#with fallon

Heavy boots leave big, flattened prints as Noa tromps from the stage door exit to the parking lot. The skin behind his ears is still hot, his blood still spinning in his veins. He's maybe the angriest he's ever been; maybe the most hurt, too. He's off-kilter, certainly, a way he never feels after a performance. There's nothing left to ground him right now: no Birdie, no Juli, no Jordan.

To make it all the worse, he's wearing a pair of stupid feathers. Like an idiot.

And then, like a black cat crosses the unlucky fool, Fallon appears. An omen, certainly. Noa stops, his car less than twenty feet away, but the opportunity to punish someone else for how he's feeling presenting itself at his feet right here.

"Thought you didn't leave your house unless you had a shift." Noa stares down his nose at Fallon, the trail of smoke from her cigarette floating towards him. He glances behind her, at the entrance of the club, then flicks back to her disinterested expression. "Why are you still here? Show's over."

At last: solace. Hypocritical for him to be running away to his room now, but he thinks he's earned it after the whole everything of tonight. Only, when he opens his door, the room isn't empty.