Re: MOMA: Sam & Russ
Maybe it was all that spring sunshine, or the way New York was empty of expectation, of broken promises and ambiguity. Russell wasn't waiting for an anonymous chick who traded philosophy late nights or one who had been and gone and back again to show, bench-side. He was waiting for Sam, and maybe that part was why he looked again.
Louis was a voice in the back of his head, even if he didn't carry it out on display, and he put together the way she bounced like she wasn't cold, and the flooded black of her pupils real easy. Because Russ saw shit. He just didn't open up his mouth about it. And that had wound up in a back-alley, watching a girl he wanted to stay whole, dissolve. She wasn't a fucking mess: if she had been, maybe everyone would have just stepped the fuck back and let her fall apart.
"What happened?" He pushed up off the back of the bench, hands in his pockets and the easy smile melted like snow, replaced with concern. He'd figured rehab again, eventually. After Joey, after whatever it was had torn them all up like paper and scattered them. But without Louis to push, to yank Neil into doing something, maybe that hadn't happened. It was a new thought, but the immediate moment was pinned on whatever had pushed her toward it. He didn't move toward the door.