* IT’S JUST / A SHOT AWAY.

        @merrcury​ — when he’d lost in scrabble ( fair and square, of course ) he had been surprised, honestly, by ciro’s request as his prize. though he may have spoken at length about the shortness of any relationships he might’ve had in the past, the casual nature of them, there was something to be said about his ability to plan a date. he wouldn’t say this was a date if asked, of course, it was simply time spent with ciro. a few minutes of frantic googling had led him to a semblance of a plan, a hurried and hopeful attempt to throw together an opportunity. an opportunity, that was, to help ciro make at least one good memory of london — to honor his dead mother, no less. no pressure at all.

CIRO: I like the rain actually

CIRO: just not after coming back from really warm weather

CIRO: also you're good I don't think you can offend the dead.

RAFE: i always forget an umbrella and look like a drowned rat

RAFE: thunderstorms are nice in the summer though

CIRO: yeah okay my bad for asking

CIRO: and i hate the weather here

CIRO: mom always talked about this place like it was great but it just seems like one big sneeze so far

RAFE: i hate rain so fucking much

CIRO: not my fault they're so easily scandlised. who pissed in their crumpets?

CIRO: i know but like also when do we have a time frame

RAFE:

CIRO: just accidentally dropped lube on the ground in front of some old man

CIRO: oof the glare on his face gave me chills it's going to be difficult to show my face for a few weeks. when are we leaving this cursed continent?

RAFE: stop scandalizing the entirety of london

     with finals finally over and done with there was only one thing left to do. celebrate. the school year had been a nightmare, and even the celebrations themselves were their own levels of bittersweet; a forced sense of normalcy. death and destruction and mourning plagued the halls, but that didn’t stop the hook-ups or the pranks or, in lotte’s case, the loud singing and dancing along to toni basil’s hey mickey! she was shameless in the noise, bare toes skipping across her mattress as she hopped up and down, occasionally leaning down to sing directly at a very confused but still very excited atlas, his periodic barks accompanying her near scream-singing of the lyrics. when he came, lotte couldn’t hear the sound of rafael knocking, so when the creak of the door opening caught her attention, she half expected to turn and see noemi. realizing it was rafe instead, she spun the volume knob on their stereo low and hopped down to sit on the edge of the bed, her heart racing and chest heaving from the previous exercise. “ as much as i would love to see you beg, drinks sound fucking great actually ! ” she waved a dismissive hand at the dollar bill ” keep your money, bolivar … unless you’re wanting to make a bet of it. ” a coy smirk crossed her lips, “ but i think we both know i could out-drink your lightweight ass any day. ”

rafael bolivar wasn’t an individual he had anticipated to come across, not by any means – their relationship was forged of a mutual dislike, stemming from a loyalty that they both possessed. both two men who were shining stars, coveted for their skilled and regarded with weariness, those that came in contact with them not regarding them as peers, but as others – rafe’s temper was notorious, something that scared off the likes of those who weren’t sure what to do once he wielded it, rhysand’s stoic nature something that only further intimidated those who thought to speak to him. they were two sides of the same coin, however – juxtaposed in a number of ways, finesse and brutality, collectiveness and raucousness, light and dark. there wasn’t one without the other, and had he possessed the ability to clear his mind and allow his thoughts to calm him, he was sure that he would be itching to make further comparisons, to see just how well they balanced each other. 

instead, he was grieving the loss of control, mourning the death of the person he had shown to the world for so long. because it hurt, each bit of this hollow regret, the iciness of his exterior being melted away as the burning entity of his wrath causes him to overheat. and he was breaking down in front of someone who seemed to wear his anger on his sleeve, a suit of armor to shield him from everything he knows will inevitably reach him. but there was a strength somewhere in the weakness they both seemed to feel, rhysand was sure of it, though there was no way to stifle it, molten rage destroying everything in it’s path. 

the sound of rafael’s voice is something all too familiar – a voice usually barking back at him in his comms when rhysand questions an incorrect turn of phrase rafael used in the heat of the moment, or when they were bickering over something ultimately trivial – and had this been any other situation, he would have allowed it to ground him. but it wasn’t, and rhys could count on one hand the times he’s allowed someone to see him like this. to see him vulnerable. when he speaks, it’s still cold, still frozen over with that quiet control he possesses when he usually speaks, but it’s cracking at the edges, a fissure in a block of ice, moments away from breaking apart completely. ‘ that’s the whole point, isn’t it. for me to never miss, to always hit my fucking mark. to be some legacy, to do everything perfect. ’ rhys flicks his gaze to the other male, his fury something angelic, something beautiful. ‘ it’ll never be enough. nothing i do will ever be enough, and she always has to remind me of that. of being second best. only getting where i am because odessa’s fucking dead. she was better. ’ rhys looks over the destruction, craves more, when he hears rafael’s words. he doesn’t look at him this time when he speaks once more, and his voice carries, loud enough that it feels like it doesn’t belong to him. ‘ this isn’t a fucking training ring, i feel like i could tear the world apart, i – i need …’ but that was the thing. rhys didn’t know. how to channel this, to funnel it into an outlet, into something productive. he was truly lost.

        he’s struck, to be frank, by the pure brilliance of rhysand’s particular brand of enraged. there’s something particularly divine about it; even in his lack of usual control, even in the unbridled emotions that would make anyone else seem disheveled or unhinged, rafe is struck dumb by the absolute vision that is rhysand attwood, unraveled. when rafael is angry, he thinks of himself in the dirt. it’s an earthy thing, primal; it’s more familiar to him than nearly anything else, but it’s a far cry from beautiful. it’s blood dripping from scarred knuckles, it’s broken beer bottles, it’s ash and sweat and the moment your voice cracks and splinters during the rawest expression of rage. everything about him is low, corporeal, able to be easily understood and dismissed as a result of a mean, twisted boy growing up on the wrong side of the tracks. he’s simple. there’s a reason people think they have him all figured out. but rhys ?

        sometimes rafe himself wonders if rhys was truly built to walk this earth. he’s a puzzle to be solved yet he’s constantly changing, mixing up the rules and shuffling the pieces in their place before rafael has a chance to think he’s got the full picture. he’s like something out of myth, divine and untouchable and rafe has only seen him bleed once, but he was truly stunned by the fact that there wasn’t golden ichor running through his veins. rhysand may seem like only a man from far away but up close he has that aura, like apollo himself reincarnated into a mortal body, a pale and beautiful tribute to truth and light and grace. he may no longer pull the sun across the sky in his golden chariot, but the academy still unconsciously revolves around him.

✩ — RAFAEL ! 

      a text isn’t needed to seek him out – maritza knows him too well, or perhaps simply his patterns. french manicured fingers are curled around a paper bag, darkened near the bottom from its greasy contents. her frequent appearances at the training room involve V I S I T S, maritza’s particular skill set can’t be crafted further in the confines of four walls. she briefly wonders if he missed her presence, rafael one of the few that knew about her visit home ( madrid - la ciudad de su corazón ). it had fallen flat, the brunette still simply a pawn in the H E A R T B R E A K I N G life of lorenzo romero. her kitten heels click against the floor, each sound in time with her steady breathing – maritza could care less to time her steps with the cadence of her heart. the less she thought with the vital organ beneath her chest the B E T T E R. 

        she hears his heavy breathing & grunts before she sees him, slim frame barely covering the door frame as she eyes his sweat soaked figure. with rafael’s focus occupied elsewhere, maritza quietly slinks into the room. she knows better than to scare him – the action would be met with R E S I S T A N C E & a nice right hook to the face. he wouldn’t mean it of course; it would be instinct – something primal that lives within him. setting the bag down on the floor, maritza places her fingers between her carmine lips as she whistles – the call is stereotyped, men on the street alerting women of their A T T R A C T I O N. her use is more playful, a means to grab his attention as her lips tug up into a signature smirk. “ ¡ oye güey ! ¿ qué pasas ? ¿ me extrañas ? i brought a lil’ somethin’ to spoil your diet – wouldn’t want ya’ gettin’ too ripped now. how else will ya’ model clothes for me ? ” she quips, smirk transforming into a genuine smile that reaches her dark hues as she laughs. ( @bclivar· )

        the schedule of rafael bolívar is dependable, predictable: if someone put out a hit on him, he’d be dead within days. the training room is like a second home to him; his fists are imprinted on every training dummy, the punching bags molded to the shape of his hands. it’s no surprise that someone is able to find him there, engrossed in one of his daily rounds of keeping himself in tip-top shape. the wolf whistle catches him off guard, turning around in wide-eyed surprise until his gaze settles on a slim, dark-haired figure in the doorway. “ maritza ! ” he sings across the space between them, a winning smile daring to cross his visage. though he usually functions through solely complaints and dark scowls, it’s far too easy to fall into a lighter version of himself around her. “ bienvenido de vuelta, morenita. ¿ de verdad me estás preguntado eso ? te eché de menos, claro que sí. ”

brown eyes narrowed, and noemi had to physically fight back the smile that threatened the corners of her lips. “ if i didn’t know you, i’d think you were almost sympathizing with me, viejo, ” her gripped rapped tightly around the elastic rope of the boxing ring. he was right, but she wouldn’t speak that out loud. giving him small victories like that would only feed his ego, but he was right. her first year at iee was transformative, yes, but since coming to ioa, things had changed drastically. noemi had always had a work ethic that would exhaust most people, but that only became more intense at ioa. she’d gotten smarter, wiser even, and stronger. so much stronger. a good part of reasoning for that was because, well, because of rafael. he was a pain in the ass to see in the mornings, harsh with his words and harsher with his work out. he pushed her to the edge, but never off of it. but it was enough. enough for ugly words to pour out of pretty lips, cursing because ‘ how the fuck am i supposed to learn anything if you don’t let me get one fucking hit in. all this work and i could have the strength of a toddler, and we’d never know’. enough for her to channel her frustration into movements, movements so powerful the she sometimes surprised herself. occasionally, he let her have little moments. one instance, for example, when she was ready to throw her gloves at him and walk out permanently, he watched as her left hook nearly knocked over a dummy that weighed more than her and said ‘ and that’s how we know you’re stronger than a toddler. that left hook is brutal’ followed quickly by ‘ but that’s your dominant hand, so it’s what’s expected’. it was almost a compliment. but it kept her going.

a lot of things kept her going, when she really thought about it. most days she felt stagnant with him, but other days, she could feel the results of their sessions in her bones. she could handle herself, and training with rafael sometimes reminded her of exactly that. furthermore, she actually liked rafael. even though the feeling wasn’t reciprocated, she made it known that she was fond of him. he reminded her of home, of her brothers, of the reason she started all this secret agent shit in the first place: to get better, to be better, to do good. “ say it all you want. it doesn’t sting much anymore. at this point, my own brothers prefer his company to mine, ” she stepped back from the ropes and pulled an arm over her chest, stretching out her aching muscles, “ it’s the fucking orejas. lo hace irresistible. ” she rested her hands on top of her head, steadying her own breathing as she followed orders, walking over to where he now stood. “ ayyyyyy, dios. but standing around feels so nice, ” she was joking, her usual theatrics keeping her lighthearted in situations like this, and despite her complaint she settled into a defensive stance and fired off a series of movements without hesitation. 1-6-3-2-4-2-5. jab. right uppercut. left hook. cross. right hook. cross. left uppercut, a strong finish. she repeated it twice, using every ounce of strength and putting it behind each punch, keeping them level and steady. “ let’s make deal, ” 6-3. right upper. left hook, “ the day i surprise you by getting past a block is the day you and i go on a little breakfast outing. ” 2-3. cross. left hook. her breathing was ragged, but the grin on her face was still present as she help her fists up in a defensive position, “ how was that? ”

        “ oh, please. you wouldn’t want or need my sympathy, even if i offered it, ” he stated in a matter-of-fact tone, eyes rolling skyward in a brush-off of her statement. it could seem callous or rude to the unaware observer, and while rafe often was, he could be nothing but sincere in saying that. she didn’t need him to baby her or coddle her; she’d come to him for a reason, and it wasn’t because they were friends, even though she ( hilariously ) did seem to want that, too. he thought of atlas, his goofy ears sticking out from the top of his head, and had to actively fight the smile that wanted to creep up onto his features. noemi would consider that some sort of victory over him, a triumph he’d never hear the end of if he ever let her catch a glimpse of it. “ your brothers sound like they got some sense in ‘em. must’a missed you in the genetic pool. ” he reverted to the same, stony-faced expression he usually wore around her; it only had a few variations, and they were only perceptible if you looked very closely. right now the current feature being displayed was very slightly pleased stone, featuring the blink-and-you’d-miss-it curve upward of the left side of his mouth. he’d blame it on the mention of atlas, and it was entirely possible that noemi would miss it entirely. he could only hope she’d miss it. it would make everything that much easier for him if she never caught any hint of positive emotion in her presence. 

rhysand attwood was pacing within the sheltered area of the shooting range, making sure to stay out of sight – he wasn’t in the mood to do anything, especially now, after the phone call that he had received. his mother’s voice was neutral at first, her tone giving nothing away of the true nature of her correspondence. he believed maybe she was wishing him luck on finals – a sentiment that his father, at least, always extended to him – but he had been wrong. intuition was something that he couldn’t fail to rely on, not when he was speaking to the woman who brewed enough resentment within him that the mention of her abandonment or the general demeanor she possessed was enough to ignite a pyre of singeing anger, flames of hatred and mistrust licking at his heels as he tried to escape the chaotic, destructive energy she possessed. 

his recently purchased phone lay in pieces beside him, where he had smashed the sleek rectangle with a brute, unrelenting force, the rage that was rising to the surface something that he always managed to keep at bay, the control he exercised over his temper the reason behind so many successful missions, behind every pull of the trigger. he never led with his emotions, but he was succumbing to them, and he was moments away from falling from it’s precipice when he hears footsteps approach. 

his head whips around, and he sees a face that’s all too familiar – god, didn’t anyone else go to this godforsaken academy ? – and he’s sure that the rawness of his vexation is colored across his features; flushed cheeks, clenched jaw, hands curled into fists. company was the last thing he needed. ‘ what the fuck does someone have to do to get some privacy around here ? burn this place down, too ? ’ the tone of his voice was dripping with venom, and he tears away the burning gaze he had just leveled with the intruder, green eyes focusing on nothing in particular. 

        cool. calm. calculating. these are words that encapsulate rhysand attwood, the ever-unshakable man he’s come to know over the time they’d been living together. and yet here he is — unbalanced, infuriated, volatile ? these are words that are supposed to signify the entrance of rafael, known for his temper as well as he is for the perpetual anger that settles along the curve of his brow, not rhysand’s. the pure emotion on his face is as shocking as the idea of rhysand having an outburst in any way, shape or form. the spots of red high on the pale expanse of his cheeks, the way every line of his body is tense and screaming i’m ready to fight; rafe knows this stance well. his bones feel like he’s home in that stance, and that’s part of the reason it’s so alarming to see it on rhys. he’s never thought them alike until this very moment. 

        “ public place, rhysand, ” he replies evenly ( another term he’s used to pinning on rhys, ever level-headed; rafael as the voice of reason feels utterly wrong ). somehow, their flipped roles don’t feel quite as wrong as ‘rhysand’ leaving his mouth instead of the traditional ‘attwood’. the syllables are softer, curl more easily around his tongue, but he supposes it’s only right that everything about this situation is just off-kilter enough to keep him on his toes. 

–– RAFAEL. ( @bclivar )

it was hot. hot and stuffy and humid and noemi swore to god that ioa had shut off their air conditioning for impromptu torture training. ‘ do you really thing you’ll have a light breeze should you be taken hostage ? ’ well, no. but unless they were being taken hostage by the witch from hansel and grettle, she was certain even the enemy wouldn’t make them undergo extensive training in such awful heat. heat that even miami couldn’t produce. her skin glistened under the lights of one of ioa’s training rooms built specifically for hand-to-hand combat. it was like a boxing ring. surrounded by human-like punching bags. and mirrors. why were there so many mirrors. she glanced at her reflection momentarily, sighing at the image of a very tired, very sweaty noemi, hands wrapped and thin mma style gloves tucked into her leggings at her hip. curls fell from a messy bun on top of her head, and she’d long since tossed aside her t-shirt. she poured water into her palm and splashed it on her cheeks, unwilling to look this exhausted only halfway through their training session. it was a paradox, her time spent with rafael: nothing else made her feel this physically strong, nothing else made her feel weak, either. unfortunately, looking at her reflection, all she saw was that weakness.

so she turned away, shoving the gloves back onto her hands and wiping the sweat from her forehead with her forearm. “ rafe, you ever feel like you’ve been working at something forever and you’re making little to no progress ? ” noemi threw her fist into the torso of one of the dummies, plastic abs unwavering under the contact. she rolled her eyes and hopped up into the boxing ring with ease, ducking under the ropes and standing to full height once she was clear of them. “ because truthfully that’s how i’m feeling about these little workouts. i mean don’t get me wrong, i’m grateful that you’re willing to do it. especially at, ” her eyes flickered over to the wall as she crossed the ring, physically cringing as she saw the time, “ 6:30 in the morning. fuck it’s so early. ” she leaned against elastic ropes, feeling them band outwards against her weight as she looked at rafael. she was grateful. more than she could put into words that he could comprehend, that he would want to hear. even with his grumpy demeanor and his inability to give any sort of positive feedback, she was grateful for their training sessions. she looked forward to them; chipping away at his icy exterior one tiny, tiny piece at a time. “ you know someday, viejo, i’m going to convince you to go to breakfast with me and atlas after one of these sessions, ” she grinned, “ and that will be the day we know miracles truly can happen. ”

        “ claro que sí, ” he replied, completely honest. “ i’ve been doing this since i was ten, you know. that’s more than half my life. it doesn’t come easy. you’re gonna have a million days like this compared to days where you feel like it’s actually working. that’s the time you gotta put in to get any kind of improvement. ” his tone was usually matter-of-fact when it came to noemi, if not outright displeased. it was more of a tactic than anything, at this point; he knew she wanted him to like her, she outright said it herself — and though he’d felt the stirrings of some sort of fondness, he’d rather die than admit it at this point. the thing was, though — he didn’t sugarcoat it, either. he might’ve been brutal, sometimes, pushing noemi until she was just this side of collapsing, barely able to stand or ready to scream in frustration for never getting in a single hit. the thing was... there was an important distinction. it wasn’t because he was cruel, or because he particularly enjoyed watching her suffer. he simply knew she could take it. she had that spirit, that drive, and he’d known from her first small victory that she’d be an incredible student. and so she had been — though her frustration was palpable at points ( like now ), she’d already come so far even in her short time at the IOA. 

if callie’s guilt over this — different from the one that resided in her heart and had long ago seeped into her soul by staining it red — was a serpent snaking its way around her chest, tightening so it became harder to breath, cornering her heart until it had to beat double-time, then rafe’s expressions, so honest in contrast to hers, was the snake’s bite, and his question the poison that now flowed through her veins. she didn’t know which one was worse, his faith or his doubt. the former was the equivalent of an honor that she had stolen, coerced him to give her, and the latter an unbearable hesitation borne out of a misgiving of his own worth. it was the shame that clouded his eyes and tone, as rafe was finally able to finish his question, that made the choice for her. if it was a decision between her own pain and guilt — friends, ghosts, she’d grown familiar with over the years though time had never dulled their sharp blades and the way they struck against her — and this shame and self-contempt that he seemed to hold, that she could not bear to see draped across his brows like a shadow, then there truly was no choice at all. so why could she not make the sacrifice she knew she should ?

some would call it self-preservation, but callie had long known it for what it was: indulgence and conceit. her avoidance of rafe was to protect herself, to allay her own guilt, to convince herself that if she withdrew enough, she would not have to bear the burden of a trust she was unworthy of. she had sought it out and won it, not out of kindness, but out of a need to prove to herself that she possessed it — proof that she was undeserving. but she had accepted it, selfishly, she’d made her own promises in return, selflessly, and though they were ones that she wanted to keep, callie still dreaded the moment she would be called on to do so; every moment spent with him was a risk she couldn’t afford, not when her confession lay so heavy on her tongue whenever she saw him, waiting for the right moment to escape, to ruin her once more. 

if she wanted to save her secrets, she would lie — say yes. but she had already told him too many of those, everything left unsaid far more significant than any of the words she’d ever spoken to him. and besides, hadn’t she decided already ? there was no choice: the uncertainty in his gaze and in his tone threatened to rip her mask in two and pry open her jaws so she could scream the truth. and that was what she would give him, even though it wasn’t the one he deserved, even though it hid its own lie. “ rafe, it’s not stupid, and this has nothing to do with what you told me. ” it had everything to do with the secrets he’d shared, but never in the way he implied, as if it was him who disgusted her instead of herself. “ i’ve just been busy. ” but you know you can always come find me. it was something callie couldn’t bring herself to voice aloud, because she would not be able to endure the disgrace of something so false. instead she deflected, her laugh brittle, though her eyes were still warm — as they only could be when looking at him, despite everything else — “ you should be busy, too. i hope you’ve been studying while staying out of trouble. ” 

        “ of course not. ” the words rushed from his mouth like a waterfall, surging out to reconcile the rift between them before it could grow any wider. he didn’t even know it was happening, at first, the simplicity of the comfort between them thinning beneath the surface. “ it’s finals. just kind of forgot how busy it gets. ” it was like ice at the beginning of spring: outwardly, the exterior was fine. unbroken. there was seemingly nothing to worry about, and tentative steps could be taken off shore. but underneath, just beneath where the water slowly started to warm, was where the danger began. this felt like that first crack, the first warning that something wasn’t quite right, even as callie reassured him that there weren’t any fractures beneath his feet, it was safe. he should feel safe. but he didn’t. 

        he gave her a false smile that rang true even though he didn’t feel it. though he could never know fully what callie was feeling, what she was thinking, rafe knew how to trust his own gut. you didn’t grow up in places like chihuahuita in el paso, didn’t run with gangs for years on the streets of boyle heights, you didn’t live like rafe had without building up some kind of intuition. he wasn’t traditionally smart, not by a long shot. callie’s time spent in all those labs ? he was sure that part probably was true, as intelligent as she was, the focus for which they’d selected her for this team, and counting as busy as they all were with finals. but where she had a knack for taking care of the team, for the formulas and chemical names that would never come easily to him, he had the sense to know she wasn’t telling him the full truth. he’d learned how to evaluate someone’s mood from constantly watching tony, how to sense when someone was feeling dangerous or calm or somewhere in between. callie was settled, balanced, sweet; she always was, but there was an undercurrent of something. he could read a room; where callie could do the same and extend the golden hand of kindness across a crowd, he knew how to twist that trust. make them fear him. even that required some kind of ability to sense what he was getting into — and he knew by now when to follow his gut.