[ Al... went to bed with his clothes on, even his tie. William almost commented, almost told him to at least take that off so he didn't strangle himself... but didn't. It stung, a bit—what, like he couldn't take off his clothes in front of his own best friend? Just because he liked guys, liked him?
(Though, granted, it wasn't as though Al didn't also apparently like guys, or so William felt fairly comfortable assuming after what just almost happened. Goddamn Marcus.) ]
Night, Al.
[ And, as fate would have it, Will didn't change out of his street clothes either, because it'd be weird if he did and Albert didn't, so he just... crawled under the covers in his uncomfortable-ass buttondown, though he did loosen the tie Wesker had just done up, his hand lingering for a moment where his friend's had been before he pulled it down, and slip it over his head.
He lay staring at the ceiling in the half-darkness of a hotel room that never gets totally dark, acutely aware of the fact that Al wasn't asleep through what could probably only be described in the least scientific of terms as some kind of sixth sense. Please, God, don't let this be weird tomorrow morning.
It had almost been so nice, and now... it was decidedly not that. Maybe the friendship would be alright. Al had said that it wouldn't change things between them if his feelings were genuine, but... that was before they almost kissed. Before Al had contributed.
Eventually, somehow, sleep found him, and shortly thereafter so too did the shrill tone of the bedside alarm clock. William groaned and sat up stiffly, spending a split second unbothered before... everything came back to him. Motherfucker. Hate you, St. Louis. He wasn't even that drunk.
Birkin sighed and walked to the other side of the room to grab one of the dress shirts hanging in the built-in closet; he changed briskly but not too much so—not like he was afraid of Wesker seeing him without his shirt, and he'd be damned if he contributed to things getting any weirder. He just had to act like everything was normal. ]
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(Though, granted, it wasn't as though Al didn't also apparently like guys, or so William felt fairly comfortable assuming after what just almost happened. Goddamn Marcus.) ]
Night, Al.
[ And, as fate would have it, Will didn't change out of his street clothes either, because it'd be weird if he did and Albert didn't, so he just... crawled under the covers in his uncomfortable-ass buttondown, though he did loosen the tie Wesker had just done up, his hand lingering for a moment where his friend's had been before he pulled it down, and slip it over his head.
He lay staring at the ceiling in the half-darkness of a hotel room that never gets totally dark, acutely aware of the fact that Al wasn't asleep through what could probably only be described in the least scientific of terms as some kind of sixth sense. Please, God, don't let this be weird tomorrow morning.
It had almost been so nice, and now... it was decidedly not that. Maybe the friendship would be alright. Al had said that it wouldn't change things between them if his feelings were genuine, but... that was before they almost kissed. Before Al had contributed.
Eventually, somehow, sleep found him, and shortly thereafter so too did the shrill tone of the bedside alarm clock. William groaned and sat up stiffly, spending a split second unbothered before... everything came back to him. Motherfucker. Hate you, St. Louis. He wasn't even that drunk.
Birkin sighed and walked to the other side of the room to grab one of the dress shirts hanging in the built-in closet; he changed briskly but not too much so—not like he was afraid of Wesker seeing him without his shirt, and he'd be damned if he contributed to things getting any weirder. He just had to act like everything was normal. ]
Al. Get up.