On his second cigarette by now – a nervous habit – Thanos watched Gideon in silence. What was the deal with him anyway? The tension visible in his movements mirrored his own. Perhaps due to the alcohol, perhaps not. He had smelled in his breath – clear as day that he had not been entirely sober through the act. Not that he cared particularly, it was nothing he wouldn’t do or hadn’t done. Uncomfortably, shifting his weight one from foot to the other, growing impatient, he crossed one arm in front of his body.
It was goddamn cold in here.
He grabbed a random sweater from the floor and pulled it loosely over his head. The no doubt worst part in bringing strangers to his flat, was the inability to leave whenever he pleased. Instead, he dependent on Gideon’s good will to not be a complete pain in the ass. He wasn’t afraid to throw him out, had done it plenty of times with others – violently if necessary, but something told him that that was not the best course of action with Gideon involved but it’s not like that had ever stopped him before.
Thanos gaze wandered down his body as he dressed, raising eyebrows at those ridiculous well-formed muscles – a sight for sore eyes really and it was a damn shame the rest of him didn’t follow suit. Under any other circumstances, he would have gone for another round (though generally not his style, especially with this being payment – sort of).
“What do I know? It’s your shirt.“ He snapped back and kicked a bunch of clothes in his direction. “Take your pick.”
Anything could’ve set him off at this point. As Thanos replied, snapped back at him – gave just as good as he received – Gideon’s shoulders tensed, the bare muscles rippling under skin as another wave of anger washed over him. As the clothes were kicked his way, Gideon let out a snarl and leaned over to grab the first thing his hand could reach – a pillow, it seemed – and hurled it at Thanos as he swung around to face him.
As soon as the pillow was flung, he put all his weight behind a shove, and as the voice in his head – that voice telling him he was a disgusting and worthless waste of space, a voice that sounded eerily similar to his father’s – droned on, Gideon’s vision disappeared and his brain shut down. His body took him for the ride it usually took him on; Thanos was lucky the place wasn’t filled with a lot of stuff, because everything in Gideon’s reach was quickly unearthed and thrown, kicked and stomped.
When he regained his clarity of mind, Gideon found himself panting in the ruins of Thanos’ studio, fists balled, a sense of relief or like a weight had shifted off his shoulders. The voice had silenced itself through the wreckage. Glancing at Thanos, though, he was very aware of his heart beating in his chest and how he’d just lost control in front of a relative stranger – it was something else when it was Trigger, or his mother, he knew them, they knew him and what was going on, and why...
Gideon closed his eyes as he took in a deep breath, scratching his forehead with his thumb. “Right,” he grumbled, picking up the pills he’d dropped somewhere in his rampage, and looked around again to search for anything resembling his shirt, which was a lot harder now that the studio looked like a rhinoceros had stampeded through it. He wanted to say something more, threaten him maybe, or apologise, or explain himself, but no words came from his lips while he pushed his foot around clothes and thrown items, focusing instead of the retrieval of his shirt.
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