i’m not finished.

"I think... maybe we should get lost." Val's head tilts, leaned in nice and close. "Ask nicely... alright. Would y'come back to mine then, love? Please?" It's said sweetly, before Val's other hand feels for their glass. Takes a long sip to finish it off.

It'd be easy to sit here pretending they're unsure. Play hard to get, elicit some compliments. But Val knows when they've won - and their hand is already slipping back up to trace those cheekbones again. "Mm, I bet you're a sight for sore eyes, too. Is your hair as long as mine?" They ask, fingers beginning to slip through it, behind his ear.

Max hums quietly, as if he's considering the proposition - as if he isn't a sure thing - wondering absently if Val can feel it where their fingers touch his throat. All the while his hand works its way up from where its been lingering in the bend of their elbow, smoothing a path along their bicep, across the line of their shoulder, until he can cup their chin in his palm. "Go on then, seeing as you said 'please'," he teases, close enough for a moment that the mere act of speaking could brush their lips together, before he pulls away again.

"Yours is longer - darker, too." That lovely Irish colouring - not the reds and greens that immediately spring to mind, but raven, pale all over except for their hair and the dark fan of their eyelashes. "I've always liked long hair," he says, as Val works their fingers into his own.

Whatever – Eliza doesn’t care, really, she doesn’t. Because they don’t care about her, she knows that for damn sure. And yet here she is, caring, with two coffees as her brother walks out of the hotel she’d about to enter, fighting through the storm of press. Goddamn, of course he had to be combative – she would too, of course. But right now it was about Max – and as much as they all disregarded her, as chaotic and selfish as she was – Eliza loves her siblings. And so she jumps in front of the press for him.

“Oh shit! Max Liddell – leaving a fucking hotel, someone call the Pulitzer committee!” Eliza steps in front of him, louder and bolder. “Is this really your whole career?? Stalking my boring fucking brother?” Eliza reaches for a camera, ready to tear it apart. “I’ll fucking flash my tits if you locusts will back the fuck off so we can get inside – Jesus fucking Christ.”

As if today couldn't get any worse. Eliza arrives on the scene with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball, and suddenly the swell of photographers and his blistering headache are the least of Max's problems. Knowing his sister well enough to sense the trajectory she's on, he snatches at her wrist before she can reach the man's camera or expose herself, hauling her back to his side like the owner of a particularly aggressive dog. "No you fucking won't," he hisses out of the corner of his mouth. It's a rarity to find himself in the role of 'responsible sibling', but Max doesn't relish the idea of an unsavoury news story about his post-rehab bender transforming into a lewd photograph of his baby sister and a lawsuit for assault.

"Maybe there's something to being miserable in your own bed and not having to pay an extra £800, but what do I know." The coffee left in the console cupholders had cooled off a bit, but still tasted alright. God forbid Sefa'd been a little optimistic about when Max would finally get himself upright and roll out of the Biltmore, at least he still had his coffee order memorized. Sefa took another sip, nodding to the other drink and shifting his grip on the wheel. So what if he could use Max's expensive tastes to rationalize treating himself, at least Sefa's drink of choice never left him hung over.

He sighs, looking over at Max's pouting before turning back to the road, not really able to shake the feeling of babysitting either. It was all too familiar. "Not my fault you have a family that care about you Uce. And I don't care if or who your company was, but you forgot to turn your location back off on your phone. Sloppy, you know better."

Maybe it's because his head is spinning, but Max can't make any sense of what Sefa's saying, and his confusion only serves to make him more irritable. "What the fuck are you talking about? What eight hundred pounds?" He doesn't dare to do the maths, but he could easily have spent that on drinks alone last night, and it isn't beyond the realm of possibility that someone so entangled in the Liddell family's finances could already have an exact figure... But that makes him angry too. Nothing Max has really belongs to him, and here sits the living, breathing reminder.

The coffee in the cup holder goes ignored, partially out of spite, and partially in favour of the relief that comes from pressing his forehead against the cold window pane instead. "Oh yeah? And what family is that?" None Max can think of, that's for certain. Of all his relatives, the only one whose affections he can be assured of are those of the Hermit, who would never have set Sefa on him like this - they would've come themselves, if they'd thought he needed them.

--Then he turns to deal with a particularly tenacious reporter, shouting, "Fuck off, mate!" as his free hand balls into a fist.

The threat of violence seems to be doing its job, but Max is already trying to come up with something to protect Kaan in the instance that it becomes necessary to make good on that threat. While they may not have as much (or, indeed, anything) in common these days, he does still care about the other man, and wouldn't want to see him go down for trying to help him. Max is a well-documented disaster, but it means he's experienced enough to know how these things go - you lay a hand on a pap, and they'll see you in court. "What, you were just out for a walk?" Max queries, unable to help the chuckle that escapes his lips - unbe-fucking-lievable.

By the time they make it inside the nail salon, Max is already slightly out of breath, and his skin has taken on an unhealthy sheen beneath his hat and glasses. He's not terribly unfit, all things considered, but he's rapidly approaching the threshold for the amount of physical activity he can accomplish when he's this hungover. Still, the sheepish smile he offers the startled nail technicians manages to err just the right side of charming, his thoughts of slipping out the back way echoing Kaan's.

The call to run comes too soon, leaving no more time for pleasantries as Kaan's arm vanishes from around his shoulders and Max's blood begins to thrum with adrenaline once more. "Fucking hell - sorry, girls!" Not seeing a better option, he skirts around the counter and pushes through the door leading to the staff area, nearly tripping over a box of some unidentifiable beauty products as he goes - not the most dignified of exits, but it'll be alright, he'll call the salon later with apologies and a cash settlement for any distress caused.

he leans forward, carries forth more cold air and a whiff of his scent along with it. apples, leather and an undertone of cigarettes, of loneliness. the skin of her forearms becomes decorated by goosebumps. she shivers. "i figured you'd be too busy. you're always wrapped up in something when i see you. in someone." the stolen glances across the casino's floor go unmentioned. so do the rumors of his hedonistic ways, and the burst of warm electric that his hands had caused that one night they danced together.

"Oh, I can think of plenty," he answers with a cheeky raise of his eyebrows, chasing the elusive ghost of her smile, "But for most of my ideas, we'd have to be sitting a lot closer than this." Max had initially taken the seat on the opposite side of the booth as a means of hedging his bets - there was every chance that Taís would repeat her instruction to 'fuck off', and if she had, he would've gone without argument. Now though? He finds himself regretting his decision, and as he notices the way she's shivering, he's inspired to action, beginning to shrug out of his jacket.

He doesn't dispute what she says - what would be the point? Anyone who has even a passing acquaintanceship with Max Liddell knows his reputation, his insatiable (and unapologetic) appetite for all the things that make life worth living. It's just a matter of how much those people are willing to forgive, in the name of getting anywhere near him.

So, she wasn't a stranger to the Biltmore, or the flashing camera bulbs that followed someone rushing into the building. Today's unfortunate subject seemed less than thrilled. Once the doors closed, Julie looked over her shoulder. She wasn't sure what made her extend an invitation, but she did anyways. "Do you want to sit after all of that?" Julie asked, lifting her chin towards the empty seat across from her. She was sitting at a table behind one of the dividers -- shielded from the masses but with a view towards the doors. "I'm waiting on someone and they're running late."

There's no option but to go back inside. Trying to navigate the scrum on his own would likely require the intervention of the police, at this point, and that's something Max never wants. He pushes roughly back into the foyer, where he's quickly met by the hotel manager and two security guards, who he waves off as politely as his splitting headache will allow. They've insisted on ordering him a car, and it's already more fuss than he'd hoped for, but he has enough wherewithal to understand that they're only trying to help.

For a moment Max stands there, eyes closed behind his sunglasses, just trying to catch his breath, until a woman's voice pulls him from his reverie. "You know what, I really do. Thank you," he replies, quietly relieved as he moves to take the offered seat.

Meanwhile it seems the man's hand is doing its own exploration, settling on the psychologist's arm. "But y'must come in here enough to get what you want, seems like."

Has he? "I don't come here as often as other bars, t'be honest... an' I much prefer drinking wine at home, anyways. Cheaper, cozier. Big bed, maybe a joint by an open window on a cool night..." Val's leaning, playing with curls. "Might need t'come out more often if I'm going to bump into more... Max'es, hm?"

It's unusual as far as first meetings go, but 'different' doesn't necessarily mean 'worse'. In fact, Max is rather enjoying himself, and sits patiently as Val maps his face with their fingertips, relishing in the feather-light touch against his skin. When they graze against his mouth, he parts his lips slightly, unable to help himself. "Thank you," he says, as Val's warm palm arrives against the side of his neck. It's a nice compliment, and nicer still from someone that can't really see him - it feels more genuine, somehow. "So, what's the verdict? Handsome enough to stick around for, or shall I stop wasting your time and let the next bachelor have my seat?"

He shrugs at Val's assessment, evasive, even as he leans in closer. "Ah, it's not so difficult to get what you want," Max says in a husky voice, "All you have to do is ask nicely."

Now that the work rush was over, St Pancras had quieted down just a little. Every once in a while, someone hurried past, clearly on their way to catch a train or a taxi, but for the most part, people were strolling--maybe to visit the world's longest champagne bar, maybe to check into the high-class hotel, maybe just looking at the architecture and artwork. Charley had staked out a spot under the giant statue of two lovers embracing, hoping maybe it would entice people to listen to songs about love.

But not his own. Charley had written plenty about his brush with love before--but on Valentine's Day, he figured most people wanted to hear about when it'd gone right.

The terrace was empty enough that he'd taken a little break from performing, though, and had his notebook propped on top of his guitar. He'd play a couple notes, scribble something; play something else, scribble more. It was hard to capture the true depth of a feeling if you hadn't experienced it yourself, and he'd never had the chocolates-and-roses kind of deal. So the next best thing was hearing from someone who had, and when a person passed by close enough to talk to, he asked them, "Have you ever loved somebody?"

“That’s a mad question to ask a stranger,” Max replies with a laugh, “Unless you’re trying to chat me up, in which case I’m not uninterested, though I’d recommend going for something slightly less intense as your opener.”