ACCESS DENIED

>> THEODORE CHOI ; >> THIRTY-ONE ; >> HACKER ; I THINK THERE'S A FLAW IN MY CODE / THESE VOICES WON'T LEAVE ME ALONE

[theodorechoi]

LOCATION: TIMES SQUARE’S 350-FOOT VIRTUAL WATERFALL  TIME: TUESDAY AT 10:30 PM  WHO: FOR @noravidal​

He can’t remember what he took tonight, but that doesn’t stop him from being absolutely certain that he’ll never take it again. There were uppers to help him code through the night, some downers to get his leg to stop shaking, more downers once he realized that his leg was still and it was everything else that was shaking, and an Advil or two when his head started to throb. Now, he’s dizzy, dizzy in a way that doesn’t feel like it belongs on this Earth. He’s ethereal, he’s intergalactic, he’s a rocket man, burning out his fuse up here alone. He’s so fucking dizzy.

Theo decides fresh air is going to be nature’s cure here, so he walks out his door (and fuck, did he ever close it?) and keeps walking wherever it feels right. Ends up here, still sick, still dizzy, with Times Square staring back at him. It’s nearly empty now, too early for tourists but too late for party-goers. 

When he finally stops walking, it’s to stare at gallons of flowing water that have suddenly appeared in front of him. He can’t figure out if this is a part of his terrible trip or if there’s actually a 350-foot waterfall in front of him. Either way, Theo takes a seat in the middle of the street, staring up as the water rushes down in front of him. He’s probably going to throw up. With that thought, he’s reaching for his pockets, fishing out the phone that’s probably been sitting in there untouched since yesterday. His vision swims as he’s greeted with a rush of notifications he can’t process, but after five minutes of carefully pressing buttons and swiping through contacts, the line rings out. Nora Vidal answers. “Hey, Dr. Doctor.” He can barely get out that single phrase without slurring the words, and it only gets worse as he goes on. “Let’s say, hypothetically, that I might be dying. What would you recommend I take for that?” He frowns at the water sloshing in front of him. “Also, do you know if they recently put a waterfall in Times Square? Cause I really missed a memo there.”

[theodorechoi]

LOCATION: INSIDE HANS’ CADILLAC CIEL TIME: NEARING MIDNIGHT WHO: FOR @hstarke

Hans has a drug problem (probably), a car in New York City (weird), and a Sunday night to kill. Theo has a drug problem (definitely), multiple cars in many other cities (eat the rich), and a lesbian friend who swears she’s got the best cocaine that Theo’s ever tried waiting for them. Together, they make the ideal crime-fighting duo; in other words, they’re perfectly equipped to brave the trek to Long Island, the home of many lesbian drug dealers, Theo’s included. 

They’re actually on their way back at this point, the supposedly-legendary blow secured safely in a primo Ziploc bag (one of those with a double-sealed strip, because lesbians know quality) as Hans breaks about four different traffic laws on their drive home. Theo’s content to ride it out, until he sees a sign in the distance that makes his pupils widen. “Yoyoyoyoyo, 24/7 Taco Bell on your right, I’m starving,” he says, as though he isn’t always. Hans, being the angel that he is, promptly follows orders, and they become the next in line. 

Hi, welcome to Taco Bell, what can I get started for you? He all-but crawls on top of Hans to get to the left-side window, giving him access to the microphone. “Hey, yeah, I’ll have a Doritos Locos Supreme, a Crunchwrap, a side of nacho fries, three Cinnabon Delights — oh what, those come in packs of two, don’t they? — make that five Cinnabon Delights, two fire sauces, two diablo sauces, a Baja Blast, and...” He looks up from where he’s kneeling on Hans’ lap. “You want anything?”

[theodorechoi]

jinyoo​:

Jin visibly grimaces as he watches Theo devour the gummies. When was the last time he’d had one of those himself? “I haven’t eaten, either, save for some coffee in the morning. I’ll take you out, if you’re hungry.” To a salad bar, maybe. Does he eat any vegetables - ever? He adds, but only in his own mind. It seems hypocritical for him to judge him for his eating habits, anyway, when he’s literally the one who’s handing him hard drugs. Even if it’s the best of the best, he figures it’s probably still bad for him. One day. 

“Sure. You’re the poster boy for sobriety.” He says instead, even though what he really wants to say it what does it taste like? But he doesn’t want to seem uncool by admitting that he’s never really danced with hard drugs before ( save for that one time in college ). It’s funny - he’s the one in a five-thousand dollar suit and he’s worried about what Theo thinks about him. Not so funny, if he really thought about the fact that it’s probably because he has no real friends. 

“Well, actually, I was going to ask for your hand in marriage next, but.” Jin replies with a quick roll of his eyes, one hand reaching into his pocket for his e-cig. “Don’t judge.” 

After a beat and a puff, he turns his attention back to Theo. “Wanted to pick your brain about something.” Another pause. “If you wanted to disappear - like really disappear, how would you do it? You know - no digital records, no nothing. New identity, new life and all that.” 

👾

Once again, like so many people in Theo’s life, Jin sounds like he’s taking on an almost paternal energy here as he asks Theo if he’d like to be ‘taken out for a meal’. It’s very much the same energy as a single dad trying to appease his kid on a custody weekend but not quite knowing where to start, and Theo can only raise an eyebrow. “I thought you bringing me these was you taking me out,” he says, plopping another gummy in his mouth delicately to ennunciate his point. “I would’ve saved more room for a main course if I knew this was just an appetizer.” He’s just saying shit at this point, but there’s no real truth to it, considering Theo’s always up for more food. He can’t remember the last time he defined himself as full, actually. 

“You’re setting yourself up for failure when you bring out something meant for consumption by thirteen year-olds in middle school bathroom stalls then ask me not to judge,” he says (judgementally). “What is it, mango-flavored?” 

And then they’re back, playing the roles they were born for, Jin as commissioner and Theo as loyal consultant. If he’s gonna be a boy genius, he may as well make something useful out of it. This question though — he’d be lying if it didn’t make him pause. “New identities don’t work,” he says first. “Back in those golden days of Gone Girl-ing you could get a birth certificate without any kind of problem because Social Security didn't cross-reference with the death record index, but they’ve tied up that loophole.” He rips into another gummy, chewing it thoughtfully, trying to hone in on the Snowden-esque info bouncing around in his brain. “First step is probably leaving the country. Get to Western Europe and migrate to Eastern, because their infrastructure lends itself to anonymity. You don't need any kind of identification or numbers linking you to accounts like electricity, for example, and it’s harder for Americans to conceptualize a country like Ukraine, they just wouldn't know where to start. From there it’s a matter of working off the books, maybe as a waiter or babysitter, and using prepaid disposable cell phones. No social media that you had before, no contact with anyone from your past. It's not the most fun way of living, but it's doable.” He shrugs, feeling he’s solved the mystery adequately. “But you know, it also all depends on who’s looking for you and how much money they have. And also if the possible disappearing act in question,” he gives Jin a knowing look, “could survive without a million-dollar apartment and fifteen-dollar kale.”

[theodorechoi]

LOCATION: OUTSIDE OFF THE RECORD TIME: EARLY EVENING WHO: FOR @maureenkeaton​

He hates hanging around politicians almost as much as he hates hanging around reporters — but alas, his love for primo blow takes precedent over any of that hatred, so he finds himself back at Off the Record once more. The guy he goes to for this particular strain always insists that Theo meet him here, probably because the rest of his clientele already frequent the bar, and so Theo, like the obedient little consumer he is, waits in the street in front of OTR and the deli right behind it. Wafts of dead pig clog his nostrils and the sweltering summer evening has sweat dripping down his back, all of which is to say that he’s not having a good time. His dealer said he’d be twenty minutes tops, but that’s suddenly feeling like multiple business days in these circumstances. 

It gets worse. Theo doesn’t know any of the people walking in and out of the bar or down the street it’s on, and it’s supposed to stay that way, but a flash of blonde hair and he lets out a groan. Not this one. “Keep it moving, Keaton. I know what your question is and you know what my answer is. Isn’t it almost past your bedtime, anyway?” 

[theodorechoi]

romerodiego·:

open to all on the day of the heist and at the mark hotel, you spot diego watching you through his reflection

Wearing no tie whatsoever, Diego found himself in front of a rather grande mirror in the hallway close to the bar. His blazer was bordeaux whereas everything else was kept black, glasses in place for his intrusive stare to hide behind. A waitress walked past with a tray carrying champagne glasses and he surveyed her for a brief moment through the mirror, wetting his lips at the thought of expensive champagne on his tongue. One of the reasons he so enjoyed events such as this one — he could be anyone and everyone, blending in with the rest or not, tasting luxury that was a norm for the rich and powerful surrounding him.

His eyes slipped back to his reflection, only to see someone stand behind him at a decent distance. Both brows were cocked at the face, his smile apparent in his words, and he did not turn around. “Don’t stare for too long or you might give my heart a bit of a rush.”

👾

Unsurprisingly, the longer the night stretches on, the more bored Theo’s gaze grows. He’s checking his phone a little too frequently, watching the minutes tick by until he can conveniently slip away and start the process of fading this place to black. When he’s not looking inconscpicuously at the tiny screen, he’s looking everywhere else. One thing you could never call Theo was sloppy, and he’s double-checking his work, dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s. But things are just how he remembers them: two cameras in that corner, three in the other, an alarm on that safe, a security guard with a walkie-talie in the hallways. All under Theo’s jurisdiction, all soon-to-be disabled. 

He’s lost in his thoughts, and he only comprehends that he was staring down a camera in a mirror when that mirror becomes occupied by someone else. “Sounds like a medical condition. I can give you my guy’s number if you want to get that checked out,” he says in his usual deadpan. “In the meantime, it’s a pretty big mirror, I think we can both handle it. I won’t tell Bloomberg we’re dabbling in the communist pasttime of sharing resources if you don’t.”

[theodorechoi]

araceli-aguilar·:

open to: all location: rooftop, the mark hotel

Araceli wouldn’t have considered the possibility of going to a party like this. She would have assumed – whether or not it was true – that it required you to either have a lot more money than she did or be in the know with the right people, which she wasn’t. But what she did have were a few behind-the-scenes connections who were willing to help her get in, not as a guest, but with her own little table in a back corner of the rooftop, draped with gauzy purple fabric and stacked with decks of tarot cards and business cards. 

The readings tonight were free, but she’d done more already than she usually did in a week, and handed out a business card with each one. Plus, she’d been handed a few complimentary drinks along the way, and she hadn’t had to pay for the space, so really, she was doing more than breaking even here. 

She smiled up at the next person to approach, set down her drink, and shuffled a deck. “Step right up!” 

👾

He’s a bit of an asshole, really. He doesn’t know how to let people speak when he thinks he knows better than them. He doesn’t play nice with people who are just learning something for the first time. He won’t entertain kids who believe in the Easter Bunny or Santa Claus. And when it comes to psychics, well – “They did a study. Let a psychic procure some visions about people, and then put some basic info, the kind of stuff the psychic would know, of those same people into an algorithim. They checked in yearly. After five years, whose predictions do you think were more accurate?” 

So maybe that’s what he’ll do when his time with the Syndicate inevitably expires. Code his way into reading the stars. 

Despite his overtly rude and more-than-skeptical greeting, Theo takes a seat in front of Araceli, giving them a once-over. “I’d love to get some lotter numbers or stock portfolios,” he says. “But if I can’t do that, your standard analysis will probably do the trick.”

[theodorechoi]

abelrousseau​:

Open to: All Location: The Rooftop Bar

“No, nope. Mm mm.” He smiling. It’s that big cheesy smile he does when he’s happily buzzed. It’s a place Abel likes to remain, out in public. Never really pushes the envelop there, because one never knows what might happen or what might be said. “There is never a good reason for cow print.” It’s unclear why he’s so adamant on this, but that was the last thing he’d expected to see, here.

👾

“This entire place is very -“ He waves a hand, unable to come up with the right adjective on the spot. Theo’s always been more of a wrter than a speaker, and always been more of a coder than a writer. “I don’t know. Can’t quite figure out the vibe of it. Sort of old, sort of modern, sort of sophisticated, sort of not-taking-itself-seriously. That and the subpar rum, very odd aura.” He looks up around them, to the things that almost resemble tiny disco balls populating the walls and the ceilings. “What do we think about these lights?”

[theodorechoi]

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?” 

👾

Once upon a time, Theo needed convincing to indulge in vices. Rather, he didn’t indulge in vices at all. He was a prodigy and a recluse and a loner, all of which is to say that he spent his teenage years soberingly, well, sober. But even MIT nerds weren’t immune to drug culture, and when Theo’s first ever group of companions offered him a high or two, he wasn’t exactly going to say no. 

Was it the drugs Theo wanted at the time, or any semblance of friendship that came with them? Doesn’t matter — he lost the latter and now only craves the former.

Theo’s tendencies towards drug abuse mean that he usually scoffs at booze. Drinking is a tedious process to him, too slow, too disorienting, unpredictable in its effects. He tends to keep the fuck away from alcoholic functions like this, the exception being when he happens to have a security system he can’t hack remotely. Fucking Mark’s. 

As far as drinking goes, Rahi’s certainly not a bad partner. Theo can’t stand dumb people, something that Rahi certainly isn’t, and that’s enough for him. “Save the convincing for someone who needs it,” he says. He takes the shot, holds it in his mouth a little as he swirls some around, then swallows. 

“Tastes like pondwater and arsenic. Let me know if you want to do another.” He turns to Rahi then, curious. “How much do drunker do you need to be to talk shop with me outside of work?” he says. “I was listening to this podcast, it talked about that paradox with the sky’s stars. Olson’s?” He pauses, reconsiders. “No. It’s Olbers’. Anyway, I’ve got my own determinations on it from a mathematical modeling standpoint, but I wanna know what you think.”

[theodorechoi]

theodore choi @ the rum launch party (02.07.21)

[theodorechoi]

leemalkovich​:

As soon as Theo opens his mouth, Lee is already satisfied with the answer. It goes into the pattern he’d hoped it would, and that is enough. He’s no honesty sommelier, so wherever Theo’s coded heart is at, is of no importance. Not now, anyway. 

Because now, all Lee can ask is, “Who the fuck is Tim Cook?” He shakes his head, “Alright, mate. I don’t actually care that much — just felt spicy for a second. You’re loyal. Yay.” 

He stands impossibly still, throughout the explanation of all he would never know. He blinks, slowly, but repeatedly. If this were a cheap Hollywoodian movie, Lee would already have bursted out something to the likes of, English, please. 

“Frankly, I do care. I just don’t fucking get it.” Now, onto what he does get: “Love the camera work. Keep that up.” Photographer to — fuck, he always forgets what Theo actually is. “Some improvements on the alarms, though. Could be perfect. Isn’t. B-minus.” Some easy joke surely to be placed here, of Malkovich’s desk being a good enough replacement for Cook’s. Whoever that is.

It would be easier to offer precise instructions in exchange for precise work. But secretive and careful as The Syndicate is, such details are best kept secret — until all their morbid stars align. 

“Say we want to break into something. Or somewhere.” He starts, tearing apart stale bread and tossing crumbs between them. “And you, my darling, are the one making sure no one knows we’re there.” Lee arches a brow. “Tall order?”  

👾

“Tim Cook. CEO of Apple. Oversaw market expansions to China and revolutionized tech globalization. Really, no?” Theo doesn’t mention that he also happens to be a close family friend of his mom’s. He figures not every fun fact needs to be shared, especially in the face of people waiting to exploit every possible crack — the less he reminds people about just how powerful his connections are, the better.

He doesn’t like being criticized, even when it’s deserved, and even when it’s not necessarily criticism. He especially doesn’t like it from people who have no fucking idea how computers work, who think he can just procure some improvements on the alarms out of thin air. The Ocean’s movie franchise really did do irreparable damage to the way ordinary people viewed hacking as a few little clickety clacks on a keyboard and then a renowned ‘I’m in’.

“Breaking into something. Or somewhere. With someone. On someday. For somewhy,” he recites with an eyebrow raised. “You know me, always willing to lend a helping hand. Might be a tall order, but I guess it’s a good thing I’m over six foot. Keep me in the loop on what you need from me.” 

He thinks that’s it. Theo has a job, like he usually does, and he’s going to do it well, like he always does. He’s about to turn away, call it an evening, make himself any less sober than he is now. He stops, though, thinks about the voice that’s been on the edge of his subconscious throughout this exchange. If you were so worried about me, what’s stopping you from pushing me out of the car’s way? Perhaps what he hates most about Izaak is his ability to ask the right questions. Theo’s not a mushy guy, not someone who lurks in the gooey tenderness of things, is far from sentimental — but if Theo has friends in this city, then Izaak and Úrsula qualify for that list, maybe, which in the very least means he’s been uneasy all night thinking about what revenge could actually represent for The Syndicate.

So the boy genius makes his dumbest move yet: “Are we going to kill them?” he asks. Theo’s eyes have always been heavy, but his gaze has a new weight as they look at Lee’s. “Is Walker a dead man walking?” He hopes the pun, at least, will appeal to Lee’s amusements enough to not land Theo in a grave of his own making over the question.

[theodorechoi]

timaelmasri·:

Tima: thought so

Tima: yes python. just a crawler, nothing big but i can’t get it right

Tima: mine or yours? or neither

Theo: flattered that you think i’ll get it right 

Theo: i will but you know. flattered and etc

Theo: mine if you bring the booze. and if all we’re doing is booze

Theo: ie no drug use in front of the dog. i’m not raising a degenerate

[theodorechoi]

izaakwalker·:

He’s bored. Listening to Theo lecture him always has been boring, even though it’s Theo’s favorite activity - condescending, drawling, not letting you forget that he’s the smartest person in the room. Other people let him finish because they care about what Theo has to say, because they asked him for the lecture, but Izaak’s never quite volunteered. Not now, not ever. Izaak hates him, but also rather adores him in these horribly depressing ways. They’re star-crossed, almost sentimental at times - though now is not one of those times.

“That’s dramatic,” he says once Theo finishes. “You’re being dramatic.” Izaak knows he’s going to end up dead. Not now, not this way - probably - but eventually, and more likely sooner than later. He accepted that fact in the same moment he stared at Christian’s lifeless body in front of him, and again when he found out hours later that the crown would be balanced on his head. 

That’s what they don’t tell you about men who play god - when you live like one, you die like one.

And anyway, Izaak’s never been scared of conflict. Conflict builds progress, he’s always believed that. “If you were so worried about me,” he says, attention still lingering on Theo’s words, “what’s stopping you from pushing me out of the car’s way?” Theo’s close, but that’s fine. Izaak can do close. It lets him see every expression, every wavering thought. “What’s stopping you from getting mad at them instead of me?” Then, Izaak shifts his strategy, just barely: “Do you blame me for the painting?”

👾

Izaak can do close; Theo can’t. The moment Izaak crowds his personal space Theo wants to cower away, throw a punch, flail his metaphorical spikes, something. Instead, he’s paralyzed into staying exactly where he stands. He follows Izaak’s eyes as they follow his, cat chases mouse and mouse chases cat. “You know, we’re almost the same height, but on that moral highground, you may have me beat,” Theo says coolly. “You know I can’t get mad at them. You know I don’t blame you. So where’s my lecture on hypocrisy, hm? I’m excited for it. You can be so articulate.”

There’s a reason he doesn’t answer that first question about pushing Izaak out of the way, and it’s the fact that his answer is this: I would if you would let me. Theo doesn’t care about many things, and he cares about even less people, but Izaak’s managed to score a spot on that lucrative list. Maybe he wants to put Izaak on a leash just like he does Gizmo, just to keep him at arms-length, suffocating him fondly every time he inches too close to death. 

“Make it short, though,” he continues. “I have work. So you’re either going to have to leave or sit quietly in the time-out corner.” 

[theodorechoi]

hstarke​:

“Oh, yeah. Perchlorethylene.” Hans’s eyes roll back at the same time that he laughs. “How did you ever get laid with that talk?”

Smoke goes in, and out. He focuses on it, all the while he leans slightly closer as to listen. 

Theo’s hand motions around them, then downwards, between their bodies. Hans’s gaze follows it close; waiting for an offer, a reveal. When his eyes do catch it, he snorts. 

“…You had it there for a week and didn’t touch it? Bullshit.” Teasing, laced with thick-cut envy. Hans can only wish that self-control were his — but years into this game, comes the darkened acceptance that it will never be. I’m planning on going sober. “Yeah, yeah. Me too.” Not entirely a lie, but certainly not the truth. Sober is a damned word, and a notion Hans no longer bothers seeking after. But keywords, hooks, and dates still linger, until they haunt. 

This is all I’m doing tonight, a limit already broken before dawn. All I’m doing this week, failed by Tuesday. Again, on Friday. All month, by the fifth. How come he can achieve, conquer, and overcome anything but this? 

“I probably have enough to match you.” Already, Hans is digging into his pocket, and into the folds of his wallet. With rehearsed ease, he produces a baggie not unlike Theo’s own. In a morbid sort of toast, Hans clinks it against his. “Once more, with feeling?” 

Then we’re done.

👾

He shrugs. For all that Theo does know, and that list extends to just about anything you can find embedded in 0′s and 1′, human interaction has never been a specialty of his, including but not limited to Hans’ own example of getting laid. Although — “Girls are surprisingly into the whole tech thing. Guess they want to bag the next Steve Jobs while they can still get stock dividends out of it, and I never mention that I’m more of an Elizabeth Holmes.”

And then, they’re in it, ready to engage in their own version of trading cards. I’ll swap you a Snort-lax for a Jiggly-puff. Theo’s never been a social creature, but getting high has always been the exception to that. There are nights all he wants is to take some speed at his desk and let his fingers try to keep up with his brain, but on other occasions loneliness counteracts any part of that sweet medicine, instead trapping him in his own delusions until he sees his mistakes on repeat. He thinks about calling his mom, sometimes, when he’s high by himself. Sometimes thinks about punching a second cop instead. 

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get sentimental on me now,” he says, opening his own bag slowly, careful not to spill anything. Powder gold, and all that. “Actually, what the fuck are we snorting this on? The sidewalk? My lap? The laundry machine my clothes are in right now?”

[theodorechoi]

mcrtyr​:

open starter !

Four years out of the campaigning sphere had made Zafar forget just how exhausting this all is. He knows what political research says about these kinds of races, knows that voter turnout is all about active campaigning, which means he’s been out on the streets on this too-bright Sunday since 5 AM, standing on various crowded street corners and approaching various strangers, trying to sell himself as a viable third-party candidate. Four years out of the campaigning sphere had also made Zafar forget just how pissed-off New Yorkers were — all the time, at every location, for no god damn reason. It makes him long for Massachusetts and that specific breed of New England hospitality, something that may not have been as genuine but it was certainly more charming. 

His sixth (or seventh?) location of the day is yet another bustling street, this one at the intersection of 60th and 5th, right by one of the entrances to Central Park. He’s got two interns a few feet away from him on either side, all of them with the singular objective of getting someone, anyone, to stop and acknowledge their existence. Easier said than done. Zafar doesn’t even bother looking at the next person rushing by him before he’s stopping them, hand outstretched with a pamphlet brandishing his name and picture. “Hi there! Do you have a moment to talk about the upcoming mayoral election?”

👾

He’s heard about Zafar in the same way you hear about an infamous distant cousin, only to be unimpressed by the person in the flesh. It’s not like Theo has any big destination in mind on this warm Sunday afternoon — it’s a miracle, actually, that he’s so far from his apartment at all, but he figured he’d treat Gizmo to a further excursion today than usual — but he’s still annoyed at the fact that he’s being stopped and approached. He tends to be annoyed at most things, if he’s being honest. 

Theo’s half-considering looking Zafar straight in the eyes and acting like he didn’t hear him, but Gizmo’s got other plans as he wags his tail excitedly and puts his tiny little paws on Zafar’s shins. For once, Theo wishes he had a deadly Rottweiler instead of the overexcitable wiener dog. “Do I have a moment? I guess,” he says. It comes out as a sigh. “Do I have a reason to? Probably not. You tell me.” 

[theodorechoi]

jinyoo·:

closed to @theodorechoi·

Most of his visits with Theo are usually business-focused — he runs into an issue, he brings it to Theo, he offers a solution (though admittedly he doesn’t always understand said solutions). Today feels more like a social visit,   because he comes bearing gifts, and not problems. Plus, his question for Theo today is something a little more hypothetical, potentially a little more dangerous.

“Have you eaten?” is his first question when he sees Theo, handing him his bag of gifts at the same time. “There’s a bottle of wine in there — it’s Le Pin — Haribo gummies and, oh.” He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out an envelope, holding it out for the other to take it. He’s learned over the years that there’s no better way to say thank you than a check and some primo blow, both of which are sitting neatly in the envelope.

“Just to say that I appreciate everything you do.”

👾

“Why does everyone love to ask me that?” Have you eaten? Have you slept? Have you been exposed to sunlight? Just because the answer is usually ‘no’ doesn’t mean that everyone has to suddenly take on the role of paranoid mother the moment they see him. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t. It’s not even noon yet, give me a break.” On cue, he breaks open the Haribos, holding the bag at its base as he dumps a half dozen in his mouth at once. There’s a kind of elegance in the way he demolishes chewable sugar — it’s practiced, precise. 

Up next, the envelope. He’s got a good feeling about what’s inside, confirmed the moment he opens it up. “I should’ve told you, I’m trying out sobriety for a change. I’m sixteen hours in, it’s really been life-changing. Kumbaya and all that.” And yet. He puts a bit on his pinky finger, rubs it against his gum, then hums in appreciation. “Oh shit, this is pure. Feels like a juice cleanse.” He stashes it back in the envelope with a shrug. “Sober after this, then. A vegetarian isn’t going to say no to wagyu, you know?”

He leans back against the bench they’re seated on, giving Jin an expectant once-over. “So what, this is all you wanted to meet about? Give me some gifts, ask about my eating habits? Are we doing ‘how was your day, dear’ next? ‘Cause I might have to take some more of this,” he holds up the envelope, “if that’s the case.” 

[theodorechoi]

timaelmasri·:

Starter for: @theodorechoi

Tima: hey

Tima: if I have to look at my screen for any longer I thinkI’m going to throw up

Tima: do you wanna go and get a drink or something. Or justcome over and do this for me?

👾

Theo: always a yes to drinking 

Theo: maybe/maybe not to doing it for you. depends on how much alc is my reward

Theo: what are u working on? in python, y/n?

[theodorechoi]

hstarke​:

Hans’s demeanor is light, almost breezy — until Theo strikes right where he knows will hurt.

(A light discomfort is more like it, but Hans is nothing but dramatic.) 

“Oh, that’s how you’re playing it?” Asshole. “Fuck it — while I’m at it, I’m suing you for libel. Yeah, I know words.” And though that might not be the right one, his point still stands. Whatever his point is, anyway. 

A mother’s teachings isn’t something Hans is well-versed on, be it in reality or through movie screens. Something, something, don’t lie, don’t do drugs, don’t take sweets from strangers. Done, and done, and done. 

And like the terrible thing he is, Hans smiles through the title, claiming the spot on the curb next to Theo. The suit and tie suddenly look out of place here, but not that he minds. New Yorkers have surely witnessed far more head-turning scenes, especially on a Friday night. 

“Some would argue it’s already rotten,” he offers, draining the cigarette for all a drag is worth; smoke slowly releasing through every word. “And you know what they say: it’s always brunch somewhere.” 

Hans shrugs then, palms skyward as though to motion their setting. “Guess I’m staying.” Any mention of his home, however, goes ignored — far from a palace, but certainly comfortable. And comfortable was all he’d aimed for. “No-pe, but tomorrow is taking-shit-to-the-dry-cleaners day. Do you just hang outside that, too? We could do lunch.” Or brunch, or whatever new thing serves as an excuse for the latest bad habit. Speaking of which: “Taking a walk,” he finally explains his presence, eyes following each car that speeds by. “Maybe taking something. Haven’t decided yet.” There’s a silent implication there somewhere, and an extended invitation should their metaphorical dice roll onto its favorable side. No rigs. “What’ve you been up to? Trouble?” 

If only on his tongue, it rings as a positive.

👾

Do you just hang outside that, too? Theo snorts. “Funny,” he says, because it’s nice to clarify his thoughts on the matter — he’s not much of a full-belly laugh kind of guy, more a fan of small smiles and private amusements. “I’ve never dry-cleaned something before, but I am a fan of perchlorethylene, so I’d be honored to see it at work.” Of course, when he says he’s never dry-cleaned something before, he means he, Theo, has never done it with his own bare hands, paying no attention to the countless number of times that people dry-cleaned things for him when he grew up with that gold spoon shoved down his throat. But it doesn’t do anyone good to reminisce on that.

Theo didn’t exactly sit down on the curb with the intention of turning this portion of the street into an opium den, but with Hans smoking next to him and offering something stronger still, he’s willing to let it happen. “If you’re up to take something, I’ve probaby got an offer in my wallet.” He reaches back, pulls it out to check. “Yeah, here, week-old snow.” He looks up at Hans with a curious gaze. “I’m planning on going sober at the end of the month anyway.” How many times has he said that by now? “Might as well use this all before giving it up. At least it’ll make listening to my boring-ass week a lot more interesting for you.”