l é g e n d e

max: didn't i just say to never contact me again

max: also "penchant" , "hostility" way to sound like a character in a jane austen novel. not a good one either like, a shitty one. can't think of any right now but i'l work on it.

max: PLUS it's literally my job to keep you humble your dad gave me this job

max: i have my own weed i don't NEED urs do i look like a broke bitch

brook: that isn't the least bit insulting

vivienne: why not both? :D

brook: i've already had treats, now for the nightcap

closed to @vounggod

          for max, the afterparty was meant to be way more fun than the tea that they’d attended earlier. until the arrival of the brownies, they’d been worried that it’d be a run-of-the-mill party, even though birdie was always the best host. now, serving their classmates with what smells like supercharged weed brownies and offering up a cheshire cat smile to every person who takes it, they’re feeling much better about the upcoming school year. if this is their idea of a fun night after just an orientation, they can’t imagine how a ‘midterms are over’ celebration will be.

          they finally abandon the platter, with only one brownie left on it, and carry it alongside themself towards the very nice sitting area that they’ve spent many a sleepless night on talking with birdie. 

          but instead of birdie on the couch, it’s their cousin. brooklyn langmore-whitley. 

          which, well, kind of sucks. max isn’t brooklyn’s biggest fan in any sense of the word. they’ve had brooklyn blocked on instagram for longer than their mother’s been dead, and they don’t plan on changing that anytime soon. they just find him… uptight. like the rest of their family. even if he’s at the very least belonging to their mother’s side, max still can’t get behind the way their half of the family acted after the explosion. max didn’t need a new family in the wake of it, they decided just after they woke up in the hopsital, look at where the last one got them. 

          “listen, if you’ve not got something interesting to talk about, i’ll turn off my hearing aids.” they say, bluntly, “i just played waitress for an hour and while it was definitely fun, i’m so bored now. like, when the brownies kick in it’ll be much less boring but for now it’s so mind-numbingly awful that i’m even trying to talk to you. don’t tell your dad.” 

“If you’ve finally found something interesting to talk about after all these years,” he had lain claim to the center of the couch and spread like spilled ink; wingspan stretched across the back, one brogue propped against the bottom of a coffee table, the other reaching the opposite direction. It had been a pose meant to ward off potential company, yet it had somehow put him in the direct firing path of at least one odd bird, “I’ll consider turning mine on.”

It had been an hour past the start and a half past since the first treat he had ingested, his body beckoning for the hallucinogenics to hit ( for he had foregone the marijuana brownies in lieu of the mushroom infused truffles - an option he was sure to regret come tomorrow morning when his 8 a.m. lecture beckoned ). 

max: how did you get this number

max: and how dare you insult my waiter skillz

max: never contact me again

brooklyn: your penchant for hostility continues to astound, even via text

brooklyn: don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to

viktoria: so my choices are baked goods or "baked" goods

viktoria: sugar > your presumably shitty weed

viktoria: my mind cannot be changed

viktoria: change my mind though

brooklyn: loud dream speaks for itself, i can’t be its mouthpiece

          in a never-ending sapphire sea of perfectly porcelain skin, coiffed flaxen hair, tailored armani suits and delicate hermes head scarves, there was him, eyes downcast, curls unkept, sweater unwinding and last name unremarkable. but then, jerome hadn’t bothered trying to fit in and why would he? after all, any attempt to assimilate would have just drawn more attention, more mockery, more ridicule – the life source of vicious private school predators. he stopped believing in fairy tales around the same time he stopped believing in his mother, so he’d spare himself the lie. he was never going to fit in with these people. enter brooklyn langmore-whitney.

          of course, of all the people in the room, it had to be the most perfect, divine, i m m a c u l a t e person he’d ever seen in his life – as if he wasn’t flustered, awkward and depressed enough. hello, old boy. jem nearly swore. it wasn’t enough that his hair was perfect, his jawline was perfect but now his voice was perfect too!? he wanted to d i e. and when the scent of expensive after shave nested in his nose, jerome was suddenly painfully aware of the lavender scented febreeze air freshener he sprayed on himself in lieu of fancy cologne. 

          three names. three expensive, extravagant names rolled effortlessly off the boy’s tongue and perhaps, the longest, most uncomfortable, pregnant silence unfolded before he could even manage out a nearly silent, somewhat strangled. “uh, jem.” no last name because it didn’t matter, no middle name, no first name because those mattered even less. swallowing loudly, he bridged his hand, quivering with anxiety and glistening with sweat, with brooklyn’s hand, resulting in probably the least confident handshake anyone had ever received. “it’s nice to meet you, brooklyn. i’ll – i’ll pour you some tea.”

          hands shaking worse then a washing machine on high, watching the scholarship student pour tea was about as horrifying as a car accident. he held his breath the whole time, his intense concentration and fear of messing up probably making his grip more unsteady, stray streams of tea running down the cup and pooling beneath the cup, turning it into an island or a castle with a surrounding moat. finally lifting it, obviously overfull, jem extended it to the rich boy like an olive branch. “here you go. would you like any cream or suga–” just then, his body seized, the pollen from the flowers in the center of the table prompting him to …

 “ah - ah - A C H O O ! “

          an ungodly sneeze ripped through jerome’s body, defeaning loudness and then complete silence followed by aghast stares. “excuse me,” he sniffled, puzzled by the intensity and volume of stares over a sneeze when he saw it. brooklyn drenched in tea, tea from the very cup in his hand that flew up at the violence of the sudden sneeze. jem went stark white, eyes bambi wide, completely mortified. “i – oh my god, oh my GOD. fuck! i’m so sorry. i am SO sorry. god, i’m so s t u p i d ! ”

          stammering incoherently and gathering up all the napkins, he rushed over to brooklyn’s side, frantically dabbing the stains, attempting to mop up the mess he had made. “h-here. i’ll clean it. i’ll buy you another one. or – or how much is dry cleaning?” whipping off his signature sweater, he offered it his table partner. “please – please take this. you can have my sweater. it’s not much but at least you’ll be dry. sorry again. so, SO sorry!” 

Clumsiness and nerves seemed to have woven themselves into Jem’s skeletal, each movement lacking the grace that prodded Brook’s own; if he had been the type of man to feel pity, he supposed the awkward figure before him would have been worthy enough. As it was, sympathy had never become him and he refused to allow the dulcet fingers of commiseration wrap themselves around his windpipe now.

Blatant with his observation of the man before him ( but he was so slight, the mere wisp of a human - could Jem really be a man in the same sentiment that Brook was? ), he had nearly finished configuration of a first impression when droplets began falling and expletives began tumbling from Jem’s lips. Shock electrified Brook’s limbs, molars grinding against molars and prompting a tic in his jaw; he had hardly a moment to react when Jem bumbled toward him, napkin clenched between outstretched palm, and began dabbing at Brook’s suit.

“My dry cleaning costs more than room and board for one semester,” broad hand reached to clasp around a slender wrist, twisting the offensive gesture away from the fabric in time for Jem to rip off his sweater and offer it to him. The gesture evoked a scoff to bubble from the depths of Brook’s esophagus before he could stop it, one foot taking a slight step away from the polyester knit being proffered, “To be quite honest, I’d rather be sopping wet in this suit than dry in-” That, another scoff was threatening to spill over, one deep swallow and it was gone. 

“Stop apologizing and sit down,” the command was punctuated by the lift of a finger to flag down a passing waiter, - ‘ seltzer, please ’ - and he folded himself into the chair and let it dissipate. “Genuinely curious, does this happen to you often? No offense,” isn’t it something how he says no offense before saying something truly offensive?, “You give off the impression that it’s a fairly regular occurrence.”

What intimacy they make, leant in towards each other like lovers, conspiring in low-spoken whispers. And she can feel his breath on her eyelids when she blinks, that signet ring nearly brushing against the back of her hand. It’s nauseating, and her chair audibly scrapes against the floor as she pushes away from the table on her Weitzmans. Just in time for him to assume the upper hand; but not without its share of blood, its share of teeth.

Conquest cannot occur without bloodshed, after all. But she deigns to be unfazed, and the only indication of hurt that she feels is in the wrinkle of her nose — as if shaking off an itch that isn’t there. “Now, now — that’s just cruel. Is there any reason we should be sticking our hands wrist-deep into old wounds, B?” and she’s smiling, but it’s something close-lipped, inevitably a bit forced. Here, she’d liked to think she could take as much as she gave.

Is it a crime to want you to care? Really, it’s unsettling for her, the way their past conversations ring around them; silver spoons tapped against porcelain cups, black silk brushing against bare skin. But really, what’s dead should stay dead, no? Consider it her private ideology.

“Well, rest assured that a schedule change is the mere flick of a pen away,” she drawls, arms curling lazily over one another, as if to conceal that heavy rise and fall of her own chest. Forlorn, or perhaps fuming. Take your pick. “Any other pressing concerns before our time’s up? I’d truly hate for us to have to revisit this conversation when you’ve finally thought of some clever rejoiner for me, darling.”

Forgive me would have been the response bestowed by a true gentleman ( an image that Brooklyn had once lusted after ), yet he had long since changed tack and opted instead for his own version of the word, a version sans blurred edges and whispered apologies. Rather, he chose to mimic her actions and fold his frame back, lifting an ankle to prop against a thigh, a pose which he assumed often and had been told to emanate a sense of ease. “I see you and am instantly swept up in nostalgia,” he offered by way of response, slightly sardonic, tucking his easy grin into his back pocket, turning to stone once more.

It was perhaps the most honest comment he had muttered all evening - the facade dropping for a mere second in her presence; even for all her faults, all his, all theirs, simply being within arm’s length of Georgette could breathe that former longing into his lungs, an inhale for what could have been, and an exhale for what it had actually been true. 

Hila’s hand travels to the large pearl hanging from her necklace, gently twisting it this way and that. She prefers princess necklaces, or opera-style for adventurous evenings, but has chosen a collar for today. It fits snugly, midway up her neck, clasped like a pair of hands. As she toys with her jewelry, she attempts to discern a proper response. His little story has rendered her speechless for a few fleeting moments. She studies him with an unabashed stare all the while; her thoughts are paint strokes rather than words. Recently, she acquired a new color. Its exact shade is a mystery, as rich and complex as midnight, thick and lustrous enough to appear polished. His silhouette should be — will be — made of it. 

“That depends on what you think you’ve invested in,” she ventures at last. Unspoken is that her time, to give no mention of herself, is worth far more than a hundred bucks. “You have inserted yourself into my morning — and, we have spoken, however briefly.” Hila reaches for a sugar cube to stir into her tea as she talks. She plucks one from the bowl, examines it briefly, and drops it into the teacup. “The clock runs out in a minute or two, and then you’ll be on your way to another table, fated or not,” she continues, stirring little circles in the cup, taking care to avoid scraping the sides. 

“What more can I give you in that time?” The tea is no better, but she uses the cup to conceal her smirk. “I’m curious, really. If you walked away with buyer’s remorse … Well, that might break my heart.”

“Us.” A singular syllabic statement punctuated by the raise of a brow, a subtle grin curving across his face at Hila’s venture. To claim him to be a romantic would be far too generous a description, yet Brook took great pride in his ability to truly master the art of charm and allure, so much so that it wore the warmth of romanticism and could have been mistaken for such by those more keen than himself. 

“Now, I’d never suggest that a woman of your class and reputation could be bought - and I sincerely hope you won’t think less of me for this particular method, however,” fingers curled to a fist and Brook poised his chin atop it, eyes squinting slightly ( a pose meant to convey surveillance or an inquiry, or perhaps a man deep in thought, of which he currently wasn’t ), “All I ask is for one simple favor.”

He’s nearly drunk – but he wears it well. As Brooklyn approaches, Harry glances at the clock; the dance from table to table is nearly over, and he – tipsy, bored, fidgeting in his itching blazer and hard chair – is more than ready to be free of the room and off to the fête that was promised him one short round ago. 

“A little birdie told me there’s an afterparty –” he says, before Brooklyn can even settle opposite him, “– and just in time, too. I’ve emptied my flask in record time.” As if to prove it, he takes the unscrewed lid from his flask and tips it over; and not a drop falls from the empty lid. “My original plan was to get drunk on the roof, sun myself, and pretend I’m still on a beach surrounded by Italian women, but I’d never say no to a party.”

And neither would Brooklyn, he figures. They are kindred spirits; no one else quite understands the need to be drunk this early in the afternoon. They both reeked of arrogance, pretense, affluent deserving – but also something else. Something conspiratorially sour. It was what had drawn the two to each other at the start, and it was what hung between them in every minute silence like a dark passenger, waiting to speak up between the syllables. 

“Although my body still thinks it’s on a yacht,” he adds, “Is the room spinning for you as well?”

“I regret to inform you that it’s just you, my friend,” a blank face cracks into an easy grin as Brooklyn lopes the yards between them; at last, they are minutes away from freedom, hundred thousand dollar watch hands ticking ever nearer you’re excused. A chestnut brogue curves around the leg of his chair, a practiced motion flicking out to greet him and beckon him forward.

Amusement colours Brook’s features as Harry rambles in inebriation, an emerald finger of envy stroking his spine once at his best friend’s current state, propelling his hand to the inner pocket of a cobalt jacket, grasping around chilled metal and revealing his prize - an ornate silver flask engraved with the monogram of Brooklyn’s great grandfather, from which himself and the subtle-y disheveled being across from him had nicked from the original Jaime Langmore-Whitney’s office desk at the annual Christmas dinner almost nine years prior. 

what: orientation tea; round no. 4

when: sunday, august 17th

where: weyerhaeuser ballroom, providence college

The boy reeked of unease, the smell almost entirely overpowering the woodiness of Brook’s Tom Ford aftershave as he approached his fourth table. The boy in question - Jerome Watson - was swaddled within oversized cashmere ( or at least a synthetic version of it ) and looking as though he would give anything to blend into the patterned wallpaper that was their current backdrop. 

“Hello, old boy,” it was a phrase he had adopted the past summer, having spent far too much time in the offices of his grandfather for whom old boy was a tactic expelled when he had forgotten another business mogul’s first name; although in this particular situation, it wasn’t a neglect of memory but rather a courtesy - Jerome had been marked the moment he had accepted admittance into Providence College. It was rare for the electorate to pool funds for scholarship ( as convoluted, as parti pris as it was ) which meant the figure in front of him had impressed, and Brook was determined to discover where exactly his talents lay. 

Heart-sick, perhaps. Is that why she ebbs only with callous, none of the softness? But then, those glamorous portraits of youth — how abrasive, how vulgar they could be. Perfection, it was such a cut-throat concept in its implied singularity. How to achieve it without use of temper, without use of sharpness? 

“Oh, forgive me,” and she almost sounds genuine, but the tone of her voice contradicts — those syllables, poison spilt so inconsequentially as the pads of her manicured fingertips ring aimlessly around the lily-pad saucer of her teacup. She’d already given so much of herself, all those private, sacred idles of her mind. How could she spare anything more on him now?

All her hurt, she allowed it to be instead nurtured by this shallow competition they’re perpetuating. Like a paradox, she doubles back on herself again and again and again. Perfection, it is the highest ideal — all violent pursuit, nothing soft about it. This familiar stranger, he’s no more than obstacle in it to her now. And really, is there not a safety in this, to protect her from her own melancholy when he utters her name ( so flippantly, so arrogantly ) ?

But she can feel herself slipping away little by little, all the same.

“I’m flattered you still keep an open ear to the door for me, Brook.” But then, her delicate features contort, conceptualizing into a dramatized look of thoughtfulness on her face. She’s paused, tapping the rim of her saucer thoughtfully — once, twice. As if to throw his own tactic back in his face. “You know, I can’t say I’ve done the same.“

She may be lying, but who’s to say? Let it be a rich curiosity.

“In any case, not to be harsh, chéri,” she tuts disapprovingly, brandishing that word her mother liked to use so often. Darling, dipped in a bit of arsenic. “But you’ve really hardly changed at all. Aren’t we being a little one-dimensional?”

The implication of staying stagnant grated against skin like cheap fabric, more Tommy Hilfiger than Tom Ford. This was a game they had both lost years prior, and it was all too familiar, and though resentment was threatening to flood his eyes bloody, Brook held steady. 

“You should be. You know I only live to please you,” the sentiment was marked with a cheshire grin, close-lipped and corners curled; it was one that echoed back through time, to an argument senior year with an eerily similar comment cloaked in sarcasm and punctuated with a scoff. You know I live and breathe just to please you, Georgette. 

As Hila listens to his explanation, she imagines herself feeding him the lines. Hand over hand, strips of paper covered in her handwriting, a ghostly smile. The words and what goes whispered beneath them are precisely what she hoped he might say. Indeed, had she been him, she would have offered the same worldview in a neat couple of sentences. Her lips curl into a smirk at the mention of Churchill — everyone has their references, along with their tells and kinks and quirks. ‘ Is he cataloging me, too? ’ she wonders.

For her part, Hila wishes she believed in fate. If she were a figure in someone’s dream or an automaton filled with code, then worry of meaning might never come to her. Or, it would be an inborn answer. Blissfully ignorant, unable to question anything beyond her own desires, she would act singularly as part of something larger and more significant than herself. Like being unconscious, being beholden to destiny opened up a world of false possibilities. She tended to overlook the truth in favor of pretty dishonesty. 

Instead of describing this to him, she says, “I would, although Churchill wasn’t including everyone when he said that. Of course, I like to think I make my own path.” This is partially a lie, but she appears more coy than guilty as she utters it. “And, I’m sure you make yours. But — you said something beyond your control; how about someone? I think some masquerade as fate for others.” Hila sips her tea, conscientiously checking her posture as she does.

As an afterthought, she adds, “ — Priscilla believed Elvis was godlike.”

It’s presumptuous to assume that anything is out of my control, the comment is poised on the tip of his tongue, a syllabic pointe ready to pirouette into existence - but, no. Brook didn’t know a single woman who would take kindly to the thought of being within reach of any man ( even if he was the man in question ), least of all the one sitting in front of him now.

“That’s still a farce,” he opted for instead, “Masquerading as another’s fate would be the equivalent of me walking into this very room fifteen minutes ago and offering our waiter a Benjamin," honesty was rarely his forte, a risk he only took if he was sure of the outcome, “if only so I would have the guarantee of speaking to you.”

A conspiratorial glance to his right and he took in the couplet that would have been his own, “They would have had me sitting beside you all morning pretending to listen to whomever sat in front of me, all whilst truly eavesdropping on your conversations to find a lull to insert myself in.” He drew his hands together as he finished speaking, the fingertips of his right hand grasping the engraved ring on his left and turning thrice before leaning forward quickly, voice dropping several octaves to a mere whisper, “Thus I became the master of my own fate.”

location: the weyerhaeuser ballroom

status: closed to @vounggod​

It should come as no surprise, the way she curls back into the spine of her chair as he approaches — some dismal, bizarre flower which blooms in reverse, as if holding the glare of daylight in contempt. 

Across that acre of Berdondini which separates them now, she’s hoping she comes off just as exquisitely cold, equally as devastatingly elegant in the apathy she’s trying to assume. But instead, she felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions. Instead, the chandelier-lit room warps around his silhouette, painting him into a brutal lucidity. 

The rising temper, the spider silk threads of ache — they refuse to be entirely smothered beneath her facade of lavender and lace, the one she’d practiced so well. But still, she’s trying to wear it around her like that familiar second-skin which it is. 

“Brooklyn,” and she says it so casually, as if she’d forgotten how much he truly detested it ( but he knows as well as she does, she hasn’t ). Nevertheless, looking at him across from her, an impeccable image — it’s like looking at him through the slim keyhole of a door she can’t open. Although, by now, she’s resigned herself to it. She likes to believe she has, anyhow.

“Well, this is bound to be an inordinate waste of time.”

He hears his own name as if from the depths of a well; tinny and watery and aged past its prime. He hardly has a moment to react ( not that his face would betray him, he had trained it well ); fingertips curling to the button pinning his jacket together, releasing it before taking his seat, “Georgette, lovely as always.”

“Show a little focus, Georgie, it’s only a waste of time if you allow it to be.” Cockiness slides across his jaw, reaching the corners of his lips and tugging north; his inability to put aside his arrogance had been a point of contention for the entirety of their relationship which welded rather unfortunately with his keen desire to get a rise out of people. A ribbon of annoyances had tied their relationship at its close, thread loose and threatening to unravel right there in the middle of the ballroom.

She’s mid-taste when he turns his attention to her. With a small, sweet smile, Hila resumes lightly touching the pad of her little finger to the freshly poured tea in her cup. As expected, it’s less than the scalding temperature she prefers. She concludes, after a quick tap to her tongue, that they’ve chosen to go with the cheap variety. His coffee has a slim chancing of being better, though she might ask for a sip anyway. ‘ Disappointing, ’ but the beverages are far from the main event of this particular occasion. 

“In at least one way,” she replies. She contemplates that word — our — and chuckles. “If you believe in fate, of course.” 

This speed-networking, not speed-dating; she’s supposed to ask what his daddy does and what internship kept him busy all summer. Do you have prospects, do you have connections, or should I move on? Hila is unwilling to be bored out of her mind so soon, and especially not with him sitting across from her. 

“Do you, Brook?”

“Believe in fate?” It was a nasty habit he had, queries echoed back to their inquirers - they would never hear it from him, Brook had always held a vindictive pleasure in tripping people up ( he could almost hear the scrawl of pen against paper, Noah’s discernible glare fixing upon him on the couch ) and this was his choice method of doing so. He leaned back, propping one ankle against a navy-encased knee; a stance he had found himself in so often, when they inevitably carved a memoriam into stone, this was the pose he would be frozen in for eternity. “Of course not, darling.”

what: orientation tea; round no. 1

when: sunday, august 17th

where: weyerhaeuser ballroom, providence college

“Let me stop you.” Brook’s deep tenor cuts across the murmur of tea against china and the waiter comes to a halt, blank eyes glance in his direction, slender tie threatening to drip into Hila’s teacup in his pursuit of the one settled in front of Brook, over which a broad palm has spread, “I’d prefer coffee.”

“Hey, you,” the edges of the words are softened as he turns his attention away from the bashful apology and steadies on the woman across from him. Lips tug northward as a quip about destiny settles on the tip of his tongue, as if he hadn’t slipped the very same waiter a hundred to switch his placement ten minutes prior, “Looks like fate is on our side today, hm?”

[text] Did I tell you today that you’re the most adorable? Cause, yeah.

Text → ‘Viktoria Aaland’ [ @ 6:32PM ]: Can you call that into the Times? They’re doing a profile on me next week and could use an inside source.

[text] …The least you could do is answer, wtf.