needlebomb | inbox.

inbox.

( video / text / voice / action )

I mean - I don't know? I'm in two minds about it.

[ The reassurance doesn't actually help, and Marcus feels like he's being spoken down to even when Tate's going out of his way to avoid doing that. He wishes he had his journal - wishes he could just flip through the pages and find something melodramatic and poetic that he's written about lust and sex and the peaks and valleys of human interaction so he could quote the words he spent crafting to perfection rather than be forced to say how he feels off the top of his head. He sighs, scratches the back of his neck, and feels his stomach churn. Not hungry anymore. ]

On the one hand - yeah, I think it's important that sex means something. That I find someone who matters, at least for the first time. Romance and love, and shit, that's - that's the point of life, you know? Finding someone strong enough and kind enough and loving enough to be with you unconditionally, no matter how... fucked up things might get, that's-- that's why we're all alive.

[ Kind of. Maybe. Even at his most idealistic, Marcus doesn't really believe that, and maybe that hesitation is heard in his voice. He doesn't believe in fate, he spits on the concepts of soulmates or God having some kind of plan for him, even if he prays, hypocritically, to be proven wrong. The truth of the matter is that he's this depressed little parasite who longs to find someone strong enough to fix him, to patch up all the broken cracks in his fucked up, worthless life, and the people in his life who seem like they might be able to make him better - Saya, Maria - are the desperate shells he projects onto out of some needy, clingy search for a reason to live. He'd like to fuck his reason to live.

There's a pause. Marcus needs a smoke. He looks over at Tate, drifts his eyes down, and keeps eye contact with his pack of cigarettes. He points at it, silently asking for one. ]

But on the other hand, I'm a cynical piece of shit. Maybe sex is just this worthless, primal, animal method we rely on to feel good. Maybe blowing a load is just that - blowing a load. Maybe there's nobody out there capable of dealing with all my shit - maybe there's nobody out there who would even want to connect with me on an emotional level, let alone physical. It's...

[ Marcus laughs, trailing off, dismissing himself. ]

It doesn't fucking matter. I'm not gonna meet the love of my life in the few days I have left to meet my quota.

Sex is sex. It's like any other element of life - we scramble to assign a meaning to it, or to take all meaning from it to better appease ourselves. Our consciences. I don't know what I like better... I mean, I do, I guess. But it doesn't line up with my life and what I did with it.

[Tate slides the cigarettes closer to Marcus, flicking ashes from the dwindling stub between his fingers and then tossing over the matches as well. They've got that strip club chic to them, tits on one side and ass on the other. Class motel they're staying in, right? The things were probably left overs from the last guest. Tate abandons his pizza and his cola can, sucking the last of his cigarette dry before extinguishing it on the bedside itself rather than the ashtray one inch away.

Sex, to Tate, doesn't matter. It's an act, it's the way he uses his body to do what he needs to do. It's how he gets what he wants, it's how he shows people he cares. It can be transactional, with the bonus of feeling pleasurable, but he has no feelings about it either way. He doesn't feel guilty or shamed, not for the physical acts. Mentally's a separate story - but there's not a lot Tate hasn't done, or won't do, for a reason. That extends past fucking strangers, but for this topic it's pretty much on point.

However:]

I'd like sex to mean something. Ideally, I'd have someone - none of this sex to meet a quota, no numbers or factors to it. Just... love. A connection with somebody who knows me, who I know, who... completes me. I know it's a fucking sad, romantic thought but I had it once. Almost. I'm close, here, in a way... but it's not the same with the city pressing in on you. You can't be monogamous, you can't...

[His words fade, he sighs. Rakes his hand back through his hair.]

I had a few first times here that... they're not how it's supposed to go. But there's no repeating that, so. I don't dwell on it. Maybe you'll feel the same way about it, once you get over the hump. Literally speaking.

[ Marcus listens, eyes down, hand cupped around the cigarette he's lighting as if the stagnant air of the room they're staying in could possibly pose a threat to the match's flame. He shakes out the match and flicks the burnt out head into the pizza box, taking that first long drag and dropping his head back against the wall. But I had it once, almost, Tate says, and again, Marcus thinks of Saya. Maria. People he had. Almost. ]

Maybe.

[ He knows he's going to stop caring. He knows that the romanticism and the sentimentality and all the bullshit bravery he finds in vulnerability will mean nothing, in the end. Sucking Morrissey's dick every second he got didn't make him any smarter or stronger or less like the stupid, brainless teenager he knows he is, deep down. Hating the world and vowing to make it better hasn't done a damn thing for him - months at King's brought him no closer to sticking a knife in Reagan's throat than he would have been if he'd just stayed on the street. Marcus's opinion of sex is going to stagnate and lose meaning the way everything in life eventually stagnates and loses meaning. Life is all about rotting under the oppressive thumb of a society that wants to squeeze every last drop of obedience from you. Only the wealthy and the elite get to experience the romance and the dreams that life has to offer.

Marcus smokes fast and hard, breathing back the filter in long, heavy drags like he's in a race to burn the paper down to ash. He wants to ask Tate about his life back home, but he doesn't know how to prompt a discussion that personal, especially when he's too hypocritical to easily share his own history with whoever asks. His stomach twists, remembering, again, that his journal is still out there somewhere. So much personal shit just available to be read by the first person who finds it. Marcus needs a distraction, and, well - jumping off of the last thing Tate said is the easiest way to find it. ]

Tell me about some of your first times here, then. Or... the people you know. Anything about your life here.

[Tate tries to think about what he can tell Marcus that isn't going to reflect poorly on him - he's still defensive over a set of firsts that fall under what he just described as not going the way they were supposed to. He doesn't dwell but when he does reflect on those times, both with the same person, he doesn't exactly feel great. But what were the other times? Tate rubs at the inner crease of his eye and tries to pinpoint literally anything to say in return.

'Anything about your life here' gives him some working room - so as he gets another cigarette, tapping loose tobacco free of it on the bedside table, he pulls a few tidbits of his life here out of his hat. First times with certain people have to fall under the same umbrella. He lifts his brows, starts with something he's actually kind of proud about in a boyish way.]

I have this therapist, she's helping me with the shit in my head. You know, typical stuff. But she's stacked, wild in that kinda sexy way. First chick I've ever seen nipple piercings on. But I feel there's probably some ethical conflictions in the mix that I really don't care about.

[He laughs, lightly. Smile gently fades.]

First time I gave head here was after someone roofied me. Not exactly as hot.

[ Okay, yeah - Marcus did get the impression that Tate had the hots for a specific authority figure in his life, what with that whole older blondes are my type thing from earlier, but it's still kind of funny in a sad, slightly ironic way to hear that he's nailing his therapist. Marcus assumes they've gotten that far, at least, given that he knows where she's pierced. He just-- laughs, good-natured, only the slightest bit detached and judgmental. Typical Marcus attitude. ]

Nice. Who doesn't love a professional woman?

[ He says nice in that way all proud, jealous teenage boys do, even if the way he says professional woman comes off slightly too sharp. He doesn't mean anything by it, really - it's just hard to balance the things he feels, all envious and critical and lazily horny at the same time. The mood doesn't last long, though; Tate keeps talking and a dour cloud settles over this, and he's not sure what to say next. Sympathy doesn't feel right. Jokes don't feel right, either. He's not socially adjusted enough to know how to handle this, so the question he asks is tentative and withdrawn. ]

... What happened, exactly?

I can put in a referral if you ever wanna get your head picked by a hottie.

[Tate says offhand, leading into the next question with a slow pause - he isn't sure he wants to go over it. Put himself back in that place, feeling small and defeated in a way that he didn't think he'd feel. He's felt that way a lot in Duplicity, plagued by a sense of helplessness that he's tried time and time again to defeat. This also breaches a subject he's sensitive on - that of his own sexuality but he did just get Marcus to admit he's a virgin. They're sharing some vulnerabilities, right? Code of honor's gotta protect something.

He flicks ashes away and looks at Marcus - this time really looks at his face, lips tight together before he swallows hard and averts his gaze to a stain on the wall. Two years and he still remembers the way the lights looked and how it felt to feel like nothing at all in Duplicity - desperate for a high, so desperate he'd do anything.]

I was at this party - warehouse, full of shit. But I heard there was a guy who could hook me up with something, since the drugs were supposedly free flowing. But he stuck a pill down my throat without asking first, and well. Free's not really free.

[Tate shrugs, then chews on his thumbnail.]

Drugs were good though, at least.

[ Yeah, no, that's not really something Marcus is interested in. Again, the way he laughs is a little derisive, the scoff and the eyeroll far more genuine than they are affected, but he's honestly not trying to look down on Tate, here. Therapy just... isn't for him, no matter how hot his therapist might be. The only person allowed in his head is him.

The warehouse party sounds... rough, but in the grand scheme of things, Marcus is pretty sure the kids at King's have done equally as horrible things to each other when the lights are off. He's sympathetic, but not shaken; the world is full of scumbags and predators who take what they want and don't give a fuck about the fallout, the consequences, the damage. Marcus sighs, voice monotone as he takes a drag of his cigarette, dropping his head back against the wall just hard enough to make a sound. ]

That's kinda fucked up, man.

[ And someone better - someone kinder, who didn't have the education or the upbringing Marcus has had - might ask if Tate's okay. Instead, Marcus just taps out the last of his cigarette on the sheets next to him, burning a tiny black ring in the covers, and he asks Tate what, to him, is the obvious question. ]

You ever get him back?

[Tate kind of likes the concept of garnering sympathy, so long as he doesn't feel pathetic doing it. He's shared his piece (for the first time, again, with anybody) and Marcus and he now know more about each other than they did earlier today. He won't lean any further into drumming up more sympathy his way but he makes a noise at the idea of getting Kavinsky back. Did he? No, not really. If anything, Tate let himself be debased for meager profits.]

Not really.

[He says, running his tongue over his teeth and staring across the room with a somewhat piercing look. His interactions with Kavinsky have had highs and lows; parts of it he really liked, was really there for. Others not so much. Bloody noses on the beach, tremendous highs, set up drug deals and dubious consent every other day. He snorts humorlessly, and starts working the tab of his soda can back and forth until it pops off in a tear of jagged metal.]

I didn't have a lot back then. I signed with him to at least get high to deal with it, with everything. Crawled through all the shit and the piss to just... live, I guess. It's why I hated being a Sub. Having to... just... sell yourself like that. This place is a fucking joke.

[ Maybe it's fucked up for Marcus to feel a brief glimmer of hope when Tate tells him he used to be a sub - like there's a way out, somehow, for him in the future. He listens to Tate without looking at him, dragging his thumb over the frayed edges of the burn he left in the sheets, focusing on the malleable edges and the smell of old, sick smoke. He's not the kind of guy people go to for advice. He's the kind of guy who relies on people and flinches when they try to rely on him in turn. It's a hard line for him to balance on, here, between feeling good that someone cares about him and feeling afraid of the responsibility that comes with that. That's why Marcus takes a minute to respond. ]

Listen, I haven't seen how bad this place can get. I know things are only going to get worse for me.

[ Realignment, the people zoo - a rebel like Marcus doesn't stand a chance in a place like this, not without Lin training him harder, further, faster. He wets his lips and pushes on. ]

But - I know what that's like, man. Having all that fucked up shit in your head, which is hard enough to deal with without-- fucked up shit outside of you closing in and tearing you up. Sounds like signing with this guy might've been a mistake, but - it also sounds like he was your best bet for survival at the time. Your best bet for something at the time, at least.

[ Marcus sighs, looking up, almost defeated. Like it's a loss, somehow, for him to be talking about anything he's talking about. ]

I've done stupid shit and stayed with stupid people just to avoid being alone. I get it. It fucking sucks. That's just life for kids who aren't--

[ He gestures, trying to find the word, finally settling on a small, disgusted: ]

-- normal.

[It always comes back to the bare truth - Tate, like Marcus, isn't normal. He never was, never will be. There were times he tried, back when he was younger, eager for his mother's praise and her approval. But it was always skimmed short and he became resentful of having to put himself in a condensed little box, fighting tooth and nail to appear a certain way only to still not get any recognition. So he stopped trying, he stopped being whatever he thought his mother wanted and yet it still burns a hole in his chest to know he'll never be right even if he doesn't want to be.

Tate will always be the quiet boy in the library, who reads books over lunch and on his free breaks. He'll be the kid who sat at the far end of the field on summer days after school, hunched over books and a sketchbook. He's the kid who obsesses over a girl and watches her sleep because he's so desperate to make something out of the potential between them. He's a kid who cracked at the seams, who went down in gunfire and spite. He's a kid who killed just to set the world on fire and he'll never, ever be someone normal.

He rubs his hand across his nose and stays silent for a long few beats. Marcus gives good points, truthful ones, and Tate still sees Kavinsky as a valuable source. Someone who showed him attention, but who's drifted away like a lot of people. Tate fucked even that up, it seems. But at least he's got what he has now - stability, with Derek.]

That's why it's good to find people who like you for you, right? I don't know. Maybe I'm just fucked up from growing up in a shitty place. Doesn't matter what did the damage, it's there. No erasing the marks.

[Well, this is. Despairing and depressing again. Tate lolls his head back and closes his eyes.]

Things might not be the same for you. You've got me around, remember?

[ The marks - yeah, Marcus has a few of those. He's subconsciously tugging the sleeve of his blazer down over his wrist while Tate talks, made uncomfortable by the concept of people liking him for him but too desperate for that to be his reality to say how he really feels. Every friend he's ever had has only liked him for what he could provide - to Chester, Marcus was an unwilling ear who could listen to the horrible, deviant bullshit he was into, a way to waste time in the boy's home. To Saya, he was the key to her good grades - to Maria, the key to fucking up Chico. To Billy, to Willie, to fucking Lex, to fucking Petra, he was this kid with a rep willing to kill for them or compliment their taste in music or share the weed and the drinks and the powders and the pills he smuggled into the dry, synthetic wasteland of King's Dominion. All those loves felt a lot more real when his friends were around to reaffirm them.

People don't like him for him. Marcus isn't going to get that from Tate, who clearly sees him as a responsible employee and a stand-in he can project onto and act like a hero for to make up for some of the shit Tate himself saw when he first arrived. Marcus is a cynical, pessimistic, weak, needy, selfish piece of shit, and he's starting to regret being here for Tate, listening to him, giving him a shoulder to lean on. They're getting too open. He's gonna scare him off. He's gotta reign this in. ]

Yeah - maybe.

[ He offers Tate a smile, weak and final, wrapping up this conversation now before it gets any worse. In record time, he rushes through his food, polishes off his drink and then gets to his feet, wiping his hands on the thighs of his pants and scooping up a package from the bed at random. If he seems curt and sudden at all, well - that's on purpose. ]

I should probably get ready for my first delivery. Don't wanna be late.

Right. Have fun.

[Tate blinks back from the moment, shifting away to get up and move across the room to where some of his belongings are still strung. He nods his head to Marcus as he gets his own together and loiters for a moment, going to wash his face in the bathroom. He'll wait in there until Marcus has gone, and he too will be gone by the time Marcus returns - if he does - to the hotel room.

He makes a mental note to check in when he can, but not to be overbearing with it. The room'll be rented and he debates extending it, but decides to figure that out later. He's got an empty treehouse to return to, some weed to smoke and a stretch of restful and depressing sleep ahead of him.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

inbox.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject