. "You okay?"