tolerate it

“Do you?” came her answer, as she turned around and looked to see a man that she probably had seen from somewhere. She smiled her best I’m the wife - you’re looking for the husband - smile before she extended her hand to him. “I’m Samira Moradi, if you’re into documentaries and follow along with directors, you might have seen my husband’s work, and if you follow the media, you’ve probably seen me next to him in pictures.” A regular Pygmalion. She laughed. “Or, you grew up in Queens and have seen my mother or father, and I look enough like them to where you can connect the dots. It’d be nicer for both of us if that was the reason, then I could invite you over for dinner for old time’s sake and my parents would be thrilled that I still have friends.” 

—

Recognition dawns on him quickly, and it’s followed very closely by a sense of guilt. 'I recognize you because I know your husband' is something a little too close to home for Vir, and he hates the thought that he just continued the cycle. “Right, Moradi. I work for the culture section of the Times, I’ve been to a few of his documentary premiers. Really impressive material,” he says. Then, realizing the hand in front of him a second too late, he takes it and shakes. “Vir Zafar. Nice to meet you, Samira. I usually also get lumped in with the other Zafar, so I get it.”

“Yeah, yeah, that makes two of us.” He finds Adam in the distance — which, with his height, isn’t all that hard to do —, stuck in conversation near the stage. Now, the regret that they hadn’t snatched first row; theater kids’ tears would surely work somewhat like a vampire’s blood to his kind. “What?” Full offense, washes over. “Jeez— I didn’t actually bring a bottle. I’m not a fucking animal.” 

Instead, he’ll just get drunk like any other respectable alcoholic would: one overpriced glass at a time.

—

Vir’s eyes wrinkle in dismay at the realization that Hans is planning to drink from the bar, and he looks over to the makeshift table set up for drinks. $18 for a cocktail is enough to make him reconsider sobriety after all. “I have to stop hanging out with you people,” he says with a sigh. “I make 90k a year, mate. In New York City, that’s almost enough to put me on the corner of a street with a sign.” Which reminded him that he was going to ask Hans about salary negotiation sometime soon. “I’ll get the first round, you cover the next twelve.”

prompt: now is the winter of our discontent.

for: @s-moradi​

“I recognize you from somewhere,” he blurts to the woman standing in front of him in the concession line. This has been the eternal struggle for Vir - either he says nothing when he should have said something, or all the wrong words come tumbling out before he can stop himself. “Sorry, I meant, your face. Your face looks familiar, like I recognize you from somewhere. It would’ve bothered me if I didn’t say something.” He pauses, considers. “But, uh, maybe not, sorry.”

for: @junoxfoster​

At an event like this, if Vir gets even the slightest inclination that anyone from the Times may be around, he’ll spend the rest of the night playing a desperate game of hide-and-seek. It’s not that he hates his coworkers, it’s just that he’s less-than-fond of journalists, and those two happen to have a strong correlation. But intermission is almost over, and he’s about to thank the colonizer in the sky (or whatever British people pray to) that he’s managed to fly by without any encounters - until, of course, he bumps into one head-on. “Fuck, sorry,” he says as the bag of peanut M&M’s he had in his hand falls to the ground, right in front of Juno’s feet. There are a few M&M casualties, but it’s no massacre. “Hi Juno,” he greets. “Good to see you.” It’s not. If anything, Juno represents the thesis of the kind of journalist Vir doesn’t care for – always sticking their nose into things, sacrificing privacy for the sake of a story, no loyalty to a genre as long as the headline catches an eye. But he plays the role of nice and awkward, just like he does with every other Times associate. “Are you here for a piece, or just enjoying the bard?”

for: @adamstarke​

To set the record straight, Vir doesn’t resent Adam for this whole baby situation. Sure, the baby thing will fundamentally alter Hans Starke as Vir knows and loves him, and the baby thing is going to leave Vir without a guest bedroom in the Starke household to crash at, and the baby thing is making Oliver way antsier about their lack of baby thing, and the baby thing was almost definitely and pretty absolutely Adam’s idea from the start - but Vir is all love and sunshine, no resentment for the big friendly giant who he’s watching Shakespeare with. Which is why he turns over with the warmest of grins during intermission and asks, “How’d you like the First Act? I thought killing the child was an interesting director’s choice, what did you think about that?”

for: @lolavillarin

“Oh my god, your hair.” The words stumble out before Vir can stop himself, and his eyes widen without meaning to. Sure, it’s been a while since he saw Lola (he’ll never admit to her that the only reason he didn’t make it to her gender reveal party is because he was too indecisive about which woman to choose), but he didn’t realize he had missed such a life-altering decision in the process. For Vir, it had been almost two years since he started growing out his hair, and - okay, fine, maybe hair isn’t everything, but all he’ll say is he didn’t have interns hitting on him before the locks got long and luscious. “Sorry, uh, hello, cheers. I like the new look. How are you?”

VIR ZAFAR @ SHAKESPEARE IN THE PARK

Shakespeare isn’t exactly Vir’s preferred genre, but as a (soon-to-be) acclaimed British writer himself, Vir is fine to spend an evening with King Richard. In true Shakespearean fashion, he’s got a slutty lil open shirt moment, which is very new for him and his morbid insecurities. 

@vrzfr···

Through a skeptical eye, there’s nothing appealing in fiction or costumed people playing pretend; stages are only good on election season, or backrooms overflowed with filth. Hans doesn’t get it. Words come across more silly than poetic, if he catches them at all — both his hearing and spirit have been broken for far too long to truly enjoy live theatre. 

Yet here he is, walking with Vir along the grass like a parent preparing an only child for sharing. There’s a clock that’s ticking, and while neither ackowledge it, both hear the countdown clearly. 

“Is this a good view, buddy?” Smack center, it should be. He squeezes Vir’s shoulder once, and once again. “I’d say drinking game rules are on you, but if this is the virginfest I think it is – I’m drinking a bottle whether you like it or not.”

—

“How’d you find out about my high school nickname?” he says to the ‘virginfest’ remark. It’s a joke, obviously - his high school bullies were a tad more creative than that, so they usually stuck to Vir-gin or Vir the Queer. 

Vir’s actually fairly excited about the prospect of watching Shakespeare tonight, although unlike the typical English nerd, he’s not too crazy about the dead writer. If you read enough Shakespeare you come to realize it’s mostly dick jokes and making fun of the poor, both of which he prefers to get from Hans. “I did tell the other Zafar I’d be sober tonight,” he says. He looks to where Oliver is in the crowd, shmoozing on the other side of the audience. “But...” He trails off, nods his head in both directions as if weighing his options. “I guess I wouldn’t mind hearing about what this bottle is that you have in stow.”

Open to: Anyone Location:: Public Fare, The Delacorte Theater, Central Park Her bag is heavy on her shoulder, larger than usual and rightfully so — somewhere in the bottom, the elixir of life waits to carry Lía through the evening’s entertainment. “I’ll pay for half your drink if you ask for double cups and let me carry it, walking into the theater.”

—

Vir whips his head around to spot the voice behind him, coming face-to-face with a woman who certainly looks familiar but whose origin he can’t pinpoint. Political, he thinks. Holbrook’s team, maybe? In any case, she has the kind of energy of someone who would have bullied Vir in high school (but then again, who doesn’t?). “Oh, uh, I actually wasn’t planning to buy a drink,” he says. “It’s been pointed out to me recently that I can’t go to large events without consuming copious amounts of alcohol in the process, and apparently that’s not Faulkner-esque if you’re not getting The Sound and The Fury out of it.” He swivels around. “Though I guess I am kind of blocking the drink line, sorry. I can buy one and give it to the needy, if you still need the extra cup? I bet I can get a tax write-off for that.”

     where: pink flamingo      when: evening      with: @vrzfr

     Alan Dietrich at a bar was far from an unusual sight, but this particular setting was a novelty. And no, he’d defended himself many times before, it wasn’t that he wasn’t out and proud, but he didn’t need to be a walking pride flag to get in someone’s pants. His own strategy had worked for him before. Either way, here he sat, ditched by that one staffer from the Governor’s office who had promised the bar would be exactly what he needed. Bullshit. 

     But perhaps surprisingly, a more depressing sight could be found at the table right next to his. At least Alan had undone the top buttons of his work shirt, tried to blend in. “Are you writing right now?” with the dim lighting, he’d needed to squint his eyes but he’d recognized the face. “Is this place your muse or something, what’s happening?” To each their own was not a saying Alan particularly agreed with.

—

On the record, Vir hates gay bars, gay clubs, and especially gay brunch (what can he say, he can’t stand a mimosa). It’s all rooted in the fact that Vir is, by all standards and regulations, a truly horrible gay, and that reality becomes incredibly obvious when he’s put in an environment where he’s surrounded by gold-standard, A-plus gays. It’s only made worse by the fact that his husband is so damn good at being gay, like Oliver was destined for it and Vir just so happened to stumble into the gay category without reading the job description.

So yes, maybe he’s not the happiest camper when Oliver leaves him at the table alone to go socialize with some influential lesbians on the other side of the room, telling Vir that he’ll be back in a second about twenty minutes ago. And yes, perhaps that did prompt him to take out his mini notepad and start writing disjointed thoughts on the lined paper, but it’s really not as odd as this stranger is making it out to be. “The best art is made in stolen moments,” he replies, as though that’s a normal thing to say. “Also, I’m sorry, but you’re wearing Allen Edmonds at a gay bar. That’s bordering on homophobic, mate.”

With her eyes glued to her phone, thumbs tapping away at the screen, Ludovica just barely manages to sidestep the stranger on his long tumble down the stairs. In the hasty sidestep, the sharp heel of her shoe catches air instead of concrete, and she’s forced to grab the railing for balance, consequently knocking her phone out of her hand. 

This is exactly why she doesn’t take the train. “Ew,” she mutters under her breath, releasing the railing as if it were hot to the touch. Ludo turns and makes her way back down the flight of stairs to retrieve her phone landed, which ended its fall just behind the man who caused the whole blunder. 

“Oh, sorry– I suppose I could’ve grabbed it on my way down.” The smile offered is apologetic, but there’s no move to help out in any manner. Instead, she points over his shoulder. “Actually, I was going to ask if you would hand me my phone? I can’t really bend over with this dress.”

A beat later, the face registers in her memory. “Oh my god, Hans’ friend! The little journalist– ” she cycles through the associations until she lands on his name, “Vir! Oh, you poor thing. Are you alright?” Yet still… no move to help.

—

The first thing Vir sees when he looks up is a long pair of legs with a set of flawless tits and Vir thinks great, he died in that fall and went to some pseudo-purgatory where he’s stuck in this subway stop and tormented by even more attractive people with whom he can’t cheat on his husband.

Then, upon glancing further north, he recognizes Ludo’s face staring back down, and Vir is briefly reassured that he may have survived the tumble after all. “Right. Hi Ludovica, chuffed to see you again.” He smiles, a beat. "Although little journalist might be a wee misnomer, I’m actually an above average height. Common misconception.” 

Sitting up immediately sets his nerves on fire, but nevertheless, he’s got a mission in the form of retrieving Ludo’s phone. ”Here,” he says, handing her the cell. He can’t get up quite yet, so he continues to engage with her while still on the floor. “I’m surprised to see you here. You didn’t really strike me as the subway type. What’s your favorite MTA line?” He realizes it’s a stupid question as soon as it leaves his mouth, but the high school version of Vir that never quite learned how to talk to pretty women seemed to resurface at all the worst times.

As Manuel watches Vir fall, it’s like everything is in slow motion. He stands stock still, never the fastest, and watches with wide eyes, “Fuck, man.” He breathes, shaking his head as the second piece of luggage thumps him in the chest. Manuel’s reaction is delayed, but he grabs the bag left behind, jogging down the stairs, “Uh… here,” he reaches out a hand to help the other up, “you alright? That was a pretty nasty fall.” He’s accident prone and he’s got a shiner himself, but that’s his own damn fault. He glances behind him, “Pretty fuckin’ rude too.” Not that he’s surprised. New York isn’t exactly known for being the warmest city in the world by any stretch. 

—

“Right? I thought the etiquette was to go ‘I’m walking here’ -” Note: Vir knows his New York accent imitation is horrible, so he doesn’t even try going for it. “ - and then push me down the stairs. This was just hostile.” He steadies himself and hoists his bruised body up with the bag that Manuel just handed him, giving the other man a warm nod. “I’m alright, thanks.” He does a long stretch and winces in the process. “On second thought, I don’t think I have internal bleeding, but I also wouldn’t be gobsmacked if I did.” This isn’t the kind of attention Vir likes to attract to himself, so he quickly nods to Manuel’s black eye. “What about your little blemish? Pushed down an escalator?”

Yes, Hans Starke takes the fucking subway — thank you very much — and like any good New Yorker that’s not actually from New York, he makes a habit out of pushing his chosen enemy out of sight. Right now, that’s one Vir Zafar. 

Suited shoulder to ‘Jesus Christ is that from Walmart’ sweatered arm, Vir is not only pushed, but he goes on to tumble down a good long flight of stairs. Hans knew his friend had no muscle to speak of, but hadn’t expected this easy of a fight. 

“Oh, fuck you, buddy.” Hans spits back, kicking the other bag down a few steps. He’d been headed to work — but this can wait. “You wanna fuck off for three months? Sure, but we’re back at square-fucking-one.” Vir had acted worse, when Hans went quiet for so much as a week. His turn. “Welcome to NYC, nerd. I’m your bully.” 

—

When Vir first moved to New York almost ten years ago (fuck, he thinks, that was almost ten years ago?), he would have fantasies of breaking his head open. He would daydream about tripping without caution and falling in the middle of Soho, his skull colliding roughly with the pavement. And then, with his tissue and cerebral fluids and all that other shit leaking out, Vir dreamed of rearranging. Throwing out the parts of his brain that made him useless and pointless and stuck, all while spooling and collecting all the parts that made him worth something. Surely, there was something rotting in his brain that he needed to amputate (Rilke says: bleed for the ink). 

Flash forward, and present-day Vir’s finding that actually falling on his head is much less romantic than twenty-something Vir had imagined. Still a depressed fuck, just with a bit of a headache to him. 

“Uh-huh,” he says, sitting up with a wince. He’s about to reply when his bag comes flying at him, hitting his chest and propelling Vir back to the ground. “Bollocks,” he groans. He taps a finger to the side of his neck as if making sure it’s still on right, then slowly, warily sits up once again, reassured that there’s nothing else Hans can propel his way unless he’s going to wrestler-slam him with his own body. “It was more like two and a little bit,” he says. “But I guess that’s your way of telling me it felt like three months, you righteous sap.” He looks up cautiously, trying to test how much banter Hans’ ration will allow. “Before you get into anymore Orwellian torture tactics, I do have a peace offering.” He grabs his bag, pulling out a stuffed bear straight from a London gift shop. “I thought the resemblance between you two was uncanny. I mean, look, same smile and everything,” he says through a grin.

Monroe witnesses the unfortunate series of events, the miserable writer struggling with his bags and the impatient commuter taking stairs three at a time slamming into him. She physically winces and recoils as she sees him rag doll back down to the bottom of the steps in front of her. She moves the bag off him immediately, helping him into a sitting position.

“Stay here, I’ll grab your bag. Try not to move too much, nothing feels broken does it?” She asks the questions reflexively, gently using a thumb to slightly lift his eyelids and check his pupils. Satisfied he isn’t going to drop dead she skips up the steps to his abandoned bag and then brings it back to him. “Can you stand? I can manage the bags up the steps but I don’t think I can carry them and you at the same time.” She chuckles lightly as she holds out a hand, the man has shit luck but she was fairly certain he would be all right, nothing a few aspirin couldn’t fix.

—

Does anything feel broken? If Vir were being dramatic (and he often is), he’d say there’s plenty of things that feel broken - his aspirations, his marriage, his will to live. But he figures he’ll spare the stranger from his melodramatic ranting, at least for now, and shake his head while he remains lying on the floor. “Nothing broken, probably. I don’t think,” he says doubtfully. He shifts to sit up and groans in the process. “My ribs have seen better days, but I think they’re just overreacting.” 

He sits up from the floor, wincing here and there but all-in-all still surviving. Looking up now, Vir is able to get a good look at the face of his savior, who has a particularly warm set of eyes and a kind smile. She reminds Vir of his father, and a pang of regret hits him at leaving London. “Be honest, are you my fairy godmother?” he asks instead of answering any of her questions. He’ll blame it later on the concussion.

Vir has never earned a dime from a slot machine, he’ll get rained on even if there’s just a single cloud in the sky, and he probably would’ve been first class on the Titanic if he’d been alive at the time — all of which is to say that he’s not exactly known for his good luck. Exhibit A: he just got off the subway fresh from JFK, only to find that the elevator is out of service at his stop, and there’s three sets of stairs between him and the surface. He looks miserably at his two suitcases (British Airlines lost the third one, and the thought of getting on the phone with customer service is enough to make him halway suicidal), and thus begins his trek up the steps. It’s his first time back in New York City in nearly two months, and already he’s wondering why he came back so soon.

His progress is slow but steady as he trudges up the first flight of stairs. Then, at exactly the eleventh step, a passer-by pushes especially hard against him, causing Vir to lose his balance and tumble down the steps. One of the luggages stays on the eleventh step, the other one comes down with him and lands on his chest with a resounding ‘thud!’. “Fucking hell,” he groans. He attempts to sit up, and he winces as multiple sharp pains cry out at once. “Can somebody toss me that other bag?” he calls up pathetically to anyone willing to help.