[ at any other point in time, marcus might have tried to add more subtlety to his sidelong glances. it feels kind of stupid to care about pretense any more than he already is, however, given everything they're talking about, everything they're about to do. he watches billy's tongue glide along the fine, thin edge of paper with nimble, practiced dexterity, and in a few hours, nights, whatever, when he thinks back to the feeling he gets in his cock and the swelling of something in his lungs, he's just going to blame it all on the atmosphere. they're talking about sex. of course he'll get hard. he's barely seventeen.
billy's compliments, though, those hit different. he doesn't feel any stirring sense of affection or want, when billy calls him hot. he just feels ashamed, all twisted up inside, like his guts are made of iron that have pretzeled together from the heat. he flashes a smile, shark-sharp as it ever is, showing a sense of appreciation that he doesn't have, just because he knows it's the right thing to do. billy doesn't need to be accused of lying, just because marcus doesn't believe him. marcus doesn't need to ruin their evening by calling billy out on his bullshit, however justified that would be.
when he takes the joint from billy, he leans back in his bed like he owns it, elbows to the mattress and torso barely propped up. he sparks up, takes that first drag while pretending not to notice the weight on his knee. he could make a joke about viktor again, tell billy that yeah, totally, roided up shitstains are totally his type, or he could play up that false appreciation, get all shy, act like it means something that billy's plying him up with compliments minutes after marcus promised to jerk him off. neither option really feels right, so - third option. he tries to make a joke, tries to keep things light, but he tries to be honest, too. he tries to tell billy that he's not objectively hot in a way that won't shit all over his kindness. ]
I'm not. I'm all fucked up. Scars, head to toe. No girl wants to rub her pussy on a pincushion, Billy. No guy wants to stick his dick in one, either.
[ well, viktor might, but - that's just what sex is like, back in mother russia. cold. painful. damaging. it's not until marcus has said what he wants to say that it feels like an asshole response to give. billy's calling him attractive, and marcus is just sitting here, silently questioning his judgment, if not his motives, before blowing him off entirely. he swallows, takes another hit from the joint, and drops his head back. he closes his eyes, breathes out smoke through his teeth, gets stained by the taste of it. he's still pretending not to notice billy's knee. ]
But - hey. You didn't come here to give me therapy, right?
[ marcus sits up, holding the joint between two fingers as he passes it over to billy. he makes sure he uses his other hand, though, not the one on his knee - marcus's hand covers that one, palm against knuckles, keeping it held against him. he looks at billy, mildly expressionless, mildly confident, even though inside he's a bit of a wreck. ]
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billy's compliments, though, those hit different. he doesn't feel any stirring sense of affection or want, when billy calls him hot. he just feels ashamed, all twisted up inside, like his guts are made of iron that have pretzeled together from the heat. he flashes a smile, shark-sharp as it ever is, showing a sense of appreciation that he doesn't have, just because he knows it's the right thing to do. billy doesn't need to be accused of lying, just because marcus doesn't believe him. marcus doesn't need to ruin their evening by calling billy out on his bullshit, however justified that would be.
when he takes the joint from billy, he leans back in his bed like he owns it, elbows to the mattress and torso barely propped up. he sparks up, takes that first drag while pretending not to notice the weight on his knee. he could make a joke about viktor again, tell billy that yeah, totally, roided up shitstains are totally his type, or he could play up that false appreciation, get all shy, act like it means something that billy's plying him up with compliments minutes after marcus promised to jerk him off. neither option really feels right, so - third option. he tries to make a joke, tries to keep things light, but he tries to be honest, too. he tries to tell billy that he's not objectively hot in a way that won't shit all over his kindness. ]
I'm not. I'm all fucked up. Scars, head to toe. No girl wants to rub her pussy on a pincushion, Billy. No guy wants to stick his dick in one, either.
[ well, viktor might, but - that's just what sex is like, back in mother russia. cold. painful. damaging. it's not until marcus has said what he wants to say that it feels like an asshole response to give. billy's calling him attractive, and marcus is just sitting here, silently questioning his judgment, if not his motives, before blowing him off entirely. he swallows, takes another hit from the joint, and drops his head back. he closes his eyes, breathes out smoke through his teeth, gets stained by the taste of it. he's still pretending not to notice billy's knee. ]
But - hey. You didn't come here to give me therapy, right?
[ marcus sits up, holding the joint between two fingers as he passes it over to billy. he makes sure he uses his other hand, though, not the one on his knee - marcus's hand covers that one, palm against knuckles, keeping it held against him. he looks at billy, mildly expressionless, mildly confident, even though inside he's a bit of a wreck. ]
You still wanna do this?