@asbestcs / from here.
He talks so fucking much.
It’s getting to be that Joker just sits there and listens to him like you’d listen to whale noises. He’s saying something about something and Joker couldn’t give less of a shit about any of it if you paid him, but that’s not the point. He’s not even really pretending to listen like women do, all mhms and oh reallys, just sitting there with his shoulder wedged neatly against Adam’s and touching his own face – the bridge of his nose, the curl of his earlobe, the baggy skin under his eyes – since he’s not sure it’s really his. He couldn’t explain why if he was asked, but Adam won’t ask. He’s talking about – he buzzes in on a word with all the concentration it takes to thread a needle – isotopes. Joker doesn’t know what isotopes are. He doesn’t give a shit. Skin’s skin.
His head lolls a little on his neck, inwards, like he’s about to share a secret. It’s not so much a kiss and more just lips and then a breath that carries the smell of Lucky Strike tobacco and instant coffee. And Adam is still talking. He catches the end of it. It’s impatience more than anything else that winds around his voice when he says, “Bro – stop talking.”