“ can you be honest with me? ”
the question catches wayne off guard. he's been idly playing making tunes up and down. it's the sort of things that come to him easy, being honest...well that comes easy too. he doesn't know what to make of this guy, besides the broad shoulders and the sort of stern look. all charming in a way that wayne seems to be always chasing. he plucks the strings, letting the music run away from him. he sits up, suddenly interest. (not so suddenly, something about feigning disinterest, lingering in it. basking. playing games.)
"what are you getting at?" then, lashes flutter. smiles with the motion, only but a table between them. running late, burning the midnight oil, along with something else. "-i don't think i've ever not been honest with you." not a lie, wayne rogers died. and wayne cross should be a facade, but he's bad at that. he rather exists as only wayne cross ever since...well ever since he came back. and wayne cross is ... a type of thing, a creature of sorts that just waits, searching, wanting, yearning. transparent about what he wants to a fault.
"come on, shoot, baby."
