Chapter Text
Drysdale never used to drink.
Well, that’s not true. He would drink, often; but it was always light, and sweet. A glass or two of white wine or chardonnay. Something tangy and bubbly that never tickled on the way down, and wouldn’t leave him hurling the next morning. And it was always shared with trusted, pleasant company.
But now, he took no pleasure out of it. And yet he partook. Often. Constantly, even. The liquor he drank now was sour, vile, and settled in his gut heavy and hard. It didn’t really matter how it tasted going down, he told himself. It always came back up, anyway.
That was one of the perks working at the club, he supposed. His glass was always full with some kind of scotch or whiskey or some other black, vile abomination, always without price. He didn’t like it. He hated it, actually. But he drank it anyway.
He didn’t like the club, either. The lights were too bright, the music too loud. Which was odd; Drysdale never minded a bit of hustle and bustle. Lively music, adoring crowds, the thrill of performance…by God, he’d loved it - lived for it, even!
But somewhere along the line, it had lost it’s appeal. When he’d first left the house, stepped into the great, wide world with a stubborn determination to make something of himself, he was sure the club would be a perfect fit. The work was familiar, and it didn’t take long to master the craft. It was different, certainly. Performing with a cold metal pole for company rather than a living, breathing person took some getting used to. But he managed. And at first, the showers of warmth, attention, and praise were enough to sate him.
But eventually, it all lost it’s charm. The overhead lights felt less complimentary and more blinding; invasive, even. The faces in the crowd blurred and the desire they held for him lost all meaning. It was surface level, anyway. Perhaps he’s grown more philosophical in his old age, but the attention he longed for was no longer limited to only his physical form.
Which was utterly absurd, because, frankly, there wasn’t much else of him to desire, these days. He was a miserable, hollow drunk that cut the string tying him to the greatest accomplishment of his career. And it flitted away, delicately, still within arms’ reach, yet he refused to grab it.
He missed him. God. He missed Washford.
That’s what he was thinking about when he sprained his ankle. He was performing, twirling gracefully on that god-forsaken metal pole without a touch of heart or passion to it. He thought about what performing with Washford was like; the thrill of such elegant sport beside such a trustworthy companion. It was very freeing, to spin and spin and spin, knowing full well that should he fall, Washy would be there to catch him.
But this time, he did fall, and Washford wasn’t there to catch him. It was a mild sprain, thankfully, but he was placed on a two week paid leave. Roberta had insisted (his manager, such a lovely woman, truly!), which Drysdale wasn’t sure if he was pleased about or not. On one hand, the club had been sucking the life out of him, but on the other…he could only spend so much time alone with his thoughts before driving himself mad.
After just two days, he felt like a rat trying to chew itself free from a trap. The crumby soap operas could only entertain him for so long.
By the third day, he finished all his liquor. By the fourth day, he resorted to something he’d sworn he’d never dabble in for the rest of his living days.
He resorted to reading poetry.
It wasn’t a passion of his, before. Back when Washford would wax scripts of woe and sorrow, and condemn himself into a puddle of despair on the laundry room tile floor, Drysdale thought it was a silly art. It would irritate him, sometimes. He just wished he would speak plainly, then.
But now Drysdale’s world had come to a screeching halt. He had no way of drinking himself into oblivion, or losing all sense of self by throwing himself into the blinding lights of the stage or into bed with a handsome stranger. Now that he had nothing but his own mind to keep him company, the words held meaning.
It started with one silly haiku about birds or something or other, but after a whirl of scripture, he checked the time and hours had passed. Late into the night, the only thing illuminating Drysdale’s apartment was his laptop, and the only sound was the insistent clicking of the mouse as he got sucked deeper and deeper into the beauty of the language.
At some point, it wasn’t his own voice reciting the poems; it was Washford’s. His sultry baritone sang to him, just as it had all those years ago. Page upon page, he was lulled into a sense of comfort he hasn’t known for a long, long time. Washford’s voice rumbled like thunder in his mind, filling him with a deep, powerful passion that he has struggled to bury.
He was exceptionally enthralled by one particular poem, one that spoke of the symphony of sorrow sung by the crashing waves and the whistle of the sea breeze. How the seaspray tasted of a bitter love that was long lost. The name of the poet was unfamiliar, someone called Wade Shaw . But, the work was so powerful, so meaningful, so achingly familiar that he could have sworn he had known them for a century, maybe even more.
Perhaps the whimsy of the poetry had moved him. Perhaps it was to blame for the spark of clarity that put a twinkle in his dull eyes. Regardless, he’d just had the most absurd, ridiculous, painful thought, and he simply had to act on it. Because, by God, this could not go on.
He drummed his fingers anxiously on the countertop as the phone rang. They probably wouldn’t pick up. He should be prepared for disappointment, but this is the most excitement he’s felt in a long, long time. Anxiety, yes, but he was simply buzzing with energy. And not to be dramatic, but if his call went unanswered he was just about ready to fling himself off the edge of the-
“Hello?” A groggy voice answered.
“Cherub!” Drysdale practically sang, throwing his arms out eagerly. “So glad to hear from you! How have you been?”
“It’s the middle of the night.” The human deadpanned.
“Is it?” Drysdale feigned ignorance. “So sorry, my friend, I hadn’t even noticed, I’m just so enthralled by my own excitement! I do hope I didn’t wake you.”
“You did. What do you want?”
“Well, I’ve had the most marvelous idea! I’ll tell you all about it another time, but right now I require your assistance.”
“Mmhmm. Sure.”
“Wonderful! If you could just…” the words hung heavy on his tongue. This was a bad idea. A horrible idea. But when he looked around his barren apartment, soulless and dark, it occurred to him that regardless of the outcome, it couldn’t possibly get much worse.
“Drysdale?”
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I need you to tell me where to find Washford.”
The silence made him ache. Not a single sound, not even a sharp breath or the shuffle of bedsheets.
“...Washford?”
“Yes.”
“...You want to talk to Washford?”
“Yes, I do.”
Drysdale could so clearly picture the human fiddling anxiously with their sleeve as they replied; “Why do you need to talk to Washford?”
“Because I…” his eyes fixed on an empty wine bottle sitting lopsided on the kitchen table. “I miss him.”
“Drysdale, I don’t think-”
“I know.” He responded, surprisingly curt. “But I need to see him. I just need to.”
Another long stretch of silence. He waited with baited breath before tacking on; “Please.”
“Where have you been, Drysdale?” The sudden change of topic threw him a little. “I haven’t heard from you in months.”
“I’ve been busy, is all. Nothing to concern yourself with.” Drysdale feigned optimism, though he felt his patience thinning and his anxiety brewing deep in his gut.
Again, silence. Then; “You sound tired.”
Drysdale crumbled a little under the observation. His shoulders sagged and he sighed. “I am tired.”
“Too tired to call, apparently.”
Drysdale winced. “I’m sorry.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened.” He grumbled. “That’s the bloody point. I can’t keep going on like this. I need to make things right.”
The human sighed, long and heavy, as if pondering. “He doesn’t want to see you.” They huffed. “He doesn’t want to see anybody, anymore.”
“Where is he?”
“...Dewbary. It’s a small coastal town, about an hour and a half West. He shacked up there in a little cabin by the sea. He hasn’t called. Or texted. He just kind of…disappeared.”
“Thank you.” Drysdale murmured with as much sincerity as he could muster.
“Don’t get your hopes up.” The human warned. “He’s not very fond of visitors. He doesn’t even let me come by anymore.”
The thought alone was very disheartening: Washford, alone, moping on the edge of the world without a sliver of comfort or company. What a waste of such a brilliant mind, such a beautiful soul.
“I’ll take my chances.” Because what other choice did he have, really?