Re: Tory & Jamie: the Apartment
Yeah, no. Sparks were not like, a thing. Jamie had done this before, in recent history. Like, he remembered doing it, the awkward as fuck slide between casual chill and - not so casual? - in the last year. He knew the guy, a little, but it was just a little. He knew clearly, well. Clearly enough, what Tory wanted going into it. There was zero lack of definition from the guy who sorted vegetables into class types, and in general, like, up until maybe a year ago, Jamie had approached casual hook-ups the exact same way: a general, lazy expectation and a certainty everyone was leaving on clear terms, de-tangled and back into the specific parts from which the temporary whole had been made of.
He didn't think Tory was wasted enough to puke: there was a line, a serious one that Jamie drew even half-way to wasted himself, and besides, the sheets were clean. The kiss kinda sucked, which he'd semi-expected, a glancing thing that was like, light on anything but an expression of intent. Which ftr, Jamie understood fine without the line added on for clarity. He winced, semi-dramatically, "My god, you need better lines," and while the combination of arms, shirts, whatever, grip made it a more complicated thing than it needed to be, he towed the guy behind the door, and kissed him with a degree more finesse, efficiency and tbh, deliberate intent, which closed the gap between 'sparks' and 'getting the show on the road', albeit, slow . He'd done this enough, and there was like, a common thread of understanding: scratching an itch, breaking a spell, whatever, Jamie wasn't in it for pity but it was a kind of collective effort here, to re-establish dick over dildo as the general order of preference in the world, notably: Tory's order.
It did a little and considerably more than a little, combined with the tequila, to blot up the last of the memory that had prompted the drinking in the first place. After, as Jamie hauled his underwear back over his ass and rolled back into rucked sheets and haphazard pillows, he sprawled with the considerable comfort of like, letting sediment settle, roiled water clear, and a little of the lazy desire not to move anywhere fast. The combination of tequila, and the upstanding citizen shit of the last however long, meant he was maybe a good twenty minutes of total silence away from falling asleep and Jamie yawned half-way into a grin, that kinda wrecked it.
"I'm pretty sure that," which was the scrape at the door, persistent, "Is the cat rounding out the like, list of shit you came over here for." Which, yk, the door was shut, and Jamie was way clear he wasn't moving for at least a minute, and he looked at Tory with the lazy comfort of the immediate intimacy of proximity and aftermath. "It's you know, a risk you take if you let her in, but it's your lap, man."