[ pacing has never done much to calm marcus down. if anything, it's only ever added to his anxiety; back at the shanty camp, he had to measure his steps, always so careful not to pass a certain arbitrary threshold out of a mostly irrational fear that he'd wear his shoes down if he leant on them too much. having one pair and living on oil-slick and pus-covered asphalt made it terrifying to move around barefoot, and more than once, he had his sneakers stolen by old men who needed to cover the sores marcus would eventually have, if he stayed on the street any longer than he had. even now, as marcus wears a hole in the floor of billy's dorm room, he's counting each step, worried about passing some imaginary number that would dislodge his soles and leave him feeling homeless and shabby all over again. a pointless, irrelevant, traumatic response to the life he had before king's.
so when billy passes the joint back over, marcus has already decided he's going to stay where he is, long before he feels the anchored touch of fingers curling against his hip. he doesn't recoil from billy's touch, doesn't give any sign, verbal or physical or purely atmospheric, that that's a thought that even crosses his mind. marcus only reacts when billy makes that joke - what's a handy between friends - because it's a joke that doesn't land.
billy's making light of this, and that's fine, marcus gets it, that's just who billy is, but he can't help the almost pleading sense of desperation that crosses his face in response. he knows, on some level, that billy's just trying to help him relax, but this isn't what he wanted to hear, and there's something in the pitiful bend of his eyebrows and the upset look in marcus's eyes that shows billy that this wasn't enough. marcus wants something from billy that's pretty selfish to ask for, least of all without vocalizing his needs; saying outloud - saying directly - that he wants billy to promise him he'll stay with him after this, that this won't be enough to make him leave, is too sharp of a drop to dive down, but that's what marcus keeps coming back to. he selfishly, dramatically, just wants reassurance that he won't lose billy after tonight.
but billy keeps going. he tries to make this thing between them casual again, clawing for the joyful, easy atmosphere he always thrives in, and marcus, so paranoid and gloomy and quick to be depressed, doesn't know how he's supposed to help them get back there. his expression fades to a solemn, neutral guardedness, when he brings the joint to his lips and takes the last few hits he can scrounge from the paper, tasting ash and smelling smoke that doesn't have as strong of a stale aroma as it did earlier. he closes his eyes and tilts his head back, exhaling the last of it all straight to the ceiling, mixing water stains with a smell he knows will seep into the woodwork. marcus can't make jokes like billy, can't just swim through social streams without being bogged down by this needy intensity of his he's always plagued by, which means he just has to stop talking, stop thinking, and follow billy's guidance. he needs to just fucking relax.
marcus opens his eyes and stares up at the ceiling like he's underwater, letting his body stay standing through inertia alone. billy has to be looking at him like he's waiting for him to talk, after a while, because marcus is just this creaky statue of a person doing nothing but fading out and wishing he had more weed. his head is dizzy with thoughts of backing out, coming up with an excuse to apologize and leave, and thoughts of pushing billy back onto the bed, stradding his hips and begging billy to blow a load in him. harsh, distant responses, both fuelled from a need to save this relationship that doesn't even need saving. he just wants to do whatever it is he has to do to keep billy his. whatever marcus was thinking when this all started doesn't matter anymore; now, he just wants to do whatever he needs to do to make billy want him. need him, if he's lucky.
marcus drops the dead joint before long, stomping it out on the floor. he moves enough to dislodge billy's hand from his side, but it's accidental. meaningless, too, with how swiftly marcus drops to his knees right after, kneeling down on the floor by billy's bed, the floor too hard to be comfortable. he looks up at billy, stomachs the urge to argue or say anything pessimistic or distracting or uncool, then reaches his hands forward, placing them flat against billy's thighs. marcus looks more like he's about to blow billy, than he is about to jerk him off. ]
Sorry.
[ not the dismissive, above-it-all one liner he wanted to say before they dove into the thick of this, but marcus is aware that he's made things awkward, and he can sense, however inaccurately, that billy might be resenting him for that. marcus mumbles his apology with an uncharacteristic sense of shyness, and when he stares at his hands on billy's thighs, feels the warmth of his body through the fabric of his clothes, he feels like he starts to disassociate. he's looking at this through someone else's eyes - the girls billy's been with before, however many of them there must have been. all the competition, the people he'll be compared to, the reasons why billy might not like him after this.
there are a million more things to say, but marcus just wants to cut this conversation short before it reaches any kind of solid, cohesive conclusion, too scared of what that conclusion might be. billy came up here for a reason, so. whatever's going through marcus's head doesn't matter.
his hands slide upwards, tracing over the denim of his jeans while his pulse thuds in his ears. there's no real romance in how marcus gets his hands on billy's belt, tugging his hips forward with a hard yank as if billy's too far away for him to do this. marcus has his eyes focused on what he's doing, working through threading billy's belt open with mechanical precision, like this is a task that needs to be completed, stoic even while his heart beats in his throat and his face feels flushed and sweaty. it's not until he's gotten billy's top button open that marcus looks up, eyes focused, to search out any last second displays of resistance. marcus isn't exactly msking this hot, after all - billy probably feels like he's about to get his dick worked over by a high, severe gargoyle. stony and still thinking about how billy is out of his league, regardless of billy's opinion on the matter. ]
... Maybe lay down.
[ could be easier that way. billy wouldn't have to look at him. that can't be making it any better, marcus thinks. ]
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so when billy passes the joint back over, marcus has already decided he's going to stay where he is, long before he feels the anchored touch of fingers curling against his hip. he doesn't recoil from billy's touch, doesn't give any sign, verbal or physical or purely atmospheric, that that's a thought that even crosses his mind. marcus only reacts when billy makes that joke - what's a handy between friends - because it's a joke that doesn't land.
billy's making light of this, and that's fine, marcus gets it, that's just who billy is, but he can't help the almost pleading sense of desperation that crosses his face in response. he knows, on some level, that billy's just trying to help him relax, but this isn't what he wanted to hear, and there's something in the pitiful bend of his eyebrows and the upset look in marcus's eyes that shows billy that this wasn't enough. marcus wants something from billy that's pretty selfish to ask for, least of all without vocalizing his needs; saying outloud - saying directly - that he wants billy to promise him he'll stay with him after this, that this won't be enough to make him leave, is too sharp of a drop to dive down, but that's what marcus keeps coming back to. he selfishly, dramatically, just wants reassurance that he won't lose billy after tonight.
but billy keeps going. he tries to make this thing between them casual again, clawing for the joyful, easy atmosphere he always thrives in, and marcus, so paranoid and gloomy and quick to be depressed, doesn't know how he's supposed to help them get back there. his expression fades to a solemn, neutral guardedness, when he brings the joint to his lips and takes the last few hits he can scrounge from the paper, tasting ash and smelling smoke that doesn't have as strong of a stale aroma as it did earlier. he closes his eyes and tilts his head back, exhaling the last of it all straight to the ceiling, mixing water stains with a smell he knows will seep into the woodwork. marcus can't make jokes like billy, can't just swim through social streams without being bogged down by this needy intensity of his he's always plagued by, which means he just has to stop talking, stop thinking, and follow billy's guidance. he needs to just fucking relax.
marcus opens his eyes and stares up at the ceiling like he's underwater, letting his body stay standing through inertia alone. billy has to be looking at him like he's waiting for him to talk, after a while, because marcus is just this creaky statue of a person doing nothing but fading out and wishing he had more weed. his head is dizzy with thoughts of backing out, coming up with an excuse to apologize and leave, and thoughts of pushing billy back onto the bed, stradding his hips and begging billy to blow a load in him. harsh, distant responses, both fuelled from a need to save this relationship that doesn't even need saving. he just wants to do whatever it is he has to do to keep billy his. whatever marcus was thinking when this all started doesn't matter anymore; now, he just wants to do whatever he needs to do to make billy want him. need him, if he's lucky.
marcus drops the dead joint before long, stomping it out on the floor. he moves enough to dislodge billy's hand from his side, but it's accidental. meaningless, too, with how swiftly marcus drops to his knees right after, kneeling down on the floor by billy's bed, the floor too hard to be comfortable. he looks up at billy, stomachs the urge to argue or say anything pessimistic or distracting or uncool, then reaches his hands forward, placing them flat against billy's thighs. marcus looks more like he's about to blow billy, than he is about to jerk him off. ]
Sorry.
[ not the dismissive, above-it-all one liner he wanted to say before they dove into the thick of this, but marcus is aware that he's made things awkward, and he can sense, however inaccurately, that billy might be resenting him for that. marcus mumbles his apology with an uncharacteristic sense of shyness, and when he stares at his hands on billy's thighs, feels the warmth of his body through the fabric of his clothes, he feels like he starts to disassociate. he's looking at this through someone else's eyes - the girls billy's been with before, however many of them there must have been. all the competition, the people he'll be compared to, the reasons why billy might not like him after this.
there are a million more things to say, but marcus just wants to cut this conversation short before it reaches any kind of solid, cohesive conclusion, too scared of what that conclusion might be. billy came up here for a reason, so. whatever's going through marcus's head doesn't matter.
his hands slide upwards, tracing over the denim of his jeans while his pulse thuds in his ears. there's no real romance in how marcus gets his hands on billy's belt, tugging his hips forward with a hard yank as if billy's too far away for him to do this. marcus has his eyes focused on what he's doing, working through threading billy's belt open with mechanical precision, like this is a task that needs to be completed, stoic even while his heart beats in his throat and his face feels flushed and sweaty. it's not until he's gotten billy's top button open that marcus looks up, eyes focused, to search out any last second displays of resistance. marcus isn't exactly msking this hot, after all - billy probably feels like he's about to get his dick worked over by a high, severe gargoyle. stony and still thinking about how billy is out of his league, regardless of billy's opinion on the matter. ]
... Maybe lay down.
[ could be easier that way. billy wouldn't have to look at him. that can't be making it any better, marcus thinks. ]