Re: Tory & Jamie: the Apartment
There were a lot of cogent facts that got dissolved when drinking. It was like, clear decision-making and the ability to hold your shit in, instead of letting it blur messily outward didn't survive wincing through shots of cheap liquor bought at the general store. Jamie was like, this side of liquored enough to finely balance the difference between sagging back onto the couch and watching Tory clamber upright, and helping the guy to rectify what was basically Jamie's fuck-up of limbs, coordination and a total absence of grace, and he watched Tory put himself back together, snarled copper strands and slowing breath with the observation that wasn't like, loaded, given the laughter - tbh, even the science, had shattered any intention of walking the guy into his room.
He would have corrected the ballerina princess thing - they looked like princesses, under lights and a pound of grease-based make-up, but in the studio? The girls were twists of steel and sharp efficiency, strained tendons and heavy if the jump wasn't right. The girls sweat, as much as the guys did, and there was nothing remotely romantic about hauling a girl through rehearsal, sorry, Tory. He let his hand drop once Tory was, you know, secure on highlighter-yellow feet, and he laughed a little, and looked behind the guy at the floor, "Definitely the worst practice I've ever seen, but I think I would need to be drunk to start to try to science anything," truthfully, because it hadn't even occurred to Jamie this was like, a comparative thing. His limits were like, clear, he hadn't even followed the genus thing all the way.
And he was kind of zoned in on that, thinking it through to like, clock that Tory was doing that thing, of the like, shifting around which could have been explained by the fact the guy had downed a lot of tequila on very little pizza. It wasn't like, way romantic comedy, Jamie would have laughed his fucking ass off at the idea, but like, he got it, the split-second before Tory elucidated, in a semi-helpful, semi-deeply embarrassing for all concerned and he was laughing again, the mostly-breath, helpless kind as he held up a finger to his own lips.
"Stop," but the guy didn't, not after he'd gotten to you know, and yeah, Jamie did, but it was kind of painful. Romantic comedies weren't Jamie's thing, not unless they were like, fifty years old plus and could be excused on account of the dance-sequences, but he got the plain English, stripped-out version of events just fine. He reached, with the hand that had done the literal, shut-up motion, and kinda like waved in the direction of the door that was open, off the hall, but found the guy's wrist, a bracelet of finger and thumb.
"You can lay down. Or we can go to bed," Jamie said, helpfully clearer, than any kind of romantic comedy, "And break your dry spell, if that's what you're actually, you know, asking." Because tequila, right? Clarity was helpful, and Jamie's smile tucked toward his cheek, lopsided as he looked up at the guy. "I mean, the offer's still good to pet the cat," because no pressure, right? Cat was still watching, slitted green from the corner of the couch. "The bed's through there," which was kind of obvious, given the door was open and the room wasn't big. The apartment wasn't that big, and Jamie blinked, and smiled something that was a lot more lazy intent than anything he'd presented Tory with since the guy had walked through the door. "Or I can fuck you." Which, you know. Clear.