WHO: Hugh March & Raleigh McKensie WHEN: Nowish WHERE: The Mean-Eyed cat SUMMARY: Sad boy drinks things, will talk to strangers or bartenders, or whatever? WARNINGS: N/A.
Hugh distinctly felt out of place in small town bars. He could still remember the one in the town they'd filmed at. He'd gone there several times, they'd filmed in it a few, but walking into it had always felt a little like everyone turned to look at you. Did you belong? Tonight he'd gone anyway, not wanting to sit at home and feel sorry for himself. If he went out, there were people, and maybe he could feel not quite so alone.
Maybe in a way it would have been easier if Hannah hadn't talked to him, if she was angry at him it would be easier to close the door. He suspected this was a lie though. It would still hurt. And it was all too easy to send himself into a spiral of thinking he'd never be able to pull any sort of relationship together. He was too self-centered, too cowardly, too… much. No one could put up with him for longer than a night, and maybe that was why he'd only ever really done tinder hook-ups, and club hook-ups, and it would be easier if he thought he could go back to it - but he didn't think he could. And it wasn't even about the film and people recognizing him anymore, he wanted someone he could count on and he wanted to be someone that someone else could count on, and that he hadn't been was eating away at him. It was the second worst part of all of this.
He quietly circled the glass on the counter, careful not to slosh the amber liquid within it. In fact, he turned it so that it hardly shifted at all. He'd been nursing the same glass for most of the last half hour, having not drank enough to even get lightly buzzed. He could drink himself into something more numb, so why wasn't he right now?
Hugh frowned and took a sip. If she hadn't talked to him he could have started some narrative about her being unfair, and even if it wasn't true, maybe it would have soothed the pain. Instead there was just this sense of having lost something precious, and it sat stagnant along with an undeniable sense of failure. He sighed heavily, and pressed his fingers to his temples. This wasn't the place to forget; he should have gone to the Capital instead - found someplace with pounding music, and flashing lights, and so many bodies pressed together, and drank just enough to find that ability to flirt and ignore and let the club wash it away for an evening. And even though it didn't sound appealing, he told himself it was what he should have done. But he hadn't, so he lifted his head, and reached for the glass. He'd finish this, and he'd leave and go home and walk Heart, and then they'd fall asleep and if he dropped the black-out blinds then maybe he could sleep late tomorrow. And maybe tomorrow it'd hurt less. Maybe.