Marco gripped his jacket and tugged on it, rolling his shoulders after his adjustment. "/I don't think I can get used to that,/" he admitted, then picked his drink up up again. These weren't his clothes. These were Their clothes.
But then, it didn't matter who the clothes belonged to, because Juno's invitation made Marco gasp, breathing in a mouthful of tequila. Maybe Juno had meant what she'd said innocently, but all Marco could really focus on was come up to my room and eat your heart out. On a night where he had been so damn aware of how good Juno was looking, it was too much for him to take.
And it turned out that he couldn't actually breathe tequila, so he doubled over coughing. There were a few half-assed attempts at saying something to Juno, but his coughing kept cutting him off. Which was fine, he wasn't sure he could actually form a real sentence anyway.