An inebriated but ostensibly composed Leonardo DiCaprio wobbles over to a buffet table at the after-party. Suddenly weary, he leans heavily on the table and swipes a hand over his face. He can endure this festivity just a bit longer, he just needs a moment to rest, and maybe a bite to eat. He attempts to read a label identifying the hors d'oeuvres in front of him, blinking continuously, but is unable to clear his vision. A server standing by in silence tenderly proffers the decorative handkerchief from his uniform. Leo takes it and glances up towards the man's face.
"Thank you," he says to the warm but otherwise impassive brown eyes. The man resumes his post, still silent. But Leo's attention, for the moment, remains on him. "What's your name, sir?"
The man's eyes flicker now that he is expected to speak. "Martínez," he replies with shy professionalism.
"Thank you, Martínez," Leo mumbles vaguely, managing his signature nod to the man as he begins to walk away -
"Oscar Martínez."
Leo stops, turns slowly back. "You..."
"Me puede llamar Oscar, Señor DiCaprio." Martínez finishes, now visibily starstruck, but sure of his course. His cheeks darken as Leo approaches him once more. Leo stands too close to Martínez, making intense eye contact and isolating the two of them in that quiet corner with no regard for the rest of the party.
"Did someone put you up to -"
"No, sir." The tinge of anger recedes from Leo's resignation.
"And you know I didn't... I haven't..."
"Yes, sir."
Leo's face is too close now. Feeling his breath, Martínez knows that he will regret silence more than failure.
"Pero, señor, you have won me."
Leo cannot restrain a sharp gasp. His eyes never stray from Martínez', and he reaches out to return the handkerchief. Martínez puts out his hand. Leo grasps it tightly.
The two exit the party and walk off into the night.