tomasdevisser​:
“I- um..” he could feel his face heating up red at the call out, thinking he would’ve gotten away without anyone knowing. And if they knew him, who else did?? He couldn’t deny it but it was true, it was his 3rd time seeing it. And that was embarrassing. “I.. I’m sorry, Macbeth is hard… for me to understand,” Tomas admitted, and it was mostly the truth. It was the truth, it’s what Tomas told himself, every time he came, but a hint of a shy smile came at the mention of his customers from the play house, “oh no it’s nothing.. they’ve been lovely customers. They really liven up the place when they visit.” It was the beauty of having so many performers as his patrons, they’d come and hang out, some of them play the piano there, have a singing session, it felt wonderful to be able to give them a place to rest and have fun, to be themselves away from the grueling stages of New York always acting to be someone else.Â
It was truly a huge relief, as the door closed behind them the world suddenly shifted as with just a click shut the crowds muffled out into a calm relaxing silence, only peppered in with the murmurs from the people still lingering around with the calm after the rush of a show. He definitely felt like he didn’t belong here, but Tomas couldn’t help but gaze in awe to a place he’s never been before, “this doesn’t look like hell to me..” Tomas voice had suddenly dropped a lot softer, trying to blend into the wall or the air, to make him seem like he wasn’t here but also wanted to hold the conversation with them. He looked back towards them with a nervous smile, pulling away his gaze from some of the recognisable cast simply winding down post show. “I just– don’t belong in the same world, I don’t know how you guys do it, really.. it’s amazing. Do you.. work back stage? or..”
A life given to the dramatics freely and without hesitation gave way to a response that felt natural, if only to Kingston. Their finger drew to Tomas' lips, the curse silenced hastily and entertainingly. The superstition wasn't taken seriously, but played with as if it was, no one rarely the wiser. "We don't speak in blasphemous tongues when it comes to our well-being. All other sins can be excused," they spoke, a glimmer of a teasing light dancing in their eyes as the finger drew back, feather-light touch lifted.
"Hell may not be as terrible as the claims. For do you know anyone that has gone and come back to tell the tale? It could be paradise and all the poems that say otherwise may be leading us astray." Faith was nebulous to the writer, figureless and ultimately godless. Tomas was looked over, eyes meeting his with an amused smile, lively when the passions of the creative heart were on display. "What other world is there if not ours?" they asked before the lips spread a little more. "I'm afraid I'm only the writer, my dear. Kingston Gilmore, and I believe you're Tomas. We have no more formalities left to suffer through, now."
















