dream of me

The way that pretty face gave away words like “sweetheart” while scanning shelves of weapons wasn’t entirely unusual anymore. How young the kid seemed was, but Kel had learned not to ask questions from those with connections. To say Cleo was well-known in their circles was an understatement, one that did their work no credit. And so even though the two hadn’t interacted much- at all really, theirs was a familiar face. One he wasn’t sure he trusted, no matter how many raving reviews there were.

“A gift?” Now that was a surprise. Cleo had been at the Ball, Kel knew that for a fact even if they’d barely managed keeping track of names and faces. Most people he’d seen in the shop since the even thad been more worried about their own protection. Perhaps there was a benefactor who had a thing for firearms. Perhaps they and- well that was none of his business. His mouth twitched into his own smile. “Quiet and sparkly, you sure you know what you’re asking for? If it’s a piece for show that’s one thing, but you can’t expect it to be sharpshooter worthy.”

He limped past the first set of cases, beckoning Cleo to follow. “Were you thinking something small and concealable or is this for hunting? If you find one you like, I can customize it with whatever engravings and rhinestones you want.”

he takes smaller steps to match the man’s limp, follows him to the back cases. eyes are quick to wander the sleek designs, the harsh lightning that has the firearms gleaming. beautiful, but not enough for him.

he hums an affirmation and the other’s question, tapping fingers to lips lightly. “a gift, yes. did you think someone like me would need one?” he smiles, too sharp along the edges to be kind. “what a mess that would cause, if the whores started carrying guns. what reason to shoot me unless you’re a jealous wife?”

he is almost amused, cocking his head slightly when he turns to kellan.

“something on the smaller side if you could, my love. no pistols. it has to be something with a greater damage.” almost as casual as listing out his grocery list, voice ever-pleasant. “a shame there aren’t more sharpshooter items that are half as beautiful as what they could do. how criminal.”

ah, he thinks, there it is. 

in the midst of chaos he has almost forgotten that this is no longer something he gets to do anymore. for you? darling – 

his face feels hot and he’s sure cleo can see - knows he should apologize but can’t quite bring himself to say the words and when his heart finally stills, cleo is already gone. 

“i still have your,” he begins when he sees his clothes in the other’s arms, thinks of the sweater cleo’s left behind at his house long ago. stops himself because he knows it doesn’t really matter anymore. it’s buried and collecting dust, no different from oliver’s photos that still rest at the bottom of his drawers. 

he’s always had such a hard time letting things go, and that’s his own fault. 

the way he quietly moves to pull down the zipper as he’s told feels too familiar. fingertips trace pale skin as the clothes become loose - too familiar, all of this - before he pulls his hand back as though he’s been burned. “i can order something,” he mutters, pretends nothing’s happened, makes his way into the kitchen so he can find the number to the chinese restaurant two blocks away.

( and yes, it’s their usual place, so he asks for their usual order. not fair that he still remembers. )  

there’s fear in his footsteps as he makes his way back into the living room, half wondering if cleo will already be gone and half-scared that he’ll still be there. when he does see the other there, he sighs. 

“…who was it? the one who brought you to the party?” and it’s easier to ask while they’re still far apart. he’s not at all sure why he wants to know now. maybe it’s his way of acting out, too, crossing the line just a little bit more even if he’s already lost this round, maybe he’ll try to look for this benefactor the next time he’s working. either way, he regrets it almost instantly. 

( & WHAT I AM TO YOU? )

( dust, corner-curled things we don’t unfold anymore. you wanted a dream just to wake from it. )

touches skim skin, water ripple shiverings. he doesn’t need to turn to see august pulling away, doesn’t need to look to know that he’s staring, words forming.

a dance, almost. nothing leaves lips that’s worth staying and still, he finds himself in his home, in his clothes, in the company he knows will leave him when he wakes from him again. he thinks himself a fool, but the sweater is soft after a night in scratching lace and thinks he can fool himself a touch longer, maybe. a dream’s dream, this moment suspended.

but he asks, sharp eyes watching august from across the room. is too much of his mother’s son when he steps close to the familiarity, knives under tongue. rosebuds bleeding when he stands on the tips of his toes, breath brushing ears, leaning too close.

“take a guess, sweetheart.” how eyes find a way to glimmer even in the low lights, ever-charming. make a game out of it, fingers trailing buttoned collars, patterns that used to grace skin. nimble hands undo buttons, loosen ties, tugs him gently back to the couch again. reminiscent or fantasy?

he perches himself along the arm of the couch, crosses ankles and looks up at august, almost sweet. “who are you afraid of it being? is any answer right enough for you?” soft, lean in close to catch the words. “want to know how much my dear mister paid me to be half as close as you and I, once upon a time?”

( he is his mother’s son, knife to heart, knife for a tongue. boy bleeds just to wound. )

he ignores cleo easily and opens up the kit anyway, pulling out alcohol bottles and cotton swabs. eyes meet for a moment and august wonders if he sees resentment behind them. he doesn’t say much - doesn’t laugh when cleo smiles, even as he gently wipes at the angry cuts on bruised feet. 

and of course, his words are meant to hurt and again, august knows that he deserves them. it would be easier to ignore them and he has become too used to this, so he almost does until cleo speaks again. 

“i’m not…” not what? not one of them? is he any better? it shouldn’t make him angry that cleo thinks he owes him something - they are hardly friends, after all. 

“you should stay,” he finally says instead, words that feel strange on his tongue. what follows those words will matter, why he’s said them will matter more, and he would be lying if a part of him didn’t want to keep cleo here, like a pretty caged bird, because at least he could keep him safe. 

but he doesn’t want to keep cleo from flying away, because he deserves better than that. 

“the police will be looking for everyone at the party,” he settles on an excuse, “at least if you’re here, it’ll be awhile until they get to you.” 

his shoulders feel heavy as he finishes cleaning up the wounds, like he couldn’t stop cleo if he wanted to leave. and he is suddenly too tired to be prideful, even if it wouldn’t be fair. 

“stay,” he says again, though this time his eyes are glued to his own hands. “if you want to repay me, then stay.” 

he winces not at the sharp sting of rubbing alcohol to open cuts, but rather, the soft touch that comes with it. he is no stranger to such things; bruises and kisses feather-light, cherry-sweet - but it is never for him.

( to: the ghost of my dreams, i hope this finds you safe. i’ve been imagining you in my bed all day ) 

no matter how reluctant, august’s hold has always been one for the not-dream, washed up thing occupying the corner of his too-small apartment. he wishes it stung instead, flinches like it does. 

stay. he can’t help but to let out a sharp laugh, too bitter for that mouth of his, disjoint. 

stay? for you?” he knows it is too cruel, acid dripping around the curve of words. “darling, are you in a position to be asking me such things?” 

( what a bitter thing you have become; beautiful, spiteful. a lovely, poisonous weed; no wonder he left you ) 

he hums, a noncommittal sound, uncurls himself from the couch and steps past august purposefully. still he steps, tip-toed, as if afraid to rouse whatever nightmare-dream they have between them; disappears in his room for a moment before reappearing with a swathe of worn fabric draped on arms. 

( something of the other’s, old and ratty, still, he holds it too-tenderly, like some sort of truce for the night ) 

he has always been amused by the fact cleo weighs virtually nothing to him, but it’s a bitter reminder at the same time of how often he’s had to carry him like this before. it’s a good thing he can’t see his face now, because he might say something he’ll regret. he’s not sure how to answer that question without giving too much away.

instead, he looks up at where cleo is guiding them to, and stands up, arms back and holding cleo. “okay,” he says, and not much else as he quickly brings them towards the back door. 

and he thinks about it as he walks - he’s tempted to go to cleo’s because it would be easier for him to leave once cleo’s taken care of. but for the life of him he cannot remember ever seeing a first aid kit or even a proper bandaid there, while he knows that he’s got a full kit underneath the sink at his place. 

he’s afraid that if he says anything now, it’ll sound like an excuse, so when time comes, he simply makes a turn towards his apartment. 

“it’s closer,” august tries, a moment later. it does sound like an excuse. 

he only lets cleo down once they’re inside. apartment is always far smaller that it seems to be in his head, though today he can’t seem to care. after washing his hands in the bathroom, he makes sure to grab his first aid kit and brings it back out to the living room, not yet sure what the right thing to say here is.

“let me see your feet again,” he finally decides, moving towards the couch. “and are. well, are you…okay?” 

it is familiar in a way he wishes it wasn’t - in the dim lighting, safe distances between them cleo could almost pretend it was a time that was easier for them.

instead: the ringing of gunshots, wind still in lungs. it takes him a moment to recognize the comfort of a not-home, breathe slow. boy makes small burrows into the corner of couches, ninety-nine cent dream with how he unfurls himself from the night and into his own skin again. 

boy turned dream, turned remnant of a memory. he feels too tangible in august’s home. 

“i’m fine.” he forces himself to look into his eyes despite the reminder of how the other will always pull away again. it must be a form of defiance to build oneself up for hurt again. 

“it’s nothing. thank you for - back there. i would have spent the night at the station otherwise and the lights make my complexion absolutely horrid.” a half-smile, voice light despite the bitter taste behind pressed lips. “your concern is sweet, darling, but there’s no need - i’ll be out of your hair by the hour. i believe i still have a dear patron to attend to tonight and my mister is such an impatient one.” 

a sigh, almost wistful. there’s something knifed in the sound, sharp eyes flitting back to august again. 

‘It’s all in your head again.’ How many times did she hear that one growing up? How many times has she said it to herself? Cleo wasn’t wrong though, Vex was barely there as he swept her away. The sound of sobbing drowned out most of his spiel. Dark brows tightly knit together out of what, concern? Worry or fear, perhaps? She deems its confusion above all else. The sounds she was so convinced of hearing seconds ago dissipated into thin air. Practically all faded as the two of them moved on to the sidewalk.

Cleo could read almost anyone and Vex knew that. If he was so openly asking how she was doing, then she wasn’t hiding the answer nearly well enough. She let her guard down this time. She blinks a few times, letting herself feel the wind on her face. It takes only moments before her expression eases back to that of a neutral one.

“It’s okay, I have blankets…” Of course, you have blankets Vex, she silently criticizes herself. “I mean. you’re right, I don’t even know what the word sleep means lately. But, I also, unfortunately, don’t think a heated blanket is what’s gonna get my mind to stop talking. Thanks for the offer though.”

the girl was made of her own little oddities, this much cleo was aware of. even still, the way her eyes glaze over, stiff in her steps in the middle of the road - perhaps even for her, it’s concerning. 

( can you hear the echoes of the gunshot? can you see the ghost of the wound, drip-dripping behind you? ) 

for a dream-thing, boy is rooted in the reality of the pavement beneath them, cars flashing as they drive by. stay soft-edged, sweet-lipped, false-promised. as a dream, he is not to know of the remnants of the screams that rings in his friend’s head. 

( if he hears it too, he is to pretend, pretend ) 

“perhaps you should get acquainted with sleep then, darling. those bags will ruin that pretty face of yours.” he’s tutting softly. “have you considered having someone grace your sheets to take your mind off whatever’s echoing? perhaps someone warm to whisper some sweet nothings - i’m certain i could find a few ideal candidates for you.” 

setting: asphodel, midnight reserved for: @hypnoidize​ status: closed

tw: alcohol

There were certain nights that left him restless, and even a nice glass of whiskey couldn’t help him. It wasn’t often, but it did happen one too many times for him to become frustrated with the circumstances. He was a man of punctuality and lived day to day on a certain schedule— one that kept his sanity in check. 

Sleep was crucial to his lifestyle and mentality, and without it, there was no knowing how he’d go about. However, he was well aware of this risk when he stepped into the familiar setting of Asphodel, well into the night, which was uncharacteristic of him. 

The bartender shoots him a look of slight confusion, not used to seeing him at the club this late. His usual drink is set in front of him as he takes his seat, his forearms crossed and resting on the table. He simply looks at the sweating glass, rather than wrapping his fingers around it to take a sip out of it, and admires every detail surrounding it.

“Beautiful,” he lets out in a gentle whisper, not minding the other clubgoers around him. He’s absolutely enamored by the way the amber liquid sits still together with the glass-like ice, the crystalline glass twinkling under the spotty lights of the club. Beautiful, indeed. 

Finally, his fingers wrap around the glass, which he brings up to his lips to take a slow sip, letting the liquid coat every part it comes in contact with. Absolute bliss, he would call it. It always was. 

it is hardly anything but an ordinary night, the same hands on thighs, same hungry eyes. perhaps their owners change, but the way they look / feel / pay are always the same. 

perhaps it should be concerning then, that the boy still does not tire of it. 

something new - out of the corner of his eye he spots the familiar figure nursing a drink, appearance strange in the late hour. curious, but not enough for him to leave the wallet in the pocket of the man whose lap he was comfortably settled in. 

still, he makes the time to curl around the seat next to nikolai when he’s done, his own pockets a little thicker, smile cheshire-curved. 

“what a pleasure it is to have you here so late, sweetheart. you’re never here late enough to enjoy the best part of the night.” he leans close to speak, voices quiet and lips stained. “had a change in priorities tonight, dear?” 

fingers trace the rim of his glass of whiskey, full moons. 

time: late september location: city streets status: open to all

It was curious, what followed her in the days since the shooting. Sometimes it was scenes, sometimes it was a smell. Most of the time it was the sounds. The other day it was a pop and clang of metal hitting tile floors. The day before it was a specific shrill scream she heard when trying to sleep. Today she heard crying.

It traveled on the wind and echoed between the towering buildings. So loud sometimes she had to stop and check - look around and search the scene just in case. Even if looking meant stopping at the most inopportune moments like at work or standing in line. That moment today was crossing a street. Stood still in the crosswalk, Vex’s eyes frantically searched the crowd of people walking on sidewalks. 

Making little notice of the blaring horns of vehicles passing by, Vex asked out loud, “Where is that sound coming from?”

“sweetheart, it’s in your head again. unless you mean the blaring of horns, in which case, it’s coming from the cars who are quite eager to run over that body of yours if you stand in one place for much longer.” his steps are brisk, already looping his arm with the girl’s and tugging her along the crosswalk. “come now, dear. my takeout is getting cold and i won’t have you being run over just to sit in a police station for hours on end to give my testimony on why you can hear things no one else can and leave me subjected to the horns honking at you.quite inconsiderate, if you ask me.” 

he’s quick, furs hardly doing enough to keep him from the near-october chill. his steps slow once they’ve reached the safety of the sidewalk on the other side of the street, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. 

where: street outside of elysian when: september 27th who: open to anyone

killing is not new to her. in fact, it’s second nature, something that she’s had programmed into her code over a decade ago, to the point where she’s almost become numbed to the idea of death. after the first several, there’s no more crying. there’s no more waking up in the middle of the night panicking. there’s only the dark realization that this isn’t a normal way to react. all she can do is destroy whatever she touches, herself included, and it’s a bitter pill to swallow. rosalyn’s aching for something to distract herself, but she doesn’t even have a cigarette on her at this point, and so she’s found herself in the alley behind elysian, pacing and trying to center herself again.

the footsteps approach quickly - too quickly, she thinks to herself. it could be nothing, but she doesn’t feel like risking it, and she’s reacting almost instantly, whirling around where she stood with a frustrated grunt. she grabs onto the person’s arm, twisting it behind their back to gain some sort of leverage, even if she doesn’t need it. better to have the upper hand right off the bat. “haven’t you ever heard it’s impolite to sneak up on someone?” she says through gritted teeth, belatedly realizing that this is only serving to prove herself right. 

he’s hardly one to be sneaking around back alleys, but the last client he finished with took much too long and all cleo wants is to get home before dark; settle into a hot bath and perhaps a book to read - 

hence, the shortcut. steps are light and quick, knows what pretty things look like in places like this, knows it’s no different from work, really, but he doesn’t really have the time nor patience for it tonight. 

and then hands, rough grips and twisted bodies, sharp inhales and small squeaks as he’s pushed into a positions that is hardly comfortable given his recent strenuous exercise - 

“darling, roughhousing costs extra.” heartbeats slow as soon as he recognizes the voice, though the beginnings of irritation was beginning to seep into his skin. “i’m quite open to whatever you may need for your anger, but there’s a line, you see. you may need to take a number.” 

teasing, though there’s something sharp under teeth. 

Open Starter | Delicate Balance | Etna Weaponry

It wasn’t his first thought when the gun rang out, but it had definitely hit him before he got home. Gonna be a busy week. These sorts of fluxes in demand for… product were normal, every one felt a bit more secure when they thought they’d be able to defend themself. Kel knew it didn’t work that way, but with a business founded on the sale of weapons he wasn’t about to tell them otherwise. Wasn’t good to hear the guy selling you a gun saying that you wouldn’t have a chance against an obviously professional hitman if the target happened to be on your back. Happy customers were the ones that came back- when they didn’t get killed.

So when a familiar face was shown through the door, he waved Brontes away with a wan smile and propped his feet on his cabinet with a sigh. “I was wondering if you’d show up today. Not big on delays when the gears start grinding are you?” It was different doing business with friends- he wanted them to be right about what their purchase would do. “So what can I do for you?”

the place is unfamiliar to him, a soft thing next to the sharpness of what surrounds him. he’s hardly one for such things - ( all this blood, and for what? the sun rises and the bodies mean nothing. ) - but he won’t deny that he’s always been curious over the infatuation with the sales of the place. morbid, perhaps, but he’s no stranger to what lies on display before him. he’s certain he recognizes a few models from his clientele alone. 

“how the city chooses to - ‘grind its gears’ - matters little to me. it always will, and people will always waste their time trying to think it means anything other than time passing in what ways it chooses to.” he smiles at the man, cat’s grin. eyes drift towards the glass displays, already scanning. 

he’s almost afraid to open his eyes. cleo is unpredictable in ways he still cannot seem to manage, and just when he thinks he might have figured him out, he’s already out the door, as though nothing has happened. then again, has anything really happened? he doesn’t know. 

when he finally opens his eyes, he waits a beat, knowing that he’ll have to go now, but he never does quite get the chance to say his goodbyes because they are interrupted by what sounds like a scream, followed by a loud bang and the unmissable rumble of feet running towards them.

he instinctively grabs cleo, still not entirely sure what to expect, shoes long forgotten and he manages to lift cleo up before the crowd hits the door. the screams drown out anything he says, and most of the crowd heads down the stairs, august makes the (perhaps foolish) decision to go up two flights of stairs, exiting on the floor he knows is connected to the fire escape. 

it seems easier once he finds the way out, and he hoists cleo over the window first and quickly follows suit - the alley it leads to is empty, though he can hear the police siren coming from afar. 

he hardly takes his eyes off of cleo as they make their way down, and only after catching his breath, he finally manages to look over at him, sees his bare feet, and frowns. 

“we should go before the police come,” he mutters, before kneeling on the ground, facing away from cleo. “come on. you’ll hurt your feet.” 

he’s hardly as quick to react as august, knows only to follow the familiar figure, to keep up as much as he can. he tries not to slip, keeps holding onto arms, sleeves like a child, afraid. heartbeats ring in ears and is only accentuated by the screaming, by the footsteps that ring out behind them. 

he clambers up the stairs, doesn’t think twice when he climbs out the window and lands on the hard ground outside, wincing at the poor landing. it takes him too long to even register that august has climbed outside with him, speaking. he’s not sure he hears the words, only sees him turn and kneel. 

( a sharp intake, momentary fear of backs walking away again. he does not need to be reminded of it. ) 

slowly, he positions himself on august’s back; familiarity at the warmth of being this close but not now, not again - 

arms wrap around shoulders, resting heads too close to the space where jawlines meet neck that he used to call safe. he still hates how it feels like so. we were so close to forgetting. 

“your place or mine?” there is something unspoken in how he wants the other to stay, arms tightening around him. the place matters little to him. 

Tyler gladly took the glass of wine and tilted his head in a gracious nod towards both Cleo and the waiter. He took a slow sip, enjoying the sweet flavor that danced across his tongue, alcohol always tasted better when shared with someone that mattered. Belatedy, he rolled his eyes at the quip and gave the man a small smile, genuine compared to those casted at strangers during passing. He had visibly relaxed in Cleo’s presence, something about the younger man made him feel as though there was an unpiercable barrier between them and the cruel judgment of the outside world. “My original answer still stands smartass, you’re a child and I refuse to take advantage of that fact. I’m a friend Cleo, and that is all I’ll ever be.” There was finality in the statement, a promise without the promise, Tyler swore he would never see the other man as simply an object for fleeting pleasure. No respectable being should be put through that humiliation. “Though, if a full payment will put you in my spare bedroom for the night instead of roaming the sheets I’ll be glad to give it to you- Cleo, I would pay for you to live safely, you just have to give me the word.”

He swirled the red liquid in the cup- the sudden movement threatening it to splash over the sides- and tipped his head back gulping the wine down in one swig. “I’m tired of the light, and sick of my family. But, I have yet to find a particularly convincing reason to leave this place. You’re the personification of spontinuety so I assumed you could help me out, and perhaps get me drunk enough that I forget I live on this plane of existence.”

it is easy, almost, how the boy drapes himself over the man like a renaissance painting - silks and curls in perfect angles and how the light sighs when it touches him. 

it matters little who is in the seat, though cleo is grateful for tyler’s company. regardless of the man’s words, he still leans closer, too near to be casual. second nature or ache for warmth, he hasn’t decided yet. 

“mm. how sweet of you. there are few gentlemen left in the city, darling. keep up that good heart for long and someone will swallow you whole.” he takes another wine glass without looking from a passing waiter, holds it out to the man, corners of lips lifting. 

“ah - there’s the difference, darling. i don’t work i do for the money. you could give me all the money in that bank account of yours and i’d still choose a stranger over a spare bed.” his gaze is unflinching, diamond sharp. “does that make me horrible, dear?” 

he turns to the crowd before them, gaze flickering to those in the crowd that he recognizes, that he knows tyler is avoiding. slow smiles grace lips before turning back to his companion. 

date: september 22nd location: a mcdonalds nearby status: open

Catalina got what she wanted out of the night, anyone else liked it or not. While the ball was surely her Cinderella moment, there was no Prince (or princess, for that matter) Charming to catch her attention long enough to stay. Maybe she stole his wallet and she could track him down more efficiently- but none the matter. She wanted some nuggets and a flurry, so here she was.

She got the alert on her phone in the otherwise quiet McDonalds. Flipping her phone over, Cat widened her eyes as she read the breaking news headline. The police commissioner was dead, and it seemed that Catalina had left just before it happened.  Fuck, she thought, yet her panic wasn’t as high as it would’ve been. If anything, she was relieved she got out of there. As the door opened, Cat looked up and noticed they were also at the ball. “Oh, hey!” She called out, a look of relief on her face as she gestured them over. “You were at the ball- I’m glad you’re okay.”

he sighs. he hadn’t considered the possibility of hitting a new low when he had left the house earlier, but with how he walks in, he supposes he’s still unsurprised with himself. 

it was bound to happen anyways. 

“hm?” he turns at the familiar voice, immediately straightens his back at the chance of being recognized. “oh. yes. well, ‘okay’ is relative, i suppose. but i suppose i would be luckier than some, in a sense.” 

vex’s eyes lost focus, everything more or less blurry orbs; she’d blame it on alcohol and pushing past her social limits. the night was long while she walked the thin line between shadows and glaring light. suddenly too aware she couldn’t summon any more energy further than keeping her ears in reality.

a tired mind betrayed her - allowing for the patronizing tone to ring through, “ohh… I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” vex forced her eyes to look at the soft smile he wore in her periphery, “the only time anyone can start from scratch is when they’re first born, otherwise - we all have histories.”

she let out a small huff of air, listening to her own grim words as they come out. vex pushed herself up and stretched her stiff shoulders to wake up, “okay, too many drinks. I’m starting to think about and speak too philosophically.”

her head falls back with a minor laugh at his suggestion, “it was hardly even ten minutes, I think I’d have to dance with him more to make an accurate evaluation. but - I’ll let you know if that ever happens.”

far too worn out for nights and events like these - she could almost feel her body saying that to her now. her shoulders fell and it was time to admit defeat, “I think I’m gonna head home soon. come on by whenever you’re done around here.”

the night has been too long, and cleo can feel himself wishing for the morning already. there’s the dream again; sunrise. how elusive she is to him. 

he can feel the girl starting to lean onto him, knows the trailing of voices well. he’s surprised that vex stayed as long as she did, though he has a few hunches as to why. he supposes he’ll save it for a later time to inquire about. 

“i’ll take whatever clean slates i can get at this rate - as close as we can get to it.” he muses, more to himself than anything. “mm. go home. any more and you’ll start swaying, and that’ll be unsightly for whatever old acquaintance is surely watching your every move.” 

he helps her stand, fixes the stray wisps of hair around her face and smiles, touch lingering on cheeks. 

“make it home without incident, darling. i’ll catch up later, if not then tomorrow. save some takeout for me just in case.” 

he sends her off, watches until she leaves the building behind heavy doors. he turns back to the party, bites a sigh and wears his favourite not-smile instead, already rejoining the crowd. 

too focused on the music, she didn’t bother to return his smile. instead her face remained serious, stoic, as if frozen in time. a monster made of stone and ice.  “ now you’re just flattering me. but maybe, just maybe, you’re right. still, like i’ve said, things can’t get more permanent than death. everything else is just child’s play. speaking of teeth, oh i can’t describe to you how fun pulling them out is. at this point, i could be a dentist. but teeth are overrated anyway. it’s better to just cut body parts off. they can’t grow back, ” this time, she did laugh at her own words, far too amused by the picture she was painting inside of her own head. red, all she ever saw was red. 

but in spite of her outcries and complaints, hope actually danced with great ease and grace, both of which were products of a time now long forgotten. they remained concealed somewhere between her bones and rib-cage, all hidden and overshadowed by her current cruelness and rigorousness.  “ i wouldn’t want it any other way. i only have the right to kill you. no one else.  ”

“ how much? well for you, i wouldn’t even ask for a penny. i would do it all for free,  ” her words were always there to cause harm, bite hearts. hope, in the end, didn’t know better. 

the spin took her by surprised, but still, she had no issues with keep up with their little dance as she only grew more confident with each passing minute. and yet for reasons unknown to her, she felt sadder than ever. and then she realized. he had outgrown the darkness around them. but she became it. 

along the way, he had outgrown her too. her only true friend. they both belong to two different worlds now.  “ i don’t need anyone to keep up with my tempter, ” she finally spat out while letting go of his arm, already on her way to disappear into the thick crowd. she was alone. she would always be alone. she didn’t need anyone else. 

she had once been so alone and hungry that along the way she ate her own heart. 

all she could afford to offer up was a pointed stare at his laments of love. ever the talent, sounding like a bard straight from a Shakespearean play. 

as much as she could have fun playing devil’s advocate, vex felt more inclined to leave it as it was. his words were a reminder that she took to heart. after all, even she distanced herself from the word - the experience itself.

questions sparked: did she do anything out of love anymore? or was it all mere survival? that was a part of her she didn’t want to try and discover right now. it wasn’t worth the struggle or pain of realization when the answer already sat in her head, consciously ignored. her identity and factors of love could be left a little longer to be judged. 

“what heart?” her voice was dry as she joked, “seriously though, we haven’t seen each other in so long I don’t even know if we could be classified as friends. old acquaintances.” vex reassured the last part, she wouldn’t assume the other person recognized her so familiarly. 

“the last time I saw him we were in our early twenties so, besides the obvious changes, I really couldn’t say.” comfortable in cleo’s embrace, she leaned her head back slightly. the lights above them twinkling while she tried to not let that last drink go her head so quickly. she mused a delayed thought, “we did dance though.” 

vex had the sinking feeling that it would be her favorite memory of the evening too, the last one she’d think about before she shut her eyes to sleep.

he could feel the wine now, comfortably settling on his skin, at the corners of his vision - it’s comfortable, the way the lights start to spin just ever-so-slightly, how the warmth of vex next to him keeps him steady. it’s easier to forget what the rest of the night holds for him, easier to pretend to forget why subjects as ridiculous as love has come up, why it leaves a sour taste on his tongue afterwards. 

he likes being able to blame it on the now-empty glass between fingers. the night has gone on long enough for him to do so. 

“friends, old acquaintances - merely semantics, sweetheart. we all begin somewhere, even if only as strangers. if he has your little heart beating, then what does it matter?” he turns to look at her, eyebrows arched and smiles soft, almost-laughing. “all the better. perhaps, then, the two of you could start from scratch if need be. how i envy such chances.” 

eyes turn back to the ball before them, all swirling skirts and pressed ties. he wishes he could be so naive as to believe the smiles worn on faces were true again, wishes that he could take a memory home to fondly relive of what could have been a dream of a night - 

no, he thinks he’ll let this slip through his fingertips. come morning he’ll will himself to forget any of this ever happened. 

at the mention of the word ‘darling’ she sighs and rolls her eyes while her lips remain pressed tightly together - it’s a not so subtle sign.  “ you know that i love a good challenge, but there’s no such thing as too successful in my area of business. dead is simply dead. things can’t really get more successful than that. ”

  “ but don’t test your luck, fuck, ”  there she goes again with her special nickname for him, no one does it better than hope.  “ or else you might find yourself on my list,  ” this she says proudly, unable to hide her macabre grin. 

“ my statement still stands. but maybe it’s because you’re so fucking annoying? did i ever tell you that? well i’m telling it to you now. you’re so fucking annoying, i think i might just have to put a bullet in your skull,  ” and yet despite her cruel words and jabs, she’s unable to turn down his offer,  “ maybe not, but it could kill you, ” she laughs again, but the sound of her laughter is almost sweet. he’s the ghost of her past, a time machine. around him not all old memories taste so bitter. yet she cannot say it. she cannot let her mind remember. she’s too lost in the dark. 

lips flutter in a smile, eyes still shining under chandelier lights. skill, perhaps, how he manages to catch every turn-glimmer in those big eyes, makes him look like a thing softer than those teeth behind closed-mouths grins would say. 

she and him are alike, in their different ways. 

“i suppose. though i would imagine there’s dead, then there’s dead after suffering - then we get into the tricky business of extortion and which teeth to pull out first, no? you need to give yourself some credit, angel. i would say there’s such a thing as too successful in your line just as there is mine.” heads tilt slightly, hands placed lightly on waistlines, slow steps to the sway of the music. 

“why, i’d be honoured if you were the one to kill me, sweet.” his words are saccharaine, too sugar-dipped for the topic. “How much would a bullet to my head be? i think a few of my dear patrons at the asphodel may be quite heartbroken by such a thing, but perhaps it might be what’s best in the end.” 

perhaps he should be more concerned of her words. he merely spins her, skirts flowing.