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winter soldier · 12-23-2015, 12:16 AM

OOC: Got him done in a fit of sudden inspiration.

Julian Donahue
Very few commonalities existed between ‘rich snob’ and ‘hipster.’ Julian often found the culture of his upbringing clashing wildly with that which he’d embraced, wholeheartedly, and the snubbing of designer clothes and widely contrasting political views had been the most difficult on his delicate psyche. Progressivism required Julian to care about the lower castes, and devotion to irony relegated his sartorial choices to vintage secondhand shops and thrift stores, where, more often than not, the odor of old people was cloyingly pervasive. But he’d adjusted, given time, and where he couldn’t adjust he compromised, pulling on thoroughly washed flannel and skinny jeans with an unknown amount of prior owners snugly over his cherished (brand new) Armani boxer briefs. Politics were easier, various platforms demanding feigned interest over genuine but minimally he could embrace the notion of marriage reform and pot legalization - clearly far more important to his present interests than tax breaks and universal healthcare.

One item, though. One item the wealthy and the bohemian shared competing interests in: wine. Good wine. Excellent wine. Top-of-the-fucking-shelf wine. Julian loved fermented grapes nearly as much as he loved Warhol or the increasingly dying breed of men both well-endowed and familiar with the concept of ‘give and take.’ That is to say, he preferred to be some degree of wine-soaked 24/7, if at all possible. Many of his friends were probably only his friends because of his access and his plastic, greedy alcohol snobs without the funds to back up their addictions and Julian unabashedly took equal advantage, plying with bottles of Romanee-Conti and Chateau d’Yquem and Cheval Blanc to fill the cramped spaces of his flat on a semi-regular basis. Because otherwise, Julian’s slight insufferability and ego problems might’ve limited his social circle to literally the one person incapable of turning her back on him, despite the shit he put her through; Sydney was likely grateful for any excuse to leave Julian to his wino friends and their ‘dinner’ (alcohol) parties, so long as it meant seeing Christian without worrying over the massive amounts of inappropriate texting she’d receive at quintessential moments.

Elizabeth Donahue was a clever woman. Rarely could that be called into question. Tonight, however, one might pause at her decision to allocate the task of ‘bar stocking and inventory’ to Julian and Sydney—less Sydney, more Julian. Because Syd was being a good little grandchild, scribbling out a list of dwindling supply as their guests for that evening’s grand charity ball drank and drank and drank, not letting herself get distracted by a Very Delicious Christian Jenkins (too often), and Julian was… well. Julian was.

Julian was grateful to be in an enclosed space not permeable by his grandmother’s sharp-eyed gaze as he inelegantly unknotted his tie and let the delicate silk slip through his fingers onto the cool tiled floor of Chez Donahue’s personal wine cellar. The oak and brick shelves were piled high with various vintages, thick coats of dust speaking to the value of some over others, and Julian could only hesitate as long as it took to hunt down the first cabernet sauvignon within reach before introducing it gleefully to his personal corkscrew. When he came up for air, moments later, the bottle was already nearly half empty and he’d found himself a seat on the ground, book-ended by three more bottles and the promise of an excellent evening ahead of him.

(open)