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[needlebomb]

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[needlebomb]

[ 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?

[confiscated]

[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.

[needlebomb]

[ 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.

[confiscated]

[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?

[needlebomb]

[ 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.

[confiscated]

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.]