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Jackson knows he must sound even goofier than usual, running his mouth so nervously in front of the camera, but if he stops talking shit he might find himself doing something even more embarrassing. Like groaning appreciatively and leaning into Mark's distracted, distracting touches.
He watches Mark worry dry skin off his plush lips with those cute rabbit teeth and tries not to imagine them biting down on his own lip.
They're supposed to play up the bromance, so Jackson should be somewhat camouflaged by the calculated skinship expected of them. And yet somehow Mark often seems to do it without even realizing - slinging a casual arm around Jackson’s shoulders and idly playing with the edge of Jackson’s t-shirt with his spindly fingers; tucking his chin over Jackson’s shoulder from behind, letting his hands settle on Jackson’s hips.
Jackson sometimes catches Mark's eyes on him, jolted by a small dopamine rush before realizing Mark's eyes are fuzzy and unfocused, his gaze resting on the puddle of middle distance Jackson just happens to standing in, his mind clearly elsewhere.
Jackson wonders where Mark goes, when he drifts away with that dreamy pensive look on his face, and if he might find his way there too.
He doesn’t know why it seems so transgressive to feel Mark's fingertips tapping softly against his collarbone under the loose tank top. If the shirt had fallen a bit differently, that skin would have been exposed and visible - and yet this way it feels like an electrifying secret. Maybe it's because of how naturally Mark slips a hand between Jackson's clothes and his skin, like he knows without having to ask that it belongs there, welcome.
Jackson tries to take controlled breaths - in through the nose, out through the mouth - but this means he's now inhaling the scent of Mark's closeness. It’s too intimate.
"Are you giving birth? You sound like you're in labor!"
Kunpimook is there suddenly, hip-checking Jackson with a jarring laugh.
Jackson snaps out of it.