[ as billy gets cooler-headed about all of this, marcus feels more clammy, less in control. any other motivation marcus might have aside, this whole thing started out as a distraction to keep him from thinking about EROS, about lin, and the shame of using billy for that is starting to swim up his spinal fluid and make a nest in his brain. he wants to take care of billy, wants to be the one to save him from his quota, wants to manipulate him into staying close to him through sex and friendship out of a fear of losing him, but he wants to be seen as above it all, generous and independent, like he doesn't need billy as much as he knows he does. here, on the brink of committing, all the guilt and the posturing is starting to intimidate him. ]
I, uh... I think so.
[ he shrugs, tries to make his response sound easy, even as he fails to give an answer and his voice wavers halfway through. intimidation doesn't usually do much, to marcus. he'll stare down chico and his boys if it'll earn him a held hand from maria, he'll stomp a homeless guy's skull if it'll make someone love him. marcus could easily shut down, swallow his nerves and get done what needs to get done, but in the warm intimacy of billy's dorm room, the smell of second-hand weed filling his sinuses and making him lightheaded, he lacks the adrenaline and the risk he needs to commit blindly to things he fails to think through. he just wants to be honest.
marcus swallows, looking down at the hand on his knee, at the color of billy's skin. when he talks again, he's keeping his head down, eyes on billy's knuckles. his thumb finds bone, touching the back of billy's fingers, as marcus thinks about how hard gene hit, back when he was still alive. before marcus fixed that. ]
I mean - yeah, I do, but I'm - scared, I guess. You're my best friend, and - christ, Billy, if I were into guys, you'd be way out of my league, so I'm... just...
[ marcus draws his lips together, thin and pressed down. every night when he goes to sleep, he replays every social interaction he had that day in his head, examining and re-examining the things he said and did and figuring out where he fucked up and how he could do better next time. it's not rare, for him to be aware, in real-time, that he's saying something he'll hate himself for once night rolls around. he's all over the place - hating on himself, talking billy into hooking up with him, begging him for help for the assassination he has to commit. he's a fucking mess. billy has to hate him by now. killing gene for him doesn't make up for what a complete and total failure he is as a person.
marcus seems to realize that he's holding billy's hand too much. in the past few minutes, he's progressed from touching his knuckle to stroking the side of his hand. he's reached beneath it, touched billy's wrist. tiny, familiar touches, exploring billy's hand like he has any right to map it out and understand it. marcus takes his hand back and stands, arms across his chest, moving across the room to get some distance. he doesn't know where he's going, so he just - paces, feet against the old, too dry carpet. ]
Scared that I'm tricking you into this, or something. Like - like you wouldn't do this if we were back home, instead of here.
[ which is a pointless thing to be scared about, he knows; he looks up at billy, then looks down, refolding his arms and holding his biceps as he paces, slow and deliberate, like he's counting something out. marcus wills himself to stop talking, to stop jumping around from emotion to emotion like the needy, high maintenance, erratic piece of shit that he is, but try as he might to shut it all down, he just keeps talking. ]
And I'm scared you're not going to want to be my friend after this. I'd blow my fucking brains out if I didn't have you in my life. I can't lose you over a subpar handjob. You know?
[ marcus shakes his head, because-- because he doesn't like that he said that, doesn't like that he's said any of this. he sighs, frustrated, pacing to a stop in front of billy and reaching his hand out for the joint. now that he's talking so much, he needs another hit - even though it's probably the first couple of hits that got him so loose lipped in the first place. don't bogart. ]
Fuck. I just mean - if we do this, I've gotta - I've gotta be good enough for you, or there's no point. That's all I'm trying to say.
no subject
I, uh... I think so.
[ he shrugs, tries to make his response sound easy, even as he fails to give an answer and his voice wavers halfway through. intimidation doesn't usually do much, to marcus. he'll stare down chico and his boys if it'll earn him a held hand from maria, he'll stomp a homeless guy's skull if it'll make someone love him. marcus could easily shut down, swallow his nerves and get done what needs to get done, but in the warm intimacy of billy's dorm room, the smell of second-hand weed filling his sinuses and making him lightheaded, he lacks the adrenaline and the risk he needs to commit blindly to things he fails to think through. he just wants to be honest.
marcus swallows, looking down at the hand on his knee, at the color of billy's skin. when he talks again, he's keeping his head down, eyes on billy's knuckles. his thumb finds bone, touching the back of billy's fingers, as marcus thinks about how hard gene hit, back when he was still alive. before marcus fixed that. ]
I mean - yeah, I do, but I'm - scared, I guess. You're my best friend, and - christ, Billy, if I were into guys, you'd be way out of my league, so I'm... just...
[ marcus draws his lips together, thin and pressed down. every night when he goes to sleep, he replays every social interaction he had that day in his head, examining and re-examining the things he said and did and figuring out where he fucked up and how he could do better next time. it's not rare, for him to be aware, in real-time, that he's saying something he'll hate himself for once night rolls around. he's all over the place - hating on himself, talking billy into hooking up with him, begging him for help for the assassination he has to commit. he's a fucking mess. billy has to hate him by now. killing gene for him doesn't make up for what a complete and total failure he is as a person.
marcus seems to realize that he's holding billy's hand too much. in the past few minutes, he's progressed from touching his knuckle to stroking the side of his hand. he's reached beneath it, touched billy's wrist. tiny, familiar touches, exploring billy's hand like he has any right to map it out and understand it. marcus takes his hand back and stands, arms across his chest, moving across the room to get some distance. he doesn't know where he's going, so he just - paces, feet against the old, too dry carpet. ]
Scared that I'm tricking you into this, or something. Like - like you wouldn't do this if we were back home, instead of here.
[ which is a pointless thing to be scared about, he knows; he looks up at billy, then looks down, refolding his arms and holding his biceps as he paces, slow and deliberate, like he's counting something out. marcus wills himself to stop talking, to stop jumping around from emotion to emotion like the needy, high maintenance, erratic piece of shit that he is, but try as he might to shut it all down, he just keeps talking. ]
And I'm scared you're not going to want to be my friend after this. I'd blow my fucking brains out if I didn't have you in my life. I can't lose you over a subpar handjob. You know?
[ marcus shakes his head, because-- because he doesn't like that he said that, doesn't like that he's said any of this. he sighs, frustrated, pacing to a stop in front of billy and reaching his hand out for the joint. now that he's talking so much, he needs another hit - even though it's probably the first couple of hits that got him so loose lipped in the first place. don't bogart. ]
Fuck. I just mean - if we do this, I've gotta - I've gotta be good enough for you, or there's no point. That's all I'm trying to say.