The one who owns the Cannons. “Yeah,” he affirmed, pasting on a brief smile. It felt like it faded off his face faster every time he tried tonight, like he was losing the thread of everything.
Theo paused, lips slightly parted. He should probably say something else. Actually, he shouldn’t have started a conversation at all: he wasn’t in a fit state for one. Now, though, it felt suddenly necessary to cover himself, to say something in the vein of small talk, something polite and ordinary and perfectly forgettable, just in case the other man had noticed anything strange on walking up.
Are you enjoying the reception? He could try: but obviously not, if he was here. So he could ask what Greengrass was doing out here, but then he’d probably have to find a suitable excuse for being out here too. And he couldn’t bring himself to go back inside, not yet, not when he could barely string his thoughts together.
“How,” Theo finally began, as if it had just occurred to him and hadn’t been the one thing on his mind all night – and he shouldn’t ask about Cash, he really shouldn’t: but at least it was dark and he could maybe breathe a little better and he was mostly alone, so it felt safer to think about it out here than it had in there, a risk almost worth taking; and it wasn’t like Greengrass knew or cared who he was, or even knew his name; and he hadn’t spoken to anyone else worth asking it of, anyway, and when else would he get a chance to hear anything at all about his life, after tonight; and it was an innocuous question, wasn’t it, completely harmless, even if his brow was creased and his pulse erratic and he couldn’t judge if he’d messed up the delivery of it in his desperation, tipped too far from casual and too far towards imploring, “– how is he?”
Theo paused, lips slightly parted. He should probably say something else. Actually, he shouldn’t have started a conversation at all: he wasn’t in a fit state for one. Now, though, it felt suddenly necessary to cover himself, to say something in the vein of small talk, something polite and ordinary and perfectly forgettable, just in case the other man had noticed anything strange on walking up.
Are you enjoying the reception? He could try: but obviously not, if he was here. So he could ask what Greengrass was doing out here, but then he’d probably have to find a suitable excuse for being out here too. And he couldn’t bring himself to go back inside, not yet, not when he could barely string his thoughts together.
“How,” Theo finally began, as if it had just occurred to him and hadn’t been the one thing on his mind all night – and he shouldn’t ask about Cash, he really shouldn’t: but at least it was dark and he could maybe breathe a little better and he was mostly alone, so it felt safer to think about it out here than it had in there, a risk almost worth taking; and it wasn’t like Greengrass knew or cared who he was, or even knew his name; and he hadn’t spoken to anyone else worth asking it of, anyway, and when else would he get a chance to hear anything at all about his life, after tonight; and it was an innocuous question, wasn’t it, completely harmless, even if his brow was creased and his pulse erratic and he couldn’t judge if he’d messed up the delivery of it in his desperation, tipped too far from casual and too far towards imploring, “– how is he?”
