and that's all before his sworn fucking enemy - some anonymous entity - has been utterly raining hell down on every single one of his projects. smith doesn't seem anywhere nearly as concerned as hawk does when it comes to plugging this mystery leak, but he's made it his sole mission to figure out who this son of a bitch is so he can take him down. hawk has prided himself on keeping things fairly close to the chest and locked down all these years, and the information has been coming from someone in his camp specifically - no ifs ands or buts. it's personal at this point because everyone in his circle is the closest thing he has to confidants and actual friends - which is to say a very small, tight ship. it's making him second guess everyone lately: tim, glasses lopsided as he nearly spills what his eyes must be deceiving him as a glass of a milk all over a white toga. his admin sophie, demure and anything but the sultry rendition of marilyn in diamonds are a girl's best friend. szep, lurking on the outskirts of smith's estate in a zoot suit like this is just another day ending in y. there's only a handful of others, and trying to nail it down on one of them feels impossible.
its probably the reason for his longer nights, spotty spells in his office with the door locked and his heartbeat rabbiting as if trying to break free from his very chest. he's powered through near misses, blackouts where he almost eats shit and winds up facedown on the floor, instead managing to excuse himself to a meeting which is just a pathetic face-to-face in a restroom mirror splashing water on his face and looking at the color drained from his skin. the stress is climbing to a level that his doctor has sternly advised he avoid at all costs, but it's pretty fucking hard to just call a sabbatical in the middle of a multi-million dollar production and dump it on some assistant.
which is quite literally the only thing hawk can thank christ is going well right now, that - and his burgeoning rehabilitation of everything that is embry moore. him and greer have just finalized a breakup that painted them both in the best of lights - two stars cresting towards a peak buckling down to make the most of it and let their drive and dedication consume them, much to the sadness of one another. besides, the whole industry knows numbers do better when the lead is a single, parasocially available and attractive entity to everyone else on the fucking planet. at least he's got a handle on one thing right now.
speaking of which - he can't seem to find embry at this party, which makes him wonder if he's even here. the plan had been for him to start here and hop along to a few others to drum up press, but this is the one time he wouldn't blame the man for taking a night to himself for a change to just lap it up and authentically enjoy something for a change. he deserves it.
he's about done with his first drink and debating heading inside somewhere quiet to cut and light the cigar, maybe see if he can hide out in the study for a few more hours before politely making an irish exit when his thoughts wander again - the way they've been doing an awful lot, lately.
is embry just fashionably late? what's a guy with the perfect body and the face of an adonis going to wear when he could be anyone for night?]
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it's not that he doesn't appreciate a good holiday or even an excuse to dress up, but it's the liability he has a hard time swallowing when it comes to the way hollywood has bastardized it. full of way too many tricks, the kind of treats that will come with cuffs slapped on wrists, and headlines that will follow stars around until christmas at the very least. a goddamn headache. and if it's not that, then it's the obnoxious couple's costumes and poor excuse for the equivalent of a college house party complete with mystery jungle juice that leave his temples sore and his patience worn thin when he's a mandatory attendee at smith's annual soirΓ©e. that's the only man he'd let bully him into this - and at least here he knows it'll be a classy affair. it's the heidi klum bash, the netflix and vanity fair parties where things start to get hazy and the witching hour strikes.
and that's all before his sworn fucking enemy - some anonymous entity - has been utterly raining hell down on every single one of his projects. smith doesn't seem anywhere nearly as concerned as hawk does when it comes to plugging this mystery leak, but he's made it his sole mission to figure out who this son of a bitch is so he can take him down. hawk has prided himself on keeping things fairly close to the chest and locked down all these years, and the information has been coming from someone in his camp specifically - no ifs ands or buts. it's personal at this point because everyone in his circle is the closest thing he has to confidants and actual friends - which is to say a very small, tight ship. it's making him second guess everyone lately: tim, glasses lopsided as he nearly spills what his eyes must be deceiving him as a glass of a milk all over a white toga. his admin sophie, demure and anything but the sultry rendition of marilyn in diamonds are a girl's best friend. szep, lurking on the outskirts of smith's estate in a zoot suit like this is just another day ending in y. there's only a handful of others, and trying to nail it down on one of them feels impossible.
its probably the reason for his longer nights, spotty spells in his office with the door locked and his heartbeat rabbiting as if trying to break free from his very chest. he's powered through near misses, blackouts where he almost eats shit and winds up facedown on the floor, instead managing to excuse himself to a meeting which is just a pathetic face-to-face in a restroom mirror splashing water on his face and looking at the color drained from his skin. the stress is climbing to a level that his doctor has sternly advised he avoid at all costs, but it's pretty fucking hard to just call a sabbatical in the middle of a multi-million dollar production and dump it on some assistant.
which is quite literally the only thing hawk can thank christ is going well right now, that - and his burgeoning rehabilitation of everything that is embry moore. him and greer have just finalized a breakup that painted them both in the best of lights - two stars cresting towards a peak buckling down to make the most of it and let their drive and dedication consume them, much to the sadness of one another. besides, the whole industry knows numbers do better when the lead is a single, parasocially available and attractive entity to everyone else on the fucking planet. at least he's got a handle on one thing right now.
speaking of which - he can't seem to find embry at this party, which makes him wonder if he's even here. the plan had been for him to start here and hop along to a few others to drum up press, but this is the one time he wouldn't blame the man for taking a night to himself for a change to just lap it up and authentically enjoy something for a change. he deserves it.
hawk is making pleasant, distant small talk and visibly avoiding looking anywhere beside anyone's face while nursing a whiskey, neat in one hand and an unlit cigar in the other. his own costume would look ludicrous next to the bevy of scantily clad men and women if it weren't so on the nose - hugh hefner to a much more tailored t. no hat, a crisp button down and tie, and neatly pressed silk-woven slacks just above monogramed velvet loafers, because he's not dΓ©classΓ© enough to show up in his goddamn underwear.
he's about done with his first drink and debating heading inside somewhere quiet to cut and light the cigar, maybe see if he can hide out in the study for a few more hours before politely making an irish exit when his thoughts wander again - the way they've been doing an awful lot, lately.
is embry just fashionably late? what's a guy with the perfect body and the face of an adonis going to wear when he could be anyone for night?]