TO LINGER, TENDERLY—;

HASIM SAHIN. a web of thousand lies.

🚆 TRAIN

meme reply from here.

📏 RULER - is your oc well educated? where did they get their learning from? | hasim was educated by his grandparents alongside his cousins while he still lived in the ottoman empire as formal education for children was still in its early development stage within the empire. when his family moved to the states to settle in new orleans, he was enrolled at the local school before eventually graduating with his degree from the college of commerce of tulane university.

“of course not!” zosia exclaims, affronted however so lightly, at even the mere notion her dearest ernesto not only could be but would be so easily replaced. were he still alive he would even edge out vince as her dearest companion. perhaps not in terms of quality conversation considering he was a bird, but he would be with her at every hour of the day if she so needed it. “we had a good life together until he went, as all good and gentle things do, to greener pastures.”

even death could not be thought of as anything less than pleasant.

with a subtle shake of her head, she flicks her long hair behind her shoulders. not the popular style for women these days but she didn’t believe in following along with the others. doing as she pleased is a privilege so innately tied to her being to do anything else feels incredibly unbearable and, frankly, abhorrent. “it became the choice when i made it one, dear. a pooch, a pussy, or a pony were such tired options and hardly as striking as a peacock. the girl you saw was likely inspired by me if not actually being me as ernesto, beloved as he was to me, was more family than pet. what year was this?”

—

“such poetry coming from you,” hasim teases good-naturedly whilst throwing zosia a look that’s a mixture of barely concealed surprise and genuine interest. “who knew you had such talent sleeping in that pretty head of yours? before long, you’ll drag us all through the mud in your bestselling memoirs.”

the words are spoken in a half-hearted manner, toeing the line of offense while he keeps the charming smile plastered on his face. zosia knows not to take such jabs seriously, and for all that matters his words do seem to have the intended effect: whatever anxiety has previously occupied her mind seems to have been fully replaced by talk of the past. it’s not a wholly welcome venture on hasim’s end, but he’s happy to play along for the moment and dip a toe into the confinement of the past.

“i couldn’t imagine you with a pooch for the life of me,” he snorts, not even bothering to hide the grin blossoming on his face at the idea of zosia being followed by a yapping, furry thing. his thoughts on cats go unspoken.

“hm. i was a boy of about nine or eight so it must have been shortly after the turn of the century,” he muses. the details of that voyage are fuzzy in his mind at best, a side effect of his having been too young to pay attention although the girl with her peacock is a memory that his mind adamantly refuses to bury.

“might that have been you?” he queries, more to himself than her.

Her lips pressed together, only her iron grip on her composure stopping the burst of laughter the builds up on the back of her throat at Hasim’s low voice resonates on the space between the two of them like a secret delivered in the darkest of the nights, and not in the glitz halls of a speakeasy.

“Oh, Hasim, I don’t think I am capable,” there is an amused lilt to her voice as she eyes the man, watching in abject fascination as she is shown first hand how he changes his masks seamlessly. It is a talent, really, the smooth transition between genuine complains to the cheekiness of a good breed host. If anything, it is a good skill to have, and a good man to have at your side.

Cecilia Vincelli had picked an excellent host.

“Do not worry, the knowledge won’t pass my lips. I am not one to go around gossip, am I?” The questions is rhetorical, even as sharp eyes watch for any acknowledgement on his eyes at her comment, wondering how much he knows about her, when he seems to know everything about everyone. “But I won’t say no for an El Presidente if offered.”

“Not at all,” she denies, but this time she does laugh at his words, amusement clear even as the gazes of those around them suddenly become weightier. “It is simply a side effect from my presence that I can’t quite shake, it seems.”

Truly, her association with the Vincelli is more of an open secret by this point. Those who are regulars to the speakeasy should know by now that she means no harm to anyone who graces Knock Five Times —  As long as they haven’t pissed her bosses off, that is it.

the second the waiter is gone, off to procure an el presidente for the formidable woman at his side, hasim turns to minerva, his lips curved into a smile. “i knew you couldn’t resist me,” he jests, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “or perhaps i should say a good cocktail? regardless, you’ll let me have this, won’t you?”

it is a joke, for all intents and purposes. hasim hasn’t ever before entertained the thought that minerva would not see him off to a fate worse than death if his dealings got in the way of those enacted by a certain family. while her affiliation is more common knowledge at this point rather than secret, hasim doesn’t doubt for a second that her loyalty to the vincellis is well and true: few in this town have experienced a fall from grace quite as harshly as she has, and still managed to come out on top at the end of it.

and what of the price, one might ask? hasim has studied her bearings for long enough to know there is little that appears to perturb her—or maybe, she is simply much better at pretending than she has been letting on so far.

“you’re always a welcome guest here,” he reaffirms while his expression smoothes into one of apparent warmth. “notwithstanding any side effects.”

side effects that benefit the vincellis at every turn: what other way to remind the common folk of who runs this town than to send in someone whose name is familiar and whose loyalties are clearly known across all districts? if calculated, it’s a smart move on vera vincelli’s part—and if not, minerva still reaps the benefits of her affiliations; like a drink on the house, as the waiter comes swooping in with a tray carrying an elegantly prepared cocktail.

his lips stretch into a long, sharp smile before he raises his own glass as if to toast her. “à la tienne.”

“oh, is it really?” he replies, all gruff and trying to avoid meeting hasim’s eye. samarth isn’t exactly sure when he decided he’s not going to make friends with anyone he works with. it was probably a result of him thinking that the speakeasy was just a temporary solution to his problem—don’t make any friends, you’ll be out of here soon enough anyway. besides, anyone who chose to work at knock five times probably wasn’t someone sam would’ve ever wanted to associate himself with (save for his cousin—that’s different, obviously). even if he was pathetically lonely then. he still is, really, it’s just that he’s learned to live with it. 

all these years later and samarth still hasn’t changed his mind about the place or its people. and it seems like hasim still refuses to learn his lesson and leave sam alone, no matter how hard he tries to keep the other mn at an arm’s length. you’d think that years of rude remarks and bad manners would work but it seems like hasim’s something else.

“i am, very. i have a list of drinks this long to make and you’re stealing my precious time,” he says as he takes his usual spot behind the bar, a towel immediately in his hand, wiping at the counter even though he’s made sure it’s clean just ten minutes ago. when there’s no more excuses to scrub the surface clean, he finally decides to give hasim the time of day and looks at him. “are you adding to the list or leaving me alone?”

—

hasim’s eyes follow the barkeeper, seemingly undeterred by samarth’s apparent dislike for his company. it’s quite funny, all that—being in the center of new orlean’s nightlife and still finding one who adamantly refuses to partake in all its debauchery. if hasim didn’t know any better, he would presume it’s out of some staunch dedication to some flimsy set of virtues and morals which prevents samarth from doing as most others are inclined to; case in point, their surroundings.

he has no intention of convincing the other man to forgo his beliefs, but he can’t help the curiosity mixed with fascination. people like samarth are rare to come by in the crescent city—here, your preferred poison is either the taste of gunpowder or alcohol, sometimes both. seldom do you happen across someone who chooses neither.

“now don’t go making a liar out of me,” he replies smoothly, waving a hand around in the air as though he can physically bat away samarth’s insinuation. “cecilia would hate to know i’m being a bother to any of our precious staff.”

which isn’t exactly a lie, and hasim suspects that samarth would know as much after being on her payroll for long enough. still, it won’t hurt him to remind that it’s better to play nice than to antagonize those you see almost on a daily basis. he’s never understood the other’s deep resentment for his colleagues to begin with.

“precious now, is it?” arms come up to rest on the bar counter while he watches samarth’s execution of a distraction. “tell you what: surprise me with a drink. preferably with something that won’t render me useless for the rest of the evening, and i’ll see about leaving you alone.”

It’s quite the treat to find the host of Knock Five Times distracted from his duties, one Minerva takes in with much amusement. Hasim Sahin is a spider amidst the glittering lights of the speakeasy, but a well disguised one. Were it not for her own experience with such individuals —  were it not for the fact that like recognizes like and she is rather similar to the man —, she would have missed the signs she had witnessed upon her first visit to the speakeasy. She did not miss the signs, however, but saw them and found them amusing.

Minerva is no fool, however, so she had ensured that all their interactions were minimal. There are far too many secrets she has to keep for her to risk them with such a man, most of the time.

“No need to apologize, it is a rather common affliction after all,” she replies, a darling smile on her lips, even as her eyes flash in amusement. Perhaps she had made the right choice to stop by Knock Five Times briefly to get a nightcap before she turned in for the evening. “I have, thank you for asking. It’s been quite insightful.”

he glances over at the source of the noise before spotting minerva heading his way. the speakeasy certainly has a way of drawing out the most interesting characters of the quarter.

“now don’t go breaking my heart,” hasim says, his voice low. it’s not a murmur, not exactly, it’s more the voice of a man talking of an unhappy occurrence before his expression twists into something less genuine, if more teasing in nature. “can’t have it be common knowledge what a poor host i am, can i? look at you, talking to me without a drink. we have to remedy that. come now, i won’t accept a no. let’s get you something nice to take the edge off the day, what do you say?”

hasim gives her a once-over before offering the woman an amused smile, a quick flash of bright, white teeth while flagging down a waiter with the instruction to place the lawyer’s order for a drink.

once that’s done and taken care of, he turns to her again with a curious glint in his eyes. “come here to give my guests a good scare, have you?”

meme reply from here.

Apollo spent many of his nights nestled in the corner of the speakeasy, two walls pressed against his sides like a protective hug as he watched strangers twirl around with bright smiles and strong drinks. Though, he was never particularly interested in the cocktails, they were simply a means to an end and he wasn’t fond of the end of the end. The scorch of alcohol wasn’t the burn of life’s great happiness but blurred vision and a pounding headache, he simply couldn’t justify the discomfort.

Today wasn’t any different, even as he brought the glass to his lips and grimaced at the bitter tang. He asked for something sweet, and the bartender slid him a BumbleBee’s Legs or something- he wasn’t quite sure. The alcohol cut through the honey, and he WAS sure that those bootleggers had never tasted sugar in their life. Why he decided to drink that night was a mystery even to himself, perhaps it was an omen warning him to stay inside tomorrow with a terrible hangover.

He was happy to amuse himself with Hasim’s clear annoyance at an innocent glass of champagne. Watching with glee as the other perked up upon noticing his presence, “You’re such a terrible liar dear,” he batted his eyelashes “Would you like me to fight that flute for you, I would loathe to see your hands get dirty from such a brawl.” A mischievous grin was matched with a devilish giggle, “Dance with me? Share your secrets and I’ll share mine.”

—

hasim tips his head to the writer upon being spoken to, a smile followed by a sip from the tumbler in his grasp—filled with watered down whiskey so as to not dull his senses before the speakeasy’s final curtain call tonight—before his attention refocuses on the man beside him. “good evening, mr. ladrón.”

apollo ladrón is certainly a familiar face, although much to hasim’s entertainment not for reasons one might suspect. while it’s true that the former’s been visiting the speakeasy more frequently as of late, hasim hasn’t missed the other’s distaste for most alcoholic beverages by the way he’s done an admirable job avoiding most of them. tonight was one of the few occasions he’s spotted him nursing a drink, only for his face to screw up in clear disapproval. the host makes a mental note to have a talk with the bartenders about their cocktails later; there’s no way the speakeasy can afford a bad rep when it comes to the drinks they offer. it’s the only reason why he’s allowed, even expected to engage with clients.

the reasoning is simple: talking to a stranger with a drink is considerably easier than approaching a mere observer. it gives his hands something to do, makes him fit in more with the crowd. hasim is supposed to be inconspicuous, for all intents and purposes—this is part of the deal. so far, the ruse has been successful and he hasn’t had cause to complain.

“i appreciate the invitation but i’m afraid my boss won’t like seeing me dance on the clock,” he evades the request suavely, the corner of his right lip lifting into a half-smile. “but, mr. ladrón, i hear you’re hunting for inspiration. how has new orleans as a muse been treating you? there’s not a city more colorful than ours along the mississippi.”

it’s a simple, earnest nature of delysia’s that allows her to be so fond of the host of her favourite haunt. she — like most women  — were intricately laced creatures, much like the right webbing on the back of out-of-season corsets seemed to imply; though a majority of her often seemed to stand at odds with one another, there were threads within delysia dubois’s mind that were so sweet and finely spun, strung tight and true as the spine of an arrow from one side to the other, one could mistake them for angel hair. one of them looked like this: the girl loved knock five. hasim sahin was the voice of it. by simple arithmetic, the affection travelled.

“oh, i don’t have to worry about that none, mr. sahin. mama taught me early on how to avoid ruinin’ my good shoes, steppin’ in puddles or trackin’ in mud.”

her eyes follow him as he leans across the table, and something about it reminds her of school, with a teacher inclining across her desk. like he’s trying to impart something she won’t grasp.

“you’ll never guess what the secret is. it’s gettin’ someone else to pick you up.” delysia feels her lips move in a specific pattern, which history tells her means she’s smiling, closed-lipped. it has the same familiar sensation as opening a drawstring purse. “ain’t that just berries, hasim?”

she understands, of course, more than she lets on. more than anyone expects of her. if she was somebody else, she might’ve been hopeless. because it was delysia, she only sounded it. 

despite the loveliness of her dress and she shuffles onto the floor, heels pressing to the backs of calves. her arms crossing over the worn wood of the coffee table between them.

“but it is just senseless, don’t ya think?”

“it's important to stay vigilant,” he advises her, before allowing a smile to spread across his face. “but there’s no harm in having some fun while we do it.”

above the rambunctious chatter of the guests attending and the sound of glasses clinking, hasim has to strain his ears a little in order to hear delysia’s response. it’s not that she’s quiet—the thought is ironic, all things considered.

wherever she goes, her presence draws eyes. if not for her charming attitude, or the sweetly spoken words, then at least for the mere fact that she’s the mayor’s daughter. although there’s a strange contrast in her own behavior to her father’s conduct, hasim has yet to see her do anything but embrace the attention bestowed upon her so easily. often, he’s caught himself wondering whether she still realizes the eyes lingering on her, or if she’s simply grown too used to having the attention of others. or maybe it’s a side effect of having staff at home to tend to your needs as well, and what would he know of that?

as things currently are, she’s a welcome companion to indulge in a little chat with: boisterous and easy banter with the right amount of proper decorum. clients like her are his favorite at the speakeasy for they are the easiest to fall into rhythm with: hosting is equivalent to learning a dance on most days, and each client comes with their own style to master.

delysia’s isn’t quite as proper as hasim thinks the mayor would like it to be, which is half the fun of engaging with her.

“your mama’s got the right of it,” he replies with a pleasant smile coloring his expression, before reaching for his glass, his entire manner relaxed and fully confident. “i take it you got some experience with that?”

the definite sweetness in the way she speaks her words might make blind some to what exactly she is saying but hasim can only slowly lean back in his seat to study the girl’s features. it’s strange to see some people outside of his workplace; he’s not one to mingle with most clients privately. perhaps that allows him to see her in a new light as well.

a flicker of a smile dances over his lips before disappearing as suddenly as it appeared. “it’s only senseless if that’s what you’re looking for.” the implication being clear; meanings are easily twisted for one’s own benefit.

zosia scoffs at his response though she grins all the same and lightly gives his face a playful shrug. she ought to keep him around at all times what with his ability to lighten her mood instantly. even when it isn’t in need of lightening, he manages to bolster an already good mood easily. she can barely recall what soured her night earlier; she quickly leaves the thought there before it can make a resurgence and leave her all gloomy and morose.

best not to put hasim to the test so unnecessarily. 

“darling, what fun would a stuffed peacock serve me? of course it was alive and my dearest companion for quiet a time,” zosia sighs in dreamy recollection of a simpler time. a happier, perhaps, time when her parents were alive and they took her everywhere she pleased. gifted her whatever she desired. the dream life of every little girl the world over. “he was the most beautiful creature your eyes have ever seen, hasim. snowy white and perfectly so. we went everywhere together. i called him ernesto. did you have a furry or, rather, feathery companion of your own? perhaps a scaley one?”

—

zosia’s recollection of a different time in her life has hasim growing quiet, both in understanding it’s not his place to interrupt her and partly due to a faint spark of amusement at the dreaminess with which she delivers her explanation. it isn’t exactly difficult to imagine a smaller, much younger version of zosia laverde being accompanied by a colorful peacock dutifully trailing along behind her. in fact, the more he thinks about it, the more it seems to suit her character.

“aren’t you darling,” he quips back dryly, gently bumping into her side in response to her teasing. “so what happened to ernesto? i presume your smaller self didn’t exchange him for an exotic cougar or a talking parrot?”

brows drawing together in bemusement, hasim recalls a scene of his own youth; a laughable one, in hindsight. he’d seen a peacock once before, likewise trailing along behind a girl a bit younger than himself.

“since when has a peacock become the choice for little ladies to keep around as pets?” he wonders out loud, raising a brow at zosia as though she ought to know the answer to all his questions. “i recall a similar encounter in my youth, on a ship headed to new york. a girl who insisted that the peacock eat off her own plate. prior to that, i hadn’t even been aware that peacocks were so fond of berries.”

not that samarth ever shows up to work with a particular eagerness, but tonight’s been rather…challenging and the night’s still far from being done. his movements have truly turned mechanical this past hour, mindlessly pouring and mixing whatever people ask him for—he’s only made a mistake once so far, which is a surprise. what wasn’t one was the fact that the customer just shrugged and drank what they were given anyway. and then ordered another round of what they’ve just had. an astonishing image, especially to samarth who hasn’t drank more than one drink at a time in—a year? two years? his heavy drinking days are over and he’s much better for it. the speakeasy reminds him of it every single day.

he’s just coming back from a short break when he bumps into hasim—perfect, exactly what he needed. “not really. you’re in my way,” he says as he tries to go around the other to get to the bar.

—

in the time hasim has known samarth, he’s come to two conclusions about the man. one, samarth is not at all like his illustrious cousin. nalini has mastered her craft and performs it so beautifully that most would pale in comparison to her and it makes samarth’s lack of dedication to his own trade more pronounced. one would think the man had been forced to work for the speakeasy by more wicked means.

two, his manners are just as sorely lacking as his enthusiasm. 

“always a pleasure to see you too, samarth.” the use of the other’s name feels foreign; it’s a rarity to talk to the bartender to begin with given the consistency with which he displays his aversion. hasim’s lips quirk up into a wry smile while he steps out of the way but not without making a show out of it, throwing one arm out to gesture to the open space surrounding them. “i’d hate to keep you from your customers. you are quite busy this evening, aren't you?”

as she leads hasim down the hall and into another room, she breaks into a rapid stream of french, punctuated by curses and giovanni vincelli, the switch to english happening abruptly as she whips around to face hasim. “and isn’t it just so shameless of him to show up here? maybe i should be thankful it’s not charlie, but really, he has the audacity to sneak in like a—”

then hasim’s voice cuts in, soft and tinged with amusement. her vexation ebbs, and she lets out a laugh, light and bubbly like champagne. “you’re a difficult man to get a hold of.” she leans back against the wall, smirk playing on her lips. “surely you’ll excuse my methods.”

aurélie is a whirlwind of emotions on most occasions, and tonight doesn’t seem to be much of an exception. hasim offers a roguish grin, the edges of his lips softened by fondness for aurélie and the unnamed subject of their discussion.

“i was under the impression you had to rescue a damsel in distress,” he hums playfully, raising a fine brow. “i simply wasn’t aware that said damsel would be me.”

champagne, hasim finds, is incredibly outdated. he’s watched the bartender place a delicate flute of light, golden liquid in front of yet another client for the eleventh time that evening. tiny bubbles are suspended in the french wine like fairy lights, lending it a crystalline appearance. he can inhale the scent of the elegant drink even from a distance; the light floral aroma that deepens to include hints of citrus after several seconds. the alcohol that is pleasantly chilled and goes down smoothly, although the taste—fruity and a bit acidic—is stronger than one would first expect.

drink a few glasses more and it’s bound to go to your head.

⚝──⭒─⭑─⭒──⚝

     SO MANY FACES IN THE CROWD that she simply failed to place names towards. After learning of the deep, dark underbelly that haunted the Louisiana streets, Virginia opted to keep her head down as much as she could. Of course, to some people, she was a member of that same darkness; the escapades with her lover not in the same vein as the crimes committed by the Vincelli’s, but severe enough they surely would have been sent to dance. Her nose, unless by substances that were far from holy, was clean. 

     There was one face that she placed with ease, though the name was still escaping her. Haseen? Haskim? Harris? It begun with a H, of that she was sure. Or was it a Ch. Maybe she was utterly off the mark and it was an M. This was knowledge she should have known, and her failure lead to disappointment of the worst kind; disappointment within herself. Maybe she could steal a glimpse at his wallet, surely a form of identification would be in there. Or some delightfully drunk attendee would call his name from across the room. 

     In an effort to be safer than sorry, Ginny perched herself in the seat beside him, resolving to simply avoid his name at all costs. Perhaps a slew of nicknames, pet names, would be endearing to him. At least she was able to place his face, though she would see if she could sneak a brief conversation with Lottie in the powder room; Lottie would definitely have the answer.

     “A cigar? Why sir, who do you take me for?” The smile upon her lips was coy – while she had no affinity for them, she certainly had dabbled one, two, ten times within her life time. “Unless that was an offer, for which I graciously accept. We could call it payment for the drink; I would hate to be indebted to you. Heaven knows that you’ve the best drum in town.” 

—

hasim is not a native to louisiana, but he’s spent many years in new orleans where roots have formed in the absence of familial relations and were fostered through whichever means he could come by as one who once possessed not a thing. if nothing else, the lengths he’s gone through in order to secure himself a life worth living has aided in gaining better insight of the way things work around here; and things that remain well beyond his area of influence. but that only extends so far as to perceptions, the result of which is a carefully crafted narrative that allows him to blend in the background with ease.

so he might entertain his little charades here and there and draw pleasure from digging a little deeper when he thinks there must be something worth his time. the woman across from him should be just that, by all accounts—the cunning curling at the edge of her lips as she regards him with a smile speaks of it quite plainly.

“can’t keep a pretty lady waiting, can i?” he replies evasively without looking at her. “it’s shame i don’t have any on me. what’s a man gotta do to be forgiven?”

he’s not particularly partial to them himself, preferring to keep his attention clear and focused but it’s the roaring twenties and if there’s one thing that this city knows how to do well, it’s dancing the night away—case in point, this little impromptu house party. although hasim suspects that aurélie and nalini would be cross with him for labeling it such; bless their tender hearts.

his brown eyes flit to her, tracing her features out of simple curiosity. is she playing him, or does she genuinely not know? “don’t let the lady of the house hear you.”

“and that is why i trust none above you, hasim,” she teases, easily falling into a sense of ease despite the ever present possibility of danger looming over the night. it looms, the danger, over every night, but it is easy to forget when there are no gunshots cracking the night wide open. when there is only raucous laughter as people spill forth from their hidden places and stagger home or onto the next hidden place. “the only gentleman in a sea of scoundrels.”

he could very well be a scoundrel of the worst kind, but until he did something terrible and did it unto her zosia would pay the possibility of it the same amount she had paid towards her debt to vera vincelli: none.

this late - the previous day ends only once she sinks into her oversized bed in her oversized penthouse - the night is still enough that she doesn’t feel the need to look over her shoulder. somewhere, she can hear music playing from an open window and it’s only hasim’s voice that pulls her from the faint melody. something nice? she could think of a thousand something nice’s to tell him of.

“i had a fabulous beignet at cafe du monde this morning. to be expected, of course. the young man who served me was absolutely divine. i think i’d like my heart to be broken by him once or twice.” she looks to hasim and winks, continuing on with all of the nice parts of her day. the only parts of it she would take to heart, remember when she awakened. “if only to have it mended back together with a well-crafted cocktail or three. i had quite the lucky hand at the poker table tonight as well. those eggs didn’t know what hit them. oh! and i saw a girl walking her pet peacock from my window this morning and it reminded me of my own childhood pet. did you know i had one?”

“such flattery,” he replies dryly while patting zosia’s arm in his grasp before regarding her with a mischievous look. “keep it up and you’ll make me blush.”

she’s quite a wonder, that woman; in possession of plenty of charm but rarely ever luck, if rumors about her nightly escapades are to be believed. hasim has long since resigned himself to quietly watching what fate has in store for those unfortunate souls—gamblings debts are another kind of man-made hell of which there are plenty to be found in the city, and he’s yet to see someone come out of accumulating them unscathed. there’s little evidence to suggest that she’ll be the first to break that invisible chain tightening around her neck; word around the street has it that vera vincelli has been sighted near the other woman. it doesn’t bode well for the latter.

dark eyes glance over zosia’s tall frame and the immaculate dress she’s chosen for herself tonight. it’s still glittering in the dimly lit streets; an idle thought in the back of his mind has him wondering how much it might be worth—probably enough to make a decent dent in those debts of hers. while she’s a sight for sore eyes, and one that a lesser man would likely not hesitate to rob blind, hasim doesn’t bother to hide the wry quirk of his lips when he realizes that she’s done a fine job of that all on her own.

as she chats away about the details of her day and the divine young server in question, hasim can’t help but let his own thoughts wander back to the mess left behind in the speakeasy. he’s going to have that get cleaned up first thing in the morning and he already resents the very idea of it.

“you have that right,” he sighs, feigning amusement. “who can say no to a handsome face? not to discount the cocktail, that is. the right amount of alcohol can make just about anyone prettier.” he returns her wink with an innocent tilt of his head, his expression the very picture of proper with a spark of roguery apparent in the curve of his mouth.

closed to : @lerikapali​ location : bourbon street time : september 12, 1924

hasim is a man she’s most accustomed to seeing behind the bar, his smile like that of a mask an actor wears. you’d be lucky to be privy to what lies beneath it—lottie’s sure she’s only ever managed a glimpse. even now, against a backdrop of blood and gunpowder, he stands perfectly placid, undisturbed by the violence unfurling around them. it makes her wonder: what has he seen? what secrets does he keep? 

or does he simply have better nerves than most?

whatever the reason, her curiosity flits like a passing breeze. there are more pressing matters—like making sure she doesn’t die on these streets, and neither does he. “can you shoot a gun?” she asks as she bends down, gloved hands searching the dead man in front of her. pulling a pistol from his coat, she palms it over to hasim. “if not, now’s a great time to learn.” 

she won’t be surprised if he can; perhaps it’s simply another card up his sleeve.

there is never a moment of silence in these time-worn streets. perhaps it’s a matter of habit; new orleans has been lined with vincelli men for as long as he has drawn breath. to assume that things would stay quiet would be foolish in much the same manner that expectations only serve to disappoint.

hasim has yet to experience a bloodless revolt in this lifetime.

he catches the curious look in lottie li’s glance thrown his way but dismisses it just as easily; to each their own and she’s entitled to her thoughts about him, such as they are. “i don’t believe i’ve ever seen you at a loss for words,” he smiles most annoyingly in lieu of a greeting, cocking his head ever so slightly to the side when lottie grants him her attention after having inspected the dead body. it is in silence, and not for the first time, that hasim notices how she doesn’t appear shaken at all by the gruesome violence but chooses not to remark on it.