half in love with death

Dying feels like floating.

He’s been close to death before, from a variety of things, but this part always kind of feels the same. Henry has never gotten close to death without feeling like he’s deserved it. Maybe he’s always thought he deserved it, or perhaps it only feels that way in retrospect, without the warmth of Hector’s arms around him, holding him steady. Without the dual weight of his father’s pride and disappointment. How different he must look to the world, and how strange the world looks to him in return.

Unlike last time, when he had this all planned out, Henry didn’t make his arrangements. Some of them are still made. This is going to disappoint his mother. It’s going to make Vivianne feel like she risked herself for nothing. These two thoughts swirl in his mind as blood vacates his body, pooling around him on the floor. I’m sorry to have disappointed you again. It won’t happen next time. Ha, ha. No next times. 

The disjointed nature of his thoughts is a sign. Of what? He doesn’t remember. He’s floating in a bath and the bath is cold. It’s an ice bath, he’s been in a fight, his ribs are broken and Hector heaved him in after an extremely long day. Castora will ream him out for getting so hurt on the job. He didn’t have a job this week. Where is he?

He’s on the floor, and he’s in the water, and his hands are numb. He would get up if he could just feel them enough to press down on the ground, to use that leverage and lift himself upward into a sitting position. His toes are tingling. Is that good or bad? Maybe he has frostbite. Has he been snowboarding recently? 

Henry can hear Alvise. He is always hearing Alvise in the back of his mind, promising him they can figure this out together. He says yes. He chokes on it. Someone is opening the door. They can get in without him approving them, so they must be very close to him. Sorry to disappoint you, too. It cycles through his mind like the cogs in a machine. Henry is a machine. He has worn past his sell-by date. He is in need of tuning. He is defective and should be discarded.

Henry is relieved to see that Alva, despite his hesitance and new job somewhat-insecurity, doesn’t look unhealthy with it. He’s obviously eating regularly enough, though his cheeks have always seemed a little hollow to Henry, and he doesn’t look miserable before he’s aware of Henry’s gaze.

He walks over to them coat in hand, elegantly folded over his arm in the practiced way young socialites are forced into. It’s on the seat before he is, and his mouth twitches upward at the edges to see his reasonably new friend. 

❝ You don’t have to bribe me every time we meet up, ❞ Henry offers, settling in, ❝ though I admit it’s working. ❞ The joke falls a little flat, but that’s most of his jokes, these days. Omnipresent tiredness has sunken into his bones, depression weary as it weighs his head down like a crown. Still, none of these things concern anyone but himself. He does his best not to dwell.

‘My life may be forfeit.’

He says this without the concern of a man whose life is on the line even though Lamprius knows that there is a very real threat. The delivery is almost… blasé. Henry says these words like he’s pushing a blade into Lamprius’ hand and wouldn’t really hold it against him if the older man slipped it between his ribs or wielded it against him. Does he hope for such things? 

There’s no denying that two men exist within him in that moment: Lucien, the bleeding heart psychiatrist, and Lamprius, who knows all too well what the name Zhang means. The tides threaten to shift in favor the former at the sight of Henry. Henry dresses as if he longs for vacation, but his eyes don’t match the outfit. Lamprius should only read so much into it, it’s clearly meant to be little more than a disguise, but it’s borderline humorous when observed next to the sadness that clings so desperately to this man.

“The cancellation was to be expected. Believe it or not, not many people want to spend their Tuesday mornings with their psychiatrist.”

And sadness does cling to Henry, like morning dew. Lamprius relates a little too much - Lucien relates a little too much - and he kind of hates how seeing someone so close to his old self lessens the chasm between who he is and who he used to be. Lamprius studies Henry, Henry with his blank expression and his weary eyes, as he welcomes into his office with only a few words.

“Nothing we say here will leave this room.”

Said room towers around them like an impenetrable fortress. The curtains on the windows have already been drawn and the shelves and shelves of books provide their own kind of sound-proofing. Nothing enters or leaves this room without Lamprius’ knowing. One could whisper a secret in here and it would stay locked within these four walls forever, lost to time until allowed otherwise. 

Their session begins at 10am sharp, don’t think Lamprius misses the punctuality. Observation is a lamp he can never turn off. 

“I’m sure you’ve heard, but first sessions tend to be the longest. I want you to feel as if this as much of a space for you to ask questions as it is for me. Though I must say, if you haven’t already, I recommend interviewing a few psychiatrists before deciding to commit to one.” He stands next to chair as he says this and flips to a fresh sheet in his notepad before letting it rest on the side table.  “Please, take a seat. Would you like something to drink?”

He’ll be helping himself to some tea either way. He turns to grab his prepared cup from where he’s left it by his laptop. 

“I always begin these sessions by asking: what inspired you to seek out a psychiatrist?” Most of his clients are assigned to him; most don’t want to admit something is wrong and needed some higher power forcing them into the chair across from Lamprius on a bi-weekly basis. But Henry is already different, here of his own accord, and, as he’s so crisply mentioned, at some degree of risk.

Oh. Was that a joke? Something probably crinkles his eyes at the corners, though it can’t be considered a proper smile. He thinks it would be garish of him if he were to smile in an office like this. Not that he would hold others to such a standard; if Lucien were to smile in this place, that would be more than acceptable, yet he can’t extend himself the courtesy. Maybe his mother was right.

He needs this more than he’d considered. 

❝ I used to dedicate my Tuesday mornings to students, ❞ he says with surprising fondness. He doesn’t know if he was happy in that era of his life, exactly. Content might be a better word. Unhappy but not in such a way as to disrupt his equilibrium. ❝ They’re quite free now. ❞ It feels strange to share such details of his life with a stranger, but that’s the point, isn’t it? To let Lucien get to know him? To let him know things he wouldn’t tell his closest friends?

It won’t be easy. It will feel a lot like pulling teeth. If he comes out no longer a disappointment, he will consider that successful, whether he is happy or not. 

That is a good enough promise. If nothing said here leaves this room, then it can be considered a sacred space; even less reason to smile. He forces himself not to sweep for bugs, not to reach into his pocket and turn on the remote EMP. He brought it with him, but it feels unbearably rude. He is about to unload... well, eventually, he’ll unload a lot onto this man. Scrambling his phone seems in poor taste. Since he agreed to come, he will have to bear the consequences. 

Such a drawn room might feel stuffy, but it doesn’t. He wonders: is this something inherent in the design, or is it natural to Lucien himself? He wouldn’t call the man open, but he must coax openness from others, else how would he obtain such a position? Henry forces himself to stop running in circles. He makes a rueful expression and considers before issuing a warning: ❝ At the core of things, I am a philosopher. I hope you don’t mind your clients talking in circles. ❞ He’s given this warning to everyone from future friends to bar hookups, but people rarely listen. He finds he has no clue how a therapist would respond, and that level of unpredictability takes some weight from his shoulders.

A general, but he cannot prepare a strategy for this kind of situation. He hasn’t taken comfort in helplessness before. He wonders if this is what it feels like.

Were he not already decided not to smile, he might laugh. There is no one else on earth he can go to. He is already stretching the bounds of credibility going to this particular therapist. He does take a seat, however, feeling himself following the orders as he slides into who he might be in front of Damiano Montague. It’s not with conscious thought or awareness; he has an order, and he takes it, and he sits. 

Henry stiffens at the offer of a drink.

“No,” he says, his mouth working before his brain can. The answer was too fast. It’s telegraphing something about him he doesn’t want to say yet. His pulse is too fast, his breaths harsh a moment before he reigns in every single automatic response possible. His palms flex slightly against his knees. After a moment, he’s able to clear his throat. “No, thank you.” He hopes he won’t ask, yet. They’ll have to talk about it if the sessions continue, perhaps. Henry doesn’t want to talk about it today. 

The question catches him off guard. “I never would have,” he admits, because he feels it’s a good gauge of how he’s been raised, offering this up now. “I have not been taught that talking to outsiders is productive.” Lucien is married to Richard III. He has his own code name: Lamprius. Henry isn’t under any illusions that he will be misunderstood, but he doesn’t say the name, doesn’t make Damiano Montague real in this space. He can practically feel him hovering over Henry’s shoulder, can feel his father’s disapproving gaze as a weight. Both are ignored. 

“My mother... encouraged me to seek help. As did a friend. Is it embarrassing to say I didn’t think help was possible?” This is the first time he looks Lucien in the eye again. “It has been explained to me that I undervalue my life. Others value it, and want me to keep it. This is the crux of the problem.” He knows he might have been ashamed of this previously, but he can’t find it in himself to be now. It goes against every instinct he has; he’s always danced around his issues, but considering he took the matter into his own hands not so long ago, he’s already confronted it. He had, he thought, made peace with the idea. So it doesn’t feel like pulling something vital from his chest this time, not like the feeling he got when explaining to Vivianne, watching her sadness bloom in front of him. When people contemplate ending their life, they get therapy, or are offered it. Step one, step two, step three. He can follow steps very well, when he wants to and he’s trying.

They say all good things must come to an end. Odessa knew the saying fairly well. She faced the end of her complete family. Her father’s dead, her mother’s absent, and her brother’s out of the country. She knew about the end of the picture-perfect Vernon household intimately well. She faced the end of her childhood. She watched as Henry got shot, Roman pulled a girl by her hair, and Rafaella abandoned her for the other side of the city. She knew about the end of that innocent youth. Lastly, she faced the loss of herself. She felt her guiding hand drift away, saw herself unrecognizable in a mirror, and felt the way warm blood rests on her porcelain cheeks. She knew about the loss of not only innocent youth, but of her personal innocence alongside it.

What she didn’t know was that this would be the end of her search for her father’s killer. She didn’t know that the man she called her soul mate was the same one that tore apart her family. She didn’t know that the man that kissed her cheek would be the same one to rip her heart out. No, she merely assumed their meeting was about his upcoming birthday.

And perhaps that made her the biggest fool of them all. 

Gentle hands rest on his chest as Henry kisses her cheek. An unmistakable softness can be seen in her eyes as she looks at her companion. She hadn’t seen him in so long. Fragmented memories resurfaced of them at New Years—- two lost children just wishing the year would fade away into better days. It felt like a lifetime ago since that night. Back when the only thing broken about them were their bones. 

At his words, her eyes shifted onto him. A wave of concern hits her as she examines his demeanor, but she forces it away. She was raised to know when to speak her opinion and when to keep them tucked away, and she chose to keep the question from entering the space between them. Instead, she plastered on that winning smile that drew her clients in. “If it’s about your birthday, then I’m ready for it. I know you probably don’t want a party, but there’s a good art gallery in neutral territory that I think would be perfect for a small party.” 

Henry couldn’t do this. He thought he could, but looking Odessa in the eye made him feel sick. Knowing she was worried about him only felt worse. When she mentioned the party, he felt stupid tears stick to the corners of his eyes, blinking them back through sheer force of will. 

❝ No, nothing like that, ❞ he assured, though the memory of her offer would likely be treasured for some time. He allowed himself to imagine it; he was a masochist in this way. Odessa with champagne in one hand, hooking her arm through his as they debated whether they actually found meaning in some art piece or another, and then she would indulge in discussing with him whether it was even important to find meaning in something you enjoy. She would’ve let his mind walk in its usual circles while Grace pretended she hated being there, Paola looked sincerely interested in whatever he was saying, Roman ducked out early to his tireless efforts lately... He could continue through all the friends he knew Odessa would be able to persuade to attend, could imagine their expressions so perfectly it felt like a sweet knife. 

If he was lucky, he would not see his birthday. If he were particularly unlucky, he would see it from the hospital room, machinery whirring to keep him alive against all odds.

He thought about offering for her to sit. He thought about handing her the file and letting her make the conclusions for herself, like a coward. Ultimately, however, Henry knew it had to come from his own lips. He owed Odessa that.

Alva: [They pause to think about what a realistic budget would be, but realize how silly that is without at least going to orientation so they figure out what their hourly pay rate is, and what their hours will be like]

Alva: Ahm... I'll wait on the budget until I have a definite number, I just don't want to get in over my head should I get cocky with the numbers...

Alva: [Alva hasn't chosen the move, this is more out of necessity, but Henry should know they aren't looking to move because of dissatisfaction] Um, no... I'm not moving because I hated my old place...

Alva: [Now, how to say this] I... [they sigh] I want better security. [There, that's not too in-depth, but just enough to give Henry a sense of why they need to move]

Alva: Do you want to meet up and talk? I know a good place for pho.

Henry: [He doesn't say what he wants to, which is that he's going to take the budget and name something that won't smart Alva's pride before subsidizing the rest himself. He thinks that might be overwhelming, though he's never lacked for money, and thus his only understanding of how it makes someone feel is the look Hector sometimes got, when Henry was too much.]

Henry: Security, hm? [It sounds like he's smiling.] That I can do.

His hands shake as he answers the phone for the receptionist, letting her buzz Odessa up without delay. He feels for the familiar weight of his gun, tucked at his back beneath his coat. He’s lucky that Odessa knew him before, since childhood, and would not be surprised to see him fully suited up in the comfort of his own home.

He’s always had these ways of putting walls between him and the world, even those closest to him. Masks and clothes and talking in circles.

By the time he opens the door, his hands don’t shake anymore. Everything is smoothed out and unruffled. Henry will not drown in guilt before Odessa’s eyes any more than he has to. He’s put this off long enough, and he can’t help thinking it would be selfish to ask her to bear witness to his pain; he, who has been the cause of her suffering and offered himself as a balm.

What he is... calling him a parasite feels generous on his own behalf.

❝ Come in, ❞ he offers, stepping side after kissing her cheek. He can’t get away without the usual greeting of affection, as much as he wonders if the spot he touched will burn when she learns of his deceit. If she’ll scrub at it to wash away any sign that he was there, any remnant of his skin on hers. That would be a fair consideration.

He offers to tell his story, and Vivianne doesn’t stop him. She merely stands there, feeling stupid; looking the part too as she clasps her gun uselessly at her side and the wind on the rooftop whips about her shoulders. She doesn’t register the cold. There’s something colder inside of her that yawns wider with every sentence that falls from Henry’s mouth; emptier. 

Crueler. 

What’s cruel is that she can’t reconcile the young man standing before her with the story he gives. Maybe it’d be easier if she were a passive listener; maybe it’d be easier if it was coming from a third-party, and she could dash the concept of ‘Henry’ in her head and replace it with a new image; a boy-turned-man with hands dipped in blood and a vengeful, remorseless look in his eyes. But with Henry seated, shoulders-slumped, right in front of her - she can’t accept the picture he paints, even though deductive reasoning tells her he’s being honest; perhaps more honest than he’s ever been before. Still, a part of her knows it’s true, and she hears a funeral knell clang in some unknown part of her, already beginning to mourn the boy he was.

And then there’s Cosimo.

What hadn’t she sacrificed in loyalty to him?… What hadn’t she given up or been forced to do without, in order to serve his organization and spearhead as his bloody Right Hand?… Her happiness, her life, her love, her conscience? All these years of threadbare survival. What had she expected in return, save for honesty and what respect she herself had earned across two whole decades of dogged devotion? Still, he’d left her out of his madcap plot to end Alvise’s life. Enlisted the aid of children instead; used and manipulated them at will and strung her along as his ignorant accomplice in silence all the while… More the fool, she.

Vivianne has no time to determine what that means or where it leaves her, beyond the bile rising in her throat and the persistent feeling that she might just lose her dinner if she doesn’t keep taut the muscles lining the wall of her stomach. Henry’s still weaving his story, and she hears Isabella Gagliano’s name and the damning evidence that could very well undo Cosimo if it were to come out. That could undo Henry as well, she thinks, but it’s clear the man in front of her has long since ceased thinking of his own future. That’s why he’s here, isn’t he?… As if seeing through the ugly mire of her thoughts, Henry’s voice rises up to prompt her. 

‘… Ready to kill me yet, Zia?’

She looks up at him in silence. Seconds pass, or maybe eons as they face each other; two empty husks on a slippery rooftop. Vivianne doesn’t trust herself to speak. Instead, she replaces the safety-latch on her gun and stows it away, eyes never leaving his. There’s a pause then, as she stands empty-handed before the Montague. No facade, no front. 

How many years has it been since she’s done this? Does she even remember how?…

The woman swallows thickly. In the dark, she hopes Henry can’t make out the glassiness of her eyes, the threat of tears just behind the dam. Maybe it’s stupid to cling to that last line of defense, but she’s lost everything else before him tonight. Pride laid low, bluff disintegrated, the mask of cool indifference well and truly cast aside. She extends one arm, trembling fingers unfurling to open her palm. It’s not an invitation; it’s a desperate insistence. If he doesn’t take it, if he throws himself back, she thinks she can lunge soon enough to grab him by the legs. She hopes she doesn’t have to, and so a last-ditch choice hangs in the balance between them. A single word leaves her lips in reply, heartsick despair laced around each letter.

“ — Please.”

Henry feels emptied out. Brutally so, really. If you had tilted him and poured all of the blood and viscera from his body, this is what it might feel like, only it’s not his body but his soul. Every inch of the scarred residue that remains is pale and bloodless, shivering in the cold and too tired to be angry at how far he’s fallen. He had so many dreams, once. Visions he hung his hat on, justifications he made to himself as a means of survival.

Once Roman took over for his father, things could be different. They could make them so. Together with Matthias, with Alex and Law and Odessa... Even Marcelo and Bellamy. They had all spent so long fighting someone else’s war it had practically become their own. Still, they didn’t have to cling so hard to that. If they were able to love one another hard enough, support each other fiercely enough, they could find a path that ensured their survival. They could walk together as a family in truth, not the empty familia hung around their necks.

Henry had been born into the Montagues, but if he’d loved them better to begin with, maybe he could have made them more than that.

Instead, he’d torn it apart himself. Odessa would never love him if she knew. Lawrence might kill him if she didn’t beat him to it. His own mother would look at him in disgust, his father rolling in his grave to hear his son had slaughtered his closest friend without a thought. How could Matthias forgive him for taking a father from someone they both loved? Alex might, and there, if he hadn’t felt so empty, he might have had cause to laugh. In all the world, the only person he thought might be able to forgive him was Alexander. How stupid was that?

Even though it was indirect, it was still his fault. He bandied his alcoholism about and thought it would never hit back at him someday. He drank his way through Capulet bars, more worried about saving face than concerned for who might find him. Even if someone else put the gun in his hand, he had pulled the trigger. There were some bonds that were meant to be unbreakable, and his with Alvise should have been one of them. If he were stronger, not a drug in the world could’ve curdled his love for such a man into hate, as complex as the man himself had been. 

It all came back to his weak heart. A weakness of the soul, and now it had spun entirely out of control, abandoning him and leaving this miserable shell behind.

He doesn’t start at the click of the safety, even though it’s the only thing that breaks the silence. Henry watches her with disinterest, eyes catching on movement without retaining information. Is she reaching out to push him? 

No.

No, her hand is open, and Henry’s brows furrow, expression reappearing on his face for the first time since his confession deflated all life from his body. He looks up at her, unable to imagine what he looks like, unable to see the lost and dejected way he stares, as though he cannot recognize kindness anymore because he’s so afraid to see it. He lifts his own for a moment, responding on auto-pilot and freezing halfway through the motion. Why would she offer such a thing to such a thing as him?

His heart won’t stop pounding. Fear steals over him. If he takes it, what will she do? Will she pull him away? Will she make him live with this? And yet, all it takes is one word for him to make the rest of that push forward. Please. 

Henry may have known her when he was small, but he knows enough to understand that it must cost something. He takes her hand and thinks, her fingers are cold. He takes her hand and realizes his own is shaking, or maybe it always was. He takes it in his and somewhere between one point and the next he’s on his feet, and there’s a wildness in his chest that wants to break free, some sort of necessary animal instinct he can’t ignore. He’s stupid, he’s so stupid, but he doesn’t care when he throws himself entirely into her mercy, wrapping his arms around her as tears he thought had dried out entirely return to his face. 

❝ I’m sorry, ❞ he rasps at her hair, nonsensical and strange. He can’t say what he’s thinking. He can’t admit that he thought... that he thought if he told someone, that they would never reach out to him again. That they would shrink from his touch in horror and call him a monster, that he would no longer be deserving of their generosity. ❝ I’m sorry, ❞ he says again, repeating it over and over like it’ll help anyone. He hasn’t been able to tell anyone he felt sorry about it. He hasn’t had anyone listen that he thought might believe he was. 

Alva: [he owns five buildings][christ, they forget Henry is a wealthy mafioso][does he even need to work?][they shake off the uncharitable thoughts, and remind themself to be grateful Henry is someone they can turn to]

Alva: Um, well honestly anything I can afford now that I'm taking what could be called a huge pay cut.

Alva: You see, I'm moving on with my employment.

Alva: I'll be working as kitchen staff at Hotel Emelia, moonlighting as entertainment when they have events there.

Henry: [Interesting. He would perhaps ask if they were closer friends, but he resigns himself to asking the next time they meet up in person. It seems strange to get so personal over the phone.]

Henry: What's your budget as it stands? [It's said kindly, without pity. He knows very well by now how to coax people into taking what's offered. He does not tell Alva that he already has a place in mind and will simply price it accordingly.]

Henry has never, in his life, considered seeing a therapist. Some combination of his father viewing such things as weakness, the life of secrecy being in la mafia requires, and his general repression have always ruled it out as an option. Lamprius, however, is no fool, and no stranger to the inner workings of Verona. Perhaps this is what makes Henry decide that it would be... acceptable. To try, in some way, to get better, rather than getting steadily worse. 

He doesn’t plan to reveal much at first, wanting to feel out how much he can actually trust that Lucien will keep this professional. Henry doesn’t feel quite as though he deserves to be used, but he certainly feels... ambivalent on the subject, and he knows that’s unnatural and wrong. He tries, instead, to protect himself at least 1/10th of how much his mother would protect him. How best to help himself?

There is no perfect solution. There is only this office and the sound of Lucien beckoning him inside. Professional enough, for starters, but Henry enters with his expression blank and his eyes weary. ❝ I was lucky, it seems, that you had a cancellation so soon. ❞ Henry reaches out to shake Lucien’s hand, an automatic polite response after years of business and mafia dealings. ❝ Thank you for agreeing to take on a new client, especially one with such... secrecy. ❞ 

Alva: [they sigh, relieved] I mean, that's one way to think about it.

Alva: I was um, well I need to move, and I was wondering if you know any good places.

Henry: In Verona, redefining your thinking is an essential skill.

Henry: [He pauses, surprised, but recovers quickly.] I do. I own five buildings personally within the city, but can also recommend others, as I by necessity am kept abreast of the market. Where would you like to start looking?

Isabella asks for water without ice, as she can never be careful enough. Who’s to say that he’s not betting on her to ask for ice cubes that he’s poisoned only hours before her arrival? She’s not willing to take such a risk, even if she’d prefer them. As he fills the tall glass from the water dispenser on his refrigerator, she watches dutifully to ensure he doesn’t slip something additional and unwanted into it. She’s relieved when she notices no signs of foul play and takes her seat around the head of the table with him, offering a soft ‘Grazie’ as he places the water in front of her.

Her heart’s beats mimic that of a rabbit’s when Henry begins. It wasn’t just one—but many. Her fingertips itch to grab a pen, to whip out her phone (which, thanks to Odessa Vernon, is no more), but she quells her desires to make him feel more comfortable. Isabella follows the storyline with easy; she hadn’t thought one person could be enough to take down the king’s right hand; otherwise, the likes of Vivianne Sloane and Genevieve Zhang would be easy targets, too, right? And so far as she can see, both Underbosses are nearly as untouchable as the crown at which they nestle so closely. 

Softly, she smiles. He hadn’t trusted her–and she hadn’t trusted him, either–but it appears to finally be paying off for the both of them. “Of course,” Isa murmurs. “Discretion and integrity are what I strive to ensure are involved in everything I do.” Her life often depended on it, but this goes without saying. His life, however, pointedly does not. So, when he offers mild praise for her tactics, she decides to drive the point home and remind them both about why she’s here. “It means a great deal to me, as well. Though our lines of work will never truly agree, they can coexist and work alongside each other–and I thank you for calling me over for what you’ve found.”

As Henry speaks, she listens intently–until he says something that she just can’t let slip without some response. “What were you doing at a Capulet b—?” The inquiry dies on her lips, his sudden request to be excused and even more sudden movement from the table forcing the hairs on the back of her neck to shoot upwards. Her jaws clench instinctually, limbs tensing in anticipation for something horrid or painful, but the only thing she’s rewarded with is the sight of the Zhang son bent over his sink and the sound of him vomiting. Isabella takes note of his odd ritual, lips pursing in concern.

In the short amount of time she’s been here, she’s noticed a handful of things. The first: either Henry is genuinely perturbed by what he’s learned or he’s the best damn actor in all of Verona—better than Tomas Sabello, by far (and she believes this in spite of her disdain for the man who’s married to the other half of her soul, as the agony etched across Henry’s face far too visceral and tangible to be a work of scripted art). The second: Henry is…an alcoholic. No, she won’t go that far to label him as such as the number of times she’s met with him can be counted on one hand with fingers to spare—but the way he cradles his whiskey, the way his kitchen houses Listerine near the sink as though it’s dish soap, the way it seems that he’s relying on the dark liquid for the entirety of his courage rather than to simply dull the edges—well… It doesn’t leave her with much else to peg him as. And lastly, the third, the one that leaves her most on edge, is the way in which he won’t look at her.

Her parents told her long ago that the eyes were windows to the soul, that catching a person in a lie depended not only one what they did or didn’t say, but in their eyes. And here he is, Capitano Henry Zhang, refusing to look at her. Isabella’s blood runs cold; the flash drive around her neck feels more like a noose.

“N-No, take your time,” the journalist replies, tucking a stray curl behind her ear as she regathers herself. She looks to the still-untouched glass of water in front of her, then back to Henry. “Do you… Want some water, maybe? I haven’t taken a drink of it yet.”

Oh, Isabella. Her words fascinate him mostly in how incorrect he finds them, but he’s trying to be nice, and he doesn’t disagree aloud. Truth be told, they cannot coexist in harmony. One must always dominate the other, or they will forever be in disagreement. If the mafia is not paying off a journalist, then by god they must want that journalist dead, and Gagliano is no exception to the rule. It’s only Henry that doesn’t want them dead, personally, and a few others besides, but as an organization, it remains in their best interest.

He offers nothing more than a tired smile, humoring her optimism at face value. 

Ah, yes, and Henry does embarrass himself, doesn’t he? ❝ No need, ❞ he says, knowing he’s going to go right back to the bottle anyway. This conversation is impossible to have sober, and as he returns to his seat, he rolls his shoulders a little, unbuttoning his cuffs so he can roll up his sleeves. ❝ Where was I ? Ah, quite early in our tale. You wanted to know why I was at a Capulet bar ? ❞ He shrugs. ❝ As I’m sure is obvious to you now that you’re here, I have... an addiction. It’s easier to function when I’m seen less by people who directly know and depend on me. ❞ It’s difficult to say it aloud, but Henry knows he’s not long for this world, anyway. Best be honest with the time remaining to him.

❝ Once I was dosed, Cosimo Capulet approached me himself. He had a file in hand, which detailed to me doctored evidence against Alvise in the murder of my father, Howard Zhang. ❞ Henry finished his drink and poured himself another, rather liberally. It only got worse from here, but he was determined not to pass out, or have a panic attack, or throw up more scotch. ❝ He used the suggestible state I was in to convince me of Alvise’s guilt, then escorted me into the back of a car, where he gave me a gun. ❞ Henry draws a file from the other side of the table and hands it to Isabella. In it, there are photos of the gun, and of Alvise’s bloody handkerchief. ❝ I remember in bits and pieces. I felt very empty, like he was... filling my head where it previously had been only air. ❞ Another sip from the glass, hand on his metaphorical crutch as he struggled to finish the story.

❝ He drove me to Alvise’s home, where I confronted him for murdering my father. Though he protested his innocence, I could no longer listen, they only... fueled the rage Capulet had built. I shot him myself, and then went back to the car, where Cosimo promised to take care of things. He took the gun from my hands, gave me new clothes and made me change into them, then deposited me back at the bar and dialed my emergency contact, which was Hector. When I awoke, I remembered nothing of the night before. ❞ He left out how the drugs had given him weeks long insomnia, how bad his head had hurt, how awful he felt even when he couldn’t remember.

Alva: [Alva nibbles his nail, feeling guilty he called Henry needing something and not to just talk] Um... I need your help.

Alva: [they sigh] I'm sorry Henry. I'm calling you for the first time and it's to ask for something.

Henry: [He's unsurprised, but a tad worried.] Of course. I appreciate that you trusted me enough to call.

Henry: [His smile is audible into the receiver, though he sounds tired, as though he's worked long hours.] Hello, Alva. I was hoping to hear from you.

Henry: How are you?

Alva: [Alva worries they woke him, but he doesn't sound upset] I'm ok, thank you. And you?

Alva: You sound tired.

Henry: I admit I didn't sleep. But that's usual.

Alva: [They wait as the phone rings, pacing their living room. They've thought about making this call since January, but things kept coming up. As the tone rings on, they think about just hanging up. Isn't it rude to call out of the blue to ask for a favor?]

Alva: [Just when they decide to end the call, the ringing stops] Uh... hello? Henry? It's Alva.

Henry: [His smile is audible into the receiver, though he sounds tired, as though he's worked long hours.] Hello, Alva. I was hoping to hear from you.

Castora eyes the bottle of champagne. “That better be the good stuff,” she says, half-teasing. She doesn’t know enough about champagne to know what makes it good, but her palette is discerning enough to tell the difference between cheap booze and not-as-cheap booze. 

She snorts when he calls her a sugar mama. “Jesus, Zhang – never call me that again…but if you must know, I’ve already offered my services to Valentina.” God knows her friend deserved it. Castora was already planning on buying her favorite Gallo something to liven up her address. 

She sighs when he brings up the details. Castora is a detail-oriented woman, but money has always been something she’d rather keep private. When she was little and the consequences of her father’s actions fell on her and her mother to deal with, it was all so visible. Every single person saw and every single person knew that fate had forsaken them. 

Castora pulls up the email and shows Henry the amount. “Maybe I’m paranoid, but disclosing this over the phone seemed inadvisable,” she explains. “And before you ask, I have seriously no idea who would give me this much money. No one in this city likes me enough to give me that. Do you know who did this?” 

❝ I’m gutted, that you think I’ve ever bought you the cheap stuff, ❞ Henry says, a little bit tongue in cheek. There will certainly be no more cheap wine for Castora Aguilar. The thought of her getting things she’s worked so hard for, even by happenstance, makes him feel buoyant. Still, telling her so would be more mushy than either of them are prone to being, so he lets it sit within him in silence. ❝ Can do. Besides, I’m not really the ‘baby’ type. ❞

This is where he breaks, laughing when she does because it feels good to want to laugh about something. He’s unhaunted here in this space, focused on her and on the monumental changes in her life. 

❝ Paranoia is something that will only increase as you settled into your fortune, I’m afraid. ❞ Henry winces a bit. ❝ I have anti-surveillance installed everywhere for a reason. Only half of it is because I was raised with paranoia, but... well, you know. ❞ He thinks on her question, thinks about how he bought her a studio because he thought she deserved it, and about how she still doesn’t see herself as deserving of that level of affection. 

How do you convince someone they’re lovable, with all their prickles?