The words echo in the back of his mind, a forlorn resonance of wanting and wishing - not for Treavor, and not because Treavor means anything in particular by the words. But for what the words could mean, from someone who could mean them in his direction.
It's that hour of night, after all, when the world goes quiet and thoughts begin to clamor. When the heavy, sick feeling of lonesome wakefulness mingles with the surreal quality of the city at midnight. (It's not true, really - when they say New York is the city that never sleeps.)
Alice tries to give the other man a game sort of smile, but it only looks like his smiles - his real, unforced smiles - ever do anymore: tired. Sad. Lacking.
He can't play well. Not the lighthearted teasing that permeates men of his age, not loud, brash joking. He never really could. His humor falls sideways and dry, and his play slips into dreaming.
So, instead of trying to draw another laugh (that sharp sound that startled him a little - that was a laugh, wasn't it?), he reconciles himself to the idea that he'll be sitting out here for a while. Until he can coax Treavor into a car, and maybe to his apartment. He eases down to the ground, dimly aware of the grime and the certain cost of having his clothes dry-cleaned (and dimly aware, too, that some things matter more.)
His hand moves with friendly familiarity now from Treavor's shoulder to his back, rubs a comforting path up and down. The actions of a sober man caring for a drunk...friend. Well, why not. For now.
He seems like he needs one. ]
Maybe the city doesn't make them hide. Maybe they moved. Packed up and went to Hollywood. Can't be much of a star on Broadway anymore unless you're already on television, right?
[ As he talks, he relaxes - and his perfected (oh, performative) Mid-Atlantic accent slips, like a curtain drawn aside. ]
no subject
The words echo in the back of his mind, a forlorn resonance of wanting and wishing - not for Treavor, and not because Treavor means anything in particular by the words. But for what the words could mean, from someone who could mean them in his direction.
It's that hour of night, after all, when the world goes quiet and thoughts begin to clamor. When the heavy, sick feeling of lonesome wakefulness mingles with the surreal quality of the city at midnight. (It's not true, really - when they say New York is the city that never sleeps.)
Alice tries to give the other man a game sort of smile, but it only looks like his smiles - his real, unforced smiles - ever do anymore: tired. Sad. Lacking.
He can't play well. Not the lighthearted teasing that permeates men of his age, not loud, brash joking. He never really could. His humor falls sideways and dry, and his play slips into dreaming.
So, instead of trying to draw another laugh (that sharp sound that startled him a little - that was a laugh, wasn't it?), he reconciles himself to the idea that he'll be sitting out here for a while. Until he can coax Treavor into a car, and maybe to his apartment. He eases down to the ground, dimly aware of the grime and the certain cost of having his clothes dry-cleaned (and dimly aware, too, that some things matter more.)
His hand moves with friendly familiarity now from Treavor's shoulder to his back, rubs a comforting path up and down. The actions of a sober man caring for a drunk...friend. Well, why not. For now.
He seems like he needs one. ]
Maybe the city doesn't make them hide. Maybe they moved. Packed up and went to Hollywood. Can't be much of a star on Broadway anymore unless you're already on television, right?
[ As he talks, he relaxes - and his perfected (oh, performative) Mid-Atlantic accent slips, like a curtain drawn aside. ]