Emotional Boys 2000

20

For old times sake, Marshall decided, for our last night in Detroit together before going to L.A. we'd go out to a club for some fun.
After L.A. I'll have to fly back home, my stress leave will be up and I'll be getting back to working comfortably... just how I like it.

I'm going to have to explain myself to my friends, which I already find mortifying. I haven't answered any of their calls, simply responding with a text stating I can't come to the phone. Sure my voicemail does this for me, but by doing it manually, at least I don't put worry in their mind that I'm missing or in danger... not that they'd care if I was.

Sliding onto a stool at the bar, I'm reminded of my busted knuckles as I lay my hand down on the freshly oiled wood of the surface.

The bones ache of the micro-fractures and the skin remains in a faintly swollen, reddened, semi-healed state, tender to the touch or to a slight movement.

I've removed the bandages now, hopefully drawing less attention to the damage, yet still knowing that if anyone were to pay attention to my form for too long, they'd notice something off.

I feel ashamed that I did this to myself.

I feel ashamed because I know this isn't a one off occurrence.

I have a tendency to randomly fire myself up, hitting something. Typically it's dry wall, or maybe if I'm really drunk and happen to get in a bar fight, I've thrown a couple punches before.

I just feel ashamed at the mundane thing in which I felt the need to get so frustrated over. Moreover, I feel ashamed that I'm still upset about the situation.

"I'll have a J&B on the rocks" my voice systematically vocalizes to the bartender, pulling me out of the guilt filled void in my head.

He nods, a smug, maybe flirtatious smile on his face, eyes half open with a sense of ease, as if he does not experience any fear, at least not in this moment.

"Yo, and I'll get a Bacardi and lime please" I suddenly hear Marshall's voice resound from behind me, making me turn my head slowly to meet his gaze, not wanting to show the off-guarded feelings in a visual sense.

He takes the stool next to me and gives the bartender a gross look once he turns his back, proceeding to carry out the creation of our drinks.

"I saw the way he was lookin' at ya..." he suddenly grumbles, making me giggles softly, intrigued to see Marshall back to his possession self once we're out in public together again.

"Mhm, and what are you going to do about his behaviour?" I question, dragging on my laugh as I feel him press his hand on my thigh.

The stools are so close that the action doesn't look organic, he barely has to reach in order to touch me. Though the action seems futile considering that the bartender cannot see it from his angle on the other side of the bar. Oh well, for Marshall, it's the thought that counts I guess.

"Make it clear you mine" he grumbles, eyes shadowed over by the contrast in the light above his head. They narrow at me, but the tugging of a smirk on his lips indicates that he's mostly just having fun instead of actually getting himself worked up.

His other hand reaches over, grabbing my chin and holding it in place before softly pressing his lips to mine.

He makes it purposefully sloppy and obnoxiously obvious in order to draw attention.

Lips coming off and pushing back again, teeth coming out to bite my bottom lip, pulling it out before letting it go, his tongue darting out of his mouth to attack mine.

This is all deliberately timed as the bartender gets to see it all, placing our drinks down in front of us with a harsh delivery, making them make a subtle thud sound upon hitting the wood.
The action alone signifies to me and surely Marshall that the bartender at the very least doesn't 'appreciate' our expressive make out session.