kingdomsofrain | tfln open post

~~Hey fucking QUIT it with the~~

I wouldn't throw anything at your cat. I don't throw shit at cats. Come on.

~~What's her~~

Your dad's got money. Everyone knows it. Pshh. APARTMENTS. ~~Why even intern HERE who does that except insects~~ CHOICE. 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.

~~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?

[ Well that's a fucking. Buzzkill.

He doesn't like that at all. ]

No i'm done.

Good for you big dreams.

Wouldn't want to waste your prcious APARTMENT time.

[ ... ]

[ ... ]

What's your cat's name?

Edited 2020-10-12 01:50 (UTC)

My apartment will be here later.

[ 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.

Hope.

...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.

No, it's a good name?

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

Need FROOT loops for the Froot Luops, pshh.

Anywaywon't you be sleeping later?

[ Point MADE, point SCORED. There was. Definitely a point there somewhere. Maybe. ]

No aparetments when you sleeP.

Edited 2020-10-12 02:12 (UTC)

Sure. Lady Hope, Lord Alice.

...If nothing else, at least I'm giving her the life the title demands.

At least if I'm sleeping later, it'll be in my bed.

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?

Well, yeah, except when she' s lonely. :/ :/ :/

Maybe ShE needs friends?

Or a ourt. With crowns?

WAIT HEY YOU SOFA SLEEP? I woulnt have thought?

Laaady of the intern guy
Hope shines in you eyees
catnip in your mosuse toys
you'r my
l a d ty

I sofa sleep. I sleep where I can. You learn to do that when your life is a collection of sprints from one career move to the next.

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?

you''r shitting me?

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.

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. ]

[ Treavor does not appear to be running. In fact, it's not very difficult to find him, once Alice departs the car and, blanket folded over one arm, strolls down the harbor until the two dots on his phone's screen align.

(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?

[ One leg slung out before him, disheveled and veering toward real fuckin' buzzed nah that's more than a buzz, Treavor's been working on a handle of rye and watching the water, thinking what would happen if he took a run jumped into the water, maybe escaped across the water or just live in the okay probably sludge-filmed water with the possibly mutated fish. It could be nice. It could be different.

(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 surprise there. He's not sure what it is that caused Treavor Pendleton to target him with such animosity from the first moment he walked into that shitty little basement office, but the unblinking stare is becoming familiar by now.

(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.

[ Sure, sure. Go ahead and win, buddy. Take that nice little win-trophy, polish it up on your mantle and bask in its worthless connotation. What a great game you've beat, outfoxing Treavor Pendleton! Wow good job.

(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. ]

[ Got me.

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. ]

[ 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— ]

You were on Broadway?

What? ...No?

[ He hit something. He knows he hit something, possibly deep and melancholy, because there's something about the way Treavor reacts to the mention of Hollywood that feels like a mirror.

Got me, he'd said. Got me, and Alice had felt something deep and terribly sad. There's a wound with an accustomed pain, and there are words that press the pain sharp, a brief shriek before it subsides again to the familiar dull ache. What is Treavor's wound, and how did he brush up against it by mentioning Hollywood?

Feeling a pang of remorse, he eases his arm wholly around the other man's shoulders and offers a low, conciliatory: ]

Hey - hey, let's have that, okay?

[ 'That': the bottle, gently extricated and set aside - well out of reach - his words comforting as that now-empty hand returns to fuss with the blanket, to smooth Treavor's hair (Why not. Why not.), to be now-empty on the other man's now-empty hand.

And then, his voice soothing, a calm and certain hush he's used so many times before on other nights, in other places, with his arm around another's shoulders, he starts to simply talk. ]

Maybe the stars don't know what they're doing, after all. If I were one, I'd want to see Coney Island in the summer, when that old wooden roller coaster's lights are shining, and the whole boardwalk smells like hot dogs. The beach is just warm enough to put your feet in the water?

[ He inclines his head, his hair falling in a grace of a wave over his shoulder, and his eyes are searching for some sign of Treavor returning from that place (ugly place, painful place, he's sorry, he's sorry, whatever shape that place takes, he's sorry.) ]

Or Central Park in the winter, when there's snow on the ground, and no one to be seen in any direction, and it's so bright it's like day in the middle of the night?

[ A faint lift of one corner of his mouth like a question, and a squeeze of his arm: come on, it's okay. Isn't it okay? Maybe it's okay? (If Treavor can be okay, maybe he can be okay.) ]

Hey, or right here: a harbor, with the tide coming in. If the stars moved west or hid from this -

[ He pauses, scrambles for words. What would Treavor-his-officemate-say? What will reach him? ]

Fuck 'em.

[ This is the kind of voice he could fall asleep to.

A voice that wraps allaying around him, soft like the soft soft blanket, and it feels like a real physical presence or that's someone holding him, why would someone be holding him, well he's going to nestle back against that feels-like-an-arm anyway, just in case, just because it feels all right.

Whatever had been biting's gone now, mostly and then maybe completely, thank you whiskey, thank you better-than-buzzed, thank you this guy's voice and the not-too-chilly night, and Treavor's likes the idea of warm water distant roller coasters people having a good damn time and isn't it good when parks are bright without burning and it's true, even this harbor's all right, that's why he's here, that's why—

Is that why the intern guy's here? To see the harbor?

It's not a bad call. Intern guy's got some taste. Got some good hair too, and Treavor can appreciate that, can respect a guy who shows his hair right.

(There are reasons he. Doesn't like intern guy very much, right? But he doesn't see those reasons not and he boots the thought away. No need for it, no use for it, why let it cramp a good time? Anyway Treavor's been wrong before about people. Usually about okay-seeming people ending up shitty, but whatever, same idea, bad fuckin judgment. And maybe night!intern guy is his own dude? Also very possible.)

(Hey, hey, did someone squeeze his arm? That was nice, too. (Why is this evening so nice now? And what's gonna break it crashing down?) (Hey, never mind. Hey, take it while it lasts.))

His head falls back so he can better regard the sky, think about. Stars. Where they are. ]

Nah, don't wanna fuck the stars.

[ Let 'em be stars. Treavor's tone isn't argumentative; just a soft shrugging away from the idea. He gets where Alice was coming from and the sentiment of it wasn't shitty. It's just that stars should do what they want.

Again he nudges back a little, maybe testing to see whether that pressure around his shoulders is still there. ]

Maybe they saw enough, got the idea and moved on.

Or maybe—

[ There's a small, lopsided grin, and he's about to say 'there's one' and point, about to direct the guy's attention to some place in the sky where a star hypothetically could be if you watched hard enough with pretending eyes, but.

But his hand can't really move.

Or. There's a hand on his hand. (Didn't he have something in his hand?) (Eh, he'll figure it out.) He tried to move his hand but even a little moving told him— Something's there. Someone's there. And he's...

When'd that get there?

He was saying something. He's still looking at his hand and the hand on his hand but he's pretty sure he was saying something. He has no idea what, and what he finds to offer is— ]

Would you be a fish?

I mean, what kind? Doesn't have to be a harbor fish.

Edited 2020-11-02 00:16 (UTC)

[ Well. Well, at least Treavor seems to have drawn back from whatever precipice was calling him. That's good.

(Still. Still, Alice looks down and away, his smile not a smile at all, but something lost and stranded. And Alice thinks of this familiar sense of reaching out and meeting nothing at all. Of the imploring words of a sober man to a drunken one. Rationality speaking to inanity, sobriety to intoxication, waking to dreaming.

Why is it so easy to speak this way, openly, vulnerably, to a drunk man, when he knows the words will pass away, forgotten? When he knows there will be no spark of connection, no meeting or reception or comprehension? And why can't he speak this way to someone sober?

What would it feel like to talk of snow and starlight and roller coasters and all things bright and beautiful to someone whose eyes light with presence of mind?

What would it feel like to be found, and known?)

A moment passes, silence and his stillness not a condemnation; only calming, only restful. And he considers the question very seriously before answering. ]

I suppose that depends. Can I be any kind of fish, or can I only be a kind of fish based on my personality?

If I can pick anything, I'd like to be something pretty and interesting. A jellyfish, maybe.

[ He turns his attention back to Treavor and raises his hand briefly from its place of rest, fingers downward to imitate the dangling tentacles of the creature in question. ]

Floating without a care in the world, and stinging anyone who tried to do me harm? Or maybe a pufferfish.

[ Here, he gestures again, balling his hand and then splaying it suddenly, mimicking the POOF of the fish in question. ]

But if we're going off personality - [ A little, unhappy noise, and his gaze is back out on the water. ]

Something hiding in the sand. Camouflaged. What are they, mm - flatfish. The boring ones. The cowards. Keep your head low and ambush your meal.

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