@aroselle
the club is swarming with partygoers, each more inebriated than the last. some are occupied with each other, some with trying to balance their drinks as they sway their hips to the hypnotizing beat of the music. some brave souls have even noticed him near the bar and attempted to make acquaintance ( or rekindle ones ), but as soon as they have caught a glimpse of his emotionless face, sullen demeanor, they have left his presence swiftly. and that suits achilles more than well — it is the first time in weeks that he has left his apartment, and he has no energy to keep up the pretense of austin pelham. let them think fame has gone to his head or whatever, achilles thinks as his eyes look through his glass without really looking. let them spin as many false tales as that ridiculous gossip website requires. i do not care.
people bless him with privacy — except for one, it seems. achilles does not look up, but he can hear, even over the loudly playing music, someone moving the stool next to him and gracing him with their company. “i don’t recall asking for company.” he asserts, yet he does discontinue nursing his drink, shifting so that he may catch a glimpse of who invaded his personal space. an eyebrow lifts upon the realization that it is alexandre. austin had enjoyed his company — on the streets, in the sheets, whenever they happened to be in a same city. while he cares little for austin’s feelings and relationships ( and perhaps it is his own inebriated mind speaking ), alexandre seems harmless enough. “but when have you ever listened to me unless we’re in bed?” achilles chuckles and raises his hand to catch the attention of the bartender.
“give us...” he begins, placing one hand amicably on alexandre’s shoulder. “whatever my friend here wants.” another laugh as achilles’ eyes flutter close and he lays his head too on alex’s shoulder. “order whatever you want. my treat.”