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Jamie wants to be used. He wants to be used. He wonders why Santi hasn't, already.
They've hung out a lot when drunk. Jamie always expects something to happen. Braces for it. But it never does. He can get so far as sitting in Santi's lap, head beside his neck, and Santi never even tries to make out with him.
He's a little disappointed, honestly. Not that he actually is, but... Santi's not bad looking. He's not mean to him. What more could someone ask for? Jamie wouldn't mind making it up to him, making up to him the chore of having to be in his company. Someone always wants something. From him especially. Jamie knows that much. It's etched into somewhere deep inside him, a long time ago.
But Jamie's sick of waiting. He's sick of every time they get close, something in him saying this'll be the time. This time Santi'll slide his hands up his shirt, down the back of his jeans, force his tongue into Jamie's mouth. He's ready; he's always ready, something inside him always alert for it. Always watching. Waiting. Looking for the signs it's coming. But it never does. Not so far, at least.
He's sick of waiting and the waiting makes him sick. When Santi scoops him up and carries him to the car, he's half-present. Maybe he'll try to have some fun with my limp body in the backseat, he hopes. Doesn't hope. Dreads. Craves. Santi drives them home. He helps Jamie out of the car and to the door. His expression reads as being sick of him. Jamie feels weirdly self-congratulatory about that —proof. Proof Santi doesn't actually like him. Proof that he's Santi's toy-to-be. Why would he stick around, otherwise? It's got to be building up to something. Or else Santi would never do all this to himself. Put himself through this gauntlet. He carries Jamie up the stairs, like a kid to their bed. Something about that association makes Jamie's stomach turn. He can feel Santi's warm neck against his cheek. He puts Jamie down on the couch while he goes to get himself some water. Jamie purposefully spreads his legs wide, flops one over the side of the couch and down. Please, please let that push him over the edge, a nauseous, frightened little part of him thinks. Santi comes to grab him again and presumably take him to his bed, take him to bed~... that part of him sing-songs— he can already imagine how Santi will feel on top of him. Or behind? Maybe he'll make Jamie do it on his knees. It's all the same, really. When Santi sets him down, lies him down gently and it's too dark to see his expression so Jamie fills in the gaps and assumes it's probably a firm, angry line of a mouth, Santi's arms start to let go and leave and Jamie holds on tight. He can't. Let him leave. He can't. Let this go on. He needs- something to happen. Just to get it over with. Finally. Like ripping off a bandaid. Like a forced haircut. Like having something disgusting in your mouth you need to swallow. One-done. And then you can pretend it never happened, that you don't know how it tastes.
He doesn't let go and Santi sighs out his name exasperatedly, tries to move the arms off himself. Jamie grips harder. He can't let Santi leave without finishing the job. His nerves are shot. He's shaking. He's trying not to shake. Shaking isn't sexy. He needs to be sexy for this to work. He blinks his eyes more open in what he thinks might seem erotic, in that sleepy, slow way. He lets himself start panting, tries to harness that fear, that fight-or-flight, the adrenaline that taking the first steps is giving him. Familiar pathway. Follow the directions in your head, like a pigeon's honing signal. You don't know why you go there, but you know how to. He has to. He has to get this over with, tonight. He gulps back a swallow that he tries to make sound wet and pleasured, insinuating, uses his body weight to tug Santi over him. Santi doesnt understand-
'Jamie, what're you-'
...Jamie can't be the one to make the first move. He can't be the one to start the kiss, he can't give a reason to make it look like he wants this. Santi has to be the one to want it. He knows he does. He must. Jamie lets out the first moan, hot and wet and gentle and right beside Santi's ear. He feels Santi shiver. Good, it's getting to him. Santi's voice is shakier, movements weaker when he tries again.
'J-Jamie, seriously-'
Jamie lets the next moan out. Deeper, fuller, more wanting-sounding. Like Jamie's body is desperate. The ache has started in his gut, not of want but of closing off. Trying to protect himself. But when has that worked?~ he muses.
He takes the first gentle kiss at Santi's neck; wet, wet, sloppy and moaning and just enough held back that it's supposed to make Santi want more. Casting out the line. Waiting for him to bite. He pulls Santi more onto his bed proper, more overtop of him, and Santi's stuttering and jittery and trying to pull away but not really, he could if he wanted to but he's not, Santi's body is giving in to the invitation a bit, a breathless oh~ gasped out beside Jamie's head when he sucks. It's calculated. The amount of spit, the amount of force, the amount of moan in the suck, he needs Santi to make the big moves.
Santi pants out a 'Jamie-' when Jamie's hands move to his sweater. He's still drunk, clumsy, but he knows the steps. Knows the rules. Sweater comes off. Then shirt. Then pants. Then... Jamie tries not to think about that bit. By that time he'll be tuned-out enough anyways; hopefully Santi will be in it enough that he's the one taking those big steps. Santi doesn't stop him when he starts to slide it down his arms, when Jamie tactfully moans into his neck again- but Santi suddenly grabs his shoulders, pushes him away, panting, panting, Jamie can tell he's flushed from the warmth emanating from him, he's holding back-
'Jamie- you... ghh!' and Santi's head moves, teeth grit in frustration, 'what are you DOING?'
Jamie's caught on the spot. What does he say?? What'll make Santi let his guard back down and keep going?
'You're drunk,' Santi continues, 'you're drunk and you don't know what you're doing and I am not going to do this right now-' and he catches himself, 'NNO, not EVER-'
Jamie interrupts him with a flat 'I do know what I'm doing.' Because it's true. He doesn't know how to do anything better than this. Santi's skeptical. Jamie feels his hesitation wane before coming back together like a hole in an army formation.
'No, I don't think you do.' And he pushes up and away from Jamie, sitting up, 'I think you think you know what you're doing, but I'm sure, I'm SURE, you're gonna- you wouldn't even REMEMBER this in the morning-' maybe he won't. Maybe he's banking on it. 'aand- and, fuck, Jamie, I'm not- I'm not even into dudes-' Jamie doesn't have to be a dude. He's probably better at not being one in this context, anyways. '-and you smell like shit, and you'll probably fucking HURL on me, anyways.'
He's sitting on Jamie's midriff while Jamie tries to think of a proper rebuttle. He can't. He's half relieved. Thank fuck, Santi doesn't want him like this. But his concerns lie more with your ability to consent, rather than not wanting to do it at all, something whispers. Hah, fuck his ability to consent! The less he can consent, the better. He wishes Santi would do it while he was passed out. Sometimes he deludes himself into thinking he has. But his body never has the telltale marks that anything's happened. Never sore, never sticky, never bruised... he knows Santi hasn't. Which is why he should. Why he needs to.
'I'm not gonna hurl. I know what I'm doing.' Is all he can respond with.
'Well, I don't wanna do whatever it is you're trying to do.' Santi retorts back, starting to get up.
'First time for everything.' Jamie says. And Santi flinches. Jamie knows he hit a nerve. He didn't do it on purpose, but maybe it'll help rile Santi up.
'I'm- I'm not, okay? I've done it before,' Santi turns to look at him and even if Jamie still can't see his expression he can hear his voice and his voice his hurt, his voice is upset, his voice is annoyed, and yes yes yes won't Santi just hurt him back already, 'I know how to- do it,'
'With a guy?' Jamie says.
'With a- NO!! I told you, Jamie, i'm not even into-' and Santi's voice peters off like he can't even say it.
'Why not?' Jamie says. He doesn't mean to, but his voice slurs.
'Why not?' Santi snaps back.
'Yeah, why not..~?' and Jamie remembers to put the suggestive tone back in his words.
'Because- because I'm not?? What do you want me to say?? Ohh, because it's weird and gross and disgusting ??' And he's shifted to be facing Jamie more, body language still held-back. Leaned away.
'Pff- wow, okay, way to be progressive, man.' Jamie slurs his words again, tone light.
'Shut- shut up! What the hell? You know I didn't- I was being extreme for a point!'
And Jamie just goes 'mhm, mhm,' like he's unconvinced.
'Jesus, what do you want me to say?'
It comes out of Jamie's mouth before he has the time to edit it to sound more enticing.
'I think we should do it.'
Santi stops, stares at him, gets up, and walks out of the room.
Jamie wants to chase after him, wants to get sloppy with him against the wall, wants to force Santiago to moan into his mouth, get Santi's hands slipping under his boxers over his ass and beg into Santi's ear he needs it so bad, get Santi so worked-up he can't refuse and he carries Jamie's body back to his bed and bangs him long and hard and thorough and makes it hurt like he deserves- but Jamie doesn't want to. He doesn't know why he wants to. The thoughts past that point get broken into shards, jumbled and pointless and he feels disgusting even having the thought of the thought. His skin crawls. He turns over in his bed. Even if it didn't happen tonight, it's bound to, someday. Only a matter of time.