Re: The Apartment: Jamie/Seven
Maybe that was the point. Shit changed you. Jamie knew he wasn't the same guy that had shown up in Repose for a free roof and time to work out wtf was next after crashing, burning and rehab-ing in the space of a year. It was partly the money, because the guy had finally cut up Dad's credit-card on moving out of the free digs, and while that was dumb as fuck from a like, learning to manage money perspective? It was change. He didn't know Seven before the money, before Marta, who had left like, evidence of having been there, like a tag on a wall in the subway or something, long gone but still present. And that wasn't like, Sawyer.
The couch? With the guy resettling himself until his thigh was along Jamie's own? Felt way fucking small. Like maybe it was a normal thing, but Seven close felt like weight and limbs and length in a way that felt way more real outside of bed, maybe. And okay, the hairs on his arm like, stood to attention as the guy skimmed over knit sweater but that was aware, and he felt like, the curdle of the unexpected when the guy slid his palm into Jamie's. Like, low-pressure, maybe. It was the kind of shit kids did, on street corners or in movie theaters, but it felt stupidly, stupidly new and it would have been way more familiar - easy, even, if the guy had been palming his dick.
But even this close, close enough he could pick out the scents tangled up in whatever it was Seven wore, like, aftershave or whatever, he tried way hard to focus, hard enough that he wasn't like, caught tight in the net of shit that meant different stuff. "I get that. But like, I'm not in the way. You have your stuff with her, she has her stuff with you. Maybe she thinks I am," Jamie shrugged one shoulder under blue knit, "But like, I'm not involved in your shit." Which was true, even if the way the guy's voice dipped way fucking low made everything momentarily complicated.
"Ass. If you bug me to do it, I'm not going to do it," which was the point of like, dropping that shit already. But if it was like, clear already to the guy that Seven was way fucking chill about all of this? Hearing him list stuff off like he'd got it in mind already made thinking impossible. He had like, a heartbeat's choice between like, concentrating on what that meant, and the butterfly wings of idk, indecision over how that felt, and like, going with it. Jamie slid a hand deliberate against the wing of the guy's collarbone all the way down to where his belt buckle protruded under cotton.
"I mean, a pony?" He grinned. "Maybe a car. Uh, a place in NYC and one in San Fran for like, the fall," and he glanced at the guy deliberate under lashes as his thumb circled over the guy's stomach muscles.