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“Historically inaccurate,” Crawford is sure to let Lachlan know when he sees him still wearing the bomber over the bedsheet a couple of hours later. He’s got half a beer left in his sixth or seventh glass and his sunglasses are probably still tangled up in his hair and he’s already forgotten the name of the person he’s talking to, but he’s pretty sure it isn’t Howdy, the birthday boy.
But it could very easily be Howdy. Crawford isn’t really sure what Howdy looks like. It’s sort of hard to look away from Lachlan and check though, not when Lachlan’s got this fake plant on his head like a crown and it matches the olive green of Crawford’s jacket real good and the bar lights and the red of his beer-induced blush make his freckles stand out against his skin.
“How do you know?” Lachlan challenges, leaning forward to be heard over the music. He balances himself with a hand on Crawford’s arm, and Crawford’s so fucking drunk he forgets to look over at the other guy, even though that’s what he should do. He shouldn’t just—look at Lachlan like he’s the only thing he can see or the only thing in this sticky, shitty bar worth looking at. It’s important. To look at other people, because otherwise they’ll notice.
Someone will notice, and no one can know.