Greatest Showman 1209
To be honest, after the prank, a wave of familiarity washed over him, bringing a strange sense of relief. Realizing this, Matthew could only shake his head. Sure enough, habit was a terrible thing.
The moment quickly passed, and as Matthew regained his composure, he asked with concern, "Are you alright?"
Matthew knew little about the craft of acting; his understanding was limited to the perspective of an audience member. But even as a layman, he grasped that seamlessly switching between two distinct characters, blurring the line between performance and reality, was no easy feat. It wasn't just about delivering lines—it was in the smallest gestures, the subtlest smiles. The ability to fully embody two different personas, making them feel like separate beings, required immense skill.
More than that, Matthew understood Renly. When it came to acting, Renly was like a moth drawn to flame, throwing himself into the challenge without hesitation, burning his own vitality in pursuit of the craft. And now, Matthew couldn't help but worry—what if Renly lost himself completely? What if the lines between reality and fiction became so blurred that he couldn't find his way back? What if he drove himself to the brink of madness?
Renly, however, simply raised an eyebrow at Matthew's concern, a glimmer of amusement flashing in his eyes. It was brief yet dazzling—so bright it was almost blinding. Then, just as quickly, it vanished, settling into a quiet confidence that exuded ease and self-assurance.
Was this Renly, or was it Le Verne?
"I'll be fine," Renly replied.
His words were casual, as if stating a simple fact. But beneath that nonchalance lay an undeniable conviction, a sense of freedom, as if nothing in the world could bind him. He carried himself with the effortless grace of a soaring eagle—lofty, untouchable, enviable.
Matthew exhaled, shaking his head. "Are you sure you don't need an actual bed?" he asked. "Even if you're crashing at a friend's place, they probably have one."
"I'm sure," Renly said with a chuckle. "Besides, your couch is roomy enough. Though, to be honest, I kind of miss that old Stanley sofa. Remember? The one I had to curl up in? By midnight, my back would start aching like crazy, my muscles tightening up like stone."
Greenwich Village in the 1960s.
Even the so-called middle class, still recovering from the Great Depression, struggled with financial instability amidst continuous wars. Hedonism had yet to take hold, and most people led simple, frugal lives.
Renly wasn't exaggerating. In the cramped apartments of struggling artists, crashing at a friend's place often meant squeezing onto a tiny sofa—or worse, sleeping on the floor. Among all of Le Verne's friends, only the college professor and his wife could offer a proper bed. For everyone else, it was a matter of making do with whatever space was available.
For someone as tall as Renly—nearly 6'2"—those small sofas were nothing short of a challenge.
"Huh." Matthew let out a sigh. "Are all actors obsessed with torturing themselves?"
"No," Renly said matter-of-factly. Then, with a smirk, he added, "Only the crazy ones."
Matthew rolled his eyes.
Before he could respond, a loud knock rattled the door, interrupting their exchange. Both men turned toward the source of the noise, then glanced at each other. Renly raised an eyebrow. "Did you invite someone over? If so, I can take my leave."
"Ha! Ha! Very funny." Matthew let out a dry laugh as he walked toward the door. "Seriously, what's with tonight?"
The moment he opened the door, a familiar voice came barreling in like a storm.
"Hey man, do you know where Renly went? No answer at his place. No one home—wait… Renly Hall? What the hell happened to you? And what are you doing here? Don't tell me you've been mooching off Matthew again. He has his own life, you know!"
The words poured out like machine-gun fire, full of animated theatrics and dramatic flourishes. The sheer energy was enough to make anyone dizzy.
Matthew and Renly, however, remained unfazed. Matthew simply stepped aside, allowing the tornado to sweep into the apartment, while Renly continued eating, utterly indifferent.
After a full sweep of the living room, the visitor finally paused. Edith Hall stood there, staring at Renly, then at Matthew, and then back at Renly. "Okay. What the hell is going on here?"
Noticing Renly's plate of food, his casual stance, and the blanket and pillow on the couch, her brows furrowed. "Are you… staying here?"
Her surprise was well-masked, but a glint of amusement flickered in her eyes.
Renly didn't rush to answer. He finished chewing, swallowed, and then straightened. "Shouldn't I be asking you that question? Judging by your entrance, I'd say you've been holding all that in for at least a week. Or longer. A month?"
"Renly Hall!" Edith rolled her eyes. "Even if you already know the answer, you could at least pretend not to. Ever heard of basic etiquette?"
"When did you start caring about etiquette?" Renly countered smoothly. "Or has Elf finally tamed you?"
Edith gritted her teeth. "God, you are insufferable today. What happened to you? Don't tell me Hollywood's ruined you already?"
It was an atypical Edith clashing with an atypical Renly. Both Halls seemed out of sorts tonight.
Matthew, watching from the sidelines, decided to intervene. "Edith, have you eaten?"
His eyes flicked to the small suitcase in her hand—a travel bag, likely fresh off a flight. Given her current mood, the odds of her having just returned from London were high. And if she had come from London, that meant trouble.
"No, but I don't need food. Whiskey, though? That, I need. Double, please." Edith collapsed onto the couch, rubbing her temples.
Her tone was an attempt at nonchalance, but the tension in her shoulders betrayed her.
Edith was like a live wire, brimming with barely contained energy. Strong-willed and fiercely independent, she had never hesitated to charge headfirst into conflict, whether as a war photographer or in her personal life. But beneath the punk-like bravado was a raw, unfiltered honesty.
She pulled out a cigarette, then hesitated. Glancing at Renly, she sighed and tucked it away.
"If Matthew doesn't mind, you can smoke," Renly remarked between bites. "I'm used to it now."
Edith looked up sharply, scrutinizing him. She hadn't expected that.
Renly met her gaze and shrugged. "Filming."
Understanding dawned in her expression. Then, dropping the subject, she exhaled and slumped back. "I just got back from London."
Renly's jaw tightened slightly. "Tell me what happened."
Edith hesitated, then muttered, "They found Nanny."
Renly's fork froze mid-air. "Jesus Christ."
Edith nodded grimly. "Yeah. She called me, said she wasn't well, asked if I could come home for Christmas. I was in Africa, but I dropped everything and flew back early."
"And?"
"And," Edith sighed, "the moment I got there, she pulled me into the house and didn't let me leave. A whole month. And then… disaster struck."
Renly didn't need to hear more to know—it was bad.