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[Tate snorts - actually shows a bit of a smile - and then rolls his eyes to keep that no homo humor between the two of them. He sits forward, shifting to pull his wallet out of his jeans and set it in front of him. It's pathetically slim, but he pulls out two twenties that look like they've seen better days. Brows arched, he sighs and leans back and lets his head briefly loll against the wall.]

All I have for the rest of the month, at least until we get money moving.

[He still can't believe he's been dipping into his funds so violently after getting fucked over by the city. He's dropped hundreds on this kid to ward off any more citations or punishments, and hasn't opened up to anyone about it out of a fear of being perceived as stupid for biting off so much and going so long now without seeking help. Derek's the last person he wants to burden with this, too.]

I'll order it anyway, though. Who the fuck cares - you only live like, once, right?

[He thumbs his phone unlocked.]

I can't fuck with the app so I'll call it in, Deepthroat.

[ Oh, man, that's not a nickname he wants to stick. Marcus laughs, a little louder than he intended, resting his hand on his stomach and closing his eyes. The bed smells musty and stale, the stains on the floor still feel wet when you walk on them, and the walls are paper-thin - but Marcus feels comfortable here, like he's used to motels like this one. He relaxes into the sheets and waits out the call, offering his input on toppings when he's prompted, and when Tate hangs up, Marcus gives him his attention again. ]

I'll pay you back tonight. I'll cover my half, at least.

[ Assuming he doesn't get fucked over by his first client, but - Marcus is confident everything'll turn out okay. A few seconds pass in silence while Marcus grapples with a few things in his head; the responsible part of him still wants to ask what this sub did to make Tate financially responsible for him, but the part of him that overthinks every social interaction and panics about saying the right thing worries that being too friendly will make him look invasive and needy. It takes Marcus a second to just pluck up the courage and ask. ]

So - what's the deal with that, anyway? Paying off some sub's debts. He your friend, or something?

[Tate makes a gesture as if to wave it off - but he really won't put up a fight either way for Marcus' half of the pizza, money as scarce to the two of them as it is. But after the call's made and there's a window of time to wait in (assuming they can find this fucking motel room - he's sure they can,) in which Tate lights up another cigarette and tries to stay mellow and chill. Maybe he'll have a joint in a bit too, but he still has shit to do. Relaxing before then seems counter productive.

But the topic of Nick comes up (he brought it up,) as something to respond to and he makes a face - equal parts annoyed and aggravated. Tate is actually a bit happy to finally have someone to talk this over with, who might vindicate his opinion. Marcus is anti-city so of course he's gonna be anti-bullshit courtesy of the city, too?]

I didn't know him 'til I got called into this suit's office a little while back, slapped with this fucking imposed contract. I have to tick off a certain amount of shit from a list, and be financially responsible for him. He's unsigned, so maybe that matters? Don't know why they picked me though. It's not like I'm rolling in bank.

[He takes a puff of his smoke.]

I'm paying for his monthly requirements and giving him a five hundred allowance for two weeks. Those were the cheapest options, too. Before you get me started.

[ That sounds... insane, and Marcus doesn't really know what to make of it. He assumes that Tate's unsigned, too, if the city went to him for this - maybe they're putting an uncontracted dom and an uncontracted sub together in the hopes that they might sign a contract together that supersedes the one imposed on them by LIES? - but the way Tate says he's unsigned makes it sound like he's putting distance between the two of them in that regard, so maybe that's not the case.

But that seems even more dangerous, to Marcus. To know that you can still be signed with someone, still be playing the rules, and end up fucked... it's a lot to take in, and he sounds a little more bitter and angry than he means to when he speaks up again. ]

So - what - the city just told you that you have to take care of this kid now? Out of nowhere? Why does he have to be your responsibility?

[ Not that he wants to sound like he's begrudging this sub for being a sub, or whatever, but christ. Marcus couldn't imagine being in Tate's shoes right now. He rolls onto his side, props himself up on his elbow, all so he can see Tate better. ]

What happens if he signs with someone else? Are you still gonna have to pay for him?

Some pilot... project, or - test? I don't know.

[He swats at the air, disrupting the float of his smoke as its plume heads upward to stain the ceiling an even darker amber hue. Tate's relaxing with his shoulders down, gestures smooth and lazy - his hand keeps motioning as he talks, not unlike it would with a teen taking a moment to be bitchy about something despite any potential positives for other people involved.]

I think it's a load of bullshit, honestly. I've gotten some citations and in a bit of trouble and I feel like they're out to get me. As paranoid as that sounds.

[Tate shoots a glance at Marcus.]

But yeah, maybe if I can get him signed his Dom can put a word in about cancelling it. Might be my ticket out of this shit.

That doesn't sound paranoid to me. Authoritative powers are united by one thing - a universal compulsion to fuck up the lives of whoever they're supposed to be protecting. Combine that with the fact that nobody holds a grudge like someone with comfort and status... then, well, if you pissed off a higher up over the two years you've been here, I wouldn't be surprised if someone in LIES likes watching you suffer.

[ Marcus sits up, folding his legs and tapping his fingertips against his shoes. As for Tate's ticket out - ]

Everyone keeps telling me there are tons of Doms in this place who hate the system as much as I do. I'm sure someone would leap at the opportunity to sign with this guy and fuck over their plans. Could be an option.

[ Otherwise, Tate could sign with him and make it a point in their contract that he'll only pay this sub as much as he needs to survive - but that feels like it'd be giving Nick the short end of the stick, and Marcus feels like kind of an asshole for almost suggesting that, even though he genuinely thinks it might work. ]

You should be getting him to deliver for you, too. Have him earn his money. Lick the boot of hypersexual capitalism like the two of us are.

[Tate doesn't have to say he doesn't want another sub to juggle - it shows on his face, a flicker of a grimace at the thought of more layers of responsibility. He just wants to not be held accountable for anything or anyone - is that so hard? Why's this always his fucking problem to deal with. He thinks about Nick and the idea of getting him involved and while it has merit...]

I dunno. Maybe if I get to trusting him. I just got a vibe with you, like... you knew what you were in for and I wouldn't have to worry. If I get him in shit I feel like I might get penalized too, somehow. Last thing I want is to have to post bail, or whatever.

[Tempting as it may be.]

And it's not really his fault for winning the fuck lottery. You can't tell me you'd hate being in his shoes, right?

[ There's a knock on the door, and Marcus shrugs dismissively in response to Tate's question while he slides off the bed and goes to answer it. He snags the forty from Tate's wallet without asking, then opens the motel door to a very tired and irritated looking sub, holding a pizza and asking if this is the right place. Marcus pays, tips, and closes the door with his hip, bringing the pizza back to the bed and dropping it down on the mattress. He's taking a bite and talking through a mouthful of cheese a second later. ]

Well... regardless, it's nice to know you trust me.

[ Jesus Christ, it's been a long time since he's had real food. He closes his eyes and just - salivates for a second. It's greasy, cheap and oily, but that doesn't stop Marcus from savoring every piping hot bite. He polishes off an entire slice before he's willing to talk again, wiping the grease off on the sheets. Probably no less sanitary than whoever stayed here last, so. ]

I'll try not to make life any harder on you. Just gonna make my sales and get out. You've got enough going on without having to worry about me fucking up my deliveries.

Thanks.

[Tate says after a beat, holding a slice of pizza in one hand without the same hunger that Marcus has. Tate's quite the opposite - taking small, slow bites, less to savor and more just to go through the motions. Tate'll barely touch two slices out of the whole pizza but he does reach for one of the sodas that came with it. He cracks open the can and tips it back, swallowing a few gulps before wiping his lips off on the back of his hand.]

It's nice to... just know that there are still people around who give a fuck about other people. I've met a few, yeah, but. I guess I've just become really jaded about this shit. Loyalty, commitment? Some people don't even have those words in their vocabulary.

[ Marcus has to admit he's a little thrown by that, but - not necessarily in a bad way. In a pretty fucking good way, actually. Marcus tries to hide his smile while he eats, looking down at the sheets and avoiding eye contact, but there's a proud little lilt in his voice that he can't quite smother. ]

That's the impression I give you? You think I'm someone who gives a fuck?

[ He's trying to sound dismissive, or like he might even be making fun of Tate for saying that, but - he's not a good liar, and it's clear that he's happy with the impression he's given. He grabs a soda for himself, too, ripping open the tab and taking a swig, still sheepishly smiling when he's done. ]

I mean, you're not wrong. Loyalty and commitment matter to me. I just... kind of assumed you saw me as a stoner with good taste in music. Who won't take shit from people.

You're thinking of me even when you have every right to be selfish. Not everyone does that.

[Even Tate doesn't do that - not unless it's selfishly self-serving in how it'll get the person he's 'selfless' for's recognition. He sets his soda down next to the ashtray at the bedside, the wood stained with rings from other people's bottles and cans already. He doesn't touch his pizza again, opting instead for another drag of his smoke and a soft snort as he exhales.]

Stoner with potentially decent taste in music. Jury's still out.

[But there's a jovial mood settled in and Tate's happy to be swept with it.]

You wanna play a dangerous game? What impression do I leave on you?

[ Marcus doesn't think he's being particularly selfless, but he's more than happy to take the compliment, so he's not going to argue. It's nice, being thought of positively - that doesn't happen very often. There's a stirring of something in Marcus's chest, this unhealthy, budding, worming feeling of wanting friendship and affection and approval even at the cost of his own wellbeing. He doesn't notice it. Doesn't do anything but eat and lazily answer Tate's question with flattering honesty. ]

I think you're smart. I think you have your shit together. I think you're a problem solver - you've been roped into helping this guy pay his dues, and rather than forcing him onto the street to whore himself out or whatever, you're doing what you can to make money your own way. You're empathetic.

[ He shrugs. Another sip. Another bite of pizza. He'll probably finish this whole thing, if Tate's not going to touch any more of it. ]

You're not an asshole? You're not this fake, posturing piece of shit too afraid of being honest, which is a pretty rare quality, I think. You're alright. I like you.

[Just like Marcus enjoys the picture of him Tate paints between them, listing the qualities he likes and sees - admires, maybe - Tate also enjoys being spoken of with a vein of praise. He's always tried to defy the expected norm even if by nature he does it by default. If he had someone in his life like Marcus, when he was alive, things might've been a bit more bearable. Instead he was surrounded by fake pieces of shit focusing on the inane details that don't matter, stroking egos and each other's cock over superficial things.

He doesn't smile but it's still there on his face somehow, a touch of it in his corner lip and the way his eyes shift away. He drinks soda and smokes in that beat of silence, happy to hype up an image of himself in somebody's mind that is for the moment without the marring of any flaws.]

I'm kind of an asshole if you ask the right people. Like this jock piece of shit here, Mantle? But I'm glad you can see the real deal of what's in front of you. It's why I think you're kinda cool too.

[ Marcus doesn't know who Mantle is, but he doesn't sound like the kind of guy he would respect. Anyone described as a "jock piece of shit" very likely wouldn't vibe well with him - Marcus fits in far better with the goths and the punks, outsider as he is. He just rolls his eyes, drinking and eating like he hasn't had anything to drink or eat in weeks. He's talking with his mouth full again, casual and easy, like he's with a friend, rather than an employer. ]

Screw him. I could not give less of a fuck about what some asshole jock thinks of you.

[ Tate probably said a big word, or something, and Mantle got intimidated enough to hate him, or whatever. That's how it always goes with guys like that. Marcus cleans the grease off his hands again and scoots to the far side of the bed, leaning back against the wall it's set against. ]

So... is this the part where we're supposed to start making out? Totally getting that impression.

Yeah, totally? Third base at least.

[Tate snorts - and he can feel a familiar feeling blossom in his chest. Rarely in Duplicity has he found people with whom he feels like he's not some outsider, some dead kid in Fuck City trying to get by by whatever means necessary. He's just a teen able to act his age, talking about movies or books, fucking around with stupid jokes and talking about sex like it isn't the oversold commodity here that it is. Boys will be boys.]

You really haven't scored anything here yet, though? What about back home?

[ Ah, shit, maybe Marcus shouldn't have made that joke. He's not flustered, exactly, but he feels like he's really getting somewhere with this friendship, and for all his talk of bravery and honesty, confronting his shortcomings is pretty humiliating. He judges the fuck out of the jock motherfuckers who brag about getting laid back home, but openly admitting he's never been laid still doesn't come easily to him. ]

Uh.

[ He laughs, shrugs, acts like it's not a big deal, but still coughs when he swallows his pizza the wrong way and has to hurriedly take a drink of soda to wash it down. He does his best to act casual and disinterested, like admitting this isn't a big deal, shrugging and picking at the crust in front of him while he pointedly chooses not to look at Tate. ]

Uh, no. I haven't-- I haven't. Here or at home.

[Different situation, different way of this coming up and Tate's response would be different. Maybe brash, a little bit arrogant or stupid in the near minded way teens can be. But because they share a similar baseline and because Tate now officially likes Marcus as a person, he wants to be and leans into that perceived empathy that Marcus thinks he possesses. He looks down at his pizza, then back up at Marcus slowly. His eyes aren't sharp, and he doesn't quite stare at him.]

That's alright. Normal, even.

[Tate could see a lot more similarities of how he was in life to Marcus too, then. But his reasons for not exactly getting laid while alive may potentially differ - there's got to be some similarities. Shitty parents, being different or the outsider, never noticed - invisible? Different.]

Must kinda fucking suck to be here then. You the kind of guy who wants his first time to mean something? Or more interested in just ripping the bandaid?

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.

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