Also, wtf. Please excuse the lame sentiment of this. These days I write about self-efficacy theory for a living. It tends to fuck with my head.
"I really like that shirt," JC tells Justin, but he doesn't mean it. It's hideous, all bangles and tatters. Nothing JC would wear, but he likes to be nice.
"You want it, C? You like it, I'll give it to you."
Justin pulls the ugly shirt over his head and holds it out. He's smirking, tilting his head in that way that means... something. JC has to smile back, because Justin knows him too well. Because Justin's rubbing a hand over his abdomen, sliding his fingers through the fine gold hair below his belly button.
"Okay," JC says, and takes the shirt, sitting up in the tangled sheets to pull it on. It fits really well, and it smells like Justin. JC smoothes a hand along a line of gold braid.
"It looks good on you," Justin says fondly, and JC laughs and pulls him back down onto the bed.
Ha ha ha as if JC would wear such a shirt. God.
Got my tersely-worded remix assignment. Oops, have I burned some bridges? Inconthievable. The assignment is way doable, yay. I shall get started... this week.