Re: Tory & Jamie: the Apartment
If it had been like, a week without Repose fuckery? There would still be a guy right here, right now who Jamie didn't know two things about beyond maybe a name and the way he liked to fuck. Jamie knew it, the same way he knew the queasy way thinking about his sisters right now made him feel, about voice-mail and phone calls, and he knew like, easy and without thinking about it that whoever that guy had been, he wouldn't have been there longer than it took to get vertical and into a shower and out. But it wasn't. A week without Repose playing cats cradle with intimate secrets and shit that was sub-surface, buried low. It was the same coping mechanism, but played out differently, the intangible weighted against the whole.
Tory subsided as the threat of whoever he figured Mars was blew out, and Jamie marked the amount of effort even freaking a little about getting overheard would make when you were kind of wrung-out and low on effort in general. He remembered what it felt like, to have his shit unpicked, opened up in front of other people and trust was kind of a deal-breaker. So no: the guy wasn't getting tossed on his ass, a nameless way to deal with Jamie's own shit, there was a degree of thoughtless, helpless investment that kinda worked in once you saw someone's formative experiences and it wasn't built on sweat or spunk. Personal growth, maybe, if we're being like, way generous to Jamie. He laughed, comfortably, and he wedged the pillow further under his head, and let the heavy way his eyelids felt, kind of droop.
"We weren't close growing up, I think living together is kind of a test," Jamie said through a yawn. "No one else. I mean, I have siblings, I have three but I don't live with them." He turned to look at Tory, the grin sleepy and crooked. "No more cats, no more housemates, you're legit OK. Do you live with people?"