I TURN ALL ROMAN. I DEVOUR.

WITH | OPEN TO ALL GODSEND + HOUSE OF POLLUX AGENTS 

large cities, zaid has come to understand, are all essentially the same. 

he’s heard trainers, other agents, professors, all wax poetic about how certain metropolises feel distinct, how the streets seem to move with a rhythm that cannot be replicated, how certain scents seem to hang in the air and create memories that feel vivid and cinematic in comparison to ones created in a hometown or a suburban refuge--but zaid has never had much of an appreciation for poetry, and hyperbolic statements rarely ever uttered without a longing sigh fail to account for the fact that all large cities are made of the same elements. there are always people, they always move from the center, the beating heart, outwards, and they are always ignorant of the evil that lurks just underneath the surface, just beyond the glass and iron, concrete and asphalt limits of their beloved resting place. 

brussels, he’s finding as he slowly trails one of squires bodyguards, stands apart from its other european counterparts. an effort has clearly been made to preserve what remains of its own antiquity, which is something that zaid can almost appreciate--if only he could ignore the parts of his mind that remind him of what a problem the tower arch of a gothic steeple might present if he were to have to climb up, find a place from which he could pull a trigger. 

he exhales a breath--he can appreciate poetry, beauty, even if he can’t ( or won’t, perhaps is the better word, because poetry would be an allowance, beauty is transient and easily removable ) allow it into himself. 

which is an idea that turns out to be particularly prescient, when the agent he’s been walking with drifts in front of his line of sight. zaid reaches out, pulls them back gently in the way a friend might to set them on the correct path, or to point out something interesting that has just appeared. “you’re walking too fast,” he says, gaze fixed on the back of their mark. “you’re going to call attention to us, start setting off his internal alarms.”

♦

there are some things that are too sacred to acknowledge. the name of god ought not to be uttered by mortal lips. those who have seen the face of the almighty wear veils, for no one else should bask in the glory of their euphoria. though they may never utter it aloud, the man that sits before them and the moments that they share is what they acknowledge as sacred, is what they acknowledge as treasured. it was there from the moment that they laid eyes on him, that unutterable thing that knotted them together, that tied their fate to his. they had tried to look away from it, to sever that red thread, to see it as something “less than”. the moment that they made their peace with the way that zaid eclipsed their life was the only time that evren has ever admitted to defeat. as his warmth enveloped them, they knew, without a doubt, that they would do so again if only it meant that he might remain in their life, like this. 

they listen as he explains himself, their lips pressing together as their fingers trail along the palm of his hands. in their line of work, it was far easier to work with calluses. every single one told a story, some of them evren was privy to, others she still had yet to learn about. they knew that if they were to look up while he spoke, he would see the concern etched in their gaze, would witness the peculiar wonder of evren’s heart reflecting  in their eyes. so, they simply nod, taking the occasional sip of their coffee while their fingers trail against his, the hands of killers finding warmth in such a simple touch, all the while studiously ignoring the shudder of their heart. 

the words hang there, on the tip of her tongue. sometimes, i think that you’re the only thing that has made any sense to me in this life. and there, the words stay.

their gaze lifts as he squeezes their hand, coaxing them into looking up at him, a wicked smile ghosting across their features as his words echo in their ears. there was no hymn they had ever heard that was sweeter than this. i don’t know what to do with this anger. revel in it. the battle is over, isn’t it? and yet the war still rages on. “you weren’t useless, love,” they assure him, their finger lifting his chin gently. “what else could you do that might have made the outcome any different? considering the situation, i don’t think that there were many ways that you could have done more — unless you happen to be well-versed in the art of necromancy. no?”

“short of that, i don’t think there is much else to be done about the situation. there is, however, much we can do about your anger.” their eyes flash at that, the wickedness that gleams in their eyes no longer something shackled and carefully tucked away, no, now it blazes in the inky blackness of their pupils. they cross their legs, their bottom lip caught between the pearly whites of their teeth. “it makes you see red, doesn’t it? not neon red, or the red of anger that comes and goes. no, it’s blood red, isn’t it?” evren’s voice quiets as she leans forward, gaze fixated on zaid’s, like a wolf that’s caught sight of its prey. “hm,” they hum as their head cants thoughtfully, eyes flicking over his frame. “that’s why you came to me, isn’t it? you want someone to suffer.”

---

zaid could say no--there is justice, simplistic and devoid of blood, in the suffering being suffocated to death beneath the collapsed walls of that tomb. kraken is apprehended, pantheon will do what it has always done and eliminate the evil for the benefit of humanity--they will continue forward as they always have, zaid will continue his work as all devoted red right hands must. evren would smile, dance their fingers around the edges of his bruises with all of the tenderness of a devoted torturer--but they would not hate him for it. they would not tell him to leave, to take his grief and his flaming sword and burn the fields somewhere else. 

he could deny it--but what would be the point? evren touches his face, drags their fingertip along the line of his throat as if they are trying to call all of his blood to just underneath the surface of his skin, and he knows it would be like trying to lie to his own reflection, to the shadow that follows him, stubbornly dark against the light of the sun. zaid wants justice, and it cannot be won without the involvement of that great equalizer, death itself. 

“hathaway suffered.” he says through gritted teeth. “lerma--franc--cosmos, suffered for eight hours in that fucking cave.” he wraps his fingers around their wrist, their pulse beating steadily but hard underneath the palm of his hand. “kraken is still drawing breath, instead of being picked clean by the vultures--that means there is twice as much evil on the face of this planet as their should be. that means i have not yet succeeded in my mission.”

he exhales a breath through his clenched teeth, shakes his head before meeting their gaze across the table. “i always see blood red--that’s where you’re mistaken. my parents--i’m never without what happened to them. i just--” he bites down hard on his bottom lip, shrugs his shoulder. “don’t usually crave the taste of it like this--not this badly.” 

gus drank his beer while he watched as zaid stood there for a long moment, almost as if he was legitimately frozen in place. normally gus would try and figure out what zaid was attempting to do, but his current drunken state left him absolutely dumbfounded. when the man had finally sat down, gus took one last sip before wiping the contents of the bottle away from his lips. “ just so you know, I managed to finish this  full bottle in the time you took playin’ freeze tag.” gus teased. “ now that you mention don julio. he’s been in the bathroom for a long time.” he shrugged “guess this means i’m back on the market.” 

he extended his hand once more to get the bartender’s attention. “can i get whatever he wants, the beer i’ve been getting, and two tequila shots.” gus’ therapist had been lecturing him on the dangers of alcohol in his current state - but his apathetic nature triumphed the professional’s opinion. he rubbed at his temples for a moment as the effects of the alcohol he’d been quickly downing began to set in. his sister would murder him if she saw him drinking like this, but that didn’t matter anymore.

zaid was his closest and best friend, and even with the strained relationship with the majority of his team he’d still be his best friend. he listened to zaid’s words, easily picking up how careful he was with what he’d been saying. “zaid. choosing me over a lead. i’m guessing i might be really special.” gus downed the shot with ease, his body relaxing even more than before. the tequila outside of mexico was always subpar but did usually get the job done. “ and me? do anything stupid? never.” gus sighed. “look, i should definitely apologize for ignoring everyone for a majority of the year we were off..but-” he quickly interrupted himself, wanting to avoid the topic of his sister as much as possible right now. “ - so how have you been?” his beer had already made its way to his mouth after quickly changing the subject. “ have you been working the entire year or did you do the hamlet approach of isolating yourself for as long as possible?” 

he wished the two weren’t speaking to avoid a much larger topic. hamlet missed the days when the two would crack jokes on missions, ruffle one another’s feathers, going for drinks and acting like complete fools, and whatever else they did around one another. his sister’s really affected his relationship with the team to where they speak to and with hamlet like he’s a completely different person. he could avoid saying what his mind was thinking, but the hurtful look in hamlet’s eyes would be hard to hide from someone he considered his best friend. 

---

“don’t apologize to me, please.” zaid is quick to say, quick to laugh as he wraps his fingers slowly around the bottle that’s offered to him by the bartender. he won’t drink it--he’s never been able to shake the voice of his trainer in his mind, telling him all of the ways in which alcohol prevents mental and physical efficiency--but he’s played the game enough times, stood silent sentinel while vestas with more charisma than he could ever hope to possess charmed information out of loose lipped, all-too-willing victims, that he knows the rituals. he keeps one hand on the brown glass, drags the pad of his thumb across the label, picks at it intermittently. “my feelings aren’t hurt because you did what you had to--it’s survival, and it’s never going to be nice to look at or live through.” he feels the muscles in his face start to relax, feels a smile rise from the corner of his mouth, rather than being pulled as if on a string. “i’m just--i’m really glad to see you. even if you are well on your way to shitfaced.” 

for a moment, it’s easy to pretend that nothing went south that day--that instead of walking into this bar after a year’s worth of silence, zaid just came back from scrubbing flakes of blood off of his hands, that they’re celebrating making the world a better place, instead of drinking to forget. the skin on his shoulder feels the phantom sensation of an arm around his shoulder, his bones seem to tilt underneath his skin in anticipation of being pulled into hamlet’s orbit, right up until the moment he opens his mouth and asks the question zaid has been carefully avoiding having to answer, for nearly 365 days now.

how have you been? 

he tears a piece of beer label off, rolls it between his fingers. if he were a better friend he would turn the question back, as if there were an easy answer that his friend could give, as if zaid could offer anything of value other than turning it into something sharp, something that capable of hurting the ones who gave it to you in the first place. so he doesn’t--instead, he exhales a long breath and does what he thinks is the far kinder thing. he does not acknowledge it--he takes the focus and turns it somewhere else. 

“i took a lot of contracts--i had--” he exhales a breath and drags his hands over his face. “a thing--with someone, before. it--ended, sort of--” he laughs at himself, at the way the words slowly fall from his tongue as if they’re being lead towards slaughter. “i thought work would be the best way to keep my mind off of it.” it hadn’t--it couldn’t, when there was a chance of answering the phone and hearing soft breathing on the other end, not after he made the deliberate choice of setting the axis of his world where there was a chance of turning around and seeing francesco standing there, hands in his absurd designer coat pockets, grinning like the devil. “i think maybe i would have had more success if i had chosen the hamlet approach, to be honest. or if i’d just packed you along with me in the first place.” 

"HE WAS BEOWULF, ODYSSEUS, ACHILLES, JASON, AND DAVID SLAYING GOLIATH. HE EMBODIED THEIR RAGE, TOOK ON THE FORM OF THEIR HOPES AND HATRED. THEIR UNACHIEVABLE DREAMS, THEIR UNBREAKABLE SPIRIT, RESIDED WITHIN HIM. HE PUNISHED THOSE THEY COULD NOT. HE WAS WHAT THEY COULD NOT BE." - AMATULLAH BOURDON

————

There was a way that many Pantheon agents moved when on a mission— it was not obvious, but she supposed that she’d seen it in the mirror plenty of times to know what it looks like. Pompey was not here for pleasure, that much was clear, but she had full faith in his abilities. If he had wanted to ignore her, he would have.

She is not offended by the lack of warmth in his reply. She could not be. Things had changed, for all of them. Even she found it hard to smile most days— although it’s always easiest with her crew, or with the artifacts she’d sworn to protect. The loss of Hathaway had changed them all, and it was hard to forget the cascading rocks and the escalating frenetic energy of Kraken. It was almost ironic, how the seconds prior to the explosion had contrasted so perfectly with the stillness that had followed— the stillness of— she would not go there.

Besides, warmth was a quality that was not always shown so readily by Pantheon agents. There had been exceptions— Sofia took a slow sip of her tea. The sweetness and the milk flowed easily through her, and she tilted her head ever so slightly as Zaid spoke. Her forefinger rubbed against the rim of the mug, letting the heat seep into her skin.

“Adjusting is the kindest way to put it,” Sofia commented. There were no more bruises to hide painstakingly with makeup. All she had left of that day are scars, scattered over her body— one on her hairline too, although it was hard to find unless you knew where to look. “But I have been doing better than others.” It was no competition, but it was a simple fact. “And you? Keeping yourself busy?”

---

he has never known how to answer that particular question or all of its many variants--how are you? are you well? how are you holding up? the crushing weight of the responsibility you’ve been tasked with isn’t affecting you mentally, is it? growing up, his tutors and his training agents had never asked such things--it didn’t matter how he was doing, his feelings were simply a factor in an equation that equaled efficacy, and when they got in the way, when the equation became out of balance, he was simply removed until he could get them under control. it was a reality he accepted without question--compromising the mission was unacceptable. 

he’s managed to become pretty good at telling people what they want to hear when they ask--a simple shrug of the shoulder is enough to communicate that he’s as well as could possibly be expected, a quick fine is usually enough to shut down any follow up inquiries--and he’s about to say as much to agent augar, when he remembers it from somewhere in the back of his mind. from a mission report he balled up in his hands and tossed into the nearest garbage can before storming out of godsend headquarters and away from seoul entirely. she was trapped in that tomb as well. with kraken in their madness, with hathaway’s dead body. 

he exhales a quiet breath, bites down hard on his bottom lip. he has no talent for kindness, for the warmth that other people seem to manage so casually--he should probably walk away and continue his work--but something in him pulls in an opposite direction. something softens the expression on his face just fractionally, and opens his mouth. “i’m--adjusting as well. doing what i do--you either adapt to loss or it eats you alive.” he shrugs one shoulder, taps his fingers idly against the tabletop. “it is fortunate for me that evil doesn’t stop, even when pantheon does.” 

venus was in paris when she got the text from pompey, she just finished putting a bullet between a target’s eyes and there was no one around to see her tiny smile forming. they were teammates, oracles, nobody understood the two of them better than they did. of course, all oracles had some kind of understanding but pompey and venus? it was a different kind of connection, they could communicate without saying a word.

and he was one of the few people that venus would drop everything for. she knew he was capable, a very good oracle all on his own and him asking for help was a telltale that he needed her personally, not for a mission but for her to just be there. calling him in person rather than texting the conformation was better, it would ease his nerves, it would remind pompey that she was always there, she will always be there for him.

and after what happened to agent hathaway? they needed to be there for each other. she poured herself some red wine, stepping into the balcony where pompey was sitting and the hand on his shoulder was reassurance. venus didn’t need to say the words but she hoped he understand that she’s here for him now, i’m here now. she let go of his shoulder in order to sit next to him, shaking her head slowly. “there is no other place i’d rather be.”

sipping her wine slowly, venus didn’t mind staying there for as long as pompey needed her to, they both suffered, both wished they weren’t outside while one of their teammate was dying inside that tomb and both of them wanted blood for what happened. 

---

he does not wonder if the sentiment is true, when she speaks it--agent hathaway’s death might have salted the earth of many of the certainties he had so carefully nurtured since childhood, but the trust that he has built with venus is made of a more ferrous material, has its roots in the darkest parts of the underworld. she tells him that there is no place i would rather be, she rests a steady hand on his shoulder, and he exhales a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding since the philippines. here is something fundamental that could not be shattered by the walls of that cave, here is a celestial body that could not be pushed out of orbit by an imploding star. here is something that does not need to be saved. 

there is no adequate response he could give--they are killers, clumsy in the arts of kindness and being tender with the feelings of others--so he simply squeezes her hand in acknowledgement, in silent agreement that such sentiments turn trite when given voice to. actions will always speak louder, with more absolute clarity, than language--the skin stretched across his palm is warm, whispers thank you. silence falls between them for a long moment, comfortable and familiar. hong kong moves noisily beneath them, and their target stretches at his desk in the hotel across the street, exposing his rib cage and about a dozen easy targets where zaid could bury a bullet--small parts of a world that has refused to cease in its turning, to acknowledge the fault lines that now cut through it like gashes. it’s almost comforting, in how innocuous it all seems.

Send “✉” for a text that WASN’T SENT.

from [ pompey ] to [ v ] : you’re right. 

from [ pompey ] to [ v ] : someone needs to pay for what happened that day, someone needs to bleed. 

from [ pompey ] to [ v ] : i’ll be by your side in dubai, if you want me. 

Send “#” for a RANDOM text.

from [ pompey ] to [ v ] : it’s a shame, you know. 

from [ pompey ] to [ v ] : botticelli’s venus is so lackluster, in comparison to my own. 

Send “&” for a LOVING text.

from [ pompey ] to [ v ] : i know you think you should have--

from [ pompey ] to [ v ] : but i’m grateful that you didn’t go after kraken, seong-min. 

from [ pompey ] to [ v ] : perhaps it’s selfish, but i need you with me. i want to be the person watching your six. 

from [ pompey ] to [ v ] : it’s always been you and me against the world, i don’t know what i’d do without that. without you. 

Send “♀” for a HEARTBREAKING text.

from [ pompey ] to [ v ] : if i call you, can you just...calm me down?

from [ pompey ] to [ v ] : there’s a bullet in my shoulder that i need to get out, and i’m by myself at the moment. 

           there’s a tiredness so deeply imbedded within francesco de luca that no amount of sleep may free him of it. a year of being haunted has not helped with this matter, nor has his treatment of himself. there’s a line of dominoes within godsend, all it takes is one being knocked over and cesco will be left in ruins once more. hence being awake at such an hour, dark hues staring out of the large window and into the city of seoul.

when was the last time he had slept in utter peace ?  the titan knows that off by heart, even thinks of it now. a tangle of limbs, soft quiet laughter across pillow cases, an anchor setting itself deep within his heart. agent pompey. one of those dominoes that could easily fall. his fingers flip an old euro between his fingers, jaw set tight as he thinks of the interactions that are to come. from kisses stolen in side hallways to now- strangers. he did this to himself- he did this to them. 

but this is the way it has to be. cesco remembers the rubble, the choking on dust, the pain… and hathaway devoid of life. seven hours- seven hours with death at your side and life trying to dig you out of the tomb. it puts things in perspective, aligns a doubt so deeply within the titan that he is showing cracks just as the tomb had. a reflection to that trauma, a distortion of the man he once was. he was nothing but the one thing he had avoided for the entire year-  a ghost. zaid deserves better… francesco deserves worse.

a spiral of dark thoughts receive a momentary light, a distraction by that of a voice he has craved to hear in person for so long. the hand that had been playing with the euro stills, stiffens along with cesco’s shoulders. to think a year ago that voice made him calm, that voice- brought him home. now he sits, tensed, coiled sharply in hopes to prevent himself from simply giving into what that blasted thing in his chest so desires.

cesco forces his hand to move to the book before him, a ruse in reality. the book was brought to appear as if he were doing something other than brooding amongst the seoul city lights. dark hues slowly find their way to the man that makes the ache within francesco triple as he turns his head.   “ have you checked hell’s temperature recently ?  “  internally cesco berates himself for falling into such a teasing question and has to pull back mentally as soon as it occurs.  “ we all know what a late arrival means. “  a brow is raised, it does not take a genius to figure out that one entering at night means they plan to slip away from other’s company.  “ head to your quarters if you wish, as you said- i have reading to do. “ 

---

“no,” zaid says quietly, as he slowly crosses the space that separates them. francesco tries to move past the slipping of his mask, to snap his jaws and snarl, as though zaid were a creature that could be easily scared away by teeth--as though time and distance were enough to render him a stranger instead of a devoted cartographer, a native speaker of this language of facial features and muscle moving underneath skin, but zaid doesn’t let him. you should know, beloved, that i do not fear battlefields, that i was born and raised, that i live my life in this expanse of no-man’s-land. “i haven’t. you’d have to tell me what hell is like, francesco.” he exhales a breathy chuckle, shrugs his shoulders. “i’ve heard it looks different, for different people.” 

it’s an invitation, an olive branch, a white flag--but its been a whole year now, and if zaid knows the man across from him, he knows that the only trust that still exists is between francesco and the doubt he has carefully, tenderly nurtured. it cannot love you like i can, he wants to say, but instead he allows silence to fall between them. 

the pages of the book don’t turn--there is only the sound of their breathing, of seoul moving on restlessly underneath them, indifferent as always to the hurt that radiates through the foundations of this building, through zaid’s very bones and into the current of the air. he exhales a long breath, after an indeterminate number of headlights have passed by, after he loses track of how many times francesco’s fingers move gently up and down the edges of the pages, after he tries to imagine another 365 days of this stretching out before him, and turns to meet the titan’s gaze. 

there it is, that smile. to all others it might seem devilish, kissed by dionysus himself, affording all those who thought to glance at it a moment of brilliant indulgence, a moment of ever-evasive euphoria. from the moment he had greeted her with that smile, she had seen what lay beneath it  — the grin of a devil, damned to hell, who still remembered the feelings of seraphic wings upon his back and looked for them still. he did not know why he searched for them, in much the same way that sinners did not understand why they sin again and again, and why god punished them for it.

their gaze lifts to his, brow cocking upwards in a show of open speculation at the sincerity of his grin. they remembered how his name and photo had flickered on their screen, how their breath caught before they hurried to answer him. never would she admit this, never would she dare utter this aloud  — but seeing him was like pressing upon a purpled bruise, the ache of it was delicious, the ache of it was necessary. she would press on it again and again, so long as there was the promise of his presence in her life.

( she had forgotten what it was to be without. )

“i refuse to compromise myself in order to make others more comfortable,” they huff as they pull him into a hug, basking in the warmth that was to be found. then, they slip the cup of coffee away from his grasp and take a sip, fingers wrapping around the mug possessively. only after having taken another indulgent sip do they bother to glance at him, a smile tugging at the edge of their lips as their finger caresses the rim of the cup. “should we order something for you as well?”

a smile illuminates their face, their eyes wrinkling at the edges as they take his hand in theirs. “now tell me, darling  — what, exactly, are you doing here?” say what i do not dare to. say that you missed me. her thumb brushed along his wrist. say that you no longer see the point of chasing after l i g h t.

---

they hug him, and he cannot help but exhale a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding--zaid is a bombed out holy city, he is the stretch of salted earth where rome once stood before the flames, before the walls became broken individual stones, and somehow the simple and sudden crushing of another person against him is enough to force him to open his eyes again, to begin the long and arduous process of crawling out from under. perhaps, he thinks as they grin like the devil they are, as they take the cup of coffee from his hands and slide easily into the chair across from him, not everything was buried in that tomb. even if evren makes it beat wrongly, his heart still beats. 

and that’s something, isn’t it? he has to survive--whatever form that takes. 

he bites down hard on his bottom lip, enough that he can begin to taste copper on his tongue, and he shrugs his shoulders. “i don’t really know what i’m doing, to be honest--i just, thought of you and it was the first thing that had made any sense in months.” they place their hand over his, carefully draw their fingers over the bones in his wrist, calloused and scarred where a gun always sits, where they clutch the handle of a knife, and never once is there a hesitation. there is only the steady thrumming of his blood, and a sudden awareness of how long it’s been since anyone touched him like this. 

“i want someone to pay for what happened that day--i want someone to suffer, for every second of every hour that i stood there, useless.” he says with a gentle squeeze of their hand, as he meets their gaze and draws his mouth into a thin line. “and i thought you would understand that. i knew you would understand that.” 

he exhales slowly. “i don’t know what to do with this anger--the battle is over, isn’t it? there’s nothing to be done--kraken is--where they should be, with pantheon.”

Send “✆” for a MORNING text.

from [ zaid ] to [ evren the archangel ] : good morning darling. 

from [ zaid ] to [ evren the archangel ] : mind telling me exactly who the blood on my jacket belongs to? 

Send “✉” for a text that WASN’T SENT.

from [ zaid ] to [ evren the archangel ] : i think...you might be right

from [ zaid ] to [ evren the archangel ] : that day....everything i had ever been taught was useless. i couldn’t save anyone, i could only watch. 

from [ zaid ] to [ evren the archangel ] : i don’t ever want to be that helpless again. someone needs to bleed for it, evren. 

from [ zaid ] to [ evren the archangel ] : i want you to help me make someone pay for it--not because it’s right, but because it’s what i want. 

Send “✉” for a text that WASN’T SENT.

from [ zaid ] to [ محبوب ] : i love you. 

from [ zaid ] to [ محبوب ] : you never gave me the chance to tell you--or maybe i just wasn’t brave enough. 

from [ zaid ] to [ محبوب ] : but i do. love you. 

from [ zaid ] to [ محبوب ] : just ask me to come. 

Send “⁇” for a DRUNK text.

from [ zaid ] to [ محبوب ] : thia wine is SO GOOD. 

from [ zaid ] to [ محبوب ] : i thinak,,,,,,,you shoulD come n TASTE IT

from [ zaid ] to [ محبوب ] : in my mOUTH. with UR mouth. ;) 

Send “✘” for a HATEFUL text.

from [ zaid ] to [ محبوب ] : you’re a fucking coward, francesco. 

from [ zaid ] to [ محبوب ] : and you don’t get to make decisions for me. 

Send “♀” for a HEARTBREAKING text.

from [ zaid ] to [ محبوب ] : i don’t really know what you want anymore, and that’s fine. i can live with that. 

from [ zaid ] to [ محبوب ] : i can live with all of it, beloved. 

Send “✉” for a text that WASN’T SENT.

from [ POMPEY ] to [ MALTHE ] : if you know where he is, please tell me. 

from [ POMPEY ] to [ MALTHE ] : unless he doesn’t want you to--

from [ POMPEY ] to [ MALTHE ] : of course he doesn’t want you to, nevermind. ignore that. 

from [ POMPEY ] to [ MALTHE ] : just--tell me he’s okay. please. i won’t ask again. 

Send “⁇” for a DRUNK text.

from [ POMPEY ] to [ MALTHE ] : mmight nd ur helP returning smth 

from [ POMPEY ] to [ MALTHE ] : nt sure WHERE this bust od ceasar came from,,,,,,,or howw it got thes SICKASS LED LIGHTS,,,,,,

from [ POMPEY ] to [ MALTHE ] : or HOW i endded up smwhere i could tttake it!!! 

Send “#” for a RANDOM text.

from [ POMPEY ] to [ MALTHE ] : you were right about the uffizi gallery, the collection of sculpture was unparalleled. 

from [ POMPEY ] to [ MALTHE ] : i’m going to look at david now--counting on you to help me clean up any carnage that occurs so i can get a good view. 

Send “♀” for a HEARTBREAKING text.

from [ POMPEY ] to [ MALTHE ] : just tell me it’s my fault that she died--i can get over it faster that way. 

from [ POMPEY ] to [ MALTHE ] : it’s my job to protect you, to protect all of us, and i didn’t. i couldn’t--not when it mattered. i was useless, everything i’d ever been taught was useless. 

from [ POMPEY ] to [ MALTHE ] : forget my feelings, they don’t matter. 

Send “ø” for a LATE NIGHT text.

from [ POMPEY ] to [ MALTHE ] : go to sleep, saxon.