#maxvargas001

[joelderby]

time: 23:05 p.m. location: max’s home status: closed for @maxvargas​ + @alessxdinatale​

“What I’m about to say,” he eyes Max briefly. “Just remember I love you, mate. No hard feelings.” There’s a brief pause, mouth stretching outwards into a tight-lipped smile. “But you can’t leave because you fuckin’ live here and you’d struggle to keep hold of a balloon; let alone a relationship.” His gaze shifts from one man to the other, index finger gesturing towards the tallest male of the three. “This one’s about you, Ale. If you end up calling this night off early, I’ll buy you a friendship bracelet just to burn it.” There was sincerity wreathed in as he spoke. These were the nights he relished most - the times in which he felt most human, most comfortable with the world as it was. “My time is precious. I don’t want to hear none of that Orty bullshit.” His opinion was common knowledge. Whilst he wouldn’t speak negatively in front of Aless, holding his tongue for Ofelia alone, he still believed it was crucial to declare. “Now, where’s the liquor?”

[coracovington]

time: 16:44 p.m. location: anchor management status: closed for @maxvargas​

In this room, she’s at the centre, toying with a neatly pressed napkin as her Tinder date rhymes off one success to the next. He’s as wealthy as he is arrogant - so he strives to portray. The all too proud owner of a lavish yacht, a maid Cora can only presume has been his mistress once or twice, and a lover of classical theatre. That is, whenever he’s not travelling to all four corners of the world in his private jet or telling women how feminism is a poison. That’s why she’s single, after all. She almost goes to question why he’d choose her of all his vast suitors but as she attempts to speak, lips parted, he raises his an octave higher; prompting Cora’s instinctual roll of the eyes and to disregard the comment entirely.              As time transcends, he offers a question he desires no answer to and leaves Cora to seek the neck of the champagne flute; bringing the liquid to her lips as she stains the rim with rouge. Perhaps now she knows why dating is not a reality she wished to live in. Even still, the bubbles on her tongue are a sedative; a distraction she accompanies with a brief observation - her eyes surveying a meld of freshly cooked food and unfamiliar faces.             Unfamiliar, that is, until one causes the hairs on her arms to rise and her throat to grow dry. She observes every angle, every contour, feels a pang in her chest that can only be summoned by memories so deeply rooted. He doesn’t look any less handsome, any less kind than what he did when she recalls him. Her date’s voice growing mute as her eyes settle on those that have recognised her too.