Re: Third floor balcony
He couldn't remember being a teenager much. Crying. He'd remembered crying and diaries and flavored lip-balm and a lot of dramatics that could have serviced the stage. But he didn't remember when they made the step-change, between school and everything after. It felt like a long time ago, since he'd been Igor's contemporary and he didn't think any boy in high thread-count who wore his ties precisely knotted would have been his type. Even if he knew how to tie them now.
He thought that gone was funny. He hiccuped and then he laughed, and he hiccuped again and his shoulders comfortably bunched against the railing as it occurred to him it wasn't funny but it was and he was probably already drunk. Igor laughed like he did it a lot but with a stiffness that didn't go away even when he didn't feel like being stiff which said perhaps Igor was more prefect than teen renegade. Oops?
"I like stories." Who didn't? And the pale strip of his lashes had descended over the pale eyes, and he smiled winsomely, a chocolate-box Cupid confident of his ability to winnow out the telling. He wasn't confident as himself, but as himself he wasn't drunk and he didn't have the cheekbones or the hips.
He blinked once. He blinked twice. And then he laughed. It was hilarious. Was this how it worked, when you were drunk? Or was it just hotels? Or did the cheekbones come into play? This, he was suspiciously certain, was an Igor problem rather than his.
"Are you actually asking me?" Another giggle that became an undignified snort, and he held up an apologetic hand across his mouth, "I'm sorry, no one has actually asked me that before. Ever." At least he couldn't remember.