The first hour after disembarking the plane at LAX is, as always, a purgatory of white noise and grime and crowds and lines, Samir's personal hell only improved by blasting "ICON!!1!" on loop through noise cancelling headphones whilst navigating the airport and then finally climbing into the back of his driver's limousine. Shyam knows him well enough to spare small talk, instead quieting the radio when he enters and greeting him with a curt nod before peeling out of the horseshoe and en route to the Cano Villa.
Samir releases a relieved sigh as he settles into the back seat, letting his head fall back against the headrest and his eyes slip closed for
just a few moments of rest after a 18 hour flight… But of course it lasts longer than that. When he wakes up, they're well into the city and his headache is, thankfully, long gone. Los Angeles is
bright even behind these tinted windows and Samir stares outside whilst he fixes up his collar and tie, blinking away his drowsiness as they pass palm trees, mountains, and sprawling concrete streets.
Finally, he opens up his phone, swiping off of aeroplane mode for the first time in nearly a day… just to be bombarded with a few hundred messages from the frat alumni group chat. He furrows his brows and tabs open WhatsApp, quickly scanning some
elaborate plans regarding a kegger. It's an absolute madhouse and Samir grins to himself, stifling his expression with the back of his hand, as he rereads hours-old and entirely pointless (yet decently structured) arguments over outfits, pre-gaming rules, music choices, the works. All of them had moved to Vienna after university, easily getting work at concert halls, exhibits, and museums in the grand city of dreams whilst Samir had opted for international work. It's actually quite difficult to imagine he'd been having dinner with this crew just over a day ago when he was in town for a concert—
He blinks away from reminiscing to a few more dozen messages, now pinging him with questions ringing to the tune of "where are you?" and "are you needed in the morning?" Samir freezes.
OH. He may have neglected to tell them a few things…
He swipes the app closed, sending off a prayer to whatever hypothetical deity is watching in hopes of avoiding this confrontation at least a little longer. In place, eyes flicker out the window at dwindling high-rises, down to his cuffed sleeves, turmeric-stained nails, and thin golden watch, and then to meet his driver's blue-lined eyes in the rear-view mirror. Los Angeles is much too garish to be a decent muse for his newest project, and Shyam
was plenty helpful for the art aquarium in Ginza but isn't fit for this kind of exhibit. His employer's work is incredible, really. Abstract, minimalist, very symbolic with sparing use of colour and simple, eye-catching compositions conveying a clear message. Her work is
incredible, but he has no idea how to put together anything like this. It's driving him insane.
It takes one more ping regarding his whereabouts (this time from a vexed Edel Al-Abbas) for Samir to give in, sighing and reopening the application. It's not like he'll be making any progress anyway…
@Samir-Ugetsu wo bist du >:[
LA.
Bist du deppert Schatzi
God maybe he is a little insane going along with this. He'll still be able to travel plenty for work, but the truth remains: Samir hasn't lived in one place this long since he was
seventeen, and just about everything has changed since those days. It is a little insane, but then again, it's a last ditch effort, so of course it is.
His thoughts grind to a halt as the car rolls to a stop before one grand and familiar sight: Cano Villa. Samir breathes in through gritted teeth. It's go time. In a few smooth movements he tucks away his phone, settles his headphones around his neck, and pulls shades over half-lidded eyes, slipping out the car and into the baking California sunlight.
He forces his jaw to relax as he scans the scene, taking it in via screenshots: cameras and producers, a glittering visage, pop diva, anxious child, gutsy action-star, artsy director, British ass, egotist punk rocker… and Morgan Corbett. His eyes flicker wide behind his shades, then settle back to normal as he pointedly looks away, shutting the door and stalking towards the back of the car, focusing on the click of his oxford's against the pavement as he loosens his tie and tousles his hair. The feeling of cameras on him is
intimidating even as he does his very best to ignore their attention and the needling feeling already writhing up the back of his neck. Some personnel are collecting his things from the trunk and Samir sends each of them an acknowledging nod, all the while searching for a certain
something in his peripheral. Oh, there it is. And someone is—
"Heast, Oida—" The suited gentleman does a double take at Samir's voice and physical interjection, and it takes a second of stunned silence for Samir to recognise the problem. He groans, head falling back and hand pressing between his brows as he releases a soft
"English, right." Reaching for his violin case and slinging it over his shoulder, Samir leans in towards them, letting his voice fall to its more natural state: harsh, quiet, yet
collected—even as it's still thick with residuals of his Austrian accent.
"I'm sorry. I'd rather carry my own instrument. Be careful, please. Others can be much more protective of their things."
With that, Samir turns on his heel and strides towards the entrance, keeping his head high as he flashes a few "Servus"s and greetings in ASL towards people and cameras. Eyes sliding between crewmembers, producers, and the aptly named "talent," Samir very nearly misses his friend and the most recent heart of his work: Guillaume Du-Garçon. So
this is the "stupid vapid television show" he mentioned ever so briefly… A smirk flickers across his lips as their eyes briefly meet, there for but a moment before his characteristically statuesque expression returns and gaze passes on to his next subject. It seems this effort may be less insane than he previously thought.
