M A R T Y R

oliver zafar. thirty-eight. public advocate for nyc. independent mayoral candidate.

[mcrtyr]

vrzfr·:

“Fuck you, Mr. Comedian, you’re hardly one to talk. I mean, what even is this print? It looks like you’re a degree of separation away from the Jungle Cruise.” He’s beaming along with Zafar through the pseudo-insults, the kind of smile that leaves his cheeks a little sore. He always feels lighter when they’re making each other grin like this, younger too, as though they’re university students again, stealing quick kisses in the courtyards and holding back loud laughter in libraries. 

He’s fine with the silence that follows. He’s a talker, that much is clear to anyone who’s spent more than five minutes around Vir, but you learn to be comfortable in quiet moments after ten years with someone. He focuses on his Twix bar, munching on it with purpose, despite the vegan sensibilities sitting beside him. The spell is broken when Zafar speaks again. What are we gonna do with you? Like he’s a tub of toxic waste, something that needs to be discarded without poisoning too many others in the process. 

Vir sighs as he leans into Zafar’s side, rests his head on the shorter man’s shoulder, keeps chewing as he thinks about what to say to that. “I started brainstorming some baby names, like you wanted me to,” he says. You need to start acting like this adoption process is real, Zafar had said to him, and god, Vir wishes he could. He pulls out his phone, swipes to the Notes app, and starts reading. “Right, so. For a girl, I’m thinking we could do Mayonnaise, but just have everyone call her May, so she has to live with this dark secret all her life that she’s named after the objectively worst condiment. We could do something similar with Liz and Lizard, but I don’t know, feels a little lamer in my eyes. My other contending girl names are Gertrude and Bertha, simply because they’re both horrifying, so our kid will have to try twice as hard to be half as liked. Builds character and all that.” He swipes to the next page in his Notes app. “Okay, next, for a boy. I immediately lean towards Ben, because when we first get the baby everyone will always be pestering us about how they’re doing, so we can just keep saying ‘He’s never Ben better’ until eventually they stop asking. If that doesn’t appeal to you, I also like Archie. I know what you’re thinking, and yes, that does mean we bite the bullet of his full name being Archibald, but it also means that if he becomes an archeologist we get to call him an archie-ologist, if he fosters a lifelong enemy then we get to say he’s an archie nemesis, and if he insights a world war we get to crown him an archie-duke. There’s like a dozen other Archie puns I have listed here, they really just write themselves.” He looks up at Zafar then, that previous smile back on his face, a kind of expectant expression accompanying it. “But like I said, still brainstorming.”

He puts his phone away, goes back to leaning against Zafar. It feels good there, safe. He could stay here all night, happily, especially at the expense of the rum party. “I’ve also been thinking that we should do dinner with the Starkes,” he continues, a little too-casual in his delivery. “And before you say no, think about it. You and I get a date night where nobody interrupts us to talk to you, I get to introduce Adam to spices beyond what you can find on Whole Food’s center shelf, you and Hans can work through the angry sexual tension that clouds every interaction of yours. That’s three wins for the price of one, those are some ‘offer you can’t refuse’ kind of numbers.”

;

One of Oliver’s worst traits is that when he cares about something, he doesn’t know how to care about it casually. Every campaign he invests himself in is the most important campaign of his time, every political disagreement he has with someone reveals a fundamental flaw about his opponent’s character, and every cause he fights for somehow ends up being as crucial as life-or-death. His passion is righteous and furious, but it’s also intense and too-serious. It gets him stuck in his head, turns him obsessive, makes him believe that everything is razor-sharp in the face of this country’s future.

Vir’s never been like that. Vir can be cynical and defeatist, yes, but in the process of all of that he remains achingly human, able to laugh at the things that make him miserable and make Oliver laugh with him. It surprises a lot of people when Oliver says that one of the first things that drew him to Vir was his sense of humor, but at the end of the day Vir is funny, perhaps the funniest person Oliver knows. They compliment each other nicely, Oliver’s bleeding-heart vigor juxtaposed by Vir’s ‘I don’t know, have we asked the climate why it thinks it needs to change so badly? There’s probably some deep-rooted insecurities to dismantle there’.

“I think I’m leaning towards Mayonnaise out of all of those. Hellman’s would have to give us a lifetime supply of condiments for that, right?” he asks. “But sure, let’s not cross any of them off yet. Gotta keep our options open.” He leans into Vir, putting his nose against his hair, breathing in the smell of pen ink and Trader Joe’s shampoo. “Thanks for putting some thought into it,” Oliver murmurs softly. “I know it’s scary for you to consider right now, but you’re going to make a great dad. I really love you, our kid will too.”

As soon as there’s a moment, the illusion is broken, as Oliver leans back out to fixate Vir with a look of disgust. “Sure, let me think about it.” He pauses for all of five seconds. “No, absolutely not. Why would I want to have dinner with the Google search result for ‘Rich White Nepotism Baby’ and the man that confirms what I’ve been saying for years, which is that the Devil is, in fact, a capitalist?” Beat. “And I do not have angry sexual tension with Hans Starke. It’s a very normal, very platonic anger that happens to have its tense moments.”

[mcrtyr]

jinyoo·:

How are you? 

It’s something most people learn at a very young age to ask - it’s just something polite, something to follow a ‘hello’ with. But there’s something about the way Oliver asks him that makes him feel like he might actually want to know how he’s doing. And while he’s not about to spill his guts in the middle of a brand launch party, he does appreciate the thought. 

If he’s asking about how he’s doing now that his father has gone, there’s really no easy way to tell someone that a part of him is happy that the man is no longer around. So he chooses to take it as a question about his life, his work, instead. 

“Busy, mostly.” he starts, because it’s the truth, “you know, dad never told me that so much of his job was having meetings with other people. I don’t know how you do it. By the time I have my third meeting of the day, I start planning for retirement.” 

;

I don’t know how you do it. Oliver smiles in a casual kind of way, a ‘Yeah, I’ve heard that one before’ kind of way. Maybe the truth is that Oliver isn’t quite sure how he does it either, if only because he’s never had the option to be anything else. Like a shark, he keeps moving to avoid what would happen to him if he ever stopped.

“My best advice?” he says. “Always eat lunch. I used to be religious about sitting at my desk during my lunch break, a barely-touched salad next to me, chugging away at spare emails in between meetings because I equated stopping with failing. I didn’t realize the toll that took on my blood pressure until ten years into it, and now I’m the only 38 year-old in New York that has to monitor my B12 intake.” He laughs, shaking his head. “And also - I don’t know, remember that it’s a marathon and not a sprint? Burnout is very real, especially in overzealous twenty-somethings that think they’re going to live forever.” Takes one to know one.

Oliver nods behind them, where the party hasn’t stopped on their account. “I should probably get back to schmoozing, the night is young and my campaign isn’t donating to itself,” he explains. “But reach out to me anytime, alright? Whether it’s for coffee or a home-cooked meal.” He gives Jin two firm pats on the arm and a reassuring grin, his additional way of saying, ‘You got this’.

[mcrtyr]

astrorahi​:

—

“Wait, are we sure you couldn’t get some votes that way?” He’s serious, except the smile betrays him. “It’s about time we have a cool Mayor.”

Rahi eyes down his shot — the culprit, living up to the fame of the many culprits he’s downed tonight. 

“Is that the secret?” A single brow raised, before another culprit’s in. No halfsies, like Zafar’s own approach. This isn’t work for him — if anything, it’s one of the few nights that he’s away from it. Better make it good. “Could I have been Rahi Zafar, if only I couldn’t shut up?” Suddenly, this place at the bar is not unlike their dorm room, so many years ago. The counter their wonky desks, the distance between each stool, probably of the same measurements as the gap between their beds. “He did that to me, you know? I said something about how he was living the life, being married and all, maybe kids soon, and he just complained even more.” His mouth’s still hot, and he’s thinking. “I don’t think he takes it well, scoring last. Even though he isn’t. I don’t think his brain could recognize it if he did well at something.”

He shakes his head, “Nah, no problems. Well — the gravity on this planet is always a problem, but besides that.”

“Okay, yeah, let me see. I hate teaching, but that I’ll probably keep doing it anyway because I like being right and correcting people.” Hey — at least he’s honest. “I hate interviews too — I don’t know how you guys do it.” You guys, being Zafar, and Abel. “I’m angry at Bezos too, for the whole dick rocket thing he’s doing. Makes me wanna eat the rich, but I think he’d just taste rancid. I’d call him out, but I’ve been banned from arguing on Twitter because of public image, or something.” Beat. “Yeah, I don’t give a shit. I’m definitely calling him out.” Get the friendship, yet?

Rahi places the empty shot glass to the side, straightening up so he faces him. “Your turn.”

;

He scoffs. “Are you kidding me? I’m absolutely still eligible to be this city’s first ever cool mayor, even without a Magic Mike moment. Have you seen my wardrobe? I have pants with flamingos on them. Rudy Giuliani wishes.” His smile etches into his cheek, as laid-back as you’ll ever catch Oliver at one of these events. Rahi happens to be one of the rare that brings it out in him, one of the people he never has to worry about selling himself to, knowing the other man is already all-in. 

“Let’s not pretend you’ve ever been notable for shutting up, Kumar,” Oliver says. Silently, of course, there’s an acknowledgement: And neither have I. It underlined their entire college careers, the two know-it-alls sharing the same space, monologuing back and forth about their passions until one of them eventually tapped out. Since then, Oliver’s swapped out his one-man audience for a crowd of hundreds, but he’s yet to forget where that all started. “God, I’m sorry, I promise it’s not you,” Oliver says with a groan. He itches for another shot, but he knows it won’t serve him well in the grand scheme of the rest of tonight. “If I’m being totally, no-bullshit honest with you, I don’t know what would help him. He thinks he’s some loser compared to you and me just because Fitzgerald wrote a hundred years ago that you’re not a real writer until you’ve penned a Great American Novel, and I can’t convince him otherwise. He writes for the Times, for god’s sake, and not the fucking LA one either.” Oliver emits a huff, short but deep. “I blame all the Russian Literature, telling him that your narrative is defined by the specific breed of suffering you can fixate on and describe in length for pages. Mark my words, our kids are banned from Tolstoy.”

And then he’s leaning back, situating himself on one knuckle as he lets Rahi take it away. His concerns are deeply human, even if not something Oliver can relate to, as someone who’s only ever sought out the spotlight. It’s only when Rahi finishes his spiel that he’s got Oliver laughing again. “Please do. My thumbs are itching for a good retweet,” he says, grinning. At your turn, he shrugs. “Same old news, man. Conservatives hate me. Moderates hate me. Old liberals hate me. The media loves me, but only because everybody else hates me. With that being said -” He smirks as he leans in to lower his voice. “Poll numbers are as good as they’ve ever been, no doubt because of the vision Izaak’s selling. He's quite good at playing the role of the prophet, isn’t he?”

[mcrtyr]

detukiahherrera​:

Location: gym Open to: anyone (: let your imagination flow~

“No, I’m not going to sign that you–” Ukiah let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes and looked at the ground. He’d take going into a twelve hour interrogation than arguing with his daughter over a trip she definitely didn’t need to go on. “Marlena, I understand it’s important, but you have other clubs you’re taking part of you don’t need to add on more.” He breathed out, continuing his way into the gym. “Okay, okay we’ll talk about it at home, I promise. Your bus gets back at ten?” He confirmed, wanting to be sure he’d get there on time. “Okay, I’ll be there to pick you up and we’ll discuss it then. I love–” The phone clicked off before he could finish, fishing the ear bud out of his ear and looking up, giving a nod to his new company. “Sorry… I didn’t mean to bother you… Kids.” He let out a half hearted chuckle, unsure how to handle the awkward situation.

;

It’s funny, really, being at that tender age of thirty-eight. He’s not quite forty yet, but he also isn’t quite flirty and thriving with the younger half of his demographic, so he exists in limbo, not taken seriously by any of his political colleagues who insist he’s still a rookie yet feeling like his years of being a young prodigy are behind him. There is, of course, also the fact that his body’s age seems to be catching up on him. His joints aren’t exactly cracking in on themselves yet, but there’s a new pain in his lower back that is certainly noticeable, noticeable enough to have him attending a yoga class twice a week just to keep it from getting much worse. It’s a burst of fate that has him walking out of the gym at the same moment that Ukiah is walking in, allowing him to stop in his tracks as he heard the distress in the other man’s voice. “Detective Herrera,” he greets with a nod. “Not a bother at all. I just came out of a yoga class and I was going a bit crazy in there, all that silence and tranquility. It’s nice to come out and see life still goes on.” He grins. “What’s going on with your kid? Some TikTok trend you don’t understand, or something more severe?”

[mcrtyr]

hstarke​:

Closed to: @mcrtyr @adamstarke @vrzfr​ Location: the Starke apartment; too late for dinner, too early for bed 

When Hans’s phone buzzes in the middle of a meeting with only his husband’s warning of, Don’t be late, it sparks curiosity, but not recognition. He’s too often so, for it to mean anything — with the gregarious willingness to being held behind by new faces, to shaking fresh hands, or revisiting old drinks. 

Still, he does his best to abide by it, and makes it home not entirely early, but earlier. Makes it home, too, to the smell of steaming food and a table set out for more than just two. There’s barely any time between Hans’s shedding of his suit-jacket, the instructions of making the food as indigestible as possible, and a move to the liquor cabinet, until two Zafars are standing in their home, one more talkative than the other. 

All plates are ultimately forgotten between the dining table and the kitchen sink — a problem for tomorrow, when reality settles back into a timeline where they don’t do these things, where worlds apart remain separate by a distance. But now, Hans is pouring four hefty drinks as the party’s moved on to the living room, the two opposing couches divided between the two clans. 

“Compliment the food,” Hans quietly but firmly tells Oliver (and Oliver alone) as he hands him a glass. “Or I’ll fucking ruin you.” 

Donning his own alcohol-filled vessel, Hans sinks back onto the sofa that faces them, an encouraging palm already at the crook of Adam’s neck where it typically comes to settle. It’s gotten darker than dark, but little adjustments have been made to their setting. All of which illuminates them now is either the moon, or New York City on its own. 

“Alright, Zafar,” — the short, infuriating, recently injured one — “let’s not fool ourselves, you always wanted me to ask — so here goes jackshit.” Hans sips the whiskey, and nods his guest’s way. “How’s your head?” 

;

Oliver cannot fucking believe he agreed to this. No, scratch that — he cannot fucking believe Hans agreed to this. Oliver, in the very least, has a very good reason, which is that he wants to make a father out of his husband sooner rather than later and Vir hashed this out to be some vital step in that process. ‘Like it or not, they’re going to be spending a lot of time with the kids,’ they, in this case, being The Brady Brunch that Vir still hasn’t replaced with tanner friends, ‘which means you’re going to have to learn to tolerate them. Our children will not learn animosity from you.’ The honest truth is that Vir can get him to do just about anything when he utters Oliver’s favorite words, ‘our children’. 

But agreeing to it isn’t the same as enjoying it. All night, he watched Vir in his natural habitat, rambling and laughing and wining and dining, all while Oliver stayed (fairly) well-behaved. He only insulted Hans when it would’ve been a waste not to, mostly just picking disparagingly at the only vegan option offered on the table, a side salad sans the dressing. 

Now that they’re at the post-dinner part of the night, Oliver’s more than happy to accept the alcohol being offered. His omnipresent irritation has him itching for a joint instead, especially since, for all of Hans’ faults, Oliver would bet anything that he has good taste in weed. For now, though, he’ll survive on the Cognac in his hands. “And do what?” he hisses back to Hans, low enough to keep the conversation contained to them. “Strangle me with your Ferragamos?” He takes a sip of the alcohol to punctuate his glower, though perhaps it doesn’t reach its full potential in the dimmer city lighting.

He’s mid-drink when Hans speaks again, this time loud enough for everyone to partake in. It takes Oliver by surprise, enough to get the liquor stuck in the middle of his throat, but two coughs later and he’s good as new. “I like you best when you’re not saying anything, actually,” Oliver drawls. “Why, do you need tips? That’s very mature of you, admitting your flaws, owning up to your struggles. It takes a brave man to ask for help.”

[mcrtyr]

@andreagalan​

If Oliver’s learned anything from these last few years of his work, it’s that the Public Advocate is an entirely unique position in its proximity to the people. Sure, every politician cares about the community they serve at least a little, for their public opinion polls if nothing else, but Oliver’s only job is to care, which equates to lots of time spent around the city’s civilians — listening to their concerns, understanding their frustrations, making tangible plans to guarantee tangible change (that would, at the end of the day, score a tangible reelection). 

There’s perhaps no place better known for airing grievances then the dark insides of bars and nightclubs, with booze only making loose lips looser. Oliver finds, however, that coming in the thick of the action yields very little results. Instead, he’s a fan of morning-afters, strolling into Andrea’s nightclub just before noon as the Sunday crew cleans up all evidencce from yesterday’s misadventures. He’s got a bag of baked goods in hand, bribery in case Oliver’s presence alone isn’t enough to encourage conversation from Andrea. But the manager’s always been good with gossip, and Oliver sometimes gets the impression that she likes to feel important enough to be listened to. And well, he’s nothing if not all ears. 

“I come bearing an assortment of croissants,” he says as he sits down on a barstool, across from where Andrea is polishing glasses on the other side. “I have to call dibs on the lavender-pistachio, but other than that.” He gestures towards the bag, inviting her to take her pick. “A penny for your thoughts felt far too exploitative, consider this a pastry for your thoughts instead.”

[mcrtyr]

scnguineous​:

OPEN STARTER

Since adopting Gunner, visits to the park had been frequent; without Ludovica around the dog spent a lot of time alone, so Nikolai tried to take him for a walk whenever possible. The puppy was clearly much more obsessed with Ludo, but the man could find ways to hold his attention, it wasn’t like he never had a dog and Gunner was a quick learner.

Nik was kneeling on the grass, the dog toy between his fingers, eyes fixed on the little rottweiler in front of him “Right champ, one more time. I’ll throw it, you’ll take and bring it back like you did last time, okay?"  held up his hand, watching the dog back away a bit ”No cheating, I haven’t even throw it yet" he said, carefully bringing the puppy back to the starting position.

He tossed the dog toy, only noticing the obvious miscalculation when it hit the person seated a little way forward, Gunner running quickly toward the stranger. Nikolai was quick to get up, reaching the dog a few seconds later, carrying the puppy while offering the person an awkward soft smile “I’m really sorry for that, safe to say I’m not a dog trainer. Lucky us. I’m sorry again, I hope you didn’t get hurt”

;

He’s leash-training his cat, and it’s going about as well as you might imagine leash-training your cat is supposed to. The Great Catsby wouldn’t even look at a leash, let alone allow herself to be debased to wearing one, but Meow Zedong (ever a man of the people, living up to his namesake) was all for trying anything that got him out of the apartment. Leash-training is supposed to be a healthy thing, anyway, good for lowering depression — not that these cats have anything to be depressed about, with their eighteen hours of sleep per day and caviar-level cat food. 

Half the benefit of taking his cat out is, actually, the social aspect of it all. For the cat, that is. Contrary to popular misconception, cats can be incredibly amicable creatures, and Meow himself has always been popular amongst dogs and cats alike. So Oliver’s happy to let him roam on a loose leash around the dog park, pouncing on every bird and sniffing at every toy poodle that looks while the dogs in question look like they’re going to have an aneurism. 

In the end, it’s not Meow that gets thrown off by a particularly agressive dog, but Oliver himself. It’s actually not even the dog that topples Oliver’s balance, but the toy hurled straight at his neck, causing him to choke on the splash of coffee that’s halfway down his pipes. The pup pouncing towards him after is just the cherry on top. “You’re fine, it happens,” he says to the stranger, offering a smile between recovering coughs. He’s alright, mostly, and Meow is certainly amused by the ongoing action. The biggest tragedy is the coffee of his that’s not dropped on the ground, half of it splashing on his olive Oxfords. “That’s a shame though,” he says as he looks down at his shoe. “You don’t have any tips on faux leather stain removal, do you?”

[mcrtyr]

hstarke​:

Open to: All Setting:  Some messy hole-in-the-wall club

Midnight and Hans is distinctively, unequivocally, remarkably, Earth-shatteringly drunk. He’s a view in sleazy cadence, misbehaving hair and glistening skin, a blinding contrast to the well adjusted businessman taking charge of his office until checkout time. After that, all that remains is the stark white shirt previously hidden under a suit, now free of a jacket and tie and the first four buttons, sleeves rolled up in makeshift comfort. 

It’s a well known dance, choreographed to the likes of those penned by the devil. He’d drank, and smiled and danced, talked and talked, drank even more, and entwined himself in groups of newfound friends all whose names he’d forget come sunrise.

One of them sits across him now, as Hans sinks back into a couch in the corner, head tilted back under the violet lights. He closes his eyes for a moment, if only to awaken. (Contradictory, he knows.)

Open again, those hazy blues find his companion again. Hans is restless, so he draws closer. 

“Why are you here?” He asks suddenly, words a little drawn out. Here, past bed time. Here, this gash right in the middle of New York City. Here, a club with no name but stories aplenty; an alcohol driven neon limbo. “It’s either really good, or really bad.” Hans smiles and shrugs then, thinking, Make it bad.

;

It’s pretty clear in that first moment he walks into the club that Oliver isn’t supposed to be here. He’s fresh from a dinner at one of those restaurants you can only clamor into if you know someone, eating with donors who Oliver likes the least but coincidentally happen to donate some of the most. They were about to start on their desserts (an opera cake that Oliver was actually really looking forward to, thanks for your concern) when the politician felt the buzz in his pocket, only to discover texts that were clearly meant for his husband. He considered ignoring them, but that annoying part in his gut, the one that romanticized the idea of playing savior, insisted otherwise, and he was excusing himself from the table in the next second. Oliver knew they would cover the check, anyway.

Which brings us back to the club, the one Oliver very clearly isn’t supposed to be in. For one, he looks ridiculous in his pretentious fucking brown suit, the one he spent twenty minutes deciding on this afternoon only to regret it instantly now. Also, he’s the most sober person by a mile, maybe a mile and a half, and it shows in both his demeanor and general body odor.

It takes him a surprisingly short amount of time to find Hans Starke, as if they’re cursed to each other, star-crossed in all the most visceral ways. There’s another man in barely-business-casual next to him, someone Oliver can only guess is a coworker, and the guy may look even worse than Hans. Oliver watches Hans lean his head back, eyes closed, and Oliver thinks great, Starke’s dead, once he calls the closest morgue Oliver gets to go home. 

“Hey,” he says to Hans’ friend. He grabs his wallet, fishes out four $20′s from it. “This should pay for the car ride home — unless you live in Brooklyn, in which case you can use it towards the downpayment on a new, less-gentrified apartment, you capitalist pig.” The guy seems to understand enough of that to grab the money and hobble away, leaving Oliver alone with Hans. Lovely.

In the next moment, Hans opens his eyes, very slowly but decidedly alive. Why are you here? Oliver snorts. “I’m a regular, is it not obvious?” he drawls. He pauses, sighing. “You texted the wrong Zafar, Gordon Gekko. Though I’m impressed you even managed to find your phone and remember the Latin alphabet in this state. Lucky for you, as it turns out I don’t want you to choke on your own vomit before I get to hear you call me Mayor Zafar.” A beat. “Maybe President Zafar. We’ll see.” 

He considers Hans then, and there’s no hiding the judgement in his gaze. “What now?”

[mcrtyr]

antiscicns​:

status: closed | @mcrtyr​

Seconds passed and added to the mounting tension behind his eyes. Leslie squeezed them shut for a few counts; hoping that the pressure would help alleviate the ache.

It didn’t.

The headache remained a constant when his eyes opened. Sights a tad blurry, they automatically shifted towards to a figure not too far away. Truth be told, he didn’t realize how openly he stared. Then when it clicked, a flush of embarrassment sank in.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to..” Words trailed off as he tried to clear the imaginary lump in his throat. “Want a scone? I got an extra and it’s got.. blueberries.”

;

It’s not like the stranger’s gaze on him is anything particularly new. Oliver’s used to being stared at — by reporters, by Conservatives, by airport security, among others. So by this point, he’s more than happy to meet that gaze, and when he realizes it’s friendly fire, he adds a smile with it. 

“You’re fine. This shirt is a little much, isn’t it?” he says with a light laugh. “I’d usually be all-for a peacemaking scone, but I gotta ask... do you know if it’s vegan?” He raises his eyebrows apologetically, as if to say ‘sorry to be that guy’. “I accidentally drank this oat creamer with sodium caseinate in it two years ago, and that’s a milk-based derivative. It gave me trust issues for years.”

[mcrtyr]

noravidal​:

a special deliveryfor: @mcrtyr​ ​​when: july 2nd, an hour after the police arrived where: outside the Mark Hotel

Nora’s escape to liberty hadn’t been as liberating. There were still people inside, her people unaccounted for, and Nora found it hard to stay away. At first, she had no plan whatsoever but after the arrival of the ambulance, the police and a few journalists, it was easier to blend in. It didn’t take a lot of convincing before the paramedics gave her the necessary equipment and something to do.

Far away from the flashing red and blue lights and the mob (pun intended), she spotted a figure sitting all alone in the dark. Her gaze softened, and it was hard for Nora to tell if there were any physical injuries, so she walked up to them with a blanket tucked under her arm, a bottle of water in one hand and her medical bag in the other, announcing her arrival by reaching out and urging him to take the water. “Drink.” Not a request. “Are you alright?” Not a request either, but a dumb question, all things considered.

;

“For the love of God, I don’t want another —” He turns over, interrupted by his own realization once he actually sees the drink. “Oh,” he says, a little caught off guard. “Sorry, I thought you were offering me more rum. You forget after a whole night at a rum event that non-alcoholic drinks even exist. Plus, you know. Weird night.” He smiles genuinely at Nora as he takes the water off her hands, taking the kind of big gulps from it that marathon runners are prone to doing. 

He doesn’t want to say it, but Oliver thinks perhaps the last time he saw Nora was at Benjamin’s funeral. He hadn’t spent much time looking at Nora, mostly preoccupied with his then-boyfriend’s emotional state, but he remembers the haunted look in her eyes, not unlike the one she sports now. Funny, the way another tragedy brings them together now, a morbid red thread between them. “I’ll be fine,” he says once he’s had his fill of water. “Some tall, dark, and psychotic man got good in me a few places with his knife, but hey, maybe that gives me an edge.” He nods to Nora, then: what comes his way must go back. “Are you alright?”

[mcrtyr]

@phoenixxreyes​

His feet rarely get sore in his Allen Edmonds, mostly because Oliver’s more-than used to spending the entire day running around at this point. Though his office is in downtown Manhattan, it’s not uncommon for him to dabble in some midtown and uptown throughout the day, maybe even making the commute to a whole other borough while he’s at it. Even on his stops, it seems like he’s still running (an object in motion will stay in motion, one of the many things from his science degree that haunts him still), until something or someone brings him to a stop.

The someone in question now — moving fast into him, crashing parts of their lunch into Oliver’s attire, all of which is probably Oliver’s fault anyway since he was staring down at his phone as he walked. “Oh, fuck,” he says, looking down at the stain on his shirt in dismay. “I have an interview in this building in forty minutes and I look like a walking Pollock.” He looks back up, and recognition dawns on him. There aren’t that many people in the city with pink hair, after all. “Wait, I know you.” But from where? Oliver pauses, trying to put a name to that face. “You’re...” It’s a bird name, but which fucking bird? “Raven, right? Vir’s… acquaintance? CNN?”

[mcrtyr]

@adamstarke

Oliver is a thirty-something vegan living in New York City with bleeding heart liberal tendencies, so predictably, he’s spending this Wednesday evening between the aisles of Whole Foods. He’ll tell you that he tries to avoid the ol’ WF because of the Bezos of it all, then something else about how shopping small and local at farmer’s markets is so much better for your carbon footprint, and maybe he would even give you a Marx reading or two to look into about how man has become detached from the commodities they’re exposed to — but at the end of the day, this is the only place in the tri-state area that carries Biena’s cinnamon crunch chickpeas, and so Oliver remains loyal. 

He’s hunched over a label in the freezer aisle, checking to see if soybean oil was used in the cauliflower gnocchi he’s considering. When he looks back up (and yes, with Adam it certainly is up), his favorite Starke is standing next to him. “Hey, Adam,” he greets. “Did Vir send you here to help me reach the top shelf of the bread aisle? Because like I’ve told him a million times, they put the carbs out of reach for good reason.” He nods, putting the gnocchi in his basket after it’s met his criterion. 

[mcrtyr]

@maureenkeaton

The Times building feels like the quintessential New York building, with its towering height and exterior made entirely of glass. It feels both modern and untouchable, a stark contrast from the Georgian-style architecture that Oliver’s own office suffered from. Despite the fact that his husband works here, he’s not usually one to hang around the building, preferring instead to meet Vir back at their apartment or at another location in the city. But last week’s crime scene at the rum event, one which both Oliver and Vir got caught in the middle of, definitely left them both a bit shaken, and so Oliver had insisted that he pick Vir up from the office if he was working late. 

Not that Oliver, with his coiffed curls and Martine Rose-designed outfit, had very much going for him in way self-defense, but it was the thought that counted. 

Vir, unsurprisingly, is a mess, running late with some scattered texts sent to Oliver — apologizing for making Oliver wait, some keysmashes, a few thoughts on what they need to buy from Trader Joe’s, a sentence in Hindi that was probably meant for his dad. Oliver doesn’t mind, and he takes a place leaning against the wall, content to watch the goings-on in front of him. It’s the point of the evening where most people have already left the building, so the stream of employees going in and out is barely a trickle, and Oliver gets to watch every person with a casual curiosity. He’s taken out of it by the sight of a familiar face, not his husband, but welcome nonetheless. She’s stopped, searching for something in her bag when Oliver interrupts her. “Hi there, Maureen, right?” he says, approaching her. “I think we met a couple weeks ago, my husband was hanging around your desk when I stopped by. Culture and finance, was it?”

[mcrtyr]

@intxication​

He wouldn’t say he’s skulking, but Zafar’s definitely keeping to the shadows as he steps out for a breath of fresh air. He can usually plow through three events like this in the span of a day without breaking a sweat, but something about the sour rum in his system has him feeling a little hotter than usual, hot enough to elicit the need for an excursion to the hotel’s back wall. It’s moments like this that he wishes he still smoked, if only to have something to do when he slips out like this. He settles for pulling out his phone, scrolling through some emails absentmindedly, marking them ‘Read’ when he knows they aren’t something he’ll care about. 

He jumps a little at the sound of noise. New York’s always been a loud city, busy and never-sleeping, but this particular corner of the world seemed to be at peace, or so he thought. He peers into the darkness, eyebrows furrowed, suddeny sensing that something may not be completely innocent. Unless he’s going crazy, he thinks there’s a figure there, a person lurking with him. “Hello? Is someone out there?” he calls. “Whoever you are, you shouldn’t be out here so late.”

[mcrtyr]

jinyoo·:

For Jin, Zafar was one of those familiar faces that gave him a bit of reassurance whenever they met. And even if they hadn’t been familiar with each other because of his father, Jin probably would’ve voted for him anyway, solely for the fact that he seemed like a genuinely good person.

“My dad was. I honestly can’t remember us not having rum in the house.” He replies, and after watching Zafar for a split moment, decides to finally try the rum himself. It’s a small sip, but enough for him to taste and he lets out an unimpressed hum. “It’s okay, I guess. I like a bit more flavor. Like Appleton Estate.” 

Still, he takes another sip, almost as to prepare himself for his next words. “I never thanked you properly for sending those flowers on dad’s anniversary. I’m sure he appreciated them. Wherever he is.” 

;

Political donors are usually just that — donors, cash cows, a means to an end. And though Zafar loves to tout the fact that he gets nearly 70 percent of his donations from small-dollar contributors (averaging exactly $27 per donor), there’s no denying the fact that the 30 percent has to coem from somewhere, and that’s where men like Jin’s father come into play. 

And then the elder Yoo died, leaving behind a junior who isn’t even grazing thirty yet in his midst. Zafar rarely has sympathies for the rich, but he can’t help but feel a little bad for Jin, especially since he's always been nothing but friendly to Zafar and his cause. Definitely an anomaly, as far as child CEOs go. 

“It was nothing,” he says with a wave. “They were more for you, than anything. My way of asking how you are without being too in-your-face about it. But with that being said,” he leans in, lowering his voice to something more tender, “how are you?”

[mcrtyr]

astrorahi·:

Open to: All

All night, he’d been keeping to himself. Mostly. As much as Rahi is capable to, anyway. An easy conversation here and there, a polite smile easily mistaken for something beyond. Breaking boundaries, as it turns out, is a far easier task than setting them. 

Intoxication, he’s found, is key in scenarios like these. In order to relax, to let go of all mechanical knowledge he knows to be at work; something is needed to silence his thoughts out. And so, standing out in the breeze and nurturing another drink, he’s on his way to oblivion — but not quite there, yet.

Still, Rahi carries himself lightly, cheeks a little flushed off the rum. He’s not a heavy drinker, and it shows. But when new samples are offered, he takes two.

“Now you have to drink with me,” he declares, sliding onto a vacant seat. The spare drink, ready to take. “I can’t say no to samples, and I was starting to feel like an alcoholic, just drinking them by myself.” Shrug, “I mean, I was a shot away from telling the bartender about all my life problems. That’s when you know, right?” 

;

Besides the luggage in his hand and his then-boyfriend by his side, Zafar had nothing to his name when he first moved to New York. People knew him well in Boston and recognized him around Oxford, but he was a faceless nobody in the streets during those first months in the Big Apple, and that contrast was jarring to him. He had no safety net, either. No program he was attending, no job lined up, no preconceived network to bounce off of. He was just an immigrant in his own country, another twenty-something in the crowd who wanted to change the world. 

But eventually, he did get Rahi back again. A little taste of Boston, a reminder of the early mornings he’d spent rambling to his college roommate about the way he was going to institute systematic reform, a friend. And even now, any room with Rahi in it makes his shoulders feel a little lighter. 

“Alright, but just one. This is technically a work event for me, I can’t start stripping on tables until the after-party,” he says. He takes half the shot, careful not to wince at the taste in front of the hopeful-looking bartender. I mean, I was a shot away from telling the bartender about all my life problems. He grins. “I think my husband does that sober,” he says, finishing the rest of the shot right after. “But now you’ve got me curious, what are these problems weighing you down? Too much gravity on this planet?” There’s a pun there somewhere — weight, gravity. 

[mcrtyr]

scnguineous·:

OPEN STARTER

“Listen, I don’t care how you gonna fix your shit, but you will. Details of your incompetence don’t interest me, there were weeks of preparation beyond a plan so simple that an average-intelligent monkey could have firgure it out, and with a social life like yours I highly doubt you were doing  literally anything more important with your time” the blond’s voice was gruff on the phone, the pitch was a little high due to the heat of the moment, but he didn’t mind being at outside.

“Fix it, or consider doing the world a favor and get sterilized avoiding human race to be exposed to your DNA” Nik commanded, hanging up the phone and tucking it into his pocket, the weight of the gun in his inner coat pocket seeming even heavier.

The man ran a hand through his hair, bringing the glass in the other hand to his lips, getting lost in the bitter taste as the long fingers took a cigarette out of the pack, placing it between the lips as he looked around “Has anyone seen my girl?”

;

Look at his International Affairs background  and you’ll see that Zafar will go on the record saying that he will almost always go for the policy that avoids intervention, true to his belief that the US has already done enough to fuck things up abroad. In personal matters, however? It’s always been a little harder for Zafar to stay in his lane, often getting into arguments he has no reason to start in the first place.

And anyway, it’s not like the man sitting next to him was making it all that difficult for someone else to overhear his meltdown. If Zafar had to guess, he thinks the guy works at a management consulting firm downtown. Those BCG assholes were always filled with more testosterone than anyone needed. 

The last question, though — Zafar’s feminist sensibilities can’t help but flare up a bit. “You should probably ease off of that overtly possessive vocab, pal. Your girlfriend or your wife, sure, but just your girl? It’s got a bad taste to it, comes off way too macho.” He takes a sip of the rum that he’s still trying to convince himself is good in an earthy sort of way. “Besides, it’s a big party. I’m sure she’s around, existing as her own person.”