There was a name for everything.
It was just the way things worked. You didn’t con someone, it was always a specific con. The name made it legit - was the difference between an amateur tumble and a work of goddamn art.
Slippin Jimmy was an artist, no two ways about it. Art with words. Art in the way he could twist around people’s thoughts and make them think what he wanted. As Marco might have put it, Jimmy was a fucking Da Vinci.
So why were his hands as shaky as a kid doing his first finger painting?
“Jimmy,” Marco’s breath was a low wheeze, almost pained, and Jimmy could spare a flash of sympathy for his friend - slash - partner in crime - slash - dude whose junk Jimmy was currently manhandling with all the finesse of a drunken bear.
And Jimmy was sure he was pretty drunk himself because the mental image just would notleave his brain and he was pretty sure that if any of them was going to be a bear, it was probably Marco, because Jimmy was more of a mockingbird or blue jay or some other existential totem kind of shit thing and what was he supposed to call this anyway?
“I got this, buddy, don’t worry.” he assured Marco, hearing the tell-tale way his words were tripping over themselves. Christ… how drunk was he? "You’re in good hands.“ Ha- fucking- ha. Literally in good hands, here. S'all good.
His other hand was coming up to join in the motions and Jimmy had a flashback to a drunken college party where the guy shad been too boozed to care if he actually belonged there. He hadn’t even had to try explaining himself, which meant free drinks and a slight stab of disappointment that his gift was going to waste. In the here and now, Marco was slurring his name in an entirely different manner, his thick fingers tangling in Jimmy’s mop of greasy brown hair as he murmured things that might have been ‘yes’ and 'please’ and 'oh fuck, Jimmy just do it’.
Which of course meant he had to. Jimmy wasn’t the type of guy to disappoint a friend like that.
Disappointing society? Yeah. Every day. His family? A given. Himself? Well, maybe if he thought about it too much when he was too drunk or too sober…
But if you were a friend and Jimmy McGill was fondling your junk, then at the very least you were going to get some top notch junk fondling.
Or maybe more. The words weren’t fully registering or the synapses weren’t all firing or he’d been too long without a smoke and God knew he had some kind of oral fixation going on because he had his lip wrapped around Marco’s fat dick like it was a Cuban cigar.
But what was this? Just some friendly fellatio?
A 'good buddies’ moment?
Marco was arching into it, bucking toward his mouth like this was the best blowjob he’d ever gotten, even though Jimmy was sure it was pretty awful and he was a half-step away from choking and drool was getting all over the damn place.
Why was he hard at all of this, anyway?
Jimmy motioned as though he was about to pull back, heard Marco’s groan and pushed forward instead, managing to jam Marco’s entire dick in his mouth. Something was telling him this should have been unpleasant, and maybe it was, but that didn’t stop him from feeling a surge of accomplishment.
He was pretty fucking proud of his - admittedly rusty - deep-throating skills… a little less so when Marco gripped at the sides of his head, groaning desperately, a low keen that verged on being words.
- —- —
I —- you
The words all went away for a few seconds at the blistering moment of heat. Jimmy swallowed convulsively, sharp and desperate. The heel of his palm pressed against the fabric of his boxers where there was already a wet spot. God, he was on the verge of going off and from what?
The shudder ran through his body and left him limp, pulling back to let Marco slide from his lips. He wiped away the saliva - not just saliva - escaping down his chin, using the front of his shirt. Marco was panting, his breath trembling in his chest.
"Jimmy -” He said.
I love you, Jimmy.
But no, that wasn’t it. It was something blurred in the recesses of Jimmy’s drunken memories. The words were gone.
Marco’s eyes were on him and Jimmy’s head stayed down. Just enough.
“Jimmy.” He said. He didn’t sound like a guy who’d just gotten a fucking fantastic blowjob from his best friend.
A friend blowjob. A favour. A little bit of suck the salami.
There was no name. The name escaped him. It defied his ability to quantify it.
It wasn’t Art.
“You’re drunk, man.” He said to Marco, head raising, that familiar almost-not-quite-genuine smile tugging at his lip. "Hell, I’m fucking wasted…
“Let’s just sleep it off.”
They weren’t the right words. Sometimes Jimmy just didn’t have the right words. It just happened.
“Goodnight, Jimmy.” A bit less slurred, but a bit something more than that.
A grunted “goodnight” was all he managed before staggering into the other room. The couch was soggy but welcoming. He sank into it, grimacing at the way the motion made his shorts stick to his body.
The name was there. It was on the tip of his tongue. It was right behind his eyelids…
It was gone, when he woke up the next morning. Gone behind the punding headache and the dried come matting his pubic hair to his shorts like superglue.
Jimmy was almost relieved.