The Greatest Showman#1208 - sleepover
Standing at the intersection, Renly waited for the red light to change. The wind lashed at him, slicing through his thin coat. No matter how tightly he wrapped it around himself, the cold seeped through, rising from the soles of his feet. The streets were deserted, giving him the illusion of being the last person in the world.
He tilted his head upward, gazing at the towering skyscrapers that loomed above. Their lights flickered against the night sky, crisscrossing in an intricate web, forming a world separate from the darkness outside. Behind each light, a story unfolded—none of which belonged to him.
The red light turned green.
Shaking off his reverie, Renly tugged at his collar and strode forward. His feet carried him instinctively, but soon, he realized he'd taken a wrong turn. Thankfully, Greenwich Village was small. A brief detour in the biting wind, and his apartment was within reach before frustration could set in.
Ascending the stairs, he bypassed the second floor and continued to the third. He rapped lightly on the door, his fingers stiff from the cold, and suddenly realized he'd forgotten where he'd placed his key. With no other option, he waited.
A moment later, the sliding door creaked open, revealing Matthew Dunlop. Dressed in dark blue plaid pajamas, his usually neat hair was slightly disheveled. Despite the late hour, he showed no signs of grogginess.
"Can I crash here tonight?" Renly asked, rubbing the back of his head in mild embarrassment. "Neil has company, and I didn't want to ruin his night. His kitchen is a disaster, too—I figured he wouldn't appreciate my visit."
He hesitated, then continued, "Joel and Ethan's hotel has terrible soundproofing. Pretty sure someone next door had some, uh, special services last night. I considered asking the front desk if I could sleep in the recording studio, but the receptionist wasn't a fan of my charm. She prefers the Carey Mulligan type."
Renly wrinkled his nose and peered into the apartment. "So... can I stay? Just for tonight?" His voice trailed off, uncharacteristically sheepish.
Since filming for Drunken Country Ballads had begun, he hadn't been home. He bounced from one friend's place to another, opting for couches and even floors, immersing himself in the wandering spirit of Greenwich Village—like a time traveler to the 1960s.
Matthew, however, couldn't grasp Renly's reasoning.
How did couch-hopping deepen his understanding of a character? Why did borrowing a different place every night help him stay in the right headspace? And why did he insist on carrying an air of weariness and disarray, as though it were essential to his role?
This wasn't the Renly he knew.
The usual aloof arrogance was still there, a quiet pride that never truly faded, even in moments of vulnerability. But beneath it, something unfamiliar flickered—uncertainty, maybe even unease. A sharp contrast to the poised and self-assured boy Matthew remembered from school, the one who once read The Love/Sutra aloud in class without flinching, even as their conservative teacher nearly choked in shock. That was the real Renly—the one whose confidence was so innate, it defied convention.
And yet, the man standing before him was different. He wasn't just acting—he was LeVern Davis, living and breathing in Greenwich Village. It was as if the character had bled into reality.
Matthew found it absurd, but he accepted it. That was Renly. He never sought to be understood—only to exist on his own terms.
"Of course," Matthew said at last, stepping aside. "Come in."
Renly's jacket was damp, his leather shoes soaked. Matthew shook his head but refrained from commenting. Instead, he simply instructed, "Change into slippers. Leave your shoes by the radiator; they'll dry by morning. Are you heading to the studio tomorrow, or is shooting starting again?"
Renly peeled off his wet socks, set his shoes aside, and shrugged. "I'll shower first. I know you hate mess." He flashed a knowing grin before disappearing into the bathroom.
"Dinner?" Matthew called after him.
"What do you have? Just something to fill my stomach."
The sound of running water followed.
Matthew sighed, rubbing his temple. Even now, Renly felt like a stranger.
When Renly emerged, towel-drying his hair, his eyes fell on the meal left on the table—beef stew in red wine, with boiled potatoes, broccoli, and green beans, accompanied by a basket of bread. Simple, but warm and hearty.
Renly smirked. "God, Matthew, is this your usual dinner? You're ready for marriage."
"Get lost," Matthew shot back without looking up from his book.
Undeterred, Renly grabbed his plate and ate standing up, holding his fork in one hand. It was an unpolished, almost crude habit—fitting for LeVern Davis. Matthew glanced at him and rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed.
"Ever been to a folk bar?" Renly teased. "Got any beer?"
Matthew's jaw clenched. "Renly Hall."
"Alright, alright," Renly chuckled, hands raised in surrender. He wandered around the room, still eating, making Matthew visibly anxious about potential spills. Finally, he stopped in front of the bookshelf, scanning the titles.
Matthew's patience snapped. "Renly-Sebastian-Hall, step away from my bookshelf."
Renly turned, amusement glinting in his eyes. "Are you warning me—or LeVern Davis?"
Matthew faltered, realization dawning. Renly had been toying with him the entire time.
"When did you notice?" Matthew asked, feeling ridiculous even as he spoke.
Renly smirked. "When you opened the door."
This was the Renly he knew. And yet, Matthew wasn't sure whether to admire his seamless transformation or resent being played—again.
One thing was certain: Renly always had the last laugh.