( he is somewhat winded by the hospitality -- people hardly treat grunt work reporters as anything more than nuisances or a reason to get their name printed across new york in thousands of copies of newspapers. certainly, he's never treated this nicely by boys with the sun in their hair and a weird twinkle in their eye, like newt has more years thrown on his back than the youth of his face would suggest. alby eyes him, as if trying to understand him not through the questions of the report, and instead on how he looks -- down to earth, a little dirty in an endearing kind of way. a simple kind of beautiful, not loud or flashy but quietly so, like a person plucked from old photographs and put into modern times. alby finds that he likes it, this old timey feeling, this way newt makes him feel -- protected, taken care of, a glass of water in his hand and a chuckle hidden behind his hand. )

Signed on for the spa treatment, yeah? ( he leaves the water on the table, pointedly does not look at newt's lips on the rim of his own ( well, maybe for a second ), before he rifles through his messenger bag, pulling out a pad of paper and a capped pen. in response to newt: ) You're not the only one, brother. S'pretty special place you've got here, everyone's goin on an' on an' on about the magic flowers.

( but, that's getting a little ahead of himself. beautiful boy or not, alby is a professional -- he clears his throat, uncapping the pen with his mouth, scrawling something down on the page before his eyes flicker up to meet newt's. professional, right. it's probably unprofessional to use his favorable hand in asking questions to figure out what his personal life is like, right. his boss would slap him upside the head if he saw him right now, all oogle eyed by a boy in torn jeans and dirt on his nose. )

'ight, boring stuff always comes first. Name, age, occupation here? If ya don't mind my asking, 'course.