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@hstarke
@adamstarke
His nose is the spot that bleeds, but the entirety of his being rattles with misplaced energy. Red cascades down over his mouth, chin, and down his jaw; all the while, he holds onto Adam's shoulders — a plea in his eyes and too many excuses on his tongue.
"I swear, I didn't start it." Physically, anyway. Verbally, however? Hans had pushed and pushed and pushed — until the other had little choice left beyond taking fist to face. "I'm not violent, baby, you know that."
One of the many things that Levi hated was not able to remember his actions and plus being drunk. He remembered some of the comments but mainly the emotions. Levi and emotions did not mix well and he hated taking out his anger on people, friend or foe. He did consider Hans a friends despite their complicated friendship. He nodded as the otehr spoke.
"I thought that was better than getting a text or seeing my face," he spoke as he looked and studied the male. "How have you been since that night?"
"A text, I would have had to reply to, and your face—" Hans smiles, too impishly so. "The basket was great, buddy. A diplomatic in-between. Have you ever thought of going into politics?"
How have you been since that night?
"You know what I fucking hate?" Hans asks no one, picking up his glass once again. "That I think you actually mean it. That you actually want to know —" Scoff. "Like I said, politics. You'd be great at it. If you need a financier, I do work the DC area."
starter for @hstarke
Levi had noticed the other, he had not spoken to Hans in months and he had been keeping his distance from the male. Levi had hated how he acted that night, how his emotions got the better of him and plus he was not in his right mind. The doctor was not one to get drunk and wasted and then attack a friend. Despite everything and how interesting their dynamic was, Levi did consider Hans a friend and had their back. There were few people the male called friends and Hans was one of them. He had told Halil that he needed a moment to talk to a friend and so walked way.
Levi slowly walked toward the other, his hands up. "I am not here to make trouble," he spoke honesty in his voice before putting them down. "I hope you like and enjoy tge wine I sent. I am really sorry about what happened that night."
The night had been a blur. Between vicious comments made and his nose bleeding red down the fabric of his shirt, Hans could barely make sense of all pieces jammed together. Except for—
His villainy had won. He'd reverted back to the worst he could be, and inflicted the weapon deep into someone meant to be on his side.
At the sign of Levi, Hans shrugs. "Yeah, yeah— It was such a nice basket, I thought I'd won a prize or something."
Levi was a bit too drunk and not in his right mind to remember that it will not be surprising that Hans often was great when it came to secrets and the male loved collecting information. Plus the male was a parent and it is possible something like that would have spread in that social circle. Levi really was not part of any parent network and so he often was unaware of the whispers and rumors.
"Whatever you tell yourself and whatever helps you fall asleep at night," he spoke his voice tailing off as he looked around for a moment and noticing a particular face which made him sigh and bringing his attention back to the other male. "You are correct, I meant nothing by that....." he added with the male being so very close. "Yes, I would have said No."
Normally while sober and in his right mind, Levi could control his emotions but for some reason their words strike a nerve and he grabbed Hans shirt with a anger the male never showed showing in Levi's eyes.
A laugh, then. How fast they walk it back, every time. He'd thought Levi would at least own up to it. Man to man.
Then, he's pulled closely — harshly — by the collar of his shirt. "Whoa, whoa, what the fuck—" It isn't that Hans couldn't get physical; he just preferred not to. And why would he, when mental weapons work just as well — if not better — than fists do? "Go on, buddy." Hans further pokes at the wound, as the corner of his eye catches wind of something. Of someone. Of her. "Show that whore you got a kid with just how macho you are."
"I'm not policing," Adam protests, shaking his head. He is, but he doesn't really like the way that sounds. They both know he worries, especially in settings like this. Having a baby at home hasn't done much for his usual set of nerves. "Just... saying it can't hurt to slow it down a little bit. The night's still young."
He doesn't release the glass, the two of them in a slight tug of war. There might have been a time that Adam would have caved instantly, particularly with Hans, and he's still easy to win over, but he's learned a lot. They've known each other for too long for him not to pick up a thing or two. He tries a different tack. "...'Sides. If you've got a good Southern whiskey, the least you could do is share."
"You're still young," Hans counters, mischievous in a way that exists only between them. "Should I sing another happy birthday? Give you another gift?"
He smiles at his own thoughts, wondering if they had finally crossed the line where Adam can actually read them in full. They'd first met around the time of Adam's birthday — something about baseball and a 7-11 cupcake — and the rest, as they say, is history. A history now carved out of not only one, but four Starkes.
He nods, offering the glass up to Adam's mouth. "A good Southern whiskey for my good southern husband."
@adamstarke
"Since when are we policing whiskey?" Hans asks, placing his hand on top of Adam's around the glass. Half flirt, half dare. "Baby." A plea. "You know I don't even get tipsy 'til my fourth."
And that everything that's been said around us, is a stretch of the truth. No wind, no matter how rare, could turn him into a respectable man. But he is a father, and that title he's worked hard to honor. "Judge Starke. Don't tell me I'm on trial right now."
Levi had promise himself he would try to be less stoic and actually try to feel things, enjoy and have fun. His boyfriend had been an interesting influence on him. Levi had come alone and was actually having fun and drinking which was rare. He had alcohol in his system, more than he normally had at events. The male look at the other when they spoke. The doctor knew that he kept a lot of the details with Halil a secret and so wondered how the other knew about the divorce and all that.Levi had always been worried about breaking up people, that was one of his biggest fears when he got involved with Halil and he still felt bad about it and it was like Hans was opening wounds. "It's not like I planned it and stuff---" he spoke taking a sip of his drink. "Wait how did you know all this detail, its so suppose to be quiet..."
Levi chuckled and laughed when the other leans forward, he looked into the male's eyes. "You are really so full of yourself and you have a big ego. I had a simple crush on you and I never had any intentions of getting fucked or fucking you Hans. Plus he is so much more attractive than you," he spoke back looking straight into the male's face. "Jealous now that I have someone even more handsome than you and you lost someone lost interest in you?"
How did you know— Hans always smiles, when that particular question comes. People, especially those at all close to him, should know that his eyes and ears are everywhere; connection-points made all throughout New York City and beyond.
"He's not, but whatever." A shrug, followed by another sip of his whiskey. "Yeah, yeah. When you showed up at my penthouse late at night with a bottle of wine, saying how I would be such a good distraction—" Hans leans forward. "I'm sure you meant nothing by that. Nothing at all." A smile then, sharp. "And if I had suggested we moved our drinking to the bedroom — so I could have my way with you all night — you would have just said no."
Then, a shrug. "Don't get me wrong. I'm glad some guy finally took pity on you. It was about time."
"What I'm not getting—" Alan cuts himself off before he says too much. Jaw clenches, head tilts down and he peers up at Hans; an apologetic glance for almost ruining whatever game they're playing by crossing an unforgivable line and making it too real. "— is why the fuck we keep drinking in these shitholes."
Not the ideal segue but something to keep himself away from the real question — what would it take for Hans Starke to switch sides? Alan has no trouble believing that he's been offered the spotlight and more, and he can't be the first person to wonder if there's a soul underneath all of that hairspray.
It takes half a second to decide: no, there isn't.
"But you do serve someone," pause. "Someones. The market," quote unquote, "or whatever you people are calling it these days." Alan waves a hand in the air, dismissive. "Yeah, I want to save this country from people like you but I still have a fucking backyard, I'm not demonizing money." Only once has Alan Dietrich been confused for a communist and only because the other guy had his same haircut in college.
And then— how's your guy?
"You don't make it easy, but, hey, that's what you get when you're rebuilding the fucking economy from whatever the fuck the last guy did." Not everyone can be the highest approved President in the world. Alan makes a mental note to text Julian as soon as he's out of here.
He doesn't take the bait. I can do whatever the fuck I want. He doesn't say he can too. Truthfully, he doesn't have to. Alan's smile is smug and lazy, relaxed in a way that indicates he's thinking of something else— or that he's three steps ahead. "Sure," he offers Hans a shrug as his glass is refilled.
After a sip, he nudges the other's knee with his own, for no reason other than he can, and he leans back in his armchair again. "So can I," he says finally. "What's your point? You can take your kids to Disney twice a year and your pockets are full so fuck the rest of us?"
Us is a broad term. Alan Dietrich has never wanted for anything.
"Tell me something," he clears his throat, takes another sip of his drink, drums his fingers absentmindedly on the arm rest. "You really never thought about running?"
There's a heavy, yet honest pause. "I assumed it was what you could afford."
"The market," he clarifies, dead-panning. "We still call it 'the market'." Perhaps it is that Johannes Starke had become a caricature of himself — perhaps he is still entirely clueless of how ridiculous it all sounds. "The market is a factor, not the indisputable measuring tool idiots on Fox News make it out to be. A captain champions their boat according to windspeed, wave patterns — it's not much different than what I do. You'd never say that a sailor is serving the sea; they navigate it, storms be fucking damned. My sea just happens to be made of money, and my boat kept afloat by lies."
"Yeah, yeah, of course you can. That's a given. You weren't my point." Beat. "Berkeley was."
A banker, a speechwriter, an accountant, or salesman can do whatever he wants. His safety, and that of his own, nearly always guaranteed. The President can't claim the same.
You really never thought about running?
A heavy sip of whiskey prefaces his answer. For some reason, honesty prevails.
"A few years ago, they were hounding me for it. I have the background, the look," — whatever that means, implied — "I can make better deals than any of their candidates can. " A long beat follows. "I'm not a good person, but I can act like one."
Hans can predict the line of questioning which would naturally follow — so he takes a step ahead. "Call me crazy, but I'd rather jump off the Empire State than have a hundred cameras on me at all times." Shrug, followed by a — somewhat disappointed — confession. "Maybe megalomania isn't my thing."
@thedocxlevi setting: the atlas room
"Don't get me wrong," — Hans continues, a cocktail of alcohol and other culprits flowing in his system — "it's impressive. You got a guy to abandon not one, but two partners for you." Cue, a sardonic round of applause. "The children are gonna feel it, though. I'm all for hurting adults, but kids is kind of a low blow. " With a pause, he sips more of his freshly-poured whiskey.
Hans leans forward then, meeting Levi's gaze closely. "The guy's practically a carbon-copy of me." Halil. "What, did you go for him after you realized I wouldn't fuck you?"
@hstarke
Adam is very careful as he pulls the door closed behind him, finally letting out a sigh as he steps out into the hall. Bedtime is something of an ordeal lately - Henry clearly getting jealous for attention and he's been clingy. Adam's happy to spend time with him but he’s exhausted too, and it's clear as he sinks onto the sofa, long legs splayed out in front of him.
He could almost fall asleep like that until he's nudged and he opens his eyes, a glass of wine presented to him. He can't help a tired smile, taking the glass and sitting up a little bit straighter as he meets his husband's gaze. “Celebrating the peace and quiet?” He asks. It's true, feeling like it's been hours since there wasn't some noise from at least one of their children. “...Why did we decide to do two under three, again?”
"No, baby," Hans scoffs, matter-of-fact, "I'm just an alcoholic." He smiles that shark-like smile of his, which suggests a joke. Ha, ha. Very original, he knows.
Truth is, indulgence would look entirely different through the lens of Hans's addiction. Always whiskey, never beer, certainly not wine. Hans inches closer, then— not kissing Adam's cheek, but merely breathing against it. "Because I got horny once and said 'let's make another one." What a night. "Besides, it's not like we're getting any fucking younger. See?! You're falling asleep— it's not even ten."
who: vincente & open (0/2)
when/where: up-to-player
"You called, I came, regretting it already but can't take it back now so here we are." Vincente announces with a theatrical sigh, making his way into the private room and plopping himself down in front of the other on a chair. The dim lights hide his amusement but he was sure they could feel his grin regardless. "What do you want? Make it quick. I've got funfetti cake waiting for me at home."
"You're acting like I invited you for a deal with the devil," Hans scoffs. "Which would be a logistical nightmare, since we'd waste a good hour just deciding which one of us is it."
What do you want?
"To look at your pretty face, what else?" He motions to the bottle he had picked out in advance; some high grade import, it doesn't matter. "Well, shit. Fuck the whiskey, I'd kill for some fucking funfetti right now."
starter: open to everyone! location: likely public, feel free to get creative
Adelaide behaves much like someone who'd spent her life spinning under the scrutiny of critics and strangers alike: like a doll, her lashes are curled, her hair combed into unruly submission, and her nails manicured and filed to an generally acceptable length.
She exhales through her pert little nose as if summoning patience out of thin air, sylph-blonde hair tossed over the delicate arch of her shoulder, mouth pursed disapprovingly: all the affectations undoubtedly expected of her. If she were truly upset, they wouldn't have a job, and she wouldn't still be standing here. But what is it that they say? Mystery loves company? Making someone's day just a little bit worse brings little joy—but of course, sometimes a little is enough. She pinches the bridge of her nose, gesturing for them to be off with all the strained tolerance of a half-tamed animal. "Please do it right this time, okay?" her voice is sweeter now, cloying and low but sharp all the same - wrapping an order into a request, carefully laced in a satin bow, her eyes, pale like hoarfrost, glitter with lurid satisfaction as she dismisses the hot beverage with a wave. "Why is it that everybody insists on trying to ruin my day..."
The scene unfolds with Hans as first witness — sitting across the table from Adelaide, sipping his wine as he observes, weighing out choices in his mind. In an almost un believable turn of events, service staff cruelty is where he draws the line. Go figure.
Still, he doesn't step in, doesn't tell her to tone it down. Later, he would tip the waiter generously enough to cover the trouble; some three-months rent worth of zeroes, at least.
Once the guy hurries away, Hans turns to her. "They're gonna start running out of cows if you ask them to cook that steak again," he says, tone both playful and annoyed at the very same time. "Whatever happened to girls ordering salads, anyway?"
He's not the face of this administration. He knows that. He also knows that if he, for some unimaginable reason, were to clock Hans right in the jaw, the only person in this dimly lit speakeasy who would connect him to the White House would be bleeding profusely. It's lucky that Alan isn't a violent man.
"Yeah, I know all of that," he retorts, snappy. It's not so much what Hans explains, as if Alan doesn't know the effect that words have in private, but the growing annoyance in the back of his mind. "I wasn't born yesterday, Starke, I know you pull your strings, and you keep tabs on their every move and their secrets until you can use them."
We aren't all that different. If anyone thinks the Democratic party isn't threatening their representatives to vote one way or another, Alan has some bad news for them.
Again, he's perfected the unmoved expression when faced with a comment like this one — naturally, he can't tell Hans that the office has earned that title. Alan motions swiftly in the air to get a refill of his drink. "I was great at my job and I didn't stab people in the back when they stopped being useful." And the most powerful man in the world fell in love with him.
I know you pull your strings, Alan says, and he smiles. You keep tabs on their every move and their secrets until you can use them.
"So what is it that you're not getting?"
"I could serve someone," he leans forward, "like you do. I could come up with their words, puppeteer some marketable name around and make a decent living out of it. Well, I don't know how decent—" For some reason, he can't picture Alan in anything but a modest one-bedroom. Overbearing landlord, always renting, never owning. "I've been offered a thousand times. The spotlight, too." Fantastic hair, flawless lies. Machiavelli, eat your heart out. "I'm fucking tired of pretending like wanting money is some sort of spiritual failure — a made up sin by those low-lives protesting Wall Street. Have you seen the economy? Hate to break it to ya— but a 'good set of morals' doesn't put food on the table, buddy." Beat. "How's your guy, by the way — having to prove himself day in and day out? Being the target of nuclear enemies, so much so that he hasn't been alone — truly fucking alone — for a day since he started campaigning, couple years and wheneverthefuck ago?"
All of this to say—
"I make more in a month than Berkeley will make in a year." Not a brag, but a fact. "Sure, whatever. My name isn't gonna be in the history books — but I'm good, my kids are safe, and mostly importantly — I can do whatever the fuck I want."
Years of keeping a secret don't make it any easier — and being unable to tell Hans exactly the kind of influence he has on the President only makes him roll his eyes and inhale sharply, as if he's swallowing his words. "I'm not playing that game with you," he says instead.
Anything he says is a direct reflection of Julian and he knows that — it really would be easier if he could wipe that smug look off Hans' face. "You underestimate the power of speech and you think you're smarter than everyone else." Pot, kettle. "At the end of the day, I'm in the Oval Office. You're hearing about it through Fox fucking News."
They orbit, is what they do. Always passing, rarely overlapping. In drugs they find common ground, but never intimacy — if they had, perhaps Alan could have found out that the only man in New York City who understands him is the one he loathes the most. They orbit, and they mirror — they fight with weapons that the President or his military couldn't dream of mastering.
"I know how effective words can be." Blue meets blue — gaze sharp, but honest. It's more often than not that Hans had used his expertise on speech to get what he wants, and destroy who he doesn't. "For every person, there is a string of words put together that can end their entire existence. There's also the opposite — the exact thing you can say to make life suddenly worth living. The only difference between us is that you do it on a stage — the TV is still a stage — and I do it in private. But the repercussions are public." It lines pockets, and robs them too. "Or do you think those Senators last week backed out overnight because, shit, it came to 'em in a dream?"
"Yeah, yeah," he waves it off. "Jeez, you got me. What'did'ya do to get in there, anyway? They don't call it the Oral Office for nothing."
He has no trouble believing that. Hans Starke is willing to cross lines that Alan has never even thought existed. He shakes his head, leans back on his seat and keeps absentmindedly swirling his drink in his glass, a long watered-down overpriced whiskey.
"No, but I am counting on you trying to ruin it," for me. Politics isn't personal, but this rivalry certainly is. Alan leans forward, elbows on his bent knees that almost touch the other's but not quite. "Just say what you have to say. No games." As if.
"I know this is gonna be hard for you to accept, buddy," — Hans mirrors him, leaning forward in return; knees do bump, this time — "but you're not even close to being the kinda fish I'm trying to fry." In DC, his sight is set on lawmakers — campaign backers — or at the very least, high-ranking staff that could make themselves useful for something. Out of the Berkeley circle, Elena stands out as worth his while. "You're a speechwriter. What influence do you have?"
Why do you persist with vicious attacks Ungracious remarks re opponents? It smacks of a lack of conviction Admit you're under duress And that your only skill left Is for money, not chess
heath snorted, lifting a brow "hell, i sure wish my pr team thought like that" would certainly have saved him at least three very expensive apologies "fifty six - let's not age me into the grave just yet" he shifted the baby in his arms again, reaching for the small bottle with his free hand, checking the temperature and easing it between the baby's lips
"henry's shy?" he asked, tilting his head mock serious "he sure don't strike me as the type. nature likes her balance, i reckon"
"Sounds like you need a better team," Hans shrugs, nonchalant — yet the suggestion is there. "And you don't look a day over twenty-five, buddy. It's just the greys, y'know? That stuff can be misleading." If, and only if Hans were on such team, a million-dollar contract with L'Oréal would be their very first win.
As for Henry, the verdict is still out. The boy is outgoing within their circle sure, all giggles and warm cheeks, but hides behind his knee whenever in public. "I dunno if he's shy," — it's hard to tell, when they're this young — "but he's not gonna grow up to be a game show host, if ya know what I mean."
