METHOD MAN.

     context: opening night @ the palazzo      with: @davestoll·

.     He holds his hands up in mock surrender as soon as he sees Dave walking towards him. “I’m off the clock–” is he ever? “– and I can’t have another drop of whiskey, David. I don’t know how you drink that shit,” he’s unfiltered and he’s drinking beer. With an arm loosely draped over the other’s shoulders, he gently squeezes his arm and takes another sip of his drink. “And no one cares what we do, anyway.” Eyes would likely be on those who’d decided to show a lot more skin than the two men here standing. 

–

“Relax. You’re fine.” Although he had come with an extra glass of whiskey in hand, already half extended, which he now looks down at with a frown. “Come on,” Dave presses, eyeing the tall beer with distaste. God, he could go for one of those right now. Instead, he downs the rest of his glass and starts on the one he’d brought for Alan. 

“No one cares what we do, until we do something wrong,” he corrects. David shrugs the younger man’s arm off his shoulder and straightens his tie, a trace of a scowl on his features. “Hence why I’m separating myself from Anaïs and her crazy fucking patients.” It makes him nervous, meeting people she’s treated— he’s never liked it. He can’t think too much about it without losing his head to  worry. “How was your romantic getaway? You sure seem peachy.”

From Anaïs’s place on her bed, she watches David through the reflection in the mirror. Amusement drums beneath the bouncing of one leg, resting on top of the other.

“Prince Harry couldn’t afford them anymore.” 

When David turns to her, she’s already half-way there to meet him. Dainty hands at dainty cufflinks, undoing them swiftly. For that moment alone, she considers mystery — ever one to use her mind more often than her body, but her body is there, and David is a man before he’s a mastermind. Still, she answers, “My father has his business, as you know. There are new things happening. I don’t know everything about it, and I don’t want to know.” One arm over David’s shoulder — then, the other. Her own fingers entwine into each other at the back of his neck. “You’re so daring, wanting all the Murad secrets without being one yourself.”  

Anaïs, too, hadn’t forgotten how he’d gone straight to the mirror and not her.

“…And you didn’t pay entry.”

–

It’s an intimidating thing, how her last name carries so much more weight than his. One of the many things about Anaïs that both challenges and attracts him to her at the same time. 

“You don’t want to know?” This rings false to David. There’s nothing Anaïs doesn’t want to know. It’s perhaps their biggest similarity. 

Her hands at his wrists don’t quite distract him, but the familiarity of the action is enough to bring that rare genuine smile to his face. Like a magnet, his eyes snap to Anaïs and follow every movement. Each beat of his heart sends sensible thought further and further away. He knows what she’s doing— but it’s still working.

David lifts her into his arms and presses a long kiss to her lips, then another. “How much do I owe, exactly?”

The grinning never ends, just loops up and around itself. Maybe Rahi’s gotten closer, maybe he hasn’t. All consumed by their agave-tasting poison, he can’t quite keep track – and the audience waits at the edge of their seats.

“We’re engaged.”

Meaning, He asked, and I said I would.

“Are you going to marry her?” Rahi doesn’t know who that is, just that there is one. Her. David had muttered a name minutes earlier, but it’s already lost. 

–

Her. It’s not quite sobering, but David stiffens upon hearing Anaïs referred to with such an air of carelessness.

“Anaïs.” Not a reminder, but a correction, and it comes swiftly as he straightens up. Then, without missing a beat, “Yes.” 

Despite David’s unwavering certainty, the only other person aware of that fact thus far is Julian. He prefers digging into the personal lives of others to sharing information about his own. 

The reappearance of Dave’s smirk warms his demeanor again. He eyes Rahi with teasing suspicion and decides to reshape his question, delivering it in the form of a statement: “You don’t want this life.”

“Jesus. They’ve really tightened up the security around here, haven’t they?”

David has his back to Anaïs, standing in front of the full-body mirror. He lifts his chin as he picks at the knot of his tie— not straightening, for once, but loosening. Thank god. 

“At this point, tell your dad we’ll take campaign donations in the form of security detail. Where the hell does he find these guys?” He meets her eyes in the reflection as he finally rids his neck of the silken constraint, then moves on to the cuff links at his wrists. 

The line of questioning is innocent enough, but the ever-present crease of his brow deepens as he ponders the matter further. David turns and quirks an eyebrow at Anaïs, almost facetious. He doesn’t say anything, but allows his expression to translate his thoughts: anything I should know about, before I go snooping myself?

“You’re... blonde?” It’s the first thing that comes out of his mouth, a bit too concerned to be convincingly masked as pleasantly surprised. “It looks great!” he’s quick to reassure, taking a step forward but then stopping short. “I— hm.” David holds up his hands, a smile of surrender creeping from the corner of his mouth. “Hold on, this threw me off. Let me recalibrate for a second here.” 

He closes the door in her face, then reopens it, this time prepared to give a reaction of David Stoll-level believability. “My god— is that Pam Anderson?” He whistles lewdly and finally steps over the threshold, collecting Audra into a tight hug.

“It really does look great. You look good, Auds.” Though he’s smiling, his brow furrows slightly. In his arms, she feels noticeably thinner. David sweeps his gaze around the room before releasing her from the hug, all traces of concern erased by the time their eyes meet. “Where the hell have you been?”

—

It shouldn’t come as any surprise, the way David plucks smiles out of him like apples from an orchard. Rahi had missed this kind of connection, from a man he knows sees him as an idea first and a man second. Awful as it may be, one’s spirit can flock to it — attach to something intangible, sit in an audience chair and listen to things which may not all be true. 

He’ll get his love from Abel, Lev, Alan. This is worlds different. Galaxies afar.

“A man like me?” That grin. Happy — if a little cocky too.

We both respected each other too much to make the other one choose, David goes on. So we ended it. 

The smile is still there — as present as though nothing had changed. Someone had once told Rahi, he has the awful habit of smiling when he’s sad. Yes, Rahi wants Abel in the White House — and Abel wants him in outer space. They both respect each other too much to make the other one choose. 

What a shit plan. 

Rahi shrugs, and decides to discard it all entirely. 

“He’s not,” shrug paired with a nonchalant laugh. I am. “He just doesn’t like you.” 

–

The happiness on Rahi’s face echoes in David’s chuckle. Paired with a smile that’s almost a full grin, he certainly did seem happy. Grasping and identifying emotions is somehow growing more difficult as he gets older— as he gets better. As Rahi said, politicians get better with age. He supposes that’s true enough.

David smirks over the rim of his glass. “Fair enough. I don’t like him, either.” 

Surely it’s natural for people to be intrigued by an astronaut—by Rahi—but there’s something in particular about the pull David feels towards the man that he can’t quite put a finger on. The urge to talk, namely, is an uncommon feeling for David. He talks all day, every day, but not like this. Honest, actual conversation. Of all things they could be discussing, it’s their personal lives. Why? 

They’re this far gone. No point reeling it in now— as long as he maintains control of the conversation. “Are you going to marry him?”

—

A mechanic. Rahi’s mouth tugs at the slightest of smiles, but really he’s thinking he’d never imagine such humble beginnings from such a proud man. 

“Most people that depend on their brains and not their bodies,” Rahi answers. “Professors, philosophers,” — gag — “and whatnot. The best way to train those muscles is with time.” As though to fix any damage done, Rahi is quick to shake his head. “I mean, I— If I had kids, or something. I’d have to pause. It’s not… fair. But then again, how long should a pause be? Everything in the first few years is really important. I don’t wanna miss anything, and— what if something happens? I can’t do anything if I’m in the middle of the sky.” He’s already worried for Abel and his brothers as it is. “It would kill me.” It would kill all of us. 

All too knowing, Rahi nods. You’re in your prime. Even if he’d already known it, it’s validating hearing it from an outside source. Young, intelligent, beautiful and a natural charisma made exclusively for people who never wished for public attention, but got it anyhow. So many notable lists under a NASA tool-belt that he’s lost track, including, Most Likely to Make History.

“It’s just really hard,” he says, voice starting to drag, “choosing between dreams.”

Rahi does raise his glass to meet David’s, though it’s almost empty. He kills it with the next sip. Intentional or not, David’s move catches his attention once more. Rahi’s drunk, and whatever little ability he has to hide his gaze is deemed null when drowned in alcohol. He forgets what he’s supposed to be answering, for a moment. 

“…No, not really.” It’s true. Things are never not fantastic, between him and Abe. To the lawyer, every little problem is just a little problem. To the crash pilot, solutions come easy. “But he’d kill you if he knew you were here.”

–

David is taken aback, openly baffled by Rahi’s very normal, human concerns about future, family, and legacy. There’s much to process at once, even further past the glaring anomalies; for a brief moment, the conversation at hand escapes him. It’s shown in the furrow of his brow, the sudden lack of focus in his gaze that suggests it’s turned inward. 

First and foremost, the apparent possibility of Abe Rousseau being wiped off of David’s mental to-do list without any meddling necessary. Forever the martyr, Abel would surely slink into domesticity if it meant the man he loved could actualize his full potential. It’d be easy— unless—-

The baby of a gay, biracial political power couple? A renowned district attorney and a fucking astronaut? On second thought—

“You don’t have to choose.” He shifts his eyes up from the floor and, instead, directs the intensity of his gaze towards Rahi. “Are you kidding me? A man like you.” It’s not a question. Dave sits up straight only to rest his elbows on his knees, leaning in to catch Rahi’s eye with a keen sternness in his own. The same sentiment laces his tone when he speaks the next words, firm and sure: “You never have to choose.”

It’s as though he’s searching for a response in Rahi’s expression for a few seconds before he sits up straight again, polishing off his glass and clearing his throat. “Me and Anaïs, for example. Neither of us wanted to choose. And we both respected each other too much to make the other one choose. So we ended it.”

David stands and ambles into the kitchen, coming back with the bottle to top them both off— which he does, before sinking into the couch and continuing. “We found each other again, both satisfied and secure in what we’ve accomplished as individuals, and it was clear that all we needed was some room to grow.” Now he gives Rahi a look that’s so painfully earnest, he can physically feel the skeezy grin of pride blooming inside his own chest. It’s not that he’s lying, but exactly the opposite. And it’s working for him. God, what a brilliant woman. 

“Would he, now?” A beat, and the smirk returns, expelling all sense of seriousness. “Is Abel a jealous man?”

.

     “I didn’t pay enough attention– I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you.” Alan had yet to check David’s profile but he suspected the Press Secretary might have missused another term and somehow he’d be blamed for it. 

     Alan looked down at Dave’s inviting hand and hesitated. “Nice try.” One tap at the wrong screen and it would all be over. A few swipes archived the one text conversation that would have him fired if read and finally set the device in his open palm. “Don’t go snooping around. Just look at the messages – something about a car on Halloween?” Beat. “I don’t even drive.”

–

A roll of his eyes off that. Isn’t David always the only one paying enough attention?

The phone is set into his palm, but David doesn’t make a move yet. He’s still mulling over the time it took for Alan to hand it over. “I’m almost scared to look. Like there’s gonna be some gay porn pop-ups or some shit. That’s how you’re acting. Is that what I’m gonna see?”

David Stoll has something of a reputation for taking advantage of younger women. His relationship with Lola Villarin isn’t much different, if aside from the fact that there’s no romance on the horizon— and that alone is enough to make Dave feel like he’s doing a good service to the community. Speaking to a young woman with no sexual expectations? Lía will be thrilled ( albeit, suspicious ) to hear of it, he’s sure.

It’s either coincidence or convenience that the lost journalist-turned-lawyer ended up studying at David’s alma mater, or that her boyfriend happens to be a fact-checker. Regardless, his conversations with Lola reminded David of the usefulness of the alumni system. It’s not coincidence that Dave runs into Lev Movska while on campus, having had the younger man’s schedule observed to make sure Dave’s guest appearance in Professor Maloney’s Journalism 234 class allowed him just enough time to run into Lola's beau based off of his regular visitation habits. 

“Movska.” The name rings clear, called out in David’s usual bold tone. “What, they even got you fact-checking my undergrad lecture appearances now?”

—

“What did your dad do?” What? He’s interested. “I’m thirty-nine. I turn forty in May.” Rahi’s gaze follows the wet palm. Sorry, Abe.

Whatever path had brought them here, he couldn’t recall. The room doesn’t spin, but the lights hold a different hue to them than before. David becomes the only man in the room, as though every slurred word is packed with wisdom.  

“I mean — I guess, yeah.” Soon after a beat, he realizes he’s just saying stuff for the sake of saying it. Rahi doesn’t in fact know, and can’t even gamble on an answer. That’s a first. “But politicians are better when they’re older, right? Astronauts aren’t.” Like athletes, bodies dictate performance: many are in awe to find he trains hard at the gym, when his highest skill comes down to a sharp IQ. A body that can withstand all impacts of zero gravity is one that’s not born, it’s made. “I have maybe, like, ten years left. That’s if I don’t pause.” It’s not enough. Through warm laughter then, he asks, “What am I gonna do?,” cheeks reddened off the alcohol, and smile bright like someone who’s just realized life is real fucking funny. “Are you gonna hire me as your fucking numbers guy? I’m space engineer, I can draw an insane diagram. So many details it’d make your head spin.” 

“Auxiliary.” Same word, much softer voice. “You’re… such an asshole. It’s really hot.” 

So sorry, Abe.

–

If it weren’t for the liquor, he would’ve stiffened at the question. As it was, David took another swig of his drink and shrugged, like speaking about his father was commonplace. “He was a mechanic.” Is? He doesn’t bother to elaborate. Drunk he may be, but not enough to talk about his father.

“Politicians are just like anyone else. Who do you know that gets better with age?” Again, another large swig of his drink, but this time behind a chuckle. It’s true, to an extent; politicians are known to reach the pinnacle of their career at an older age than most would consider their golden years. David, despite playing politics for the majority of his working life, has never considered himself a politician, persay. 

“A pause?” This takes him off-guard more visibly than any precedent topic. Taking a pause? A break? From work? And at Rahi’s high career point? David leans forward, one elbow rested upon his knee, “ —What the fuck would you do that for? You’re in your prime.”

Even through the drunken haze, the question carries weight. It’s as if the entire mood has shifted around that one prospect— as if it were complete insanity that they were even speaking of the idea. To David, it might as well have been. 

Rahi's next comment catches him off-guard, if only slightly; it’s far from the first time he’s been praised for being an asshole. How else would he have made a career of it? “That’s what they all say... at first,” he smirks, raising his glass to meet Rahi’s. His eyes linger on the astronaut’s for a long moment, curious. He doesn’t miss the way Rahi’s gaze follows his hand, and so he adjusts himself more fully this time, playing as ignorant as before as he leans back into the couch. It's all piecing together. “Trouble in paradise?”

—

“What were you doing,” Rahi laughs, “thirty years ago?” There was a clear difference in age between the chessmaster and the astronaut, but one never stopped to put an actual number to it. Thinking back is one thing, and thinking further, an entirely different beast. “…It’s weird to think about. I mean, you’re just getting to the best part of your career and when I’m your age, I’ll probably be retired.” Different timelines and different duties, but this affinity didn’t bloom just out of nowhere; no matter how different they are, they’ll still be more similar to one another than to the rest of the world. Rahi swirls the ice around in his drink; they rotate not too unlike planets in orbit. Literally and figuratively, he looks up to Dave. “Did you ever regret it? Choosing work over — other things?” 

–

It takes him a moment, actually, to count back thirty years correctly. “Fuck. I was nineteen.” He gapes openly for a moment, feeling the word linger in his mouth. “Nineteen. I was still working for my dad, saving up money to apply to colleges.” Another sip— he shoots Rahi a pointed look across the top of his glass. “How old are you, again?” David chuckles and sets his drink down, wiping his wet palm on the expensive fabric stretched across his thigh. Sorry, Anaïs. 

“No.” The knee-jerk reaction, and what he genuinely believes most of the time. If he weren’t drunk he would leave the answer at that, but he takes a second to mull it over further. “Well, at certain times, yes. It’s impossible not to question your decisions at one point or another, isn’t it?” This, almost as if he’s in pursuit of genuine confirmation. It’s more a glimpse into his humanity than is usually allowed, to say the least — god forbid David have a moment of uncertainty. 

“In general, no. I chose my path. I know it’s what I want. I stick to it. Everything, everyone else is just...” he shrugs. “Auxiliary.”

@davestoll· — “Do you think I’m a hypocrite? Well, you should. I wouldn’t disagree with you.”

“Uh—” Laugh, the kind that’s caught off guard. And the kind, now, that accompanies flush cheeks off the drinks that came before the question. “I don’t know. I mean, aren’t all politicians hypocrites? I heard you guys kinda have to be.” While David’s name isn’t the one on the ballots, he’s the one behind its existence. There’s nothing more political than that. “…What headline called you a hypocrite?”

–

Off the first question, David simply snickers and spares a knowing glance in Rahi’s direction. Similar to his drooping smirk are his dropping vowels; a rare indulgence in clear liquor finds the deep-buried Queens accent slipping into his drunken cadence.

“What, you mean just today?” he scoffs, though it’s good-natured. “If you told me, thirty years ago, that my relationship status would make the gossip columns, I’d tell you to go fuck yourself.” No semblance of positivity in the words— but, in Dave’s sentiments, there rarely is. The melting ice in his drink skates circles around the bottom of the glass as he swirls it mindlessly, fingers clutching the rim. The next remark carries a bit more warmth: “ — although I’d have probably said the same thing if you told me I’d be having drinks with an astronaut.”