Jackson halts in front of the closed doors, hand resting on the brass knob. "Just so you know..."

"Yes?" Mark tilts his head.

"My tastes are very..." Jackson struggles to find the right word to put his thoughts into speech. "Singular," He finally decides.

"Enlighten me then." Mark replies, sticking his chin out defiantly.

Jackson nods, curt, a gesture more significant to himself than anyone else, and wraps his fingers around the doorknob. With his other hand he inserts a small bronze key in and turns, and the lock clicks. He pockets the key once more and twists the door open. He leads the way in, and Mark, after taking a deep breath to calm his raging heartbeat, follows.

It was dark. Pitch dark. Through the dim light from the hallway Mark could see Jackson's silhouette reach for the wall where he assumes the light switch is located. A flick of the wrist and warm orange light floods the room, blinding Mark for a split second. Jackson steps to the side and from the doorway through squinted eyes, Mark sees rows and rows of oversized sports jerseys and leather shirts hanging from racks, all black in colour but ranging in design. Mark thinks he has never seen a monochrome closet as such. But these are not the items that really catches his eye.

A little more to the right are Jackson's pants, arranged according to material and folded in neat stacks. Mark walks over and picks the first item up, gaze immediately falling to the drop crotch. "Really?"

"I just..." Jackson sheepishly confesses, "...Am currently really obssessed with I-poop-myself pants."