Status: closed @isaacxmarshall
Friends. Bowie’s making their rounds and checking on their friends. Isaac is a friend. A demotion, really, of what he once was and still could be if life’s interventions cared at all about the matters of the heart. Still, he’s a friend nonetheless. So why do they find themself stuck here in his orbit, lingering and unable, or maybe unwilling, to leave his gravitational pull? Why is it they can’t tell whether it’s the vodka they’ve been stealing sips of all night, or the way they’ve been smiling up at him that makes their cheeks feel warm? Why are they surrendering to the familiarity of his voice, allowing themself to get swept up in the comfort of it in the midst of the rage of the storm?
The two of them stand together along the outer edge of the auditorium, and Bowie is laughing. Covering their mouth, they try to keep it down and be respectfully mindful of the people finally starting to wind down for the evening. And maybe they should be doing the same, but they’re not ready to say goodnight just yet. “Boy, you better stop playin’ with me,” Bowie playfully rolls their eyes, though the movement is defeated by the smile that grows effortlessly on their face and settles warmly on their lips. Tilting their head, brows raised slightly, they look up at him in fond amusement as their eyes now move back and forth between his.
Bowie hardly pays the loud crash, a heavy thud, any mind. It’s just something with the storm, they figure. But with their back to the stage, it’s the change in his expression they notice first, their smile dropping right along with it. Something’s wrong. “Isaac?” They say his name with uncertainty and building alarm, but the sound of it is lost in the panicked screams erupting across the auditorium. Naturally, Bowie begins to turn to look.