𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐅𝐗𝐑𝐄 / dependent muse blog affiliated with boneyardfm, regarding the following as written by jay, maxim crane. jasper kang.
trying on a metaphor

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
One Nice Bug Per Day

JBB: An Artblog!
Sweet Seals For You, Always

★
wallacepolsom

@theartofmadeline
🪼

Origami Around
Cosmic Funnies
styofa doing anything

No title available
No title available
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
AnasAbdin
todays bird

Kiana Khansmith

if i look back, i am lost

祝日 / Permanent Vacation

seen from Netherlands

seen from United Kingdom

seen from Malaysia
seen from Sweden
seen from Serbia
seen from Paraguay
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom

seen from Russia
seen from Germany

seen from Italy

seen from T1
seen from France
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from South Africa
seen from Greece
@thoroughfxre
𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐅𝐗𝐑𝐄 / dependent muse blog affiliated with boneyardfm, regarding the following as written by jay, maxim crane. jasper kang.
location: manor suites
date: evening, march 20, 1997
@thoroughfxre
Romi had just been officially kicked out of her apartment. After her argument with Drake outside of the gates, her father had arranged a car to drive her to her place and she was given 'five minutes' to gather the things she needed. While she'd been trying to move quickly, she should've fucking known that there was always a catch. She'd filled up a bag with some essentials: her tooth brush, some clothes, her favorite gift that Meera had gotten her, and she was in the middle of collecting some of her makeup when the guard that had brought her announced to her that her 'five minutes were up' and it was time to get out. She'd tried to argue but when they'd threatened to physically remove her, she walked out of the apartment. Then she watched as they proceeded to change the locks on the door. She didn't know what the fuck she was supposed to do.
For one, she needed something to help her focus so she could figure out what the fuck her next steps were. As she began to wander, her duffle bag over her shoulder, she took out the small spoon from her necklace and took another bump of coke. Sure, perhaps it was reckless but what the fuck did it matter now? At least she didn't have to keep up appearances. As she put her necklace back together, she had a thought: Max! (Perhaps the coke had worked after all). She and Max lived in the same building! She'd just go crash with him. Besides, as much as she wanted to see Meera, she knew she couldn't show up on her doorstep, not at the hotel and not like this. But Max would take her in (hopefully) and he wouldn't judge her too much...right?
It took her a bit but she finally made her way to his front door, knocked, and prayed he was home. When the door finally opened, she said "You have no idea how glad I am to see you."
He's only just walked through his door, too busy attempting to figure out the chain of events of the afternoon, for some sort of information regarding the Vitelli press conference -- the only thing he knows is what every other fucking person in the city knows; nothing. As far as Maxim is aware, Francisco's been shot and his body is in the early stages of death. From a business standpoint it's a complete shitshow, he's sure his family's running around with their heads cut off attempting to manage it all, but that's quite honestly the last thing he's worried about. Perhaps it's selfish, but Maxim Crane has hardly ever been anything but, he's more worried about the fact that they won't let him see him, that they won't let him at the very fucking least say goodbye. It's ripping him up, getting to him in a way nothing really has in a long time, so when he sees Romi Weiss standing at his door, he thinks maybe she's heard, maybe she's come to check on him, that he's got at least one friend he can count on amongst the sea of sycophantic fucks he surrounds himself with.
Except - she seems off. No, not just off, she seems tweaked the fuck out. All the telltale signs, twitchy and dilated pupils, her tone indicating something's going on. Does he really have time for this? No, not particularly, in fact he's about three seconds from going off the deep end himself, but he lets her in because this company seems better than no company at all, left alone with his thoughts. He opens the door a little wider, of course he does. "Well, I'm glad someone is." He greets with a sarcastic little smile, one that doesn't quite reach his eyes, has spent too fucking long calling around all afternoon. He notices the duffel when she walks in, glancing back up to her face. "I’m assuming Daddy’s wedding went well. What the hell is that?"
CLOSED FOR @bloodyglcry, PETRA + JASPER. the motel.
He's not expecting her -- or anyone, really. Least of all his ex-fiancée, especially when the room looks like this. Takeout and paperwork, dirty fucking clothes on the ground, he's been living like a hermit for almost a week -- he's been investigating some things, a bigger picture than he could have ever imagined coming out of Vegas. Papers layered over papers, maps pinned crooked into drywall, names circled and recircled until the ink's torn through. Strings that almost connect. Vegas carved into pieces and rearranged until it looks like something he can understand. And at the center of it, half-covered, like he hasn't decided whether to bury it or chase it, is the very woman standing at his door now. The woman, for all intents and purposes, years of no contact, he still loves.
"Um," Is the grand greeting he gives her when he opens the door, freshly showered (thank God), donning a stupid graphic tee he'd stolen from some aquarium gift shop years ago and a pair of sweats. Jasper isn't usually a man who embarrasses easily, but there's still a want to impress her whether he likes it or not, and the state of his living situation is certainly not doing him any favors. Jasper peeks out around her, as if scanning the area for anyone else. "How did you know I was staying here?" He asks, entirely confused - he doesn't think, in all of his time knowing her, that she's ever sought him out for anything. It makes his pulse quicken and his brows pull together. "I mean. You know. Hi."
CLOSED FOR @mcdesties, MEERA + MAXIM. vitelli estate.
When he was a teenager, he'd find himself here far more often than he truly needed to be. Practically begging his father to bring him along from New York on his trips, rose colored glasses running amok in the streets of glittering Vegas, far younger than any growing boy should be sneaking out and about. He hadn't been so privvy to the underworld of it yet, of the dirty hands his family had acquired whilst working for the Vitellis. Maxim, back then, had two main objectives: to be wanted and to be seen. The Cranes had essentially grown up side by side with the Vitelli children, their families working together for longer than Max has even been alive, and it shocks him even now as he walks down familiar halls that some things truly never change.
Except that's not quite true. Maxim is a grown man now, so are his siblings and the Vitelli heirs. Relationships have grown and changed, legacies broken and started anew. Those rose-tinted glasses have been off for some time now, all too privvy to the dangers working in and out of the sewers of this city and the chaos of the last few months especially for the family he works for. Perhaps it's a testament to his own self-involvement that he hasn't checked in sooner, wrapped up in his own downfalls and heartache, but it's incidentally Romi Weiss's previous appearance at his home that's pushed him here now. Their relationship's been one of his more well-kept secrets, Maxim can keep his mouth shut when he has to, thank you very much. Between that and the chaos of the last few months, needless to say, this meeting is overdue.
"There she is." A small, classic Maxim smile offered in greeting when he finds her, leaning in to kiss her cheek, affection he's always given freely. His usual peacocking has no place here, as he sits beside her it's with the genuine caring of a close friend. "I'm sorry it's taken me so long to check in. Granted, you've been having your fair share of busy days, given-" a short wave of his hand, as if it can all be explained in the very gesture - Augustu's death, Franco's "death", the very task of keeping things in order falling upon her and Alessandro's shoulders - so really, just hers, and Jimmy's, of course. "Everything. How are you holding up, honey?"
The Magic Beach Motel was as much of an enigma as the rest of the seedy motels with no vacancy signs littering the Strip, she could imagine. Business was dealt through all hours of the evening, particularly after she could not feel the sun on her skin anymore, and she shuffled by with her head down to signal that she was out of sight, out of mind. Most people would feel unsafe in a rundown space like this one. However, Vyvyan had been living out of them through a chunk of her adolescence and subsequent adulthood. Homecooked meals were anything that could be transplanted from a box into a single pan, and if that had run dry, then takeout was the next best thing. She stayed up late reading her books, and fell asleep when the migrating birds outside the windows called.
It was home, and home had become this vicious entity, lately.
Clear polished fingernails dug into the back of her hand, after she ran her fingers through her hair, promptly followed by the swish of her fine brush with the wooden handle, fluffing it one last time when it was discarded to the worn counter of the bathroom and a mirror that laughed at her inability to see her own reflection, as if she were the dreadful creature that the same ones who stole it from her were after. Prim fingers tussled with the tendrils of blue fabric that preened from beneath the big bow at the back of her head, pinching the hem of the brown off-shoulder sweater then and pulling it downward to smooth any trace of wrinkles away from it. Satisfied with her appearance after another sweep of mascara against her lashes, the Louboutin heels with the red stripe beneath that she had scrounged tips for two years to afford lightly hit the floor as she retrieved the shawl thrown over the table by the door to cover her arms in the nip of a desert's night, she exited the motel room.
The repugnant scent of copper pennies overwhelmed her nose and, in spite of her manners, she caught her hand underneath her nostrils — her astoundment is soundless, as after all, she remained to be a lady. Nor did she think the company five feet in front of her would care for their noxious odor to be aired out in a litany of grievances. Hey, Ms. Bing. With all the casualness that turned her stomach into knots, and not in the good way, Vyvyan stood straight as an arrow and clutched both hands around the top of her cane, the smile faltering just so, as does the resolve in her company's voice. "...Mr. Kang? Are you... unwell?" She should have bitten her tongue — damn that lounge singer's bleeding heart, as she had already wasted one of her nine lives to bleed out in a ditch somewhere outside of city limits. Clearing her throat in return, almost mimicking him, she answered politely, "Meeting company, actually... But company can wait if there's something you need? I have medicine... or bandaids."
Are you unwell? An understatement of the year, actually. He thinks one of his lungs might be bruised, that or a rib's pierced it, low wheezing every time he so much as takes a breath, and he does not have the money for a hospital. He sighs a little, thought he'd gotten out of a longer conversation considering she can't fuckin' see, but he supposes other senses really are heightened when you lose one of your others. To her credit she tries very hard not to be rude, which is nice, but far from his list of worries is her inclination to keep up a friendly rapport - in fact, he might wish she'd just done the poor taste option and kept on her way.
"Nah, just another Tuesday, really," he drawls, leaning over on the railing to take some of the weight off of his feet. His head hangs between his arms, eyes closing for a moment, she's clearly sharp as a knife as she offers help, polite and to the point. He's so used to patching himself up, this shouldn't be any issue really, but truth be told he hasn't had a beat down this bad in years - well, since Vincent died. Some help that doesn't include him walking his ass into an ER might be exactly what he needs. Sure, Wren is a nurse, but he doesn't need him fretting more than usual. Really, he's fine. Jasper takes a moment to consider the offer, and in the end, for fucking once, he puts his pride aside, and manages to keep a steady tone when he says, "Only if you're sure. I'd hate to hold you up."
WREN HAD LONGED FOR A REUNION WITH HIS BROTHERS, BUT WHEN HIT WITH THE REALITY, HE DIDN'T FEEL THE IMMENSE JOY HE WAS EXPECTING. It almost felt like it would've been better if he had never seen his brothers again, even though he is grateful Jasper is alive. But knowing that Jasper has been alive and well this whole time and willingly chose to not see him or let him know, hurt him more than he could express. He was left to shoulder his father's expectations alone, thrust into a role he never wanted, and without the familiar figures to lean on.
"You couldn't call-- couldn't write." He whined, craving answers from his older brother. He was being vague, and Wren didn't deserve that. He lived as an only child for two years and deserved to know what happened to his older brothers, especially considering only one has emerged from the grave. "And where is Vincent?"
Ros wanted me back. A sense of hurt flashed through his features at his brother's words. Jasper came back because of Rosalin and their slayer duties, not because he missed Wren and wanted to see him again. The feeling lingered as he asked about the raid--- his mind flashing back to finding Dan in the alleyway as he hid from the action. "Dan got injured, but he should be recovering well." He crossed his arms and muttered almost under his breath, "I knew that raid was a bad idea."
He's frustrated, rightfully so. Jasper has been gone for years, taking Vincent with him, leaving Wren alone against their father's cruel ambition and putting him in a spotlight Jasper had tried to keep him out of since they were children. Sure, it eats at him, the constant flitting thoughts for months about how Wren might be doing, if he was okay. Their father was a bastard but at least Wren was safe, not rotting in motel room to motel room like Jasper was. At least, that's what Jasper had told himself, among the many other things to make himself feel better about the whole situation - that it was protecting the family he had left if he didn't reach out, that he might be being tracked, that this was the way things had to be. Ge didn't think their dad would actually put Wren up front in the passenger seat, he thought if any of them had the chance to get out, it would be him.
"Like I said, it's a long story. I didn't think it was safe to reach out." Jasper's own tone falls flat, a more serious note that falls when Wren asks the fated question he doesn't think any amount of time could prepare him for: Where is Vincent? Jasper's gaze falls to the floor, a sort of pained pull to his brows. It's his fault, he knows that, but he can't tell Wren that. He can't lose the one brother he has left. "He's..." Jasper starts, then stops, exhales hard through his nose. "He didn't make it out. I almost ended up the same way, but I got out in time and I thought lying low was my best bet. I'm sorry." He hasn't even told their father yet, had gone right to Wren when he touched down in Vegas, and if this reunion isn't as he imagined, he knows for damn sure that one won't be either. "Yeah, that's because it was a bad idea. Everyone got their asses kicked for no reason." He sighs, frustrated too. "Look, I'm here now. I'm not going anywhere. I promise."
OPEN STARTER
@ the weiss wedding @boneyardstarters
Sunny had the luck to be someone’s- someone desperate- plus one. Dressed in traditional Gujarati clothing, though dark blue in color so as to not attract too much attention, he was flitting about the dancefloor hoping his date would soon return so he could dance. His eyes were bright with anticipation. And while he knew this was not an Indian wedding, he could not help the eagerness and excitement to dance to every single song.
At some point he couldn’t take it anymore, he held a hand out to the first person he saw and announced: “Please accept me as your dance partner, I am simply dying to twirl.”
Sunny, Yasmin found, was aptly named. No doubt they were here for different reasons despite being under the same affiliation. He’s kind, as bright just as the sun is, drawing eyes from all over the room while his date - some rich asshole, no doubt - disappeared somewhere, rude and disrespectful. She kept eyes on her own, also disappeared somewhere but she’s fully aware he’s chatting up some bridesmaid somewhere, again, disrespectful like grimy men are known to be. If she cared more she might cause a scene, as it were she’s not here for him. She wonders, not for the first time, why exactly Sunny has landed in this profession - it’s not glamorous, worth equated to riches, but Yasmin’s also not one to pry. The less she knows about the people that find themselves close to her, the better.
Yet despite herself, there’s a a small smile that plays on tinted lips as he reaches his hand out to her and asks her to dance. It’s amusement in her dark eyes, not an altogether outright no, she just likes to make them work for it. A raise of brows, humor in her teasing tone, “We’ll upstage the bride, Sunny. Are you sure you can handle me?”
There was something undeniably ironic about emerging empty-handed from The Underworld. Even Persephone got her pomegranates and mommy issues to carry back to springtime. With no notable boons or coins to show for her passage, Victorine had quickly tired of the venue and the grit it had a penchant for leaving under her fingernails, bitter aftertaste pilled under her tongue. She had made good on her promise to play abstinent and keep to herself, fortified mind and pockets alike, staunch in what would prompt either brimming source to crack and spill. There was automatic satisfaction in knowing the clientele would not encompass certain bodies. But even placation had limits. A ticking timebomb device, paused for convenience, just needed friction to relight the fuse.
She trails behind an obnoxious group of misfit couples, vampires and star-speckled meats flirting with carnal sins, contemplating desecration when the shrapnel of their sloppy exit runs red. Like unsuspecting moronic tourists activating a booby-trapped descent, the personified incoming flail is impossible to miss. The air smells like them, their smoky voice smithed with surfeit edge. A molten unfelt center, cast in brutality. Lux, a would-be psychopomp figurine fitted outside the club, on a warpath for kicks. Victorine recognises the animal in the doorway and refuses to adopt it. If she closed her eyes and drank acid – the solvent for organic matter, not the party kind – she might have been able to tolerate scratching their itch, giving over easily to the quench of low hanging fruit. A drought, devouring the first rain in months. As it was, with only two muddled cocktails and a vow of reputation to leave intact, she was too sober to take on the temptation as anything but flimsy inflammation. Force of habit dictated the ruse was impossible to completely ignore nonetheless, the costume of a low-radar disposition damned by the wearer’s less savoury constitution. She let such urges linger on the way out: to inspect the flesh, appreciate how bait hung on the lure, however shallow, but not desire the bite.
Victorine’s answering smirk is sardonic and lazily spread, a halfhearted warning which only lightly carries into her voice, “Watch your tongue, baby.” Her forward-facing momentum slowed but did not cease. Just because her voyage with Charon and the chance to evade sin city had long expired before tonight did not make the river’s mouth any less landscaped by slippery slopes, “Your brooding is insufferable enough in silence.”
Possessed by a figurative push (push and pull, give and take), Victorine shrugs. Reason, a pendulum peeling away from one polarity to entice the next, shifts her weight. “Besides…” unwilling to fully disengage, unable to let clean breaks breathe without prodding the open wound for infection. Victorine’s head turned, a bare minimum effort rotation which permitted her a last look, the consequential side-eye so severe she feels her pupil ache against the socket’s perimeter, “You couldn’t handle it.”
Lux lets her get a few steps before they move. Not forward, just enough to peel themself off the wall, the bottle knocking lightly against their thigh as they straighten. The adrenaline hasn't burned off, just shifted shape, gone from something sharp and immediate into something slower, meaner, coiled up under their ribs like it's waiting to see if it'll be needed after all. They watch her over the dim spill of neon, that lazy smirk, the way she doesn't quite stop but doesn't quite leave either. Lux's tongue presses against the inside of their cheek, jaw working once, twice, like they're deciding whether to let it die or drag it out. In the end, they almost always bite. "Yeah?" they mutter, voice low, scraped raw. "That's funny. You stuck around long enough to find out." There's no heat in it yet, not really, just that dry, dirt-under-the-nails edge, something observational more than reactive.
It's not the insult that hooks them, though, it's the implication. Predictable, what you see is what you get. Lux can feel it, the backslide, nights like this pulling them closer to a version of themself that was easier, uglier, simpler, less thinking, more breaking, a dog at the heels of the Vitellis, now domesticated, running with the Cats, suffocating. Their grip tightens slightly around the neck of the bottle before they loosen it again, rolling their shoulders like they can shake it off. "You walking away or just talking shit from a safe distance?" they shoot back, finally pushing off the wall for real now, closing a fraction of the distance, not enough to crowd, just enough to make it intentional. A faint tilt of their head, something almost amused ghosting through the irritation. A humorless laugh, uncaring for the crowds around, taking a long swig of the beer before tossing the bottle to the ground, muttering, "Pussy."
an outing to the underworld was only out of deepened curiosity. it’d been a while since kalyani visited a nightclub. not that it ever interested her to begin with. despite that, it only lasted an hour... or two. the woman has lost count of how long she has been away from home.
watching from the sidelines from the entrance ( and exit ) of the nightclub, kalyani’s lips formed a straight line. wow. they seem fiesty, she pondered. this was about to be eventful, so she’d stay to see how long that would last. should the affluent woman even butt herself into the situation, or stay quiet, intrigued by what’s happening?
“this must be tiring for you,” kalyani blurted out of nowhere. the tone in her voice was not interpretable, really, though she tried her best to hide a quiet laugh from slipping— clicking her tongue with a tsk. “that ... or you’re looking to cause a scene. you cannot fight everyone that bumps into you now, or can you?”
Their attention stays fixed on the space where the guy disappears, like if they stare hard enough he might come back and give them what they were already halfway to taking. The adrenaline's there, humming under their skin, sharp and restless, but it has nowhere to go now - now it just sits, sour and unfinished. Lux exhales through their nose, slow, like they're trying to bleed it out without using their fists. Then the voice cuts in, so calm, so observant. Lux turns their head just enough to catch her in their periphery, eyes narrowing slightly, cigarette gone cold at their feet. "You're real observant. Got any more wisdom for me?" they mutter, voice rough, unimpressed and sarcastic. It's easier to default to deflection and bite because the alternative is admitting she's not wrong.
Because it is tiring. The constant edge, the way everything feels like it's one wrong touch away from snapping, the way nights like this drag them backward into a version of themself they thought they'd buried somewhere between the desert and a grave that didn't take. They roll their shoulders again, like they can shake it off, but the tension stays lodged under their ribs. Lux finally looks at her properly, something flat and assessing in their gaze, deciding whether she's worth the effort. A faint, humorless twitch pulls at their mouth, but they've already given up on the whole fucking thing. "Dunno, are you trying to be next in line?"
CLOSED STARTER, ROMI + ELIAS. flashback thread, magic beach motel. february. late.
Tonight isn't about nostalgia - though it doesn't help that these places bring back flashes of bad memories, living in cruddy motel rooms waiting for someone to notice him, but he can let those things press into just the edges of his memory now, not enough to throw him off his game but unmistakably there - tonight is about righting wrongs. It's about numbers, and Elias doesn't make those types of mistakes, doesn't misplace precious product, which means one thing. Someone fucked up. Which also means, of course, that Elias is the one who's going to fix it.
He keeps it quiet for now, because he knows he can track it - which leads him here. He stands just outside one of the motel doors for a moment, listening, not to the voices inside, but to the silence between them. Then he knocks once, unhurried. The door opens, and for a second, it's almost funny.
Not because anything about this is actually amusing, but because of the sheer coincidence of it. The Weiss daughter, standing in a place like this, looking at him like he's the one who doesn't belong. Elias leans his shoulder lightly against the doorframe instead of stepping in, posture casual and deliberate. His eyes flick once past her into the room, quietly and instinctively taking inventory - who's inside, what's out of place, what's missing. What's his.
Then his gaze settles back on her. Carefully blank, not a lick of shock or disgust on his visage, though make no mistake he's feeling both beneath the veneer - the understanding between the two of them that now, he knows who she is. Elias straightens slightly, one hand sliding into his pocket as he studies her more directly now, weighing options in real time. He's not here to make a scene, not with her. Not here to drag her back to the manor or report her to anyone who would use this against her. That's not how he plays the game.
Instead, he peers in, as though she were hardly there at all, searching for the motherfucker that stole from him. In lieu of a formal greeting, his voice is low in cadence and absolutely not in the mood for bullshit. "Where's your friend?"
Francisco didn’t plan on staying long, wrapped in the responsibility of showing face for the family, his first charity event with the title of don marked something glaringly important. He walked into the event, as expected, with Roxanne Zuzen on his arm, his consigliere not far behind. He shook hands, made introductions, a slow and steady movement across the open space, pleasantries, eventually getting separated from her, going off to entertain her own audiences; he supposes his conversations are boring to someone like her who’s all about the glitz and glamour, she doesn’t have the business mentality, doesn’t enjoy flitting between the two worlds. Franco tends to find the balance, can enjoy the bullshit and the gossip, but he isn’t built to make it the heart of the event, has to be done tastefully in side-bars, leaned close and whispered under their breath, while she likes it loud, a statement, and to be the very center of the room. He’s determined in their short time together, that they couldn’t be more different. Admittedly, the parts of her he enjoys most are primarily the parts that remind him of someone else.
Of course he sees him when he enters, feels his presence like a magnet, ignores the sensation of his eyes on him, drawing himself further through the crowd, another drink, anything to not have to think about it, about him. Two months came and went, the presence of someone new and consistent in his life and in his bed only managing to make him somehow feel sicker. He doesn’t sleep, he drinks more, barely leaves the office; it is truly, he finds, his first real heartbreak. How foolish is it that it happens as he nears thirty years old, the horrible detached feeling of a break-up that never was even truly a relationship, fifteen years of kinship doomed from the beginning, lost in a weak moment of tender words and honesty. It’s bitter and harsh, leaves a bad taste on his tongue just to think of it, his presence like an open wound, prodding and picking at the scabs, too entwined in work and in life to ever fully escape him. It’s a prison, it’s hell, and at the end of the day, it’s the bed he made.
Most of the night passes uneventfully, the same bullshit as always, polite smiles, useless banter, friendly quips bubbling from the bottom of champagne glasses. It feels endless, time moving so slowly, distracted and disjointed, endlessly tired, if he were being honest, fucking miserable. Covered head to toe in responsibility, the aftermath of mourning, of being accepted and pushed away and dismissed in his new role, so many smiling to his face and waiting patiently to shove a knife in his back. There’s so few people he can truly trust, the circle dwindling smaller everyday and even the people he does, he finds there’s no one he really feels comfortable talking to. It’s incredibly lonely, using busy as an alternative word for exactly how lonely he really is, always telling everyone that he’s so very busy.
Eventually he can’t take it anymore, the little pleasantries, the feeling of Max’s gaze finding him, so distinct and sickly, and excuses himself from his conversation.
He makes his way through the moving bodies, the loud cadence of fake laughs and the clicking of heels on marble, and pushes through a back door, up some stairs that are clearly meant to be for employees, and out an exit. For a moment it’s perfect, the air cool, a breeze, Vegas spread out underneath with all the lights bright, blocking out any hint of stars. He lights a cigarette, leaning against the railing surrounding the roof. For a moment, he thinks he may be able to gather himself, the flush of nicotine and the silence bringing a peace that is too soon broken. Franco doesn’t have to look when he hears the door swing open, even if there were more than one person it could be, he could sense him, feel him, in the way he’s always been able to. He closes his eyes, doesn’t move away from the railing, a pull of brows.
He innately knows that he doesn’t want to do this, can’t handle it, already wound so tight from everything else in his life, the addition of his presence, here and alone, making his fucking chest hurt immediately. The eventualities, the possibilities, none are satisfying; what does he want? To be friends? To fall back into the way things have always been, painful and cruel? The same song and dance that lead them here, that makes his heart clench in his chest, his neck stiff and eyes screwed shut.
He opens them again when fully Max approaches, the proximity buzzing in the air, not able to look over and meet his gaze fully, the vision of him in his peripheral already more than enough. He takes another drag on his cigarette, chewing over the quip in his head, everything fumbled and aching and hurt, doesn’t have anything left to offer. The intention is sarcasm, but it just comes out dry and empty, feels too real when he just says, “No, not yet. I’d say I probably have a good few years left before I get to that point.”
The attempted levity falls short, not that he quite expected it to land. Max turns his head slightly, watching the thin thread of smoke curl from the cigarette between Franco’s fingers. The glow of it paints the edge of his face in brief flashes of orange, enough to see more of the change in him. Two months isn’t long enough to alter a man’s bones, but it’s enough to hollow him out a little, something drawn about him now, something tight around the mouth and the eyes that Max assumes comes from having the weight of an entire empire fall upon your shoulders within a span of a week after your father’s death. He sounds miserable, maybe a hidden truth to his quip, and Max finds there are no perfect words to settle upon; there never are. This has always been blatantly obvious - but he can’t help the way his shoulders drop just slightly, like hearing the very cadence of his voice, however dull, gives him some relief. He looks back out to the city for a brief moment, his own remark just as dry, flippant. “Good,” he says, messing with a button on his suit jacket, the scent of nicotine filling his senses, no performance, just fact. “It would be painful watching one of your siblings take the mantle instead.”
He knows this is the part when he’s supposed to fawn and beg, to ask so sweetly to talk to him again, to let him back into his life, and he can hear Franco’s aversion without even needing the words; the truth sits simply between them. They cannot go back to how it had been before, Max could never ask him to, the only person he ever truly gave a fuck about. It’s tense and uncomfortable, as he knew it would be, there’s no easy fix to this, hurtful words thrown around, a new relationship added to the mix. No, it’s not easy, not like it was before. Before, he could navigate the muddy waters as he’s been doing this whole time, apologies given through soft-lipped kisses and rough hands. Where his words always seem to fail him, his touch picks it back up, mends what’s broken with a shitty repair job until the next inevitable break. The whole thing is eroded to hell now, too much time without a real resolution.
So the silence goes on far too long. Max leans against the railing, still looking out. He can’t be sure if it’s uncomfortable for Franco, his closeness; he’d been the one to tell him to leave after all, but Max takes this small, sweet breath of fresh air and the closeness. Everything is as awful as it’s ever been but he can pretend it’s normal for a moment, like the amount of bullshit that has transpired in the last two and a half months hasn’t felt like some sort of cosmic punishment. Franco’s moving up, and Max is, somehow, so catastrophically down it’s almost funny. The whole thing weighs on him, and he wants so badly for it to be normal again that he almost does beg - and then he remembers, in fits and starts, New Years day, tears and the bone-deep acceptance that it was over, all the way to the morning he’d seen him step out with a pretty young thing on his arm, a real slap in the face that he can pinpoint as jealousy, hurt in a way that’s embarrassing to name. Just as soon as it came, the moment of peace washes away with the next exhale of the smoke from his cigarette.
Max returns to his full height suddenly and looks at Franco again. “Are you happy?” he asks, and there’s an edge to it, because he knows the truth, how exhausted he is. But he wants to know how he’ll answer, too, maybe still in selfishness. Franco has everything he’s ever talked about: the job, the council, a partner at his side, steady and beautiful in the press, as steady as Roxanne Zuzen can be, his image almost as important to him as the job itself. The whole thing under his heel, calling the shots. He’s searching, even if he won’t look at him, desperate to see what he hasn’t in months, but he’s poking the bear, deliberate. “You should be. You’ve got everything. I don’t think I ever congratulated you.” Another glance over his face, a beat of silence. “Congratulations.”
CLOSED STARTER FOR @bloodyglcry, REID + YASMIN. the mirage hotel, hours before the wedding.
"You're pouting." The words come easily and without much pity, leaned over in the vanity mirror with a tube of mascara in her hand, lifted delicately to her lashes. "It doesn't suit you." There's precision to how she presents for these types of things, a physicality that most women would recognize, would empathize with. She's not attending this wedding as herself; she's attending as Beau Fairchild's plus one, some hotshot lawyer who's supposedly a family friend of the Weisses. She's attending not as a woman of depth with a mind of her own, but as a woman who makes rich men look good, look desirable, look esteemed. It might be demeaning if she weren't liable to leave with something far greater than any man could ever be.
There's sure to be something fucking valuable in that manor, and she's sure to wear her biggest, finest coat to smuggle it out with her, pockets on the inside and all. It's a game she knows well; work the room, work the socialites, in and out before anyone's noticed her, and why would they? She's no one special, no one of importance. She likes to keep it that way, at least to them.
Eventually, when she's pleased with her own reflection, she stands straight and letting her eyes roam, smacking lips to even the lipstick. Yasmin catches his reflection in the mirror and turns, crosses to stand in front of him. Her fingers reach for his tie, smoothing it out, fixing it. "Try not to cause a commotion tonight," she says evenly, knowing it's likely so very hard for the man to do. "All you've got to do is attend, get names, patterns. It's a public speech, not a playground."
open starter; dakota hartley, location: outside of the warehouse. date: thursday march 20, 1:00 pm. @boneyardstarters.
Dakota stands outside the warehouse, lit cigarette in his hand. He takes a drag of it before flicking the ashes to the ground. His observant eyes scan the areas around him, making sure no one has a chance to sneak up on the young fighter.
It’s not his turn to fight yet. Usually he seems to always be fighting with multiple people coming in all day long, but today seemed different. The usuals were there. The usuals that were only locals looking for a cheap beat. Even still there seemed to be less of them around. It was probably cause of the Weiss family wedding he heard was happening. He couldn’t care less about a wedding. Whether it be cause the couple loved each other or it was for business. Love or relationships wasn’t something he wanted. Even before he came here, Dakota never had a partner. There was no need while he had racing and Axel.
But he didn’t have those. He only had his team, his life, and fighting. He was good with that.
Dakota lets out a sigh, his eyes less scanning and finally closing to let him take in a heavy breath.
“Dakota! Fucking Christ been calling you six times!” He finally hears a gruff voice calling out to him, realizing that maybe he should learn his new name now. He turns his head to look at the other; eyes rolling at him. “You got a fight, kid. Get ready.”
He doesn’t say anything. He simply takes another drag of the cigarette before flickering it onto the ground. His eyes downcast as he kills the smoke with his shoe. Like normal, he forgets to look up before turning around to walk. Almost immediately he slams his body into another, pushing his own backyards to give space. “Jesus…watch out man.” He mutters, not really caring who’s there. “You got eyes. Use them. Everyone else does.” He doesn’t move to leave. He just stands there, waiting to see what the other says. “What’s the rush? Got a wedding to go to or something?”
It's not uncommon for her to check in. Not in any traditional sense, quietly, precisely, a mental map that updates without effort. Dakota's been on it all morning. Warehouse, midday fights, too much idle energy and not enough reason to walk away. Predictable and inconvenient, he's got potential, so much of it - she'd assumed this job would give him some purpose, just like the fighting ring does, but she can't afford one of them getting picked up over something stupid like some shoulder checking from some stranger.
Her curls are pulled back neat and elegant, already dressed for something else, yes, the exact wedding he seems to spit out like it's something bitter. Silk and gold catching the light, perfume still warm against her skin, a Weiss name waiting for her in less than an hour. This is just maintenance, and in a way, care. She rarely makes her presence known unless she absolutely has to, already sticks out like a sore thumb dressed to the nines, but it seems he's given her no choice.
Yasmin exhales once and steps in, smooth, controlled, placing herself just enough between them to interrupt the line of tension without making it a scene, manicured fingers curling over his shoulder. "Dakota." His name lands with certainty and redirection, not sharp, not soft. Her gaze sweeps him quickly, checking without making it obvious. "You're up next." A reminder, an anchor. Her hand hovers near his arm, not enough to draw attention. "Don't waste it out here."
The stranger backs off easily once she's there - people tend to, another redirection, a dismissive wave and smile to her lips at the stranger. Yasmin doesn't acknowledge him further; her focus on Dakota, steadier now, threaded with something quiet beneath the control. She stands in front of him, taller with her heels, deceivingly gentle. "Honey, I really don't wanna have to bail you out of a jail cell by the time this wedding is over." She clicks her tongue, smoothing her hands over his shoulders. "And it won't be me, it'll be Reid - I don't plan on sitting in central bookings like this." Skin tight dresses and expensive jewelry, she may be used to dangerous situations but putting herself in that environment is just a tad idiotic. "Try to keep the fighting inside the ring. And win - we need all of them we can get."
with: @thoroughfxre ; jasper where: lychfield cemetery when: anytime in march
He had to be fucking dreaming. It wouldn't be infeasible that he had hit the wall on a sleep deficit and dolefully rocket launched himself into the territory of hallucinations, sanity slipping between fingers like the sands of an hourglass and manifesting itself in a vengeful poe intent on playing tricks on the vulnerable defenses Drake had to his name. It was ritualistic that every fortnight, he brought an offering to the headstone of his partner's father. The corner of the stone was already chipped by the nasty thunderstorm that had quaked across the valley in Vegas last summer, and the words had begun to fade. Nothing lasted forever, but there was a divine figure above them pointing and laughing while guarding over the headstones that had fancy jewels and family heirlooms buried with them. There was a figure walking along the street when he finally made his exit from the cemetery, stopping at the gate when he couldn't believe his eyes. Blinking a few times, as if to ward off the spectres that came crawling out at the witching hour. What the fuck... One on the news under the guise of Petra Weiss was bad enough; he supposed that people could fake their own deaths, but two birds with one stone was too great of a coincidence, was it not? Catching himself staring, he took a step back — rather, stumbled and narrowly avoided tripping over a rock at the gate. "Sorry, you look just like..." Jasper fucking Kang. It couldn't be. ( Did fucking Lazarus walk among the Las Vegas streets? )
Somehow, he always seems to run into people from his past at the exact wrong times. It's to be expected at least, because rubbing shoulders with the Weiss family for so many years means there's no way in hell he'd be walking the streets unchecked; it's simply a matter of when he's trying to keep his head down that it always backfires completely. He's got blood on his shoes and dirt under his fingernails, a cap that hides thick black waves that quite honestly are past due for a cut, an old jacket zipped up - because he's definitely smothered in a bloodsucker's blood beneath it. The cemetery is an obvious dumping point, discreet and unlikely to be checked for dead bodies when there's a fucking lot of them already, you just have to hide it right and let nature do the rest. And then, a voice - stopping him in his tracks, a familiar face greeting him. "Yeah, I've got one of those faces." If it weren't his features that gave him away it was sure to be the deadpan snark; truthfully, there's no getting around this one. He can lie until he's blue in the face, but there's no point. Drake Hawkins isn't necessarily someone he's trying to outrun in any sense, though he can remember him clearly back when he wore the Weiss brand on his chest. His loyalty was never quite steadfast for the family, only to one in particular, and their money certainly helped. Now, though, it's all down the fucking drain. Instead, a tired little smile curls on his lip, dark gaze cast down at the man, confirming the thoughts sure to be running around in his head. "Miss me?"
open starter: alfie for @boneyardstarters where: outside the photoflix when: 11pm.
"If you're tryna be discreet," he calls over his shoulder, Australian accent thick despite the years he's been a Vegas local, "think a little harder about y'shoes next time."
He's used to having his head on a swivel, and having no movement to show for it; makes it almost impossible to get the jump on someone who's always ready for it. Almost.
The sun has well and truly set, the street's lit up by some flickering LED that blinks and buzzes to life before it dies out cyclicly every few breaths. The lights to the shop are decidedly off, despite the specific instruction to leave them on for every junkie, drunkard, and hopelessly lost tourist to wander through the backstreet. The alarm code strings a long, activated beep, heard clearly even through the metal bars of a protective, anti-theft door—that same cautious intelligence not applied to the glass windows in the shop's front—and the thick wooden door behind it.
It's eerie, the diegesis that follows. The sound of a hand pushing keys into his pocket, strung around a keychain that harbours the shop's name tag, and the shuffling of his own feet on a sidewalk in desperate need of a new layer of concrete, small rocks broken off and blown down the alley crunching under his feet. The thick, dense silence of limbs settled, body facing the other's, eyes unmistakeably disinterested, unthreatened, in their lazy-lidded blink of thick lashes and a dulled green hue.
He's sizing them up without meaning to; a brief threat assessment that's filed as inconclusive, for better or for worse. So he pushes for details.
"Got a reason for this show-and-tell?" A beat passes, giving Alfie space to pull his hand from his pocket; to fold arms across his chest and venture a follow-up. "Bit late for an odd development job, don't'cha think?"
Nevermind what he's doing still hanging around.
He's not particularly trying to be discreet, and he certainly doesn't slow his trek down the alley even after Alfie calls out. He's quite used to his quips by now, his attitude too, stark in comparison to a quiet and contemplative nature that Elias has been wearing around his shoulders for too long. A partnership of sorts dating back years, before he and Cherry ever set foot into the Weiss conglomerate to make a name for themselves, and tonight, nothing changes. It's a dance the two of them know well: Elias needs discretion, needs someone removed from the affiliations of powerful families, needs someone unbiased, at least so much so that it shows in their work. Alfie is always good for that.
Trust is a hard-won prize for Elias, and he knows it's the same for Alfie, too. Acutely aware that there's almost no one he can fully lean on within the people he affiliates himself with, and it will only get harder from here on. If he is to find himself at the top of the hierarchy, the list will grow smaller and smaller. Alfie, though, has already proven himself to Elias, time and time again, a slow process. A similar nature to both of them meant a very slim chance of getting along at all, timed just right so that rather than pieces being ill-fitting, they work together quite nicely.
He offers a small curve of his lip, one that doesn't reach his eyes. He's a steady figure in the night, hands in his pockets, not taking up any more space than he needs to. Not unconfident, but not brazen, either. "Wasn't trying that hard," his own quips rarely come out as anything other than serious; he could never quite master the art of inflection when it wasn't a complete performance on his part - he's not in any ballrooms, he's not in front of any cameras or that bastard in the Weiss manor. Just Alfie. "You got anything after this?" He asks, glancing around the shop, well locked up and shut down for the night, which is most often code for: I need your help. No elaboration, not when he knows Alfie will understand anyway.
location: the Weiss manor date: march 20, 1997 status: open
@boneyardstarters
The ball was bound to drop, one way or another. How could he rely on his own daughter for something as simple as playing nice and making a speech on a day like this? Perhaps he was being too kind, too nice all his life. Perhaps he spoiled all of them too much. All he asked of all of them was to live up to his expectations; such a small thing to do, and yet, as he watched Remi fail miserably at that, he knew he made a mistake. He was too trusting, too kind, and it had to end tonight.
It was a shame that it all went down on a day like this, but as William re-entered the room, immediately surrounded by the wandering eyes and overwhelmed by the whispers that were certainly there, all he could do was control the damage already done. Then again, was anyone really stupid enough to come to him and demand for answers?
Lips snarling into a smile, William raised his glass of champagne at the person that had approached him. “I’m sure my dearest bride is somewhere around too, although, she’s probably just as overwhelmed by everyone’s well-wishes.” It was a dig, but he was still playing nice; there was no way around it. The photographers were there, and with him being part of the duo who got everyone’s attention, he knew he had to be the accommodating and happy newlywed. It was one of the many roles the man knew how to play, and whilst he would’ve been happy to celebrate in other ways, this had to do. If he was pleasant yet authoritative, he knew he could manage just fine.
“I do hope you’re enjoying yourselves on this fantastic day.”
The room is still adjusting to the outburst, that much is clear. Elias had done the best he could to smooth things over, to do damage control because apparently that's what happens when you join a family of influence. It wouldn't look very good if he was encouraging chaos, would it? Besides, he tells these strangers he could care less about flitting around the Weiss manor, it's always difficult to adjust to such a big change in the family. Even if Romi Weiss is halfway through her twenties and far too old to be acting like an uneducated brat with her toys taken away.
When he returns, the room shifts, and Elias always watches the room before he watches the man. He makes a small toast, his own attempt at smoothing things over, at conducting business as usual - because make no mistake, Elias is fully aware this union is business, it's hard to be much else when you're as influential as William Weiss is. He wonders sometimes if he's aware of the game being played under his nose, feels awful for his mother, who has to share a bed with him. Alas, until plans change, Elias' true feelings will remain hidden, and he will be the good, respectful caporegime within William's hierarchy.
He takes his seat, Romi's seat, near the Godfather as he was instructed to do with a small smile on his face, not too eager, a respectful nod. Progress. Once he's done addressing the crowd, Elias turns to him. Business, he reminds himself, he's good at business. "The night's going smoothly, considering. No other... hiccups." A tight smile, a brief pause. "If there's anything you need handled tonight…" Elias adds, almost conversationally, though there's a weight under it that isn't accidental. "I'm here."
CLOSED STARTER, MAXIM + DIANA. @themayorandthequeen investor's dinner, pre-event.
The dinner is already underway when the room shifts. It's subtle, barely a hitch in conversation, a glance that lingers too long toward the entrance, but Max catches it immediately. His attention follows without turning his head, lazy, disinterested, shooting the shit because he's done this before and he's fucking good at it, rubbing shoulders with all of the elite like he means something, too. Growing up with the last name Crane meant his father's influence followed him everywhere, he's known for that shadow, for Aurelius' shadow in turn, a never ending Russian nesting doll of shoes a few sizes too big to fit into.
At the entrance, there's Louis, expected and controlled, and beside him, someone who very clearly wasn't supposed to be there. The entire room tries to recover at once, conversations tightening, eyes sliding away too quickly to be natural. No one says anything, because acknowledging it would make it real, and right now the illusion is hanging by a thread. Max exhales softly through his nose, gaze flicking up, straight to Diana across the table. She's halfway up, too, surely to greet her husband, a short glance at Maxim and he's moving, too, complete impulse, knowing the absolute shitshow that would happen if it got out that the darling mayor's husband is fucking gay. Fucking hell.
He sets his glass down like it's nothing, rises smoothly, and crosses the room with that same effortless entitlement that makes it impossible to tell whether he was invited to do this or not. By the time Louis notices him, Max is already there, already stepping into the moment before it can break. "Louis," he greets easily, hand landing on his shoulder, a dimpled smile on his visage. And then, without missing a beat, his attention shifts, lands squarely on the man beside him.
He smiles with something like familiarity, and Mrs. Diana and Mr. Louis are so going to fucking owe him for this. "There you are." It's seamless, the way he closes the space, sidling up like it's instinct, like it's habit. His hand settles lightly at the boyfriend's back, just enough to read, because Maxim Crane has never quite come out publically but he's heard rumors about his own sexuality that circulate and he's never corrected anyone because he'd rather fuck who he wants without a label to tie him down, but there are still the vultures that either commend him for his bravery and not shoving it in people's faces like all the others, or simply don't talk to him at all, sure to speak venomous words behind his back. The difference is, he never fucking cared.
"Thought you got lost," he adds, glancing back toward the table, and then back over to catch Diana's eye before he turns back, already guiding the man forward like he belongs exactly where Max has decided to put him. "Come on," he nods his head, easy, unbothered, a glint in his eye when he looks over the mayor and her husband. "You're late. It's embarrassing."