Only a little. [Pouts] Aren’t you happy to seeeee me?
Your breath reeks of it. [Takes a few steps back, trying to force a smile.] Of course I’m happy to see you. Let’s get you to bed though, yeah?
Oooooh, naughty boy, trying to get me into bed already. [Sly, leering smile as he leans in closer]
What? No! I just - [Leans away from him, unable to keep the fake smile for long.] You clearly need some rest. Come on. Grab hold of my arm and I’ll lead you.
Oh Riiiiiichiiieeeee... [I think he's drunk idek]
"Do you know what tomorrow is?"
"Something important, I imagine?"
The correction came easily, almost cutting into his brother’s words. “I do too… When it takes my fancy. It’s always entertaining to occasionally delve down into the stagnant doldrum of everyday life and walk amongst the plebeians.” Of course, such a statement implied that one alias or another would actually be the one to transverse the lines from station to station and not himself. Indeed, now he was dressed down, if only somewhat. Denim in place of suit trousers, a scarf to replace the tie. The white shirt still clung on, revealed through his open suit jacket— a dark forresty green affair with truly unnecessary patches at each elbow. Yet still, no satisfying explanation was given.
"It’s not too bad really. A little busy, I’ll grant you, but it has a certain charm, don’t you think? Though really, five times in five… maybe six weeks. Deplorable. Simply unacceptable. What’s got you so distracted, hm, Rich?”
Trying his hand at deducing, Richard’s eyes squint ever so slightly, focused on finding the detail that would give his brother away. Trousers were - No. Hm. How strange. Trousers were nonexistent, finding their replacement in the form of blue jeans. The remaining attire, scarf included, didn’t match the man adorning them. Whoever he was aiming for that day, it certainly wasn’t James Moriarty. A simple glance over wouldn’t lend him any new information and so he’s already met with a dead end. He was no Sherlock Holmes, a thought that somehow added to an already guilty conscience.
Mind tracing over Jim’s words, he finds himself staring off in one solid direction. For now, that direction would lead to the man’s shoes, something he wouldn’t realize prior to leaving the transfixed state of his thoughts. During this time, tongue traces over thin lips, striving to decide on an answer that would best fit what seemed more like an accusation than a question. Perhaps that was the paranoia speaking.
"Oh!," he exclaims, snapping to as though he’d never wandered. "Auditions. Sorry. I, uhm - I’ve been going to London a lot this past month to try and book a few. The Storyteller might get cancelled, and I wanted a back up plan." Richard winces just enough for it to be noticeable, the idea of being called ‘unacceptable’ hurting him far more than he’d expect. This, he decided, was because he’d only just become aware of how much effort he’d been putting in.
His worry kept him from thinking straight. “I thought you knew.” Though he’d never told him directly, it was assumed that his brother knew everything. History would show that for the most part, he did.