What Do You Do With A Drunken Tailor?
"How about this one?" Lex holds up a suit that makes Marshall wince-dark eggplant, with lighter, shinier lapels. "You'd be stylin' in this one."
"Yeah, if I was a faggot." Marshall looks down at the rack again, dismissing Luthor as he spies a sleeve of straight up black linen. Yeah, he wants something kind of plain because it still feels fucked to get all dressed up; have people staring at him. He pulls the suit out a little, sweeping back the garments on either side so he can get a better look at what the front of it looks like. It might be okay with a black shirt - but nothing shiny.
Some subconscious part of his brain registers the lack of response from Lex, there's no way Luthor would let that pass without comment, and Marshall wonders why he's gone mute here all of a sudden. He has to look up.
He finds suppressed laughter and a raised eyebrow. "If you were?"
Marshall's fingers still twiddle the buttons of the suit, they feel nice, flat with an embossed floral design that you can't see-you have to feel. He looks around nervously, but no one's close enough to hear at the moment. "Shut up, bitch. You'll have my face plastered on the front page of the National Enquirer before the end of the day. Besides, if anyone's a faggot-it's you."
Lex puts the suit he's holding back on the rack, laughing. "Oh, I'm shooting for more of a noon timetable. Plus, if I convert you, I get a toaster."
"Fuck you and your toaster."
Lex holds up another choice-white with very thin cream piping along the skinny lapels. "Okay, what about this one?" It's obvious he's mocking Marshall, and having a hard time keeping the laughter in.
Luthor is such a smart ass. "Dog. Stop trying to out me, or whatever the fuck it is you're doing. I ain't gonna wear a white suit. Hell no."
Lex gives an eye roll and an exasperated snort. "I'm trying to get you to make up your mind. We've been at this for what...three hours already. You've hated everything I've shown you."
"Because you're trying to turn me into a fruit." Marshall realizes he's said that louder than he intended, and looks around nervously again. No one appears to have heard him, or they're just too well trained to let it show. Fuck. He' starting to get a headache. It's not a hangover, despite the fact that they spent most of the night slamming down alcohol, that's what he's telling himself. He shouldn't have gotten out of bed before noon today. That's all.
"I'm trying to give you some style." This one goes back near the last half dozen Marshall's rejected. "Why don't you just pick something then?"
"This one. I want this one." Marshall lifts the hanger, unhooking the black suit he's been studying for the last five minutes.
Lex mouths the words 'thank God' and lifts a hand, gesturing to his personal shopper who stands far enough away to give them privacy, but to be available when the need should arrive. "You'll need a shirt with that." When Luthor's fingers pluck at the collar of his shirt, the staff member nods in understanding and scurries off out of sight.
"Yeah, I guess so." Marshall's distracted, and holds the garment up in front of himself, trying to imagine what it will look like on him. Luthor's bossy as fuck, but Marshall really does value his opinions on most things.
"You shouldn't worry about it anyway," Lex smirks, swaying a little, hand crushing dark burgundy a he clutches at the rack momentarily. A side effect of the Bloody Marys he insists are the secret to keeping the Bacardi of last night at bay. It's a little hair of the dog therapy that has been working so far, as long as they don't try to move too suddenly. "If you really love women so much, you should be secure enough not to care what people think."
It's logic like that that really gets him. Every once in a while, out of the blue, Lex comes up with these insane theories. Sometimes they're plausible. Sometimes, like now, Marshall thinks he may be smoking crack. "I should suck your dick in public to prove how heterosexual I am?"
It's the smile that response draws that makes Marshall reconsider this entire afternoon, because in the light of day it has an entirely different meaning. Or, maybe the same meaning, but he's processing it through a much soberer filter. Either way, he shouldn't feel that extra thump in his heartbeat when he's standing here bantering with Lex.
Lex half-heartedly arranges the hangers, closing the gap his search has created. He's never one for leaving messes, or concealing his opinion. "You do whatever you need to do, Marshall."
The assistant returns with a dozen shirts of varying hues draped over her arm. "Mr. Luthor, I think there are several choices here you'll approve of." She's used to choosing for her boss, because every one of them is a vibrant peacock rainbow of color. Flashy, to detract from that freakish baldhead of his no doubt.
"Oh hell, no." Marshall's shaking his head, ready to head for the door and back to bed, which is where he wishes he was anyway. "I'm not wearing any of those."
"Don't have a melt down. She's used to picking for me." Lex flashes a reassuring smile to the woman, and studies the choices quickly, finger moving over them as he mentally narrows the choices "This one." His assistant immediately separates a dark plum from the rest and hands it to him. "This one will look good on you."
It is nice, and not too faggy. The accusation of three hours spent acting like a fucking diva, or worse yet, a woman rings guiltily in his ears as he answers, "Okay, I'll try it on. Fuck."
While the store doesn't shut down entirely for Marshall and Lex, they take extreme care to make sure that they aren't bothered. As they walk towards the changing rooms, lesser mortals are ushered to the other end of the store to try on their selections and Marshall and Lex walk in. And that's what it is, a very large room with a couch, and a side table where minions can prepare coffee for executive customers.
"Shit." Marshall whistles as he looks around. "Will that chick come and unzip my fly for me too?"
"She will if I tell her to. But they know I don't like to be bothered." He points to a speaker near the door as he shuts it. "If we need anything, use the intercom and there will be half a dozen people kissing our asses within 60 seconds."
"Yo, that's dope." Marshall makes a beeline for one of the two other doors in the room, swings it open and finds a small room with a sink and toilet. "Heh. They got a john in here."
"They've got everything we could possibly want here," Lex says cryptically.
"Is that where I change?" Marshall indicates the other door with a nod.
"Screw that, just throw your shit on the couch over there, and let's get this over with. I'm ready for lunch." Lex sidles over to the table, poking around in various baskets. When he doesn't seem to find whatever he's looking for, he sniffs the pot of coffee, shrugs and pours himself a cup.
"You want me to strip for you?" Marshall cranes his neck, looking expectantly in all corners of the ceiling. "What, are there hidden cameras in here?"
Lex takes a quick sip of coffee before sitting in one of the chairs. "Yes, but they're for my own personal amusement. Make sure you do that little hip-shaking dance you do sometimes. That'll look great."
Marshall notices for the first time, how weary Luthor looks as he blinks and takes two more sips in rapid succession. Marshall's starting to feel guilty for keeping them out so late last night, but he's been so busy for the last four months, keeping himself to a grinding schedule, that it had been all too easy to fall into that familiar space with Lex-like old times. But there's something new lately, which disturbs him, and he clings even more to those old patterns. "Dog, you look like shit. I told you we shoulda forgot about today."
"No, I can't have you seen at a public function looking like that." The cuff of Lex's shirt rises over the bones of his wrist as he waves his hand dismissively in Marshall's direction. "I do have a reputation to uphold, no matter how twisted and evil it is."
A reputation. Yeah, but Lex has an army of PR people behind him cleaning up whenever private life skims to close to public. Marshall's never seen the need, cultivated the rumors of violence, drugs, craziness to build Slim one layer at a time, but lately he feels the need to integrate Shady, to redefine what he's worked so hard to create. Lex is the master of spin, and Marshall feels he can really learn something from him. He shrugs out of his shirt, carefully buttoning the one Lex has picked out. He's not even disturbed by dropping his pants in front of Luthor really, there have been several times Lex has caught him with his pants down, including the time Marshall did meth and that chick lured him into the men's room so she could roll him for his wallet.
Relying on Lex is a long established pattern.
"Hmn, very nice," Lex comments, setting his coffee on the table next to him, and standing up. "Now, this is how to make an impression." His fingers brush from the base of Marshall's neck, flicking to the tips of his shoulders, and he holds the suit jacket up to help Marshall slide it on.
And he does have to admit. It looks good. That's not conceited is it? Maybe it feels better to think of it as a compliment to Lex's ability to turn trailer trash into a GQ spread. But either way, Marshall's pleased with the final outcome. "Yeah, it ain't bad."
Lex looks over Marshall's shoulder, meeting his eyes in the full-length mirror in front of them. "I guess you clean up well." Unexpectedly, one arm curves around, hand diving as Lex tugs at the seam near Marshall's crotch, adjusting. "You know, a good tailor would measure your inseam personally to make sure it fit like it was, well...made for you."
Marshall knocks his hand away playfully, feeling the skin on the back of his neck burning red. "Well today I'm stuck with you. You're like a drunken tailor, so that's gotta count for something, yo."
"Ah. Hung over, but not drunk." Lex fluffs the jacket, and buttons it halfway, which is impressive because he's working in reverse by their reflection in the mirror while reaching around Marshall's torso. Lex stares for a minute, hands hovering somewhere close to either of Marshall's hips, before he decides it's better as it was before and unbuttons what he's done.
Marshall laughs uneasily, "yeah, good thing. Cause what would I do with a drunken tailor?" wondering why the lack of space between them is making his throat feel tight. Maybe Marshall's lost his mind, because this is fucking crazy. These are not feelings he should be having for Luthor.
Lex is the person who understands him the most, even though they've come from such different beginnings. Lex is the person Marshall phones at two am, when that distinction used to belong to Dre., and who does Marshall think of after he's been locked in a studio for sixteen hours, cussin everyone from the sound guy to Obie and his groupie fuck buddy (a new one every morning)-that would be Lex again. Friends. They're friends, and they're both men, and that's not something Marshall's going to be into...ever.
"Mmnn, indeed." Lex's arms slide back, brushing over Marshall's waist with the rustle of fabric dragging over fabric, and the heat between their bodies dissipates as the space between them grows. Lex steps around to face Marshall, studying him carefully with neutral eyes. "I like this one. I think you should get it."
Marshall feels like such a pussy, but he can't bring himself to meet Lex's eyes. Instead, he focuses on the safety of the mirror-cold, and removed from the intimacy of trying to hide wrong desire from what might be his best friend in the world. Even there, he shies away from Luthor's gaze because even two-dimensional might trigger a confrontation he's not prepared to deal with. What's he supposed to say? I'm in love with you? Wanna fuck? Shit.
This is officially the most twisted, delusional psychosis he's ever allowed himself. He doesn't want to put this on Luthor, freak him out, because Marshall doesn't want to think about Lex getting pissed off and suggesting that they spend less time together. So he'll put it down, shove it back for now. He knows a little bit about denial, thanks to Debbie and Kim. So yeah, that's what he'll keep from the Shady years-that dogged sense of selective blindness that is the core of self-preservation.
"You really like it?" Does that sound as fucking whiny as he thinks it does?
Lex hooks a finger underneath the lapel, readjusts it to cover Marshall's nipple before casually dropping his hand away. His voice is low and gravelly from fatigue and excess, "Yeah, I do."
"Then I'll take it." Marshall tries to blink away the need in his eyes before he nods and smiles at Lex. "Let's go get something to eat? I'm fucking starved."