[ He likes that feeling. The pressure at his back. (It's not... really familiar? Something maybe Sheldon's done a few times, something he's tried to manage himself by patting uselessly at his back or shoving against a wall until his spine ached.) It doesn't feel like garbage. It doesn't feel like... What was the trouble? Like maybe this guy's here to cart him away, all scowls and rolling eyes? It's kind of nice. He doesn't hate it.
And hey the guy's on the ground beside him! Treavor's looking over now, taking in the... hey, those aren't intern clothes. Those're pretty good clothes? All over the pretty good solid ground.
He's about to say something about the clothes and hey how many anyones in that shitty shitty law firm have pretty good even pretty okay clothes not fucking tree-trunk-up-the-ass boring fucking clothes, but Golden Guy's speaking again (Golden Guy's sounding a little... different? or Treavor's drunk and making shit up again, hm, always possible) and maybe the stars did move and Treavor likes that idea, or likes that idea until he hears where the stars moved and that's real far away but more importantly, with a little more sting—
He lifts his hand to take a drink, automatic. ]
Stars know what they're doing.
[ A nod, serious.
Stars have the right idea, moving to Hollywood. Way way across the shitty country.
Should've fuckin' stayed out there with all the stars. Not that he was ever in Hollywood, they would've kicked him out for uglying up the place, but. Close enough. And better than Hollywood, anyway. And still far the fuck across this shitty fucking country, away from this shitty fucking city.
He's not happy. He's going to take another drink.
And, because he doesn't like this moment, doesn't precisely remember what he said but doesn't like its wake, he adds— ]
no subject
And hey the guy's on the ground beside him! Treavor's looking over now, taking in the... hey, those aren't intern clothes. Those're pretty good clothes? All over the pretty good solid ground.
He's about to say something about the clothes and hey how many anyones in that shitty shitty law firm have pretty good even pretty okay clothes not fucking tree-trunk-up-the-ass boring fucking clothes, but Golden Guy's speaking again (Golden Guy's sounding a little... different? or Treavor's drunk and making shit up again, hm, always possible) and maybe the stars did move and Treavor likes that idea, or likes that idea until he hears where the stars moved and that's real far away but more importantly, with a little more sting—
He lifts his hand to take a drink, automatic. ]
Stars know what they're doing.
[ A nod, serious.
Stars have the right idea, moving to Hollywood. Way way across the shitty country.
Should've fuckin' stayed out there with all the stars. Not that he was ever in Hollywood, they would've kicked him out for uglying up the place, but. Close enough. And better than Hollywood, anyway. And still far the fuck across this shitty fucking country, away from this shitty fucking city.
He's not happy. He's going to take another drink.
And, because he doesn't like this moment, doesn't precisely remember what he said but doesn't like its wake, he adds— ]
You were on Broadway?