HUMAN ERROR.

          Danny clutches his heart as the other concedes the third glass of champagne to him, graciously accepting it with an appreciative sip. He does need it – not trying to blackout but knowing he’ll have to slow down to an appropriate pace as soon as he returns to his date. They spend a few minutes looking at their feet, partially because the socks are good but also because Danny will do almost anything to avoid throwing himself back into the sea of people outside the safeness of his corner.

But — where did his date go? 

He looks up and over the crowd in one direction, squinting, trying to find anyone that looks familiar with a similar mask.  “Eh…”  He throws his eyes back the other direction until, finally,  “He’s still mingling.”  How? – How much could there be to be said about anything let alone what the people here wanted to talk about.  “I think he’s trying to save the world.”  Danny’s completely serious, but he’s frowning and he doesn’t know why.

“What about you? Socks like that, surely you got somewhere exciting to be.”

‎‎

     HE TRIES TO FOLLOW THE GUY’S LINE OF SIGHT but it’s hard to determine where exactly he’s looking when everybody looks like they’re dressed the same way with only their masks to tell the difference. he feels bad for him, truly, he does, and deacon wants to say this is why he doesn’t have any love life to boast of, but even he knows that’s a bald-faced lie. “some date. what did you even see him?” deacon quips, his own take on trying to make the man feel better ( he thinks the socks would’ve already done that ) but he’s never been good at this whole cheering up ordeal. he’s glad the socks made a statement, though. “would you believe me if i told you i came here on official business as a special envoy to the country of kyrgyzstan?” and, as if to demonstrate, he brings a hand to his torso and bows. “priv-yet.” 

          “ of course i do, ”   the blonde stated matter-of-factly.   “ you can’t go to a place like this dressed in anything but your best. ”   a subtle reminder was hidden amongst the words as a delicate hand reached back to secure the tag that had been gingerly tucked into the dress, hidden by the ebony fabric.   “ and it’s like my mother said, god rest her soul. ”   blue eyes looked heavenward for emphasis to memorialize the woman she’d call tomorrow.   “ you find a rich man and doors open. ”   and with  the  price  tag  of  immortality  looming over everyone like a bright neon sign, rich was not a luxury tonight. it just so happened the man she had put all her attention on was the kid brother of a rich man, an arms reach away, but deacon’s value was different. he had something money couldn’t buy and thus there daphne was, hung around him like a silk dress on a hanger.

   “ unfortunately handsome, we’re both in business. ”   her tone was melancholy and her reach for the joint weak as if she couldn’t be bothered to make such a short movement. the blunt between her lips gave way to a sharp inhale and dramatic exhale at the peculiar question that reached her ears. a furrowed brow and narrowed gaze in curiosity took hold of her features.  curiouser  and  curiouser  . . .    “ why? you don’t? ”   the blunt she held between her index and middle finger fell to her side. her opposite hand fell upon deacon’s shoulder for balance to journey around him until she was perched beside him. blue eyes studied the familiar features for a tell something … anything.   “ shit you don’t, do you? ”   her mask was lifted and body shifted closer.   “ deacon ”   with her sing-song delivery, daphne held the blunt between them, but failed to hand it to him, not yet. his own joint the dangling carrot, the irony.   “ is there something you want to tell me? ”

     THEIRS IS A RELATIONSHIP OF BLIND FAITH. and it’s not necessarily trust, per se, but there is a quiet, mutual understanding that what is shared between them remains only between them. daphne arguably gets a lot more out of the bargain, but deacon likes to think that all this is going to be worth it for him in the end — whatever that looks like.

so when daphne insists that he tell her what he knows ( or at least, what he’s heard — to say that deacon ‘knows’ anything is to assume the guy is a reliable source, which he hasn’t explicitly claimed to be,  but so far, everything that he’s whispered into her hungry ears has aligned with the truth ) he delivers, just like a well-trained dog. 

          “I know, I know —” he knows. Party foul. The rules are a little different in Danny’s corner; survival of the least fit, most desperate. Lucky for them, you couldn’t take one step in this place without a server thrusting a drink tray at you. (Unluckily, it was starting to make him feel watched.)

All the same, Danny gratefully accepts a glass being offered. Fingers curling around the stem, dehydrated man meeting desert mirage. He casts a glance over to the other man and apologetically drains that glass as well. One hand stays on the server’s shoulder who looks a bit wary under their own mask, keeping them there with a loose grip.

Danny won’t say he makes drinking look graceful but he does it with a practiced confidence, exchanging the empty flutes for a full one that he does hand the man he’s wronged. The server is released as an after thought but not before Danny gives them a an earnest pat. He’s already the good kind of dizzy but with champagne it wouldn’t be long until he felt heavy and pulled down in it.

“When did people stop going on dates to the cinema?” He liked movie dates, dark and comfortable. “Popcorn, butter, no fuckin’ masks.” Danny’s had to sneeze for a good twenty minutes but fears he might disrupt the gold lace and satin around his eyes. He squeezes them shut, then throws a look down at their feet. “Should I have tipped that guy? — Oh, hey, nice socks.”

‎

     DEACON WATCHES AS THE GUY desperately attempts to quench an insatiable thirst — like someone who’s going through something, and he supposes he should be a little more sympathetic. he doesn’t look like he wants to be here, either, and when he mentions a date, it’s easy then to put two and two together ( one has to wonder what kind of person this guy has to be to keep the company of people who come here to date ). deacon returns the champagne, says, “you look like you need it more,” with an earnest nod. he doesn’t drink this shit, anyway; his system’s far less cultured than what his being here might suggest. the socks, however, are a dead giveaway, and he grins, pulls the fabric up his legs a little to reveal more of the flamingo pattern around his ankles. “nice, huh?” finally, someone who can appreciate some good fucking fashion. "so, where’d your date go?”

𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑  /  𝐅𝐓.  𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐎𝐍 𝐅𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖 @ghostspot​

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄’𝐒 𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐒,  women and men unable to break the loop of repetition. nothing can rival the irrevocable foolishness of the human heart and mind, and marjorie’s learned enough about deacon farrow to know that it doesn’t take much to sate his desires. the little farrow shadow, the boy who should’ve been loved but never was. the hook is already in his mouth even if he can’t feel it. all she has to do is pull. 

she’s magnetic, innovative, a star in any world that she creates, but to triumph, she must fall at the feet of the youngest farrow. she waits for him in the shadows, seemingly lost in the unforgiving and grey streets of new york where she lays her scene, awaiting for the cue of her indiscernible assailant. he pushes her to the ground, striking her across the face with enough precision to leave a scarlet cut close to her eye, a laceration that will clearly need close inspection. “no, please, i’ll give you anything that you want!” she throws her purse to side as she lifts her hands, concealing her tear-stricken face. “please, don’t,” marjorie whimpers upon catching a glimpse of the pistol held so close to her head, now powerless, defenseless, unable to run. she ought to hide, but what she needs to be is found. 

‎

     IN NEW YORK CITY, no matter the time, no matter the day, there’s always someplace dark and damp and dangerous, a bruising patch in its already rotting flesh that always hurts. and deacon, he has the misfortune of always stumbling into these places ( his timing is orchestrated impeccable ). tonight, he walks right into a mugging and in an instinctive act of self-preservation, his feet take him behind the nearest parked vehicle, fingers pushing against the cold metal of the trunk as he pushes himself up just high enough to watch. from what he can tell, the victim appears to be a young woman. she appears to be alone ( aren’t they always? ), and from behind she reminds him of his sister. same height, same build. for a moment, he thinks it actually is gwen. then she speaks, and though he is certain that she isn’t, a palpable rage sets his body into motion at the sight of the sound of the 9mm now cocked against her head.

“HEY! pick on someone your own size!” he exclaims, charging straight towards the assailant. and yes, there are far better catchphrases and much cooler ways to butt into the scene of the crime, but he’s no batman, and he certainly has no special combat skills or weaponry to boast of, so it’s the best he can do and with just the limbs attached to his body by default, he tackles the masked suspect to the ground, pins the goon’s slightly larger body between his legs as his fists ram into the guy’s face. he absorbs a few blowbacks here and there, but he definitely gets a lot more punches in. the gun has skidded off to some corner at this point, forgotten in the rolling of bodies and strained grunts.

“go!” deacon yells now from underneath his opponent when he catches a glimpse of the woman past him. “run!” and this distracts the other just enough for deacon to push him off him. it’s now that he sees the pistol teetering over a sewer grill, just about the same time as the assailant, and what follows next is an almost comical attempt at trying to get to the weapon first, with deacon desperately crawling towards the curb and the man trying to drag him back. deacon stretches one arm as far as he could while the other is pushing against the man’s face, smothering him. he wiggles against the ground, and it’s every small millimeter that counts when the tips of his fingers finally make contact with the cold metal. he pulls the gun towards him until his fingers fully wrap around the grip. he twists his body so he’s on his back, feet still held together by the assailant so his shins are still facing the ground, but he quickly finds the trigger, aims for the man’s shoulder, and shoots.

the impact sends both of them back and as soon as he released, deacon drops the gun and assumes his first position on top of the guy. he pulls the mask off and the first thing he sees is a long, daunting scar on his cheek. “holy shit,” he mutters breathlessly, tossing the mask aside. “man, you’re ugly. least you could do is not pull shit like this.” he chuckles, and it’s this brief moment of letting his guard down that affords the scarred man to muster enough force to push deacon off. he hits his head on the pavement with a resounding thud and as he composes himself, he finds the guy has already scampered away. he sighs as he sits up, a hand cradling the back of his head. “hey, miss? you still around?” he calls out.

( status ) ━━ open event starter ! ( location ) ━━ at the gala buffet table !

❛ ━━━━zehra is a woman on a mission. she has no interest in the decor, the chandelier, the people clad in fabrics worth ten times her rent while she dons an old halloween costume.  she crosses the dance floor without a second glance at the couples that have to irritably step aside to avoid her colliding into them.

there are workers dressed in their finest bowties and masks, carrying silver trays with glass drinks that don’t smudge with your fingertips and hors d’oeurves that she can neither identify nor pronounce.  but she has her eyes on the fucking prize: the longest table she’s ever seen with a quantity of food that could feed the entire city and a quality where she could die happy.  the food is laid out for all guests to feast upon, both with their eyes and hungry mouths.  fancy schmancy parties for the rich always have the best vegetarian foods.  

zehra pops a stuffed mushroom in her mouth; the flavors melt against her taste-buds and she moans under her breath.  “oh my god, that’s good,” she says, and then takes a napkin from the table, wraps up 8 of the mushrooms, and shoves it in her purse. this was a great idea, she thinks. 

she takes a bite of a stuffed jalapeño bigger than her palm next and rolls her head back at the flurry of flavors and textures, both unaware of her obnoxiousness and uncaring.  “have you tried the stuffed jalapeño yet?” she says to the person beside her, shaking the jalapeño in her hand for emphasis.  “they’re stuffing it with crack, i swear to god.  i’m surprised they don’t have silverware here … perhaps because it’s all finger food, or maybe someone came before me and snagged it all.”  she sees someone set another tray.  “fuck, is that fried goat cheese?  that shit’s gonna go fast.”  she grabs a handful with a napkin and, with a thought of compromise, she turns back to the person and says, “here.  hurry up, before they see.  shove it in your pockets or your bag, whatever you’ve got.  it’s wrapped in a napkin; it’s fine! we’ve got the rest of the table to check out—quickly!”

     JAVIER WATCHES THE GIRL AMUSEDLY. she’s gotta be either high or starving, or both, and while javi takes an ounce of pity on her, he finds her behavior to be delightfully endearing. “oh, the buses don’t go where you live, do they, honey?” he purrs, but takes a piece of fried goat cheese as a gesture of solidarity, pops it cleanly into his mouth, then licks his thumb. he smiles at her. “but this is nothing... have you seen the vip area?” of course she hasn’t, look at her, and though javi regrets asking, he recovers quickly with an unlikely invitation. “would you like to see the vip area?” 

Cade cut the smoke with his teeth at the sudden interruption, but it slipped past his lips and announced his presence in a ghost of thought. He did his best to claim it back, the last of it returning to his lungs through his nose. 

“I figured leaving through the front would trap me into another conversation,” Cade said, the hand rolled cigarette returning to his mouth. It was a slower high, one much more gradual than anything he’d taken that night and anything that was offered from the touching of palms in brief passing. Immortality on the table or not, euphoria wasn’t a guarantee even to gods. They’d need their fix, and people found a way to promise it and ease the waiting game until they could get their hands on the drug they all celebrated. “But I think you and I both know where the real party is, yeah?”

     THE GUY’S OUTFIT HAS BEEN SOMETHING OF A SHOWSTOPPER ALL EVENING and even without knowing who it was, he knows there’s only one person crazy enough to pull something like that at a black-tie event. cade dyer’s popularity on television does not wane even across the polished floor of a ballroom, of that deacon is sure. and he rarely gets starstruck, but when he realizes he’s in the presence of such a personality, his composure is quick to be lost.

open starter / location: some pretty, vague corner

There’s gold in his eyes, scratching itself into his skin, trying to blur the lines between real and fake until he’s turned into one of them. Some voice in the back of Danny’s head reminds him that he should be used to being undercover — after all what’s the difference? A gilded mask, someone else’s name, satin swallowing him whole, a life full of lies.

He has no idea what a guy like the one he came with tonight would be doing at an event like this but that just reminds Danny of what a terrible date he’s being. Oh, he’s laughed at (almost) all the right times. Smiled and sighed and tried and tried and tried to be a normal person on a normal date for once – but when Thomas had turned from the family friend he was catching up with and told Danny he could mingle if he wanted, Danny had let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

Maybe he does belong here.

Here in the figurative sense but also here in a what has to be the nicest fuckin’ corner Danny’s ever had the melancholic pleasure to stand in — where he’s frowning down at his empty glass of champagne. He can’t remember if he had been sober when he walked in here tonight and he’s trying to remember enough of his story to get straight when someone tries staking claim on his corner. There’s a quick debate in his mind over how rude he can be until he remembers he’s here with someone and they’re wearing matching masks. He doesn’t want to do something to outright embarrass Thomas so he does the next best thing, which happens to be grabbing the other’s champagne and downing it in one. It isn’t until he’s finished the drink that he wonders, in immediate retrospect, if that might have been rude.

“ — eh, thanks. Sorry. ”

‎‎

     DEACON HAS BEEN TRYING TO LOOK FOR other members of the hanging man to mingle with for the better part of an hour and those he does find clearly are not interested in his company. that’s fine, it’s not like i want to hang out with them, anyway, is the bitter consolation he offers himself. tonight, he is the sheep lost from the herd. so he’s been entertaining himself since he got here — he still doesn’t understand why he’s here — butting into conversations that has nothing to do with him, spreading false information about this corporation and that conglomerate, about this promising new think tank that exists solely by the hairs of his ass, and excusing himself when they start asking too many questions.

and being influential is a lot of work, so after he’d taken a breather to smoke a joint outside, he returns to find the place even more packed than he’d left it. luckily, he at least manages to secure a nice, secluded spot with a good vantage point of the entire party. he’ll stay out of their way, for now. these people, they look like they’ve been doing this their whole lives — it’s mesmerizing, how they gracefully waltz around each other, tip their heads back in practiced laughter that has just the right cadence, long, polished fingers swiping hors d'oeuvres and alcohol in expensive glasses from masked servants. deacon could throw up. but he could learn a thing or two from them, he thinks, and eyes one of those gilded trays coming his way. he takes a champagne flute and holds the piss-colored liquor over his nose. before he could decide what to do with it, however, he finds the glass taken away from him as quickly as he’d acquired it. 

“come on, man, not cool...” deacon whines defeatedly at the suspect, his now empty hand clutching air. “you’re getting me another one of those.”

her jaw tightened, eyes widening for just a second when the other spoke the words that he had. daisy - as deacon (she could assume), needed a break from what was really going on at the masquerade gala. it was harsh, it was a break in reality all hidden by who had the biggest diamond or the largest wallet. the world wasn’t supposed to be decided by whose soul had cost the most when they sold it to the organization of their choosing. “when’d you get that type of power?” there was an attitude behind her voice, but an exhaustion with no care to argue. with a pause in her words, there was a soft “are you okay?” 

          DEACON PRETENDS TO LOOK AROUND THEM, though the surroundings indicate that they are, in fact, alone. “i gifted it to myself. just now,” he answers with a slight wave of the now unlit joint between his fingers. he sizes her up, the silk of her outfit dipped in a tempting red and hugs her figure in only the most flattering way. he could almost roll his eyes at the contrived display of concern — maybe she was raised better than he was. “peachy,” is all the answer he gives her, anyway. and then with narrowed eyes, he adds, “if you’re lookin’ something, just know i’ve been keepin’ my hands to myself.” because otherwise, why would she be here? he would’ve thought she’d be having a field day stealing credit card information and learning all the street names these rich fucks grew up in. 

     JAVIER IS THE FIRST ONE THROUGH THE DOOR closely followed by the other bosses trailing behind him — they’re unable to fit through the frame all at once, try as they might — which is a fitting order for the night, given that the jade tribe has been given early acquisition of the drug, thanks to yong-gi’s stellar work. and naturally, because he’s sure he currently has the upper hand between the three of them, he takes the large office chair behind the desk which he uses as a makeshift foot stool. “’let’s make this quick. i intend to have my ass kissed by republicans six ways to sunday and party like it’s the 2010s.”

    THIS  VESSEL  IS  A  LIE  /  A  LESSON  IN  FLUIDITY.    rafiq  hurdles  himself  into  the  great  abyss  and  the  beast  gnaws  and  reshapes  him  into  something  palpable.    self - diagnosed  god  is  levelled  by  the  humanity  to  be  found  in  the  simple  pleasantries:    the  way  frank  ocean  warbles  through  the  car  frame  even  when  dialed  down  a  few  notches,    how  deacon  looked  in  the  lowlight  through  stolen  glances.    HOW  RAFIQ  YEARNED  FOR  WHAT  WAS  RIGHT  IN  FRONT  OF  HIM.    even  for  a  moment,  rafiq  is  sent  lurching  back  to  days  spent  tucked  away  into  the  innards  of  his  best  friend’s  summer  palace.        evocation  unspools  like  a  reel  of  old  film  tape,    but  what  use  is  there  for  memories  already  fraying  at  the  edges?    and  could  be  said  of  a  man  so  willingly  to  toss  them  to  the  fire  after  keeping  tucked  away  for  so  long?   “  never  bothered  me  before,  ”  appearances  were  dialed  a  few  years  keener,  and  rafiq’s  early  grey  had  only  persisted  but  overall,  he  was  the  same  then  that  he  was  now.    he  could  never  bring  himself  to  be  a  harsh  critic  on  deacon.    partial  admittance  .  “  if  you  were,    i  would  know  —  trust  me.  ”   what  good  was  a  first  class  security  detail  if  you  couldn’t  employ  it  at  your  every  whim?    gaze  enraptures  fleetingly,  sights  boring  in  warm  mahogany  pools  almost  shone  gold  beneath  the  street  lights.    raf  uses  this  stillness  to  this  advantage.    a beat, “  how  about  dinner?    i’ve  got  a  standing  reservation  at  a  pop-up  in  uptown    …    if  you’re  interested  in  joining  me.  ”

‎‎

     THIS IS HOW THEY OPERATE, always in the dark, in car seats and locked doors, in covert midnight meetings on his father’s yacht. tonight is no different. the neon lights of the city’s indiscretions attempt to catch them, but here, they are unseen. they are safe. and like always, it feels just a little bit naughty, maybe even unauthorized, and it’s the thrill that has deacon coming back to him. among other things.

rafiq makes the proposition so casually and of course he’s interested, he’s always been interested, but as it currently stands, some of their pieces just don’t quite fit — rafiq’s crowd is not his and his is not rafiq’s. rafiq is a standing reservation kind of guy. and deacon... he eats two-dollar ramen outside in the rain and has fish tacos for dinner. maybe, when they were younger, when their shoes were polished and their noses clean, dinner meant sitting at a large table with their parents while servants catered to their every whim, coffee served at the salon and the children out in the garden catching fireflies while the older kids skipped rocks at the lake. but that’s as far as their lines intersected. they weren’t people back then, nothing to protect, nothing to lose. now, new york city would eat them alive and drain them for all they’re worth. 

“raf...” and deacon lets out a nervous chuckle, runs a hand through his short curls. his elbow finds rest on the edge of his door, palm resting against his stubbled cheek. he’s warm all over just at the thought that raf would ask to take him out. “do you think that’s such a good idea? i mean...” he shakes his head, lips stretching into a smile. “...fuck, you’re one smooth son of a bitch, aren’t you?” he laughs, and worry dissipates for a moment when he considers the balls raf has to propose such a thing to him out of nowhere. but when you have that kind of power it’s easy, deacon thinks, to do whatever you want. that’s not a luxury he can afford. “is that what you really wanna do?”

          “ is that why you’re here? ”   the bottle blonde had only managed to mutter those few words before shaken gravel and four inch heels had mixed like oil and water. a perfectly manicured hand fell to the masked man’s shoulder and as balance was found once more, she smiled.   “ thanks, you’re a — ”   her brows creased at the unmasked features.   “ hey handsome! ”   recognition had taken hold of the journalist who no longer felt the need to allow deacon to reclaim his personal space, not yet.   “ i almost didn’t recognize you. ”   and she hadn’t meant the mask that made him, and everyone here, look like something out of a comic book ; though there was something to say about the ambiguity of it all.  actions  without  consequences , the unspoken theme of the evening.   “ you’re all dressed up. ”   she had maneuvered in front of him, mindful of the unforgiving gravel below. fingertips pressed against the crisp collar of the tailored jacket as if to inspect the piece daphne had already noted was designer.   “ you clean up nice. ”   blue eyes fell downward to the rest of his attire which she declined to comment on. he cleaned up nice … enough.   “ so, something happen? i mean, you’re hiding, right? ”   or such was the assumption and the very reason she followed the alleged stranger outside. from a purely objective third party perspective, his impromptu exit was in a word,  suspicious , pink streak and all. 

     TO BE FAIR, HE DIDN’T RECOGNIZE HER, EITHER — tonight, the snake had shed her skin and when he gazes at her under the moonlight, she starts to look like the original sin itself. shamelessly, he stares at every exposed inch of smooth, milky flesh, from the hand that rests on his shoulder to the dip in her collarbone, the stretch of her neck. he doesn’t mean to look like a horny pre-teen who found x-rated videos on his older brother’s computer for the first time but, well, the view is pretty damn good. “uh-huh...” it’s a pathetic excuse for a response at the wry compliment she throws his way. “and you’re all dolled up, look at that.” he huffs, brings the joint to his lips and once more flicks the lighter. delicately, he pinches it between two fingers and takes a long hit. he winces, extends the joint towards daphne in a simple offer. “i’m just sick of politics,” he answers earnestly with a small smile, though she of all people knows he’s always in places he shouldn’t be. isn’t that the entire basis of their relationship, anyway?

scooching back, he brings his legs up to sit criss-cross, stares at the small rocks on the floor. “you think it’s real? the pill?"

❛ ━━━━zehra snorts, rolling her eyes.  “i’m sure you’ve burned off your tastebuds by now, considering all the extra vitamins you take in,” she remarks.  “no one likes eating ass, d; we just do it.”  when deacon reaches out to graze her hair, she narrows her eyes, honing in on the redness of his eyes, the grease on his hoodie, and the cigarette he so easily flicked away.  she swats his hand away and says accusingly, “oh, you selfish jackass, you’re high as balls right now, aren’t you?”  

zehra elbows him in the side, half-teasingly and half truly annoyed that she is sober and he isn’t ( despite her previous comment on his diet ); she doesn’t adjust the force to take into account his current state either, not caring if her nudging pushes him over.  “that’s strike two, deacon, and whenever i figure out how to get passed that bastard’s security android, i’ll send you a video of me chowing down boxes of alfredo’s pizza alone.”

she grabs another slice from the box, ignoring the gurgling in her stomach and noting that deacon, once again, is avoiding anything of interest or substance or factual.  “so…” she starts not-so-subtly.  “you gonna tell me who—or what—you’re waiting for? or are we gonna have to do this back and forth dance again?”

     𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐎𝐍 𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐘𝐋𝐘 when zehra calls out his marijuana-addled brain ( what, like it’s hard? ) though he knows she would’ve wanted to smoke a blunt with him instead. he’s sent against the dingy brick wall, sure to add another stain to the already growing collection on his week-old jacket, but he does not recoil, instead rests his head, which grows heavier the longer he stays awake, back.

“you wound me, z. really. but i ain’t one of your cheap dates.” he reaches forward to shove her back weakly, though only manages a playful tap on her arm. “i’ll be more impressed when you actually pay for one.” but he knows -- and he thinks zehra will agree -- that everything tastes so much better when it’s free ( not to mention, illegal ).

     𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐊. this is the seedy underbelly of new york dipped in satin, wrapped in leather, rolled in diamonds. shined and flossed so they glisten with the chandeliers. they are beautiful and they are brand-new, straight out of the factory where they manufacture vicious intents, and deacon needs to breathe air that isn’t contaminated with imported eau de toilette and corruption, so he slinks away to the back of the building where the grass is freshly painted and the flowers stuck-on. he walks a little further. the landscape is bigger than it looks from the outside and the farther he gets, the more he sees the cracks in its perfection -- caution tapes from unfinished construction, weeds growing in the balding ground, a small gazebo with holes in its roof and debris of its destruction scattered across its once ivory-white seats. deacon ducks under the tape, already with a joint and a lighter in his hand ( the vintage type, the one that still uses fuel ) and the flame it produces nearly melts the edge of his mask off. 

𝐉𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐙 at the 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐆𝐀𝐋𝐀