Re: Driveway, Side Door: 7/J
Jamie, ftr, didn't care about the party. It was kinda done, anyway, the surprise had showed up with a couple months still left on the clock before he was fully transitioned into the house, which was by now, officially warm. The siblings he didn't live with, had peeled off, he'd shown and Jamie was painfully aware that Amy's gaze was weighted with exactly where Jamie stood on a scale - literal, metaphorical, whatever and he'd covered that hurdle. So yeah, the party was done. He didn't give a fuck about the umbrella, which he left leaning against the interior of the porch, as Seven's head snapped up, instead of like, studying the way the asphalt hit turf or something, along with figuring out how a lighter worked.
It was easy to see he was frazzled? Worn thin, to thread. The combination of the graceless fucking drop of a lighter Jamie had seen him use enough times to figure familiarity and muscle memory would win out, and the fact that Seven took a good couple minutes to work air in long enough to spit it out again. The tension was rigid in shoulders, worn in the guy's forehead, the rope of his throat. Yeah, Jamie could see shit was wrong, and it was way clearer, more visible, more in focus than the brown suit that okay, yeah on a good day? Would have been some combination of hot as fuck and cute as hell.
He left the umbrella and like, ate the gap between them with a couple strides full-purpose forward and he picked up the lighter because Jamie could, it gave him a minute to figure out what the hell could have happened between the front door and now. He scraped fingertips over asphalt, handled hot metal into the palm of his hand, and slid it into his pants pocket, weight against cheap poly-blend suit fabric. "Hi. What the fuck happened?" Like, stood in front of him, his own head cresting the guy's nose, Jamie had to look up to get the whole impression. "Hey," he eased a hand over the tension in Seven's forearm, where he held the cigarette extended to his mouth. "Hey," a little insistent, concern folded into the back of it, because the guy looked like he'd crashed his car or something, a thousand miles an hour into brick.
"Seven, babe, what the fuck happened? Marta?" Easy guess. There weren't that many people inside.