ad vitam;

The pressure on his arm was enough to shift Gene’s attention from anger to confusion to pause. Retrospectively, when he was back in the safety of his home, he’d know that his irritation didn’t stem from annoyance alone. It was definitely a part of it, but it wasn’t all it was. That little outburst was thus interrupted and Gene shut up, mostly because Séb actually dragging him along was the last thing he expected – it caught him off guard, made him stumble along, and watch that hand on his arm like he was trying to figure out whether he was imagining it or if it was actually there.

Wouldn’t be the first time. Sometimes, phantoms seemed to just materialize in front of Gene’s eyes with the sole purpose of mocking him.

And he did immediately feel dumb for his little tantrum. The frustration had been genuine, real, but perhaps Gene had misunderstood. Misinterpreted. That wasn’t fair.

Still, he didn’t quite catch was Séb was trying to get at. What was the worst that could happen if someone like him got caught with drugs in his pockets? A chastising slap on the wrist? He’d still have his wife and her fortune to fall back to. Not that Gene said that. He simply listened, and eventually, he sighed and shrugged. “I get it. The thing about your intern, about the pressure. Makes sense.”

Someone had his back. Someone was there to catch him when he fell.

He looked around. People were buzzing by, one mass of a body pushing by in an attempt to move forward. If Gene got lost within them, he would be a ghost. Séb, on the other hand, would make the national news. “Forget about it. Head back to your office before the British SWAT team has to evacuate you.”

“…And I’m sorry I called you Jared Kushner. That was heartless.”

Embarrassment settled on Gene’s face almost as fast as the reactionary feeling of guilt. 

Did he owe Gene any sort of courtesy, or even any of his time? No, certainly not. Their relations were strictly transactional: buyer and customer. It was a straight-forwards arrangement -- Gene would provide him with the narcotics he requires, of the quality he required, and in a timely manner. And in return he would be compensated heartily for the drugs themselves and for the service of keeping it as discreet as possible. The compensation part, however expensive it might be, wasn’t an issue. Gene was surely aware of that. And perhaps out of this generosity came a misunderstanding... perhaps he had thought they would be friends? I was friends with Claire, after all. Might have given off the wrong impression. Not that it mattered; he didn’t owe him anything.

And yet, remorse played by no man’s rules. 

Rationally speaking, it wasn’t fair to lash out on someone who didn’t know better. For all intents and purposes he was a stranger. But it was a sore spot, and he was in a bad mood. So why does he feel bad? It’s just improper to get into a fight with your dealer, he had rationalized. Relaxing his stature, he finally found a cheap clipper at the bottom of his pocket. With a somewhat apologetic look, he offered Gene a new cigarette, then lit his own.

“No offence taken,” Sébastien replied with a barely-concealed chuckle, “I’ve been called worse.”

Gene positively looked like a kicked puppy -- big, sad eyes, the hint of a pout. Attire and facial hair aside, he looked terribly young in that moment. Twenty-five. What was he doing at that age? What was Claire? There was so much he wanted to say, contradictory words of which some were apologies and other rebuttals. It seemed the right thing to do; the noble, even. To set the wrongs right, to set their differences aside, to maintain some sort of civility. But looking at Gene, all too reminiscent of his time in Launceston, he couldn’t bring himself to do so. There was still the urge to push back.

“Well, if you’re excusing me, I’ll be on my way,” Sébastien said after a long pause, stiff, “I hope you don’t take this as a personal insult, Gene. You are far better off befriending people your age -- people you have things in common with. I will certainly disappoint you.”

Location: Hyde Park Christmas was no doubt Honor’s favourite time of year, she loved how the lights glistened, the smiles and excitement upon children’s faces, Christmas music softly playing in the background wherever you’d go. London  at Christmas had surprised her, it was as if she had been taken back to her childhood and everything amazed her, certainly the city had gone all out and she loved it. 

When she heard about the event within Hyde Park there was no way she was missing that. Honor got herself wrapped up in order to keep herself warm during the chilly night - not that she minded, the atmosphere that welcomed her was well worth it.  She slowly walked passed the stalls and entertainment, treating herself it a cup of warm hot chocolate. Moving to London had been a tough choice for her, she wasn’t sure if she was ready for a bit commitment, more so after having finally kicked her drug habit and repairing the relationships in her life that had become strained, but she knew deep down it is something she had to do especially if she truly wanted to expand her clothing line. 

She walked around some more, unsure on what to explore next. She stood still for a moment, taking in her surroundings thinking that perhaps London would finally be the place where she would no longer be known as ‘Just another Hathaway’. As she stood there she felt a presence, beside her.

“Amazing isn’t it? How a simple holiday seems to bring people so much joy, just look there is hundreds of people here tonight, I don’t know the last time I saw so many people coming together like this.”

Navigating tourist attractions had always been a challenge since relocating to London, but especially so during the holidays. Everyone seemed in a rush somewhere -- with only the exceptions of those lucky enough to stroll by in leisure. Typically, teenagers and aforementioned tourists. All of which combined into an amalgamation of big crowds and noise that easily could tip Sébastien into grinch territory. Not for long, though. 

He headed out of a later dinner meeting, happy enough knowing it would be one of the last before Christmas vacation settles in. And so, with a mood a tad more cheerful than usual, he headed towards Hyde Park for a quick snack and a smoke. It was a mid-week day, and so, much sparser than usual; perfect. 

Not long after he stood by the sidelines, chai in one hand and a cigarette in the other. A group of children screamed and laughed as they ran past him, a young nanny in toe. Within the comfort of knowing he was done with meetings today (read: done with people), it wasn’t that annoying to immerse himself in the holiday spirit. 

He saw Honor before he’d heard her -- kind of hard to miss a Hathaway dressed head to toe in designer. “I would have to argue the holidays bring a lot of stress to many, but hopefully it will culminate in a worthy night,” Sébastien replied, taking a drag from his cigarette, “The children seem to love it, though.” 

“How goes it, Honor?” he asked, bumping cups in mock cheers, “you and your friends out to take London by storm?”

“I’m twenty-five, you dick.”

As patient and good-natured as he was, condescension never sat well with Gene, and Séb’s words were aggravating. He’d seen it from teachers, fellow students, their parents, the fucking principle – it had started with the hand-me-down clothes he got from his cousins to the surrender the adults in his life proclaimed when he turned out to be not what they needed him to. Prison or the streets, that’s where this one would go. The oh-so successful he dealt to back in Launceston treated him the same, and that exactly was the what was wrong with these rich assholes – daddy’s money defined their sense of self-worth, and the bigger the investments, the bigger the ego. Fuck, Launceston had been infested with pricks like that. The Hathaways, the Bennetts, they all played nice until someone they deemed as worthy as spat-out gum under their $800 Oxfords-no-brogues dared address them. Their friendly attitudes changed real fast, then.

Guess Séb was just like them.

Coffee cup in one hand, Gene plucked the cigarette from his lips to point at Séb with it once more as he spoke. Punctuated gestures and angry flicks of the wrist accompanied each word. “I’m sayin’ what I’m sayin’ ‘cause I’ve seen people die from that shit. Not everyone is holed up in their fancy office and fancy condo with a fancy wife and fancy brunches – there’s bullshit out here, and I’ve seen friends break under it.” He had to take a drag of his cigarette to calm down the nerves. What Sébastien had said wasn’t rude, necessarily, but it rubbed Gene the wrong way. The manner in which he spoke brought Gene right back to the principle’s office. Some of us have to be grown adults. It didn’t sit right with Gene that he was brushed off as a kid when his situation was so much more complex. The fuck does he know?

He tossed his cigarette onto the pavement and stepped on it. “Whatever. Claire was fucking right about you, Jared Kushner lookin’ ass.”

Claire hadn’t said anything, but mentioning her pissed Séb off, so…

Ongoing bystanders in their nearest vicinity were starting to pay attention. They turned their heads, discreetly, to listen in on a chat that began rising and leaning more into argumentative than conversational. Picking up a fight, albeit a minor one, was something of a risk -- Gene could prove to be anything in that situation. Generally amicable types could always turn out to be explosive when the right buttons are pushed, especially if the aforementioned needn’t save face in public. Sébastien was, undoubtedly, the losing party. “Could you please--” he urged, glancing aside to give a young mother a tight-lipped smiled as she passed right by with her stroller. In a spur of the moment decision, he reached for Gene’s forearm and led him, grasp firm yet trying to be non-threatening, to a relatively secluded area. 

The designated smokers spot had cleared out quickly after regular lunch hours had finished. There were a couple of visitors a decent distance away, and even then, they were loudly conversing about their own business. He let Moreau vent out his frustrations, deeming it better not to interrupt. “Listen, I get that no one wants to be lectured by a fancy suit when I don’t know what you’ve been through. But that... fancy office and condo and other shit -- you do get that I can have it all gone by tomorrow if I just chill? If -- actually, scratch that, when something goes wrong in my fancy office, it’s my neck that’s RSVP’d for guillotine,” he said, pulling out his own pack of cigarettes. One in hand, other searching his pockets for the lighter, he added on a quieter note, “why do you think I buy from you? Living in the moment is a type of pleasure I just don’t have. Just this year I had an intern hospitalized because she OD’d on meth. Said it helped her keep up with school and work.”

Yessir. She’s Silas’ cousin. ❤️

“It was during his Sabbatical at home that he’d come to reconnect with his childhood friends: Silas Agreste, and his cousin, Daisy. The latter and himself shared a dire predicament: both were being pressured by family and colleagues to settle down, to have a family. Neither had genuine interest in it — Sébastien having learned from past rendezvous that a marriage of love was not on the horizon for him, nor did he desire the turmoil that it would entail — and so circumstances gave birth to one of the best decisions he’d made in his life. They had a grand fall wedding — right after Daisy’s promotion and immediately before elections. Sébastien, with the help of his family and the Agrestes, had run for MP and won.” (x) (I know his bio is stupid long but he’s a veteran character ;__;)

I haven’t gotten the chance to mention her on dash much, with the exception of his convos with Ethan and Silas. But she’s pretty much his bestie. The blurb I put on his relationship page sums it up pretty well:

Wife. What most people associate with a marriage of necessity usually isn’t friendship, and yet an honest friendship is what they have. Both of them have their own reasons for not seeking out a ‘real’ marriage, so to speak. And all at once, both of them have good reasons for wanting to be married. Seen as married, at least. The agreement they reached works wonders for both of them, and to the outside world they seem like the perfect couple. Behind closed doors, on the other hand, they are no more than genuinely good friends. So long as they’re honest with one another (not to mention discreet), both are allowed to see whomever they please; for sex or otherwise. And at the end of the day, they’ll have their platonic domesticity to fall back on – a pleasant roommate-like situation that reminds them of their time in university. (x)

…So Sébastien wanted to gossip, then. But Ethan had so much fun being nosy about his life.

It was mostly about Daisy, if Ethan was completely honest. He’d met her once, at their wedding, and knew nothing about her. Well, nothing except that her family was influential, which made her a perfect match for Séb. She was gorgeous, of course, and what little they spoke she’d been perfectly polite towards Ethan. Nothing to criticize there. But the concept of marriage had never made sense for Ethan, and he had assumed that Séb felt the same. Perhaps bold, perhaps projecting, but clearly wrong. It had been a beautiful wedding, and Ethan had been happy for his friend. Happy that he found someone tolerable enough to spend the rest of his life with.

Still. Nosy.

Ethan checked his watch as he chewed another mouthful, buying himself some time before he answered Séb’s questions. How was time flying by so fast? It felt unfair that their lunch break was almost over when all Ethan wanted to do was grab a cold beer with Séb and just talk. About this, about that, about everything and nothing. Company had been scarce, and the French’s in particular had been missed. 

“You make it sound like we’re on and off. It was a one time thing,” Ethan clarified. And that one time had been enough to ruin a lot. “The day Amir come seeking for justice is the day he’s finally decided to grow some balls. Which, by this rate, is quite unlikely to happen.” Ethan reached for a napkin and wiped his mouth, leaning back in his chair. “Honestly? If she got cold feet and came running to me, that tells me that that marriage was gonna fail anyways. Did them both a favor, seems like.” He’d know all about shitty marriages, wouldn’t he?

Ethan’s defensiveness was nothing short of hilarious. Not that he doubted he was telling the truth, not one bit. It was just something he missed a lot -- the bluntness, the cockiness. Especially the fact that neither one of them was one bit intimidating to him. Ethan Hathaway, old money and top-floor office aside, was still the same person he met in Launceston; and this familiarity was a breathe of fresh air, especially in London.

“You’re the worst,” Sébastien chuckled, hastily finishing what remained of his garlic naan. Ethan kept glancing at his watch, reminding him that their time, unfortunately, was limited. “I would’ve never guessed prissy cunt was your type, but then again... your track record is confusing at best.”

Scones and coffee sounded amazing just then, and Gene didn’t even try to fight Séb. Guy was rich as hell (in Gene standards), so two extra items for Gene to enjoy wouldn’t even make a tiny dent into his wallet. Hey, free food was always the one thing Gene never said no to. He popped his head in to tell the vendor with a polite smile, “sugar and almond milk, please,” before he stepped aside but still stood uncomfortably close to Séb. “What? I’m lactose intolerant.”

Look, Gene was aware that he could be…a lot. Loud. Pushy. Embarrassing and annoying. Heads had already turned when he ran after Séb whistling and yelling, and if he cared enough to listen closely, two Susans behind him snickered about how rude and uncultured he was. He guessed he didn’t really help matters when he lit a cigarette while they still waited in queue. He wasn’t being intentionally malicious. His oblivion to the other customers’ annoyance was genuine.

He just..didn’t notice. Or had stopped caring to notice, at one point.

“Yeah, you’re alive, but are you living?” Smoke danced between them when Gene exhaled, pointing at Séb with his cigarette trapped between index and middle finger. “There’s a difference between continuing to breathe for the sake of it and doing shit that makes you feel less likely to step into oncoming traffic.” It was a pandemic, and people hushed – the rise of depression and anxiety, so silent, so deadly, mostly invisible until for some, it was too late. Gene had witnessed it happen before. He’d been too close to look away and yet, he’d never seen.

Their order placed in front of them, Gene tucked his cigarette between his lips to pick up his coffee and, for now, stuff his scone into the pocket of his jacket. “All I’m sayin’ is, if your aversion to following Claire’s example is that intense, maybe you need to loosen up and have some fun.”

It took all the willpower in the world not to have a knee-jerk reaction -- optics were an essential part of his life as a public figure, even if he wasn’t exactly on the job. So with a pleasant ‘thank you’ to the vendor, Sébastien paid for the treats and bid him adieu. Kensington wasn’t by any means a quiet, conservative place, but it was in his best interest to stay away from any curious ears. Better to stay safe than raise questions about the people he associates with.

Only when they were safely out of the queue, anonymous in the crowd of monochromatic winter-wear, that he turned again towards Gene. “Do you even hear yourself talk?” he asked, shaking his head, “I don’t need a life lesson in Tyler Durden philosophy. Some of us have to be grown adults. Your version of ‘life’ is just an extended adolescence -- but then again, how old are you? Twenty-one? You’re a kid.” 

The thing is with these two, is that (at least on Sébastien’s behalf) to the outside world their whole friendship is shroud in secrecy. It heavily relies on it to survive in its current state. Sure, Sébastien can tell people that he’s friends with Ethan and no one would really raise an eyebrow -- a hotshot lawyer from a family of East Side royalty is friends with a British MP, son of former DPM? It’s almost laughably predictable. But the devil is in the details.

Secondly, that stick was so far up Sébastien’s butt it made him stand ramrod straight. Which was hilarious because those were never the vibes Gene got from him. 

To be fair, Claire did rub off on people. Bubbly as she was, her presence was usually a positive in one’s life, guaranteeing smiles and laughs. Considering she’d become the head of the Organization’s drug business in Launceston, Gene’s exposure to her had been prolonged and certainly didn’t do shit for his brain. Gene’s sanity had already been on the fragile brink of madness when he met her – the way he was, that wasn’t her fault. He’d done that to himself. She got clean, eventually, while he was still buckling under the heavy weight of an addiction he couldn’t kick. But working with her, being around her, definitely left its mark. She was just genuinely nice. Not many people like that left.

He just had no idea why that was so important to Sébastien.

“Wait–” Abandoning the line to Rudolph’s Rad Ride (who the fuck named these things), Gene jogged after Séb to catch up with him. Arms spread in surrender, he clicked his tongue twice before he whistled, trying to catch Séb’s attention. “C’mon, don’t be like that. You really think I’m gonna mess with children? They bite and my rabies shots aren’t up to date.” Gene still followed Séb, a god damn puppy at his heels. “Yo, live a little. It’s the holidays. Tell me what you’d like to do, and I’ll make it happen.”

It took him a moment too late to realize that the whistle, bordering on catcall, was aimed at him. With the smallest of pauses, he slowed down on his track only to throw back an incredulous look. Brief as it was, it was more than enough -- Gene was following him. For what reason, he couldn’t begin to imagine. The only reason he was out at Hyde, business suit-clad and too dapper for the occasion, was because a meeting he had just rounded up took place nearby. He figured a bit of fresh air and gluttonous truck food could do him good. A bad miscalculation, evidently. 

Walking faster didn’t do the trick, either. Gene was quick on his feet, loud and bolstering a New England accent that stood out like a thorn in the mass of squealing children and cozied-up couples. He was impossible to ignore. And there was something undoubtedly endearing about the humour; it was surely good fortune he didn’t have to force down a neutral face, what with his back facing Gene. “I’m perfectly alive. Would sure like to get some coffee and a scone in me, hence--” Sébastien gesticulated at the nearing stand, exasperated. He took out his wallet, putting on a polite face when facing the vendor. “Black, one sugar, and two scones, please. Do you...” it was with a sigh that he turned towards Gene, sentence hanging in the air, half-finished. What am I doing? There shouldn’t be a reason for him to hang out with a 25-year-old kid, let alone this one, specifically. It was weird. Out of place. Inappropriate. Surely they had nothing to even talk about. And yet, still feigning annoyance, he asked, “what do you drink?”

…Shit, fam, someone had woken up on the wrong side of the bed that morning.

Sébastien’s irritation was not what Gene had expected, and he turned into the very embodiment of the White Guy Blinking meme. He wasn’t as obvious about it, but he was taken aback and fell silent for a moment in which he gathered his wits. Firstly, the MP talking to Gene in public like this was enough of a surprise. From what the drug dealer had gathered, their relationship had been, was, and would continue to be, always professional. Nothing more, nothing less – experience told Gene that men like Sébastien were quite disciplined in keeping business business. Even back in Launceston, Gene had only ever seen Sébastien when he was talking with Claire. He was pretty sure that he only bought from her, back then. Now that Gene was in London, it made sense that he would be selling to all different kinds of people, but Sébastien as a customer… that had been unexpected.

Especially the exclusive part of it all. Surely, there must be a dealer Séb trusted more than Gene?

But he digressed. He brushed off Séb’s rude tone, genuinely oblivious to the fact that it had been the choice of words rather than a bad mood that sparked this. “I think I’ll do exactly what she would. Which, if I think about it, would be trying out all the rides, then get some alcohol.” Gene had been looking straight ahead when he spoke, each word accompanied by breath made visible from the cold. Now, he turned to Séb. “I’m taking a wild guess here, but you’re not one to go choo-choo in Santa’s Christmas tank engine, are you?”

Exactly what she would do. It’s a weird thing, nostalgia. Which, if I think about it, would be trying out all the rides. Creeping on you when you least expect it, making places and people entirely unfamiliar feel like they’re trudging a past life’s baggage. He wondered if Claire knew just how well her disciples had carried on her presence into places she’d never even been to -- learned quirks and mannerisms, here and there; in others, an outright admiration. And it’s not like he’s never been, unwittingly, part of the same problem. Once in a blue book he even loved--does Gene like her? 

It’s a fleeting thought, not particularly loaded in nature, clearly bizarre in nature and meant to be overlooked. But for a moment it makes him look at Gene a little bit different, a little bit suspect. What if it is true? He clearly liked her on some level, and Claire is certainly not blind. It’s no secret that he’s grown into his features, a proper man instead the pale ghost of a boy he once knew. Claire would notice that. Just how close were they?

“Did you and Laurendeau pop out of the same lab? it’s like I’m seeing a product of mitosis before my very own eyes.” 

“Holy shit. Okay. Where do we even start?”

Hyde Park was a Winter Wonderland indeed – the lights, the sounds, the smells, they all constructed an entirely different dimension to get lost in. ‘Tis was the season, after all, and it was luckily also the season for all socially accepted norms to be betrayed in the spirit of Christmas. Sorry, can’t function like a normal human being, I’m going home for Christmas, yeah.

“WWCD – What would Claire do?” With his hands stuffed in his jacket’s pockets and nose buried in his scarf, Gene looked around until he spotted just the right booth. “How do Brits feel about public drunkenness? ‘Cause that eggnog over there got my full attention.”

Few things had the potential to set him off like the mention of Claire. It was just one of those things all his friends learned one way or another--Sébastien won’t talk about Launceston. The response you would get by mentioning a certain drug dealer would greatly vary depending on what state of sobriety you’d catch him at; sometimes it would be a mere scoff and in worse off scenarios it would end in an unexpected fight with an abrupt end to the conversation. On a scale of 1-10, Gene caught him on a moderate 6.5 on a Piss Sébastien Off scale.

“What would Claire do,” he repeated, not bothering to hide his irritation. The reaction was always immediate: a rapid increase in cortisol, an irrational anger (or rather annoyance) materializing out of thin air. The reactionary and impulsive part of him always urged him to get in a jab, to punish the other person for making him think of her, but an opposing part insisted he doesn’t even want to go there; doesn’t want to hear anything else. The hedonism in him won this round with a snide comment at Gene, “ask yourself that question, then do the opposite.” 

As many high-functioning addicts with untreated mental health problems (and despite all attempts to suppress it) Sébastien harbours a deep fear of going off his rocker. His mental health is constantly teetering on the edge of stability and a complete loss of control, and it’s a see-saw ride that makes life almost unbearable without self-medication. 

Even though he swears to everyone, including himself, that he’s got things under control and that he knows exactly what he’s going, there is that nagging voice in his mind that insists everything can go extremely wrong at any given moment. Sébastien isn’t ignorant of many people who have walked his path and ended up in disastrous situations; if not ending up in legal or social controversies, then suffering due to health reasons (read: overdosing). He’s well aware that his behaviour has a consistent pattern of self-destruction, and that he could always be just one bad day from fucking it all up. Being closely acquainted with the mafia (especially their dealers), he’s seen first hand how his habits can destroy a person’s life, but partially due to pride, he proclaims it would never happen to him. 

A ‘secret’ of sorts that he probably won’t even admit to a psychologist is that he genuinely wouldn’t care if his parents died. Worse off yet is that this complete apathy is a relatively new development stemming from a childhood and adolescence of fantasizing, in the privacy of his own mind, about their passing, and being quite happy in that make-believe world. 

Whilst he never imagined himself as the direct cause of their death, he would often daydream about them getting into some sort of devastating accident that would result in both of them dying. In the same manner one would daydream about future careers or romantic aspirations, Sébastien would play out, in his head, his reaction to when the police would come into the dorms to inform him about the tragic, undue demise of his parents, how the funeral would go about, and what he would do after all that happened. He was well aware of how morbid it was, but with no other outlet for his problems, this was his only form of escapism. 

So, I don’t think it’s much of a surprise to anyone ooc that Sébastien has a major drug problem - particularly cocaine. It’s something he has managed to keep away from the public view for his entire career, with the exception of a few close colleagues and several slip-ups during his studies in university. The problem is that every time he gets ‘caught’, he learns from that mistake and becomes better at hiding it.

“Well, I don’t know how long it’ll take him, and I’m not the type of person that waits around and depends on other people to get me what I want,” she shrugged, rolling her eyes as she looked over at the bartender. He still seemed quite preoccupied. “So you’re not falling for the whole ‘helping the children’ bit?” She wasn’t sure how much she did either. Azra wanted to see if the money went to actually supporting children or if it was merely a way to get positive media attention.

Azra didn’t recognise him, but she suppressed an eye roll as she felt his eyes on her when he checked her out. Did men think that women didn’t notice when they did that? They always noticed. Taking another sip from her drink she set it down, going back behind the bar, pouring the glass but waiting before she put it down in front of him. She wanted to ask him if there was something wrong with his legs, why he didn’t just do this himself, but she held herself back, this was a prestigious event. “So, are you new here?” Azra was good with faces and she couldn’t recall his. 

“I wouldn’t phrase it like that, considering public service work relies a lot on philanthropy,” he said, lamenting how exactly to put his thoughts together as not to come across as cynical. His honest opinions were reserved for those he trust--a select few--and everyone else was dealt with a pristine, appropriate response. “Knowing the people involved in tonight’s organization, I’d say the money will definitely help. Now, the question of motive is a whole different ballpark. Does it matter if people only do good things out of vanity? Or should we only pay attention to the outcome?”