[ MANNY JACINTO, CIS MAN, HE/HIM ] — Look who it is! If you take a look at our database, you’ll find that VICTOR ACOSTA is a THIRTY-FOUR year old EX-POP STAR that’s been in chicago for FIVE YEARS. according to the file, they’re a MUTANT on LEVEL 3 with the power of ENERGY MANIPULATION. that must be why they’re JADED and LAID-BACK. if you ask me, they remind me of a vintage guitar on the wall, angry mutterings under your breath and the sincerity of defeat. they are affiliated with NO-ONE.
❝ in the end, what will you have left of adoration, except the hollowed echoes of its song? the half-light combustion of its aurora. leave it be, leave it be, and compose your own song, even as the notes decay around your shattered hand, your empty heart. it will keep the fires lit, for a time—and that is all that you need. ❞
A SUMMARY OF EVENTS:
born in florida, to an absent mother and a former olympic father that constantly wanted the best from him, victor is an only child that lives alone in a house that he never seems to see the end of.
with a knack for singing at the age of eighteen, his father learns that people like his underground punk band, and was whisked away to create a persona that he hardly knows.
dubbed ‘v’ by the record labels, he trains and works between recording sessions and college, trying to keep everything afloat in the span of a few years, with his father’s income diminishing, pushing himself harder and harder until he has a mild breakdown.
late in life, he learns he’s a mutant in a club as the bass and the loud noise turn him into a supernova of light, a small aurora dancing around him. it’s beautiful, until he realizes what has happened. he’s an energy manipulator.
running away, his father tells him to keep it under wraps for the label, but he sneaks it into performances, and grows close with the lighting technicians and crew members to help keep their mouths shut. his concerts are a cavalcade of both light show and singing, with his songs charting high on the hot 100.
then, he’s hit with a scandal—a video of him playing his guitar at home, snuck in through the tabloids and wistfully filled with moving lights. his team moves to salvage the damage and now scrutiny is on him. his career stands at a precipice and victor only needs to leap off and finally choose.
he chooses wrong.
in his los angeles show, he proclaims his mutantdom in the encore’s climax, a full display of mutant power, light cascading into images, the freedom of it all suffusing his bones as soon as he breaks away from the good-boy pop star lineup.
the day after, paparazzi hounds his door, and legal issues soon follow. scandal, breach of contract; the courts duke it out, and while he manages to leave with his investments and his money, his career is over as he knows it. no one will listen to him play again.
he shoves his father away and leaves with the company of strange men with stranger requests and stranger vodka—it’s unhealthy, of course, but this is the audience he chose.
in chicago, he’s no one, not even after notoriety claims him. he’s an ex-something. an ex-star. and the strange thing is, he’s finally learned to skulk around underground punk rock shows and feel the air and wavelength. almost as if he’s learned to pick everything up again.
TLDR: ex-famous pop star learns he’s a mutant late in life and accidentally gets caught using his power, and uses it to publicly come out as a mutant against the advice of his manager and his label. legal battles after, he’s only left with the settlement and his earnings, and his guitars, left to fade into relative obscurity. what he does now is try to evade paparazzi and go to underground shows and wonder if he still has it in him.
RANDOM:
has a guitar collection that he keeps pristine, and can play almost any instruments
lives off his royalties and investments in different companies when he was a pop star
usually parkours away from paps or simply flies off
has not talked to his father for years after the fiasco
Victor barks out a laugh, and shakes his head. He wanted to turn that guy into a sear mark on the concrete, but thankfully, he didn’t. Manslaughter wasn’t exactly the best course of action, even with a hot head. “Where you off to, oh savior of mine? I’d like to return the favor somehow, anyway.” His mind races through the possibilities—ones that would make a nun wither and die, but he smiles with a halo of light appearing at his back. Just for comedy’s sake. “I have some perks. Being a pop star, and all.”
Return the favor illuminated with a halo Samson can only imagine would be an ironic choice if he could know what Victor’s thinking. He’s not subtle about it. And hell, Samson won’t lie to himself that Victor isn’t attractive. He’s a pop star, after all. Gotta have the looks to go with it. “On my way home,” he lies. Sort of. He’s not about to explain the complexities of his living situation. The three places he calls home at this point— his sister’s, the other escapees’ hideout, Royal’s safe haven. “I could make a detour for an angel like yourself, though.”
"You sure that you want to?" The given answer that he wants in the air is a yes—badly. Enough that it feels like being held down. Is it bad that every chain of restraint that Victor's learned might snap in a second, just because some massive guy saved him once? Probably, but he simply doesn't like to self-reflect in times of pure id. "I could comp a couple meals, if that's more your speed," Wings, beautiful and cherubic hover near him. "But I just don't like getting wires crossed. What sorta detour you want, big man?"
Stop posing. The clear instruction makes him snort as he salutes with a hint of flirtation. “Sir yes, sir.” There’s a pause as he looks at Jules smiling large and warmly. Victor wonders if his light and Jules’ might mix—and well, that would be a perfectly good day of wasting time looking and wondering. “And to be fair, I wasn’t posing. I look this good every time someone looks at me.” Egotistical and self-assured. He feels warm, just a little, the alcohol pooling in his gut and giving him a lift to loosen up. The man is still in the back of his mind, but Jules is in the front of his, And what a lovely sight to see.
Seeing him dig his sketchbook out of his bag, Victor almost laughs. It’s so… adorable, to find someone just as excited as he is to do something as simple as sketch some guy he flirts with. Victor raises his eyebrow and grins. “You know, you should get my good side,” he jokes, looking at him intently, tracing every dip of bone and curve of cheek as he sketches his heart out. “Less likely to be offended. Though, if you do one of those boardwalk faces, I’m going to ask for a redo.” Victor shrugs, letting light dance between his fingers. “I never seem to look good in those.”
“Sir? I don’t think I’ve ever been ‘sir’ before; I like that,” Jules grins. Actually he does get ‘sir’ quite often, in this teasing way, because he tends to be quite bossy, but people rarely feel too concerned about actually following his instructions. Somehow Jules has always lacked authority.
He looks more at Victor than at his paper as his pencil skitters across the page, which is practical because it ensures he’s drawing what he sees rather than what he thinks he sees or what he’d like to see, but secondarily, it is also a nice excuse to stare openly at Victor. Maybe the lighting in this bar is especially flattering, but Jules doesn’t think so. He’s just naturally that pretty, and it’s just even a mere physical thing. He’s got a sort of charisma that draws you in, with a bright smile you can’t help but want more of, and eyes that sparkle with a sort of confidence Jules has always faked but never truly held.
“Surely every side is your good side,” he comments drily, one corner of his mouth lifting up in a smirk. “Don’t worry, I don’t do caricature. Though I guess what I do is sort of adjacent. But there’s a kind of art in caricature, you know, figuring out what makes a person unique, or distinct. Reality isn’t always flattering, although I find it hard to believe that’s something you have any experience with.”
Victor has the kind of face that could be photographed talking with a mouthful of food and probably still look flawless.
There's a shit-eating grin as Jules tells him he likes that—while Victor never did like giving someone else the reins, there's a certain charisma about the whole 'shy artist' get-up that had him feeling like on the knife's edge of something good for once. The pencil moves, but Victor takes care not to, only shifting as he eyes him, slender fingers on even slenderer wood as he takes care to get his good side.
"You really know how to stroke a guy's ego, sir." Victor teases him, testing the waters on what he can poke and prod at, eyes flashing a saucy pink. Normally he'd be cooler about it than this, but the alcohol and emotions have him high off pure adrenaline alone. A cute boy, a drink—what could be better?
Reality isn't flattering. He has to stifle a snort, just because he knows far too well how reality treats people. "Well, I've been on benders that've been on the front of entertainment news, so yeah. Reality treats me same as you sometimes." Victor turns his body towards Jules, his smile sharpening at the edges. "Though, if you wanted to ask me, you could treat me any way you wanted... sir."
there’s a fondness in victor’s expression, body, aura, that surprises him. the only part of it that makes sense is in that he is also a mutant, if… the unfortunate majority to be living. even so, it’s clear that fondness is not the key to understanding, let alone acceptance. “and what would you be trying for, exactly? what is it about life that is so different, so much better, than death? what about your friend’s state has caused suffering?” zombie man; he would sooner flay and display this bothersome stranger than truly accept such disrespect, but… the opinions of the living are meaningless. it serves no purpose to get angry, anymore. “what options is he missing out on through this mutation?”
None. The answer there is clear—and Victor has half the decency to look chastised. Belligerent and blase; his therapist would be paid in tons of gold for this, but he doesn’t snipe back anything mean or insensitive. For once in his life, Victor shuts up and lets the words sink in. “Nothing,” he repeats verbally, though other thoughts race through his mind in the process. What could he do to help? A band? A gig? Victor needed members for a band, even if it was rotational, so maybe—it was a step, and sometimes, a step is all someone needs. “I—huh. Fuck me, I guess. I’m sorry. Guess it was stupid of me to come here when there was nothing... wrong at all. Should I pay you for your time?”
“better, even if now i think you’re taking the piss.” and he is, of course, because if there’s one thing that they know for a fact about victor… he doesn’t take a single thing in life seriously! at one point, terry had almost admired that fact about him. now, they don’t really know what to think of it. is it annoying? sometimes. is it entertaining? sometimes. it all comes down to a big sometimes. and that’s the most that they usually get out of feelings. it’s still a step above them interacting purely out of obligation and nothing more!
“i’ll have you know i’m a master in heels. used to wear my mum’s as a kid and everything.” much to her chagrin—not because it was a feminine thing to do, but because he never put them back where he found them, afterwards. “ivana komenya?” terry’s brow arches high, a scoff forming in the back of their throat. “tell me why i’m not surprised about that. very fitting.” theirs had been a little less vulgar. “ophelia pain. not quite as suggestive as yours.”
"Sex puns are half the fun in doing drag, really, but who am I to judge?” The mum thing makes him feel an old pain, a phantom limb as he remembers only his dad. And even then, he leaves him to rot in an old house in Florida. “And I really want you to walk in heels one of these days. Maybe for my birthday?” He bats his eyes in a face that could only go pretty please as he bumps his shoulder fondly. “Fuck—wait, fuck me. My turn, right?”
His brain tries to sift something, an embarrassing memory or an achievement, but all he comes up with is something so banal that he’s a little embarrassed to share it. “I used to be an annoyingly upbeat store clerk before I became a rockstar.” He cringes, worse than when he thought that he slept with some chucklefuck starchaser. “It was a different life. I swear.”
“I’ll take you up on that,” Jules says, and means it. Open invitation to check out Victor Acosta? It’d be his absolute pleasure. The self deprecating part of him is wondering what exactly Victor might see in him or be getting out of this, but the louder and bossier part (the part that usually wins his internal arguments) insists it doesn’t matter. One thing Jules is very good at is living in the moment and taking it as face value. He always felt he doesn’t have time to examine people’s motivations too closely. Like, if someone flirts, then that’s fun and great. What’s the worst that happens? They were joking and they laugh at Jules? Whatever! He’s been laughed at plenty of times. No skin off his nose, not any more.
And with the expected ego of a pop star, Victor seems absolutely delighted at the idea of being drawn. It’s cute, actually, how taken aback he looks: for a moment it’s almost as if the celebrity facade drops and there’s a youthful, earnest look in his eyes. Or maybe Jules imagines that, because almost immediately Victor is all grins and flirtatious touches, and yeah, it’s been a while since Jules was so openly flirted with so it does send a pulse of warmth through him. His skin glows with a soft light, a knee-jerk response to feeling good that Jules can’t easily control.
“Well, stop posing, for one.“ Jules grins, disguising his blushing excitement behind snark. “Just be yourself. And promise me you won’t be offended if you don’t like the final result. I’ve been accused of doing unflattering portraits before,“ he explains as he digs his sketchbook out of his bag, flipping to a clean page and grabbing a pencil from his pocket. It’s true. His portraits tend to annoy people, actually, so maybe Jules is about to shoot himself in the foot here. But will he jeopardise his artistic integrity? Not even for Victor Acosta!
Stop posing. The clear instruction makes him snort as he salutes with a hint of flirtation. “Sir yes, sir.” There’s a pause as he looks at Jules smiling large and warmly. Victor wonders if his light and Jules’ might mix—and well, that would be a perfectly good day of wasting time looking and wondering. “And to be fair, I wasn’t posing. I look this good every time someone looks at me.” Egotistical and self-assured. He feels warm, just a little, the alcohol pooling in his gut and giving him a lift to loosen up. The man is still in the back of his mind, but Jules is in the front of his, And what a lovely sight to see.
Seeing him dig his sketchbook out of his bag, Victor almost laughs. It’s so... adorable, to find someone just as excited as he is to do something as simple as sketch some guy he flirts with. Victor raises his eyebrow and grins. “You know, you should get my good side,” he jokes, looking at him intently, tracing every dip of bone and curve of cheek as he sketches his heart out. “Less likely to be offended. Though, if you do one of those boardwalk faces, I’m going to ask for a redo.” Victor shrugs, letting light dance between his fingers. “I never seem to look good in those.”
“daddy-o, huh? y’know, i don’t think anyone’s ever called me that before.” something about it has him grinning even wider as he accepts the flask. the brush of their fingers makes him wonder how much more than just whiskey v might be looking to share tonight. maybe he’s getting ahead of himself, but he doesn’t think he is. so he raises the flask in a silent toast before taking a long, slow sip while holding his gaze. it’s delightfully smokey, with a lingering caramel aftertaste that has him licking his lips. “that’s some damn good whiskey,” he comments as he passes it back.
if royal remembers right, most of victor’s early stuff fell under the pop genre, which is honestly not really his cup of tea. but more stuff like tonight? now that he would be down for. “i’d definitely come check you out at a show somewhere else.” (yes that phrasing is intentional). “your energy while you were up on stage tonight? fuckin’ electric! no question i’d pay to see that again.” and if royal has noticed how much v enjoys the compliments, well, who can blame him for tossing a few more in there, right? it’s honestly quite cute, watching the way he reacts to the praise.
"How ‘bout I just skip the o next time, and call you the rest?” Taking it back, the same brush of fingers graze the man’s, as he toys with it, the heat of the flask from someone else’s hands a wonderful feeling as Victor looks please with himself. As he always does, talking to someone he wants, but that’s always a given. He drinks like he takes it in, as if he was savoring something else other than the whiskey, finishing and staring at the man’s face a little too long to be a casual glance.
I’d definitely come check you out. His mind stops there, and while Victor isn’t exactly the most guarded of people, the vague light that he gives off, a burst of faint pink at that, is a signal that he can’t help but give off. He preens like the best of them. Call it an inflated ego or a healthy sense of self, Victor takes the compliment, even the rest of it, and runs with it. “Yeah, the band’s killer, and they’re people who I like at least. Cool with the mutant crowd too; who knew that there was a market for mutant punk?” Another swig and he passes it off. “A lot of people still call me a poseur, but you know. You win some, you lose a lot.”
Twinkie Pie? That’s a new one to Jules, but he doesn’t mind it. Sometimes the infantilisation he feels he receives now he is out of Kappa is annoying, but sometimes, in moments like this, he quite likes it. Makes him feel like he didn’t have to miss out quite so thoroughly on his twinkie twenties. And like, he’s not stupid. If a celebrity flirts with you, you absolutely take the damn compliment. “I’ve never met someone that can do the same things as me before. Be interested to see what you can do with it.” Conjuring a hand-shaped block of solid light by Victor’s face, Jules uses the construct to tuck a few stray hairs behind Vic’s ear – which has the advantage of allowing him to get a proper look at the guy in better light. He does have that celebrity it-factor. Such perfectly carved features he’s like a muse of Ancient Greece or something.
If Jules was the easily flustered type, he would be very flustered by the way Victor leans forward, so close; and he’s the kind of guy you only dream of invading your personal bubble. “You ever do gigs here? I’ll have to come check you out,” Jules grins, not intending the double entendre but not apologising for it either. Subtle he ain’t, and it doesn’t seem like Victor is either. “Sure, I talk to random guys who buy me drinks. What can I say, I’m easily flattered.” The hand light takes on a more diaphanous form, becoming a loose sphere that explores Victor’s face in greater detail now. Jules doesn’t pretend he’s not studying the man’s face. “Can I draw you?”
“Baby, you can check me out any time you want.” Is Victor laying it on thick? Sure, but he likes flirting, and he likes attention—and both coming from a nice mutant man drinking at the bar next to him after a shitty night? It’s not a question of he wants to flirt, to harangue or to even try to get laid right now, but it’s the question of affection. Victor likes it, but he really doesn’t get people—scratch that, he doesn’t get humans anymore. Not after being outed as a mutant. No, he got mutantfuckers, mutant haters and the regular old mutant now. The sensation of his hair being tucked back is something of a start, and as a call and response, he brings his knee in towards him, scooting over and being a little more suggestive that he looks.
The question—can I draw you—takes him off-guard still. He blinks once, twice, before touching his bicep and grinning. “Jules, baby. You can do whatever you want. You need anything up close, or do you want me to step away?” He pulls his hand away from his arm, but he moves his knee to stroke Jules’—something to say that he might do something else still if time let on. “I’m all yours, pretty boy. Just tell me what to do.”
Samson scoffs, tucking his chin down as Victor start jokingly gushing over his help. “I didn’t think going all supernova on a guy over ice cream was something I could just watch happen.” With a light friendly tap on his forearm Sam actually laughs, “Shit, you’re the only pop star I’ve met.”
Victor barks out a laugh, and shakes his head. He wanted to turn that guy into a sear mark on the concrete, but thankfully, he didn’t. Manslaughter wasn’t exactly the best course of action, even with a hot head. “Where you off to, oh savior of mine? I’d like to return the favor somehow, anyway.” His mind races through the possibilities—ones that would make a nun wither and die, but he smiles with a halo of light appearing at his back. Just for comedy’s sake. “I have some perks. Being a pop star, and all.”
“not in the way that you’re looking for. acceptance is all i have to offer you. from the sound of it, perhaps that’s something your friend could use. someone who understands, that is.” is that pointed? maybe, maybe not. as it stands, victor doesn’t seem very sensitive to the particularities of being undead. “either way, i would suggest you start by asking what he wants, first.” santiago is certainly not someone who considers the needs of others, but it’s always more gratifying to introduce someone into the family willingly… at least those that come upon the condition without his help. “is there something wrong with their appearance?”
"Not really, honestly. He looks pretty, but he loses an eye when he rolls it too hard, you know.” Fondly, he snorts at him, remembering the moment he tried to smack it back into place—which still didn’t work, he thinks. The halo is less intense—not a burning sear, but simply an ever-present light. “I don’t—I just want him to at least have options. I know how bad none are, and if none is what he gets, then it is what it is. But I can’t just—not try, zombie man.”
“true enough. firms are hell.” they know this very, very well—it’s part of the reason that they had dropped ihsan in the first place! nobody was going to pick up a band that had dead weight attached, especially when said dead weight was eager to pull the rest of them into the depths with him. irony has a funny way of showing itself, though—who’s dead weight, now? “still wouldn’t have caught me dead paying like that. i’d have sooner fled the country.” again, not so much anymore. now they would have taken out the checkbook.
he snorts, rolling his eyes. this time, one doesn’t end up getting stuck, although they lift a hand to right it out of habit. “rock stars. please, never called myself one of them.” was it true? maybe. rock was adjacent to the sort of music they had ended up putting out. but the label had always felt so… cheesy! “hard to top my last one,” they continue, shrugging. they don’t bother to slap away victor’s elbow, either. he knows how touchy he can get when he drinks. “i anonymously entered a drag competition once. didn’t win. very humbling.”
“Fine. Grunge-alt-punk-rock icons.” Wilson Red was a hit to him—an envious little thing that he wanted to have, even with the drugs and the guys and the sneaking around with the powers, but he doesn’t know what else to say. Terry knew, didn’t he? He’d never say it, but he hoped he knew—that even with the life and the death and the rebirth, Victor simply envied him a little. For the choices that he made, and the ones that he didn’t have to, really. Fame is a prison, cries the prissy little songbird, but it’s still true, even after the checks and the death threats.
Victor laughs a little. “Oh, honey. You must’ve looked—well, I can’t imagine you in heels, Cindy.” A stiletto shaped shoe appears on Victor’s foot, and he wiggles it around. Now, he can run in five, but starting out again in the punk scene, he looked like a bow-legged wannabe. “Can I at least hear the drag name, Ter? If it’s any consolation, I was going to be Ivana Komenya, if I ever got there.”
“Woah.” He says, a little loo loudly. Victor gapes; Samson was a mountain of a man and who was he not to admire one hell of a slab of beef. It felt a little creepy, but he snaps out of it long enough to say his apologies. “Fuck, I just meant that it’s you—the guy that was helping me out with ice cream guy. I haven’t seen you around; you been helping other poor undeserving pop stars with their woes?”
the second he pulled out his phone, mentioned terry’s name and started recording him, ihsan knocked his hand. “ how the fuck do you know terry ? ” had wilson red gotten that bad ? they’d gotten bad – oh, ihsan was the king of updated wilson red hate – but so bad that they were grouped with this fucking pop act !? had they sacrificed that much fucking artistic integrity !? soulless music for sure, but at least they were fake deep with the very very occasional 5/4 time signature.
“ ruined music ? oi, pretty fuckin’ egotistical statement ! hope you don’t think you have that much fuckin’ power over the music industry. ” he’d insulted his music, sure ! but had he said he ruined music ? nope ! it was still in the process of being ruined. it was still a gradual decline that even he could admit was not the fault of any particular artist. “ don’t know how the fuck you could even start to compare your shit to green day – more of some… michael jackson ripoff, but with even less integrity than any other fuckin’ michael jackson ripoff, you know what i mean ? ” keep in mind, he was very much not up to date with the music scene ! “ and mutant hating – well, that one’s just a fuckin’ laugh ! not mutant hating, just fuckin’ your shit hating and know you’ve had way too many fuckin’ ‘yes men’ and little fans in your dms about shirtless pics ! ”
He doesn’t answer when he knocks his hand, though he wasn’t surprised that he got caught. Thank God it still records, and thank God that he didn’t instinctively try to burn the guy’s hand off, however satisfying it could have felt. “I’ve got friends, man.” A flash of anger, hot against the roof. “I talk—” Fuck, he’s supposed to be dead. “To my old friend’s grave, sometimes. Bring him funny videos. Tell them who dropped off the face of the earth since he died. Give him new songs he might like and laugh about what happened. Fuck you.”
God, he’s just so angry, and Victor really feels it infect his emotions. Floating up and away, creating some distance and emphatically looking down upon Ihsan, he starts, smiling at him as he tries to viciously tear at whatever he’s got going for him. “I don’t know what rock you crawled out from, loser—but judging from the wannabe outfit, you look like someone from a scene that wants nothing to do with you. Sure, I’m famous, sure I got yes men five years ago, and sure—I had shit music. But you know about me.” His tongue is venom, his eyes are lasers. He wants him eviscerated socially. Psychologically. Fuck anyone who records this, but he won’t be saying sorry for this one.
“You’re what? A rocker? A music specialist, writing deep music for intellectuals and rebels, but no one cares, you’re just some horrible person with art that no one would even care about.” His skin sizzles and his body feels... different. Like a sun. Like a star. “At least you hate my shit—you react to it, and it makes you feel shit, even when I don’t really care about my old stuff anymore. And you might’ve had been rocking stages and been a visionary, but who are you now? No one.”
Oh, he looks cute a little blasted, does he! Tee hee. Jules grins, watching keenly as the man downs a shot and shakes off a lightshower. Very cool, but not as cool as the fact that he’s actually Victor Acosta?!
“…Shut up?” Jules replies eloquently, scrutinising Victor’s appearance. He definitely could be, but the trouble with having been locked up for a decade is that you don’t really know what any celebrities look like for sure any more. “You’re telling me Victor Acosta just bought me drinks? And you’re actually Victor Acosta, not some guy who looks a lot like him and uses that to pick up guys at bars?” Jules narrows his eyes, still studying him, before shaking his head and using his own mutation to cause a shower of light sparks to fall like snow down his shoulders (Jules has always had a compulsion to mimic people’s mutations when he can; he’s not sure why). “I guess, on reflection, I want a story. What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”
“Oh, Twinkie Pie. I have much better lines, and most of them involve my mouth.” The second shot goes down smoother, though he vibrates with light and shivers in response—his body grimacing at the amount of alcohol that he’ll put himself through again. He sees the light come off him, and a shark-like grin comes through, looking at him up and down as he does. A shower of light sparks—less smooth, more flashy. He thinks there’s something there, but he can’t just place whatever it is. “But if you got the same power as me, I’m sensing a bit more camaraderie with you than the average mutant.”
What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this? It’s a bad line, and Victor has the urge to reply with something like “You, hopefully!” but decorum seems to be the name of the game here, and he shrugs. “It’s a mutant bar. I’m a mutant. I like drinking. Mostly, I chat people up, since I do smaller gigs now if I can help it,” he says, leaning forward into Jules’ space. “How ‘bout you, huh? You talk to random guys in bars like this, or is it because I’m formerly famous?”
the way that victor pauses gives santiago all the answers he needs. didn’t ask. didn’t consider it. who does consider the plights ( or joys, for that matter? ) of the dead? a rare few, if any at all. “have you asked him what he likes? or only considered what would happen if you were in his place? either way, i won’t be of much help to you. the most i can do is guide him through his lows. nobody can truly reverse death, myself included. whatever i can do, he will still be dead.”
"Well. Fuck, I guess.” Victor didn’t ask him, but who wanted to be dead in general? Life was meant to be lived, and if something like a half-life could have been better than just being six feet under, Victor wasn’t going to judge Terry. Though if he could help, he would. Altruism was few and far between for people like Terry, and Victor just had enough power and leverage to deal with whatever fucking mutant bullshit they could deal with. “No help? None? Not even faking looking alive, or something?”
“hidden? that girl seemed to see it enough to approach with the idea. not sure she’d agree with you that they’re hidden.” now, maybe. although they would insist that those depths don’t actually exist, anymore. it’s been three years since they’ve even half thought about sex, let alone actually gone through with it. there are lots of ways to make it work without the equipment in working order, but what’s the point? intimacy just seems pointless, now. “’course, now they might be. haven’t thought about that night in ages.”
before, it hadn’t taken much for terry to spit-take. he’s always been an easy laugher. but even that manages to get something out of them… even if it’s just an arched brow. cuck chair. “you paid for the damage? mate, should’ve known better than that. always make them pay.” especially someone in parliament. they’re always stingy, anyway. might as well make them pick up a cheque from time to time! “figures, though. next time make the hotel do it.”
"Please, I was still in the firm’s grip with a meeting every tour about how they were going to dock my royalties in my contract—early contract. No way in hell was I going to cause a scandal overseas then.” Victor still thinks about the life he lived. Two different men; but he got fame and fortune and all the fucking press he wanted by then. It just didn’t matter by the time that he’d fucked some random politician. “Ask me two years after? I’d have said hell yes and brought him to Amsterdam!”
Sliding over the next shot, he looks at Terry with a grin. “Next secret! Or are you tapping out?” He jabs him with his elbow lightly, enjoying the buzz the alcohol gives with the company. Drinking alone could be so depressing. “Thought you rock stars shoulda been a little scrappier with the secrets.”
royal’s still positively buzzing with energy even though the show is over, amped up and overstimulated at the same time. between the noise, the lights, and the absolute chaos of smells, it’s no wonder there’s the beginnings of a headache pressing against the backs of his eyes. maybe he really is getting too old for this. eugh…. mercifully, he’s interrupted before he can get too far down that existential rabbit hole. the guy’s voice is wrecked, but that’s not too uncommon after a show like this one.
“never was very good at saying no to whiskey from handsome strangers,” royal replies with a crooked smile he knows puts his fangs on display. belatedly, he recognizes the man speaking to him as V, one of the night’s performers. still a stranger, though royal would be lying if he said he hadn’t been keeping an eye on his rise back into the spotlight. “fuckin’ amazing show tonight. you always pick a random guy to share a drink with afterwards, or am i just special?” he laughs and winks, reaching out to accept the flask.
Handsome strangers? This night definitely got a little more interesting, with the fangs and the definitively older man being receptive to his banter, and maybe even a little more, though he’s not in the business of getting his hopes up. It’s definitely not his vibe, but he preens at it, a songbird looking for more attention than he’s garnered. “Maybe you are, daddy-o.” Victor smirks, handing the flask off and making sure that his fingers brush against his, lingering a little bit. Innocuous enough to be denied, but enough to put him on the scent.
The compliment rolls around in his head and he preens some more, sinking into his skin like premium moisturizer; being complimented for your work was certainly something Victor never got enough of. “I do a couple of gigs now. You should come by a couple,” he says, leaning back against the wall. "A couple of crowds lose it when I do my old hits; maybe it wasn’t your time, but I think you’d like ‘em. Everyone sorta does anyway.” The unspoken sentence: even if he certainly doesn’t.
