Mickey Doyle (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
byanyname) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kingdomsofrain2016-12-01 03:31 am
byanyname) wrote in kingdomsofrain2016-12-01 03:31 am
tfln open post
***
either leave a message (or set of muses) for one of my assholes, or request a message from one of them. choose messages from the classic source, from your own skull, or whatever you may please.
2/2
Wow thank you Lord Alice of Aliceville wow.
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(I fact checked it for you. Happy?)
Yes, 'an evening in'. I like my apartment, and I don't see it much anymore because I exist eighty hours or more in a dilapidated basement with an invasive species of Froot Loop-eating Treavor.
Talk about low man on the totem pole.Which one of them would I have to blow for a promotiI like my apartment. I miss my apartment. I miss my cat. Don't
be a shithate because I want to be IN my apartment. With company, if theGrTinder gods smile on me.no subject
There's pretty simple solutions for your trouble, you know.
1) Skip work. No one gives a shit.
2) Quit work. All the apartment time a non-intern could ask for.
3) Bring the cat to work. Bring your soup bowls to work. Bring your throw rug to work. No more apartment bills, no more missing home.
Hey what's the cat's name?Tell your Tinder friends I say hi.
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What is your problem?Listen.
I don't know what bug crawled upSir.
1. I need this internship. I think you remember I said that. Several times, while you were throwing paper balls at my head and telling me to quit. I don't have a choice. And interns don't get to 'skip work'. We do the work that gets left behind when salaried individuals
such as yourselfskip work.2. See above. No internship, no junior partnership. No junior partnership, no partnership. No partnership, no apartment, because apartments cost money, not unicorn shits.
3. ...No. You'll throw things at her. And the rest is unprofessional.
I don't have Tinder friends.
I don't have friends. I have this internship.
And you.
Sir.
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Hey fucking QUIT it with theI wouldn't throw anything at your cat. I don't throw shit at cats. Come on.
What's herYour dad's got money. Everyone knows it. Pshh. APARTMENTS.
Why even intern HERE who does that except insectsCHOICE. Don't give me that donkey shit.And DON't make me pity party you. Ugh. 'Can't apartment.' 'No friends no fun.' So, so sad. Sad Lord Alice, going places with his life, ugH.
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Your father has money. Does he pay for your apartment?Yes. He pays for my apartment now. But I'd like to be self-sufficient. A little more my own man.
I'm not asking for pity. I'm asking for consideration; telling me to quit is unreasonable.[...]
Hypothetical question. Am I going to get fired if I stop responding to your texts?[...]
Would you like me to come get you?
1/3
He doesn't like that at all. ]
No i'm done.
Good for you big dreams.
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3/3
[ ... ]
What's your cat's name?
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[ And is he, in fact, using the 'Find My Phone' feature to start tracking Treavor's location? He sure is. Why does he have it? The same reason Treavor has his number. ]
Maybe I'll pick someone up near the harbor. You never know. Two birds, one stone.
And you probably need milk, anyway. For the Froot Loops, right?
I'm out the door, so there's no point in arguing.
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...It was 'Our Lady of Lost Hope' but that was a mouthful. So. Milady if you want to be corny.
Hope if you.
You know, it. Doesn't matter.
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I can't even make fun of you for it. Just a good name. Bet she's a good cat.
Lady Hope, Lord alice. Knew something was up hmmmmmmm
hmmmmmmmmM
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Anywaywon't you be sleeping later?
[ Point MADE, point SCORED. There was. Definitely a point there somewhere. Maybe. ]
No aparetments when you sleeP.
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...If nothing else, at least I'm giving her the life the title demands.
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It's a pretty good bed.
Assuming I don't fall asleep on the sofa again.
Did you finish the Froot Loops? What am I going to do with the milk, then, hm?
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Maybe ShE needs friends?
Or a ourt. With crowns?
WAIT HEY YOU SOFA SLEEP? I woulnt have thought?
2/2
Hope shines in you eyees
catnip in your mosuse toys
you'r my
l a d ty
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Assuming you are at the harbor still, and connected to your phone, I'm four minutes away. All right? Just stay put. You can show me [...] where you were going to look at stars or something.
[...]
She has her catnip mouse and her toy bird. They're her courtiers. And her collar is her crown; it has a bell and a detachable blue bow I put on it when she wants to look her best.
For formal occasions.
What's the next verse?
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hey i dont need YOUR pity does she really have??
okay she's got friends got style!
Lucky cat. :D
lucky cat she'll get her verse when it's ready! patients, hm. next verses take time. it's like art.
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I got a career move for you ouT THe door.
Nah, too late for that abandon hope you'll who enter here hmmm.
nO i'm running ebtter catch me!!
[ In fact he is not running. In fact he is not especially inclined to run or stand or anything right now, except lean against this... block, wall, trash bin, whatever it is, and take another drink. ]
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(To think, this is how he'd planned (planned. Fantasized. Vaguely imagined.) to meet up with someone this evening. In practice, it's almost reprehensible -
Is. Reprehensible. And the shame cuts deeply.)
Around a corner, he finds his employers' brother. He, himself framed in the sickly yellow glow of a streetlamp, his hand now slipping into the pocket of his coat to stow his phone. His face shows no expression of disdain, though somewhere in the harsh shadows cast upon it, there's a hint of concern.
What does he say? 'Hey, Boss'? 'Hello, Sir'? 'Are you all right'? Those things...seem like they might upset the other man. So instead, he strolls over slowly, aiming for casual friendliness and not quite managing either. ]
Caught you. Does that make you 'it' now?
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(They'd probably find him there.)
(Anyway, there's no booze in the ocean really. Just a lot, a lot of salt.)
He thinks, vaguely, that he'd be a fish with red and blue and purple scales, little bit of gold (like his shirt! black and purple and gold! he'd be a stylish fish! he IS a stylish fish!). He could be a good fish.
...He could be an okay fish.
Right now, it looks like he's maybe a caught fish. (Speaking of finding.) (Speaking of the jags his family sends to find him.) (Yeah but. Sure why is The Golden Intern here but also hadn't Treavor been texting the dude and doesn't he usually not know a fucking thing about not recognize anyone sent after him?)
He could give this guy the finger. Tell him to quit while he's ahead - how the fuck hasn't this guy quit, yeah yeah rent independence man whatever - or get up and run, see who's caught now!
But he's not really annoyed? Guy's not talking to him like an asshole (yet) and guy does have a cat with a special occasions collar, so mayyyybe he can come close.
Maybe. Jury's still out, ha ha, insert shitty law firm joke here.
He doesn't realize he's been staring at the guy. Not really assessing, but dead-on staring, no relenting, and now he blinks, takes a drink. ]
Go ahead and run, see what happens.
[ And, without pause— ]
Nothing. Nothing's what happens who's gonna find you not me.
[ It's not exactly friendly. It also isn't hostile. Treavor runs a hand up the back of his neck, scratching or just mussing with his hair, who can tell. And Treavor goes back to staring at this guy because that's where is eyes are what do you care where he's staring, he'll stare where he wants thank you very much! ]
no subject
(If only he could say, reasonably, that this treatment was somehow new, somehow extraordinary. That he had never in his life walked into a room and met with the hostility of peers. He has learned, hasn't he? To hold himself firm in the face of it, and reflect back only a controlled air. To not let it wound him anymore.
This is only transitional. All things are temporary.)
(And anyhow, this isn't wholly hostile. Treavor's drunk.)
Alice looks down briefly at the blanket on his arm, his mouth working against some emotion he doesn't quite care to name or follow through to any course beyond its flickering - a star across the night clouds of his face. Come and gone. And then he breathes heavily, and returns his attention to the other man, head inclined just so. ]
If you're not going to chase me, I guess that means I win.
[ A small, forced smile that doesn't reach his eyes, and he approaches with care - strides easy, strides slow, his footfalls unobtrusively breaking the silence - and shakes out the blanket. Crouching and drawing this around Treavor's shoulders happen in one practiced movement, one hand drawing the two edges together at a thin chest as the other rests comfortingly on an equally thin shoulder. ]
Hey. How about you call it a night on the liquor. [ With some feigned reproach: ] If you pass out, you're not going to be able to show me the stars. Or tell me the next verse of that song for my cat.
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(But the guy had been playing, at least. The guy talked about it like a game, and people don't really do that, or they don't do that with Treavor, and that means something, so okay, maybe the guy actually does win something, wins the Treavor-isn't-gonna-bite prize, and—)
And?
And?? Where did that blanket come from??
(Nobody brings blankets. That isn't how fetch-Treavor goes, or how anything goes.)
Where did that. Hand? Come from?
He's suddenly pretty cozy. He suddenly doesn't feel any kind of chill and feels maybe a little less like he should jump in the water try to be a fish. Because right now? Where he is feels kind of okay. ((Is this a trick? A trap? He doesn't think so. He doesn't want to think about it, anyway.)) And his hand is sinking, bottle resting on the floor, the ground, the whatever for now, and Treavor's gone quiet, just letting himself feel the soft of the blanket.
(It is a soft blanket. Good of this blanket to be soft!) ]
Got me.
[ It's a drifting observation, something to say as he cants his head, realizes Golden Boy maybe said something, gripping tight to the rye and then relaxing a little, barking a laugh because hey, hey! The guy's got a point? ]
Hmm, want it for you, don't you?
[ Did Treavor say he'd show this guy the stars? Is this guy worthy of seeing any stars? Not like it matters. Stars are for everyone. If this guy wants to see, who's Treavor to deny him? ]
Gotta know how to look for stars. City makes em hide.
[ There's a hand on his shoulder and it isn't a guiding hand, redirecting hand, harming hand. (Maybe.) (Yet.) It's kind of nice. Suddenly, he's at the docks but not alone. ]
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. ]
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