shadows_have_offended | (no subject)

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harry starks,
ig

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He has work in the morning, but it's not stopping him from going out. Besides, this is hardly going out. One of his coworkers put him up on a blind date, and so he's out for that--but the other guy was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago, so Neil doesn't think he's showing up at all. So here's Neil, standing outside of a bar, smoking and feeling a bit like an idiot for being stood up.

He should probably just go. If the guy wasn't here twenty minutes ago, or even five minutes ago, it's reasonable to say that he's not coming and Neil should just give up. He pulls out his phone and checks the texts. There's the one from his coworker, describing the guy he's supposed to be meeting, and there's the one from the guy, confirming that he has Neil's number.

Maybe he'll go to a club. Maybe he'll just go home so he can smoke in a heated room rather than shivering outside. Maybe he'll get this fucking meal and send a picture to the guy; his loss. Neil's an entirely pleasant date.

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Neil does not snort, but it's a temptation. He certainly graduated, but that was here in Darrow. He won't go into that. "A very expensive preparatory education with the prospect that I would go on to be a Harvard educated doctor. And then Darrow, for whatever that's worth."

He's still waiting to hear about college, so it's hardly worth mentioning.

"To my benefit, I'm fairly proficient at Latin."

Neil clearly doesn't see his education as the privilege it is. "Any education is worth something," he assures.

"We didn't have the money for any of that. Learn how to read and write and then off to the factory." He paused for a moment. "The war didn't help either."

The truth is that Neil is very grateful for his education at Welton, for the opportunities that it would have awarded him, for the conviction it taught him. But the oversight over his life was a miserable one, the constant reminder that no matter what he did, he wasn't ever quite good enough, had colored most of his education.

"I imagine not," he says. The waiter circles over to take their drink order and ask if their ready for food, and Neil casually orders a scotch and soda. "Did you fight, or were you too young for that?"

Harry assumes with an amused smile that they're not ready for their order and asks for a scotch.

"How old do you think I am?" He frowns but amused as he isn't truly insulted. Darrow makes a mess of times anyway. "I was thirteen in '45."

"It was a reasonable question!" Neil objects, a smile and laugh on his mouth. And it is, he thinks. Everything's such a mess of time sometimes; the last person from the 1970s he met was his own age, but then he gets thinking of how old he might have been in the 1970s, and it all goes a bit sideways.

But, Christ, that does put it a little bit in perspective. They're hardly very far apart in actual age, closer than he and Guy--but then, through the mess of Darrow and the onward march of time, it's put that gap back in place.

"Well, you're younger than my father, so that's really the most important part."

Harry, amused, arches an eyebrow to that. "Yeah? Why?" he asks.

It's been said he 'likes em young' behind his back, and it's true, but there's no need for disgust in those words. He has his limits, but Neil seems old enough.

Neil's quiet a moment, looking at Harry through his eyelashes. It's a terribly charged moment, for him at least, as he considers how exactly to say what's rattling around in his head, begging to be said.

"Mostly because I prefer to avoid thinking about my father when I'm trying to think about someone's cock." Their drinks arrive a moment later, and Neil takes the opportunity to smile at the waiter and put in a food order.

Alright, so Harry was baiting the boy a little, but he didn’t expect that kind of blunt honesty. There’s a glint in his eye and a poorly disguised cheeky smile on his face as he orders his food. “If you can wait long enough for dinner,” he teases, a lot more comfortable now that the word is out.

He lifts his drink a little to propose a toast. “To not thinking of our fathers tonight,” he agrees. “That’s a good proposal on any night.”

It was rather blunt, and not perfectly the truth, but at least it kept them from beating around the bush all night. If hanging around Guy has taught him nothing else, it's to lean into his confidence again. But Neil doesn't know Harry, really at all, so there's no sense in getting into the fine details of his issues surrounding his father.

"It is," Neil agrees, lifting his glass. He certainly wasn't banking on any tomfoolery tonight, but it was in the air now, and that felt like some relief. They can drink and talk and flirt obtusely. "Here, here. No fathers tonight."

Harry takes a sip from his drink and sets it down on the table. "So, not a doctor then, but you're studying?" he asks, curiously. He has education in very high regard.

“God, no, not a doctor,” Neil laughs gently, shaking his head. Never a doctor. His smile is easy, but small. He stirs the ice in his drink with the worthless little straw in it. “I’m waiting to hear if I got into college. Library studies.”

He waits for a judgment on that, though why a mans approval means anything is really beyond him.

He has a lovely laugh. It's a little flirtatious, but it feels natural, almost accidental. It's clear he doesn't know Harry and isn't trying very hard to get on his good side, in his bed, or in his wallet. It's just a laugh and just a conversation and that's nice.

"Library studies," he echoes, with a little frown. No judgement. He just doesn't know what it is. "Never heard of that. What do they teach you in library studies?" For all his toughness, Harry doesn't mind admitting he doesn't know something and is always willing to learn.

“You know, I hadn’t heard of it until I came here either,” Neil admits, shaking his head. He pushes his hair back slightly and considers; he’s not really sure what it entails either, except that at the end of a degree he can be hired as a librarian, and that sounds rather nice. “Archiving and maintaining a library, I imagine. It’s all the training to become a librarian or work for a museum and all that.”

"You'll probably learn a little of everything," Harry says, and he sounds convinced even if he doesn't really know and has no way of knowing it. "And there are libraries here, and museums here; you'll have a job in no time. So, you like reading then. You must if you want to be surrounded by books for a living."

“I do, yes,” Neil says proudly. He loves reading, in fact, and it is a driving force in his decision, as much as being a librarian is a more tangible choice than acting is. “I’m a bit of an amateur actor, actually. I was in a couple Shakespeare productions—one back home and two here, the summer before last.”

His first summer in Darrow, in fact. It had been a lovely time. “Do you like the theater?”

"Really?" Harry is instantly interested. He's always loved show business, and once upon a time he was certain he would become Tommy's agent. He was going to make a star of him and he was going to be so proud of his boy.

But things went down differently and Tommy got killed.

"I prefer film," Harry admits and smiles. "I ain't sophisticated enough for theatre." He doesn't mind saying it. He never understood Shakespeare.

“I had a teacher who was very good at getting us inspired to Shakespeare and the Romantics and the like,” Neil says, rather nostalgic, like it was a very great time ago and not just a couple of years. “And then I acted in one—I was Puck in Midsummer—and it was...”

Neil’s breathless for a moment, remembering it. I was good, he’d said so sadly to his mother, I was really good. Being in Much Ado and King Lear was good, but not the force that Midsummer had been.

He laughs again, now at himself. “They’ve got movies here. Even ones from home.”

Theatre definitely seems to get the kid excited. It's nice to see someone get excited for something they love. "Yeah, I know. Haven't had the change to go yet."

He sips his drink and regards his young friend. "So, you like acting, and you're good," he deduces. "Ever thought about acting in a film?"

“I don’t think I have the face for it,” Neil says, modest. But it feels like a compliment, to be asked if he’d even considered it. “I’m pretty sure I have a face for radio, but that’s just my opinion.”

It's modest and not that false modesty of pretty renters who charm old men.

"Well, that shows what you know," he says with a smile. "You're plenty good looking, son. Can't find that in a book, so you'll have to trust me on that."

What Neil knows is that looks matter less than anyone ever explained to him when he was growing up, unless you were truly astounding, and that his personality only makes up for so much of the difference. He smiles, blushes a little bit, and shrugs one shoulder.

"Come on, I can't be the first who ever told you that," Harry says. "Or you've been hanging out with some very unappreciative bastards."

"You're not," Neil says, modesty turning into shyness for a moment. He'd been called a lot of things that complimented him while he'd been in Darrow. He's fairly certain a good number of them have had to do with flirting with half-drunk people that were willing to buy him a drink.

"I can still appreciate the compliment."

"Beauty is wasted on the young," Harry quotes. "Friend of mine used to say that. Actor. Used to be real pretty in his youth. 'They don't know what they have.' He was an ugly old sod when I knew him. Good drinker, though. Good for business."

“Oh good to know I have cynical ugliness to look forward to in my old age,” Neil teases smartly. It’s easy to smile around Harry, to find the good humor in it. It’s nice to smile, with some space between the heartache of losing Goodnight and Billy Rocks and this evening, better than he expected.

Their food comes and Neil, who’s been sipping his drink steadily, orders a second one—heavy on the scotch.