Re: Carriage House: Atticus & Billy
Atticus wasn't the kind of man moved by pity. He could feel it, but to actively do something would be too much work. Sad reality of being apathetic, and not the best personality trait. Atticus only did things he wanted to do. He enjoyed Billy's company. Billy made him feel younger. Billy made him feel liked. Atticus was boringly human in some regards, and he wanted to be liked as much as anyone. Wasn't pity that motivated him. He was aware that he didn't know how to walk the fine line between friendship and encouragement, but he was mostly too lazy to care about it overly much. He liked lobster, because it reminded him of Skaneateles. He had lobster shipped to him regularly. He owed Billy a meal, and why not make it lobster? Simple.
"Take everything as a come-on now." Tease. And credit Atticus' multiple years of literary theory, where the main objective was to out-talk other students and examine words with a magnifying glass, for his ability to realize the question about the tattoo was a quagmire ventured into unknowing. He put a tiny pot on the free burner, a smaller container tucked in water set to boil, and the clarified butter stirred as Billy talked.
Needless to say, the tattoo was not what Atticus expected it to be. But there wasn't any judgement in his eyes as he checked his butter and lifted the pot lid on his rice. After all, Atticus was a litany of scars, and some of them were even visible in that hot kitchen; he wasn't going to judge. His tone was curious. "Romanian. Why not English? Didn't want as many people knowing what the words mean?" The chocolate disappeared into Billy's mouth in a rain of single-colored delights, and Atticus pulled the lobsters out of their baths.
"I guess there's something to be said for plain naming conventions." Hookerville. He guessed there was no point obstructing the purpose of such a place, but it still made Atticus blush with discomfort. "What's it like out there? Never been." Obviously, given the state of Atticus' discomfort with the name alone. He'd considered paying for sex before. It wasn't that he thought it was wrong or shameful. He just couldn't imagine actually walking in to a place and asking for it. Was there a menu? A list of services? Did you talk? Were you supposed to talk? It all seemed like too much work, and so Atticus never pursued it beyond idle thought and olive cheeks gone red.