aurea mediocritas .

where - luca mendoza’s apartment when - december 25th, 5:09 pm who - @jacksonraemers​ ; closed

SO IT’S THAT TIME OF THE YEAR again, huh. Small, white snowflakes are slowly covering a larger and larger portion of the windowsill, even ever-so-slightly pouring into the room through the crack in the window that, along with the slightly opened door, was intended to let out the smell of terribly burned potatoes coming from the oven. Ignoring that fairytale view (and danger of being snowed in) completely, Luca’s casually lounging on the sofa in her apartment, legs draped over the armrest, half-empty bottle of wine in hand. With her roommate being away for this oh-so-joyous occasion, nothing is stopping her from lying down like this all day, ever since she woke up at about eleven, with a dinner-making break that ended in disaster, looking with half-hearted interest at the television screen, thus nearing completion of her yearly Shrek marathon.

At some point, after all the two and a half movies she’s watched so far have managed to blur completely into one, she doesn’t even notice when her head falls back over the other armrest and the bottle in her hand slips out and shatters on the floor. She falls asleep only to be woken up some two hours later by a sudden noise she can’t quite place in her confusion. The only thing she manages to do is quickly sit up on the couch and let out a loud “Wha?”

Jackson loved Christmas, which was odd considering they’d not celebrated more years than had. But there was something about the jingle of its music, the lights guiding him home, the smell of food wafting in the air, that entranced him. It was dangerous, maybe, this yearning. Their natural inclination to capture the details around them, and forge each into something substantially more pleasant. Every child, basking in elation, every couple, steadying one another in the snow fall, imprinted upon their fantasies. Memories that were not Jackson’s, but rather figments from a thief who perhaps had not enough warm moments of their own to weave such satisfying daydreams without plucking others’ from the world around them. 

At the very least they had Luca. Granted, she wasn’t who would come to mind for most in need of cheer and festivities, but the girl was Jackson’s first choice. Robbed of the ever cumbersome trip home for present opening and family dinner, they knew there was at least one other mutant in Chicago sharing their dilemma. The very same whose door now rests ajar, settling unease in the pit of his stomach. Their footsteps quicken as they approach her apartment, fingers gently pushing it further on its hinges so blue hues can peer inside at what they hope is nothing more than a misunderstanding. It’s freezing in here, Jackson notes, worry lodging in their throat as they scan the room for signs of dark hair and brown eyes glaring back. 

There. 

She’s, decidedly, started the party without them. He swallows down the ugly assumptions that had plagued him, opting instead for the sight of Luca whole and healthy, draped across her sofa, then the broken bottle shards surrounding her. If they startle her she’ll jump directly into the glass below, which is exactly what they hope to avoid in trekking to her kitchen in search of a broom and dustpan. But the second shoes clap loudly against her tile, he’s jolting in surprise, palm groping for their galloping heart at the sudden noise from behind. 

Isaac was still relatively new to Blackburn, and thus didn’t entirely recognize faces of those who were supposed to be his enemy. It didn’t help that the groups didn’t see each other in spaces like this very often, with peace being a relatively new concept to the three gangs. Isaac, personally, didn’t really like it. Peace seemed boring and stuffy and he wasn’t supposed to be making an ice luge out of a sculpture left unattended towards the back of the room. Of course, he was doing it anyway, because what was the point of a party if he couldn’t even have fun with it? Plus, he figured Alma would consider herself lucky that a project like this would busy him for a few hours, and any damage would be done to a thing that would only melt into nothing later on, anyway.

Being a stranger to so many in this room leaves Isaac vulnerable to judgment, but he doesn’t seem to care. He stopped caring what others thought of him when he realized they’d always think of him in some negative light, though that was mostly thanks to the worthlessness St. Raph’s tried to shove down his throat. Preferring to choke on his own freedom, Isaac made his own decisions, consequences and judgments be damned. It seemed like someone he didn’t recognize was already onto it, coming up from behind as he asked Isaac his question. The Blackburn mutant turned swiftly on his heel to face the other man, swiftly bringing the spoon he was using as a makeshift ice pick behind his back. “Who’s asking?”

Jackson could remember being a mere child among the ranks. The awe and relief of a family at their side — a home. He’d been so terrified it’d be loosened from his desperate fingertips, and that he’d be returned to his box and chains, that it left little room for misconduct. When Damien asked this of him, he did it. When Damien asked that of him, he did it. For their family — for the others without one they could still save. But it wasn’t without a few hiccups. Mainly, Neve, and their disdain for the power thrumming through their veins. The hesitation in what may be right, and what may be wrong in a teenager that could recognize neither.    

The boy in front of him, though, does little to remind Jackson of himself at that age. Too proud. Too determined. Where they, themselves, seemed to fall upon trouble like a trap that waited for them from the shadows, the boy’s expression hints he was born from such wily darkness. That he molds it easily in his hands, ignoring the stain upon his palms Jackson would spend weeks scrubbing away. A brow rises easily at the question, however expected. “Depends on the day,” he admits, a corner of his lips twisting upward as blue hues flicker to the ice sculpture, “what’s the vision?”

Damien’s plan had unfolded without a hitch, which was both fortunate, and terrifying. Lingering memories from the conservatory bubble to the surface — screams, breaking glass, the echo of powers being used. The chaos itself was thrilling; it was when petty burglary and mayhem drew to a deathly close that their heart would squeeze with regret. Any blood shed would stain their own palms, tonight, not Benjamin’s, and not Neve’s. But desperation had forced their hand, gripping that taser, into the throes. What good had the police ever done him? Not nearly as much as the mutants Jackson hoped could find unity against the backdrop of human brutality.

Lithe fingers had carefully slipped keys from the pocket of a ‘fellow’ officer, earlier, and they now hurried to locate the lock which it might fit. The first three had proven disappointing, and hope began to wither as they approached the fourth squad car with a sigh. “Come on.” They line the jagged metal with the lock, mentally pleading with the inanimate object, before pressing the key forward — click. Delighted, a grin twists Jackson’s lips as he tosses aside the door, clambering into the driver’s seat. But just as his finger hovers above the lock, three seconds from sealing the car shut with him safely inside, the passenger door swings on its hinges.

Fuck. This is worse than he thought. Raemers is responsive, at least, but he looks like he’s apt to backslide into panic at any moment. He looks fucking torn apart by what’s happened and for a second Cain wants to tell him again to suck it up, it’s not even one of their own that’s dead. 

But that’s not really the kind of thing you say after somebody just witnessed a murder, so Cain keeps it to himself. He also, very quietly promises that if he ever sees Benjamin Granger again he’s going to put Granger’s immortality to the test and see how well it can keep him alive when his head is shoved up his own ass. Nobody gets to do this to his family. Nobody.

“C’mon, keep an eye out for more of ours. I’m getting you to the street then I’m going back in,” Cain says, all business as he grabs Raemers by the sleeve and starts to drag him through the crowd, ever aware of the quickly escalating violence all around them. This isn’t good. All the exits he can see are blocked. There are no allies in sight and with only Raemers, at his side, it’s really just the useless leading the even more useless through enemy territory.

“Change into somebody who looks like they could kick some fucking ass,” he orders over his shoulder, tugging Raemers a little closer. “Any strong fucking mutant you know that you don’t see in the room, c’mon before-”

But it’s too late. In the chaos, someone’s spotted them. Cain doesn’t take the time to try and figure out what gang they’re in or if he can reason with them. This is war after all and even if Cain’s not part of what started it he’s certainly not going to let himself or anyone else he cares about has got to keep safe get fucked over during the proceedings because he’s trying to maintain a peace that was all bullshit from the start

 “Get back,” he growls over his shoulder at Raemers, then he grabs a chair from beneath the nearest table. It’s flimsy, all cheap wood and plastic, but Cain’s been fighting all his life. He knows how to throw it hard enough to hurt.

Cain mentions the others and, as if electrocuted, Jackson springs to life. His feet still follow the man mechanically, stumbling over one another at the push and pull of the crowd, but his gaze is purposeful now, flickering across the sea of bodies for a sight of Luca, or Chance; anyone that they can help Cain lead from this inferno. Unfortunately, the others are eclipsed by the swing of fists, the crack of powers being wielded, and they come up short as the hand on his sleeve tugs him nearer.

The doctor’s words carry over the chaos, perhaps only because Jackson is so inclined to hang on them, dissecting every syllable meticulously on an average day. Any strong fucking mutant, he commands, but their brows pinch. He doesn’t see any of them, which is not to say Gerrard, or Derek, or Chance aren’t directly behind him, what with so many obstacles obscuring the line of sight. But just as Jackson makes a decision, grasps their identity with sticky fingers, Cain’s voice is clipped mid-sentence. Which is, absolutely, unlike him.

They’re cornered. Even as he hopes the mutant will pass, fiery gaze locked on someone beyond his shoulder, Jackson knows he can’t will it so. They’re coming, and Cain reacts far quicker than they have time to, two words forcibly holding them by the scruff as he pulls a chair from beside them. “Cain —” he starts in a rush of breath but the words die in his throat. Does he have any better ideas? He’s not a brawler by nature, he can’t heal what damage this mutant might inflict on Cain, he doesn’t have any idea what abilities might be wielded to combat his own. But, all differences aside, Jackson won’t let the doctor suffer for him. Not when there are others who need him, not when they, all things considered, need him. 

The gears in their mind begin to turn, pulling from the chaos around them. They just need to buy enough time to escape through an exit, and two Cain’s give them a better chance of it than one Jackson. Like an impending storm, blue eyes darken to a cloudy brown, red strands fading and body shifting to carry the additional muscle they’ve stolen. Not only is the doctor stronger than their own slim body, but they have hope their opponent might find themselves disoriented by the sudden appearance of a second Cain standing beside the first.

chance was confused with the turn of events to say the least. of course his father warned him that the party might just be a trap, but when damien relaxed at the party his son did the same. he did not expect the show that benjamin granger put on, and the chaos that happened after that. 

suddenly people were running around, some were screaming, some were ready to fight. he was pretty sure he saw people straight up ruining the conservatory just to cause more chaos. he didn’t like the thought, just doing damage to the place for no good reason. just because peace was gone did they have to act like animals? suddenly, chance, felt someone’s touch on his arm. not knowing if it was intentional or not, or more importantly not knowing if it didn’t mean an attack coming in a second, he turned to the person that touched him, ready to fight.

Jackson was too optimistic. From the start, he’d noted how tense the conservatory was; sneers and disdainful once-overs shared from across its rooms. But he'd still never considered it might evolve into this. If he had what would he have done differently? Not shown up and left them all to their own devices? Warned Damien and created an even larger mess? Still, either seems an improvement to what unfolds before them now.

Bodies crash into them at all angles, too preoccupied with the hands that pushed them to notice him slipping past. The face he wears is not his own. Vaguely, they place it with the barista down the street. It couldn’t be another mutant — Luca, or Neve. They would be immediately noticed by the surrounding members of the mob, and the last thing Jackson needed was someone dragging them into the fight, or worse, to Benjamin. 

Jackson recognized few faces outside of the Jem family. Those they could place were often a result of Neve, which made them both a relief and a discomfort, all things considered. Though the party was deemed a social event, Jackson was not foolish enough to assume it might be a friendly one. He thinks of Cain, of Luca, of all the sharp tongues and bared teeth that would aim for exposed throats tonight, and they find themselves raising both shoulders to hide their own.

Petty caution? Maybe. But it’s not to be mistaken for ignorance, not as watchful eyes fall to an alienated figure. From behind they don’t appear to be any Jem member he recognizes, but who was Jackson to judge someone by that alone? With a curious tilt of the chin, he slowly makes his way over, peering over the boy’s shoulder from a distance to see what’s busied him. Lips quirk as they near, “what’s that you’ve got?”

LOCATION: Garfield Conservatory, Horticulture Hal DATE: Friday, November 15th EVENT:  2. The Betrayal TIME: 11:15 PM STATUS: CLOSED (@jacksonraemers)

Something is on fire and it’s close by. The air is acrid with smoke. Cain suspects that Park has something to do with it, probably Mendoza too by the amount of smoke that’s started to fill the area. Those two are a fucking monster duo but at least Cain doesn’t have to worry about them. They can both hold their own in a fight. Fuck, they’re doing a lot more than holding their own right now. 

 His main concerns are Ahn and Raemers but if Cain’s being honest, it’s really just Raemers. Ahn, for all of her scheming, maybe has the brains to get out of this alive but Raemers has a tendency to crumble under pressure like a wet pretzel. Tonight has consisted of a lot of blood and fighting, a slowly growing fire that will no doubt threaten to collapse the building soon, and an actual live murder. Cain’s got no doubt that wherever he is, Raemers is scared shitless and has no idea what to do.

His power makes him a bitch to find, or at least that’s what Cain thinks is going to be the case. He ends up grabbing about a half dozen people he doesn’t recognize and shouting “RAEMERS IS THAT YOU?” into their confused faces before he finds the real Raemers, who still looks like Raemers, who’s still standing beside the stage looking like a lost puppy. Fucking idiot. 

Cain drops his current victim and storms towards the other man. “Raemers what the fuck?” He takes him by the face and shakes him hard, hands warming on instinct despite Raemers’ lack of apparent injury. “Get. Your. Shit. Together,” he orders, every word punctuated by another rough shake. “I’m getting you outta here but if I have to carry your ass to do it I’m gonna beat you to death myself.”

Jackson knew he was meant to run. That, at this exact moment, his feet should be beating the pavement in time with his galloping heart. That, though the world felt as if it was slowing to a stop, it still carried on around him — violently. Try as his mind might to warn and plead with stubborn soles, they remain frozen amidst the chaos. Trembling, as their gaze followed the obscene stain of red streaking the stage, blood the same dark shade as theatre curtains pulled to a grisly close.

It’s shock that paralyzes, hand in hand with disappointment. The sudden realization that Neve had known from the very moment Benjamin sent out the invitations. That this bacchanalia of bloodshed had crept up on them, and their family, beneath their very nose. Just out of reach, had they bothered to grasp the pieces laid out before them.

Beside the others lie fear, not necessarily for himself, but for the future. A future bereft of peace, of unity, in a world that yearned to press further fissures into the tether that linked one mob to the other. A world that would point their critical fingers at this mayhem and call for their swift extinction. 

Suddenly their sight is haphazard, swimming between the pressure of hands firm on Jackson’s skull. Cain. Unease that had ballooned in them earlier at the sight of the doctor now fades to silent relief, blue eyes flickering to his lips  — angry, forceful, firm. He knows when he’s being yelled at, even when his head feels forced beneath roiling waves, the man’s voice distant and fuzzy.  

“I’m getting you outta here but if I have to carry your ass to do it I’m gonna beat you to death myself.”

Kaplan. The way it rolls off of their tongue sends a shiver down her spine. It reminds her too much of when they hardly knew each other or the forced professionalism that came with their occupations. For a moment, the first time they meet flashes in her mind and a smile tries to tug at the corners of her mouth. But it’s not long before she realizes how wrong this whole charade is. The cold front she’s giving off in their hideaway doesn’t fit with the other memories they have in the Conservatory and neither does the tension sitting between the two of them. It’s tainting the better days with its atmosphere and Neve wants nothing more than to run so it stops. 

It only took one swift move for them to back Neve into a corner, to pick up on what she allowed to slip through and capitalize on it. “My job is to know how many people are coming so we have the right amount of seats.” She mirrors their movements, leaning close enough so that only they can hear. Her fingers tighten around the long-forgotten glass in an attempt to fight the urge to touch them for just one moment. “Do tell, Jackson, are they using you as a distraction now?” It’s a risk staying that close to them, the temptation to drag her mouth across their skin nagging at the back of her mind. There are too many people watching them, too many eyes and ears that are tuned to their frequency. Not that it had bothered her before, but these were their coworkers and that bothered her. If she had the option to drag Jackson to her office she would but that would bring unnecessary attention. 

Confronting them in this space was beginning to look like a worse idea with each passing second. 

“I’m sure you can give away one secret,” she whispers next. Neve knows it’s better to stay quiet, to hold her cards to her chest and put on a poker face, but she never seemed able to do that with Jackson. Every secret and thought and emotion spilled over her lips and into their ears when they were together. She shouldn’t be surprised that this room is the one they meet in - it’s not a coincidence that she saw them now and not earlier. “Does being here remind you of anything?” Her eyes flick from the plants across the room to their neck. She can’t hear their pulse, but she can see it which is good enough for her. 

Jackson knows she’s prepared an excuse before she counters them with it — her tongue had always impressed, in more ways than one. But the man was nothing, if not a mirror, and such quips and retorts they had grown to admire from Neve now threaten to reflect upon their own surface. It hadn’t always slipped from between his teeth with such confidence, these wry and needling arguments, but Neve had once planted them beneath his breast and blossomed the words within him with the same deftness as one of her many buds. Perhaps, all along, he had been yet another of her willing seeds, just waiting by for her to caress life into him.

“I imagined you Kings would come better prepared, it being on your own turf and all,” Jackson admits with pursed lips. He knows as well as her, the chair in question is meaningless, and that somewhere hidden in a hall closet there’s a spare Neve is unwilling to relinquish. “The more the merrier, yes?” She’s too close. He can feel the tickle of her breath dancing across his skin, and within him wars the urge to lean inward, as well as that to jerk away as if it’s her knuckles that have kissed his cheek. “I’ll stand,” Jackson smiles finally, raising his glass to curved lips as a distraction from the sight before him he’d much rather drink in. 

Her question raises a curious brow, eyes narrowing the slightest as his blue hues trace the contours of her expression. “Why? Have I distracted you from the festivities, Neve?” Jackson was guilty of sneaking glances over his shoulder, bending to hear the hopeful slip of her name amongst the crowd. Had she, too, spent the evening swallowed whole by their attendance, unable to look past his glaring presence so near her own? They think yes, but needling insecurity argues it’s only foolish optimism. There was always the chance she had grown tired of this game and the anger that now laces her words is genuine, meant to be speared straight into their bleeding heart. Could they leave it, her, behind if she had?

Neve’s voice lowers to a hush, and they swallow their doubt. She would spot every fissure, they knew, and they had given her enough to prey on already. Straightening their spine they offer a conspiratorial glance in her direction, as if the breeze of her request was tempting, though she need not ask a thing for Jackson to well and truly yearn to hand over everything to the woman. The answer to her first inquiry lay on the tip of their tongue, but before it even has a chance for release it lodges itself in his throat, thick and uncomfortably heavy. 

“Does being here remind you of anything?”

This is the real problem with Raemers. They’re like a puppy without all the benefits of being an actual puppy. They’ve got no sense of boundaries or good behavior. They shit on the carpet, or in this case they spill something all over Cain’s shirt, and they’ve only got the attention span to act contrite for a couple of seconds before they’re making excuses and changing the subject. They don’t really apologize. They don’t make things right. They just bumble along, offer Cain a napkin that’s soggier than his shirt, and then immediately go back to invading Cain’s personal space and pushing at his boundaries like Cain hasn’t told them to back the fuck off a million times before. Cain knows that the moment he does tell them to back off again, they’re going to act like Cain just kicked them in the junk. 

He doesn’t bother justifying Raemers’ question with an answer, he just takes one hand and presses the palm flat against Raemer’s forehead, pushing back slowly and firmly until he’s shoved Raemers an arm’s length back again.

“Did nobody ever teach you not to look at another man’s phone?” He growls, turning the screen so it faces away from them. Not that there’s anything for Raemers to really see on his phone. Cain barely knows how to use the damn thing himself beyond making calls and accidentally leaving open all the apps he doesn’t know how to use. But still, it’s the principle of the thing. Not that Raemers would ever understand or respect something like that. 

“Raemers,” he warns in a grave voice, “we’ve talked about this. You’re only supposed to talk to me when you’re dying Raemers. Are you dying right now? Are you bleeding all over the floor? Because if you’re not Raemers then you should be turning around and walking the fuck away from me.”

They’ve fumbled their introduction, one they’d not meant to make to begin with. Running into Cain had not for a fraction of a second been part of how Jackson envisioned the night going, especially not in the most literal sense. But now that he’d opened Pandora’s box the misfiring relentlessly flowed from its confines; awkward attempts at humor killed on sight by the man and left to flounder in their bloody defeat. It would be best to just sneak away, they suspect, but Jackson knows the needling sensation of their confrontation would linger if they didn’t make their best attempt at dissolving it now. 

His hand forces them back a step, a disgruntled sigh loosed from their lips as they oblige. “No,” he admits, leaning out of Cain’s personal space and raising his shoulders defensively, “you can look at mine if you want.” Can he? They do a mental scan of what’s on it, mostly texts from Luca, or Felix, harmless pictures of Flora or house plants that they marvel at for staying alive in spite of their caretaker. Anything scandalous has been deleted — or hidden — from prying eyes. At least they hope.

Neve wants nothing more than to rip their glass from their hands and throw it at the ground, to cause a scene and end the whole charade that was happening around them. The movement they give is enough to press her lips into a flat line - and enough to make her remember a time when she found it She’s keenly aware of how close they’re standing, finally inhaling their cologne and noticing how blue their eyes looked when the light hit them just right. Her lips press into a thin line. “I’ll make sure he gets the message.” An empty promise. The last thing she needs is Ben knowing anything about Jackson. She’s kept the two completely separate from the beginning, two moons orbiting a planet but never crashing into each other. It was an attempt on her part to have the best of both worlds, Even now she fought to keep them separate when they threatened to collide. 

Neve has to remind herself that they’re surrounded by both their colleagues, that they’re here for peace, that there’s a plan in motion. And everything was going according to that plan except for this one factor. Jackson was the grain of sand caught within the oyster, irritating and annoying what used to be calm. How was she supposed to say ‘Get the hell out of here’ without setting their alarm bells off? It was foolish to try. And yet, the part of her that wanted to save Jackson was screaming at her. It was telling her to push them out of the Conservatory by any means possible, save them from seeing what was set to save. Save them from having to see the monster she had become.

“Are you using a new name when you acquire a new face these days?” She can’t help the jab from bubbling up and filling what little space lays between them. While it might’ve seemed like passing curiosity to any other mutant, her question was filled with desire; she needed to know how they slipped through the cracks, how they crash-landed into their former hideout, how they were so willing to reopen old wounds that never healed properly for either of them. 

Jackson notices the tell immediately; a thin line of frustration for his troubles. It had appeared only in the after. Their entire relationship seemed compounded on before’s and after’s. Before distance had clawed its way between them, pressing into their rib cage when she lie with her back to them in the night. And after, when the two remained together, but only in the technical sense where stubborn binds of the heart could not withstand the pain of severance. His gaze falls to it, and he only just catches himself from mirroring the red stain of her pout. Jackson’s illusions came undone beneath her scrutiny, they always had, but an accompanying stir of irritation now settles where inward relief had once dwelled.

Her double-edged words may pass as conversational — curiosities passed between strangers, but he knows better; can make out the underlying accusation in Neve’s tone. “That sounds an awful lot like espionage, Kaplan,” Jackson responds with the shadow of a smile, brows raising in feigned shock at her boldness. He could give her the truth, bare it to her like all those he had revealed as offerings for her love, but what was the fun in that? The truth would eliminate her purpose here, with them. The truth would rob them the satisfaction of that passion burning in her eyes, the determined and resolute fire that had brought them together, and subsequently tore them apart. 

“Can’t go giving away all my dirty secrets, can I?” He settles on, instead, leaning in nearer as if it was a secret shared by only the two of them. Immediately, regret pools vicious and warning in his stomach. Memories of this Conservatory, this woman, rush and make him lightheaded. Her coquettish whisper, dark hair twisted around around his index finger, a gentle pull and the lilt of her laugh against Jackson’s lips. God, her laugh. He would damn himself to be the cause of its delight. Uncomfortable, they swallow the thought. Not anymore.

Cain’s never been rich. He has no illusions about ever being rich. But the more time he spends at Granger’s ritzy little get together, the more he’s starting to think that rich people are just super fucking boring. There’s nothing to do here, no darts, no pool, and all the music the dry, classical kind of shit he’s only ever heard in movies he doesn’t want to watch.

He’s spent the better part of an hour adding random numbers together on the calculator of his phone just to have something to do. And he’s about to discover the product of 4200 and 696969 when he hears the squeak of a shoe on the floor and feels something wet splash up against his shirt. He moves on instinct, catching whatever idiot just tripped before they can bust their head on the polished floor. He’s moving on autopilot, right in the middle of checking them over for injuries when he realizes that it’s Jackson Raemers. 

Of fucking course it’s Raemers.

Contrary to popular belief, Cain doesn’t hate Raemers. He’s hard-pressed to really hate anyone in the Family, and the kid, despite his many glaring flaws, is a good kid. He’s just annoying, and also kind of stupid, and needy and the combination of those three things grates at Cain’s last nerve every damn time the idiot stumbles into his office with a new scrape or bruise. 

Tonight is apparently no exception. Raemers rambles for a while trying to make excuses instead of admitting outright that he’s just a clumsy jackass. Cain ignores him and lifts him up by the back of his jacket like he’s grabbing a particularly irritating kitten by the scruff. He drops him a few feet away. “Shut the fuck up Raemers and watch where you’re going,” he growls,  looking around for something to wipe his shirt as the wet fabric begins to adhere uncomfortably to his chest. ‘You’re a clumsy piece of shit. Fuck your shoes.”

Jackson tries not to let shock cross his features as Cain effortlessly relocates him. They should know by now he had a way of fixing things, and gravitating so near the doctor to begin with was a problem to be mended. At least this time their wrong-doing is in plain sight, saving them the agony of replaying their missteps over and over. Jackson shrugs his shoulders, lazily smoothing the rumples of his jacket, before quickly nodding in response. 

Maybe it’s not the worst advice, they think grimly, could have saved us both the trouble of this conversation. But he knows deep down that he’d rather sustain the wrath of Cain, than the strange frustration of some rival mutant, any day. If the man had been plotting their death, he had, decidedly, paced himself with the restraint of molasses. Someone from Blackburn, or the Kings may not carry the same foresight. Especially with the freshly painful conjoining of one to another. 

Jackson watches the man’s attention flicker, or perhaps it’s hope that misleads them, before he tears in again. Their cocktail napkin stays lodged wet and crumpled between their palm and the mostly empty glass they grip, and before they can think better of it, Jackson raises the soggy paper up toward Cain as an offering, “you can have mine.” But they cringe at the futile effort, knowing it’ll carry the same irritation as if he had poured the remainder of his liquor on the man’s shirt front, instead. 

date  : november  15th location  :  garfield  conservatory involved  :  open

          Appearances.

Always  best  to  be  maintained  no  matter  the  situation.  A  public  walk  out  through  Millennium  Park.  A  mutant  rally.  A  Blackburn  meeting.  A  celebration  at  Garfield  Conservatory  on  King’s  territory.  Appearances  were  built  carefully  —  perfected  with  time  and  experience.  Felix  had  been  raised  on  keeping  appearances.  When  to  be  seen  and  not  heard.  How  to  dress  for  which  function.  A  Felix  for  public  appearances  and  a  Felix  for  those  small  glimpses  of  privacy.

There  would  always  be  two  versions  of  Felix  —  forever  competing  against  one  another.

Tonight  is  no  different.  Despite  the  treaty  being  in  effect  and  suppose  to  bring  all  of  them  together  to  help  each  other  in  a  time  when  mutant  opposition  only  seemed  to  be  growing,  Felix  kept  his  guard.  Trust  was  earned  and  there  were  far  too  many  people  in  one  tightly  closed  area  that  he  did  not  trust.

While  he  craved  a  future  of  peace  —  no  gangs,  no  wars,  and  mutant  acceptance  —  he  knew  that  was  a  dream  that  he  would  only  cling  to  until  his  last  days.  But  for  now,  he  would  walk  the  thin  line  and  see  what  would  come  of  the  treaty.

He  stood  off  to  the  side,  admiring  some  of  the  nearby  plants  while  he  nursed  the  glass  of  whiskey  in  his  hand.  Despite  the  tension  in  his  shoulders,  he  was  otherwise  comfortable  even  dressed  up  to  the  nines.  Felix  wore  suits  nearly  every  day  —  seeing  him  in  a  t-shirt  was  a  treat  but  jeans?  A  rarity.  This  suit  was  particularly  impressive.  Sleek  and  black,  tailored  perfectly.  The  shirt  underneath  was  a  soft  gray  against  the  black  tie.  Far  more  impressive,  the  shine  on  his  shoes  that  he’d  spent  a  large  part  of  the  afternoon  achieving.

As  he  raised  his  glass  to  take  another  much  needed  sip  of  whiskey,  his  ring  clinked  against  the  glass.  The  ring  that  never  left  his  hand  —  the  Rosario  sigil  proudly  visible  —  Felix  caught  sight  of  something.

“At  this  point,  someone  should  hand  Benjamin  a  tiara.  I  wonder  how  much  time  he  spends  deciding  which  color  palette  to  go  with  for  the  day.”

What familiar faces Jackson might recognize had been obscured by those he did not. It felt as if he’d wasted the majority of the night wandering aimlessly, searching for fellow Jem members among the countless others. He often forgot just how many mutants still defiantly existed within the walls of Chicago. Cruelty bred from fear had culled those less fortunate, and Jackson had hardly expected so many to remain in a city now corrupt with its reach. It would be comforting, if not for the fact that most in attendance would hardly blink were he to fall victim to eradication, himself.  

But he didn’t share their animosity — at least not yet. The lines drawn between one group and another were slowly being scrubbed away, nowhere as distinct as those between human and mutant, and Jackson liked it best that way. The treaty was shaky, as much was evident in the standoffish glances of his peers, but it felt like a hesitant step in a direction Jackson most yearned for. One where these divides ceased to exist altogether, and normalcy was not lingering so far out of their needy grasp. 

It’s with a swell of relief that they finally glimpse a friend, outweighing the throng of unknowns that gather in the space between the two. Jackson slips, with some difficulty, through the bodies pressing in on him, toward the safety of their side. Clumsily, they break through the remaining obstacles and stumble from the congestion into Felix, their lips upturning at the mention of Benjamin in way of greeting. “He’d have to make room on his shelf beside the other six he owns,” Jackson laughs in response, gaze wandering to take in the surrounding decor, “not as much as he spends thinking of ways to exploit it, it would seem.” 

The Garfield Conservatory unsettled a part of Jackson, its beauty competing with bitterness. It was still as they remembered it, leaves and blossoms curling up toward the rafters, peering down at all who admired them from below. But it was unspoken property in a battle of exes, and Jackson could never compete with Neve’s claim. The Conservatory was painfully her; he couldn’t help but feel out of place when surrounded by its splendor. Yet, he crept onward in spite of that needling restlessness, unable to deny himself stolen glimpses of a garden he’d once admired as deeply as the woman who tended to it. 

LOCATION: The Horticulture Hall  DATE: Friday, November 15th TIME: 6:00 PM  STATUS: @jacksonraemers​

Their name hadn’t been on the list. 

Neve would’ve remembered seeing Jackson’s name on the list from Damien. It wasn’t a particularly memorable name, but she would remember it even in passing. She can only see them from the back, but she’s certain it’s them by the way their hair is parted and the pattern of their jacket; a memory of them wearing it out to dinner flashes in her brain before she can stop it. Then, she hears it. A laugh that carries across the room and sends a shiver down her spine. How long had it been since she let that sound turn the corners of her lips up? How long has she been repressing the part of her that missed this? 

Their god damned name hadn’t been on the list. 

All of her emotions were happening at once; anger, excitement, longing, annoyance. It had been months since Neve even allowed her mind to wander onto the thought of them. But now they were here, in the flesh. It made her wonder which face they were wearing that night. Would they change it after they saw her? The thought was enough to convince her to finish her drink and get a new one. And in order to do just that, she’d have to come face to face with them. She slid between Jackson and the bar, one hand clutching the glass in her hand and the other gripping the wood for balance. The sudden closeness was almost too much and one glance at their eyes was enough to make her dizzy. “What are you doing here?” 

Jackson knows it’s her before she speaks, can make her out by the sleek black strands that settle in their peripheral. From physical appearance alone, she needs no introduction. They fear they’ll remember the click of her heels, the fragrance of her perfume, the stain of color painted across both lips, forever. And, in the same breath, they fear they will forget. Moments they’d spent tediously memorizing those qualities with a lover’s desperation pool unwanted and achey in their thoughts. How they had so longed to unravel the mystery of Neve, then. How they now longed to unravel the mystery of Neve again, after intrinsically knowing her, after letting her settle beside the trembling organ beneath their ribcage. Would they always be damned to peer at her through this stranger’s gaze? 

Eyes flicker between brown hues, and Jackson fights against all natural instinct to raise his brows in surprise. Instead, he takes a weighted moment to sip the drink in his grip, allowing the silence to grow thick in the narrow distance that settles between them before forcing a smile. “Having a drink,” they deadpan, raising the glass in a cheers motion, “thank Ben for his hospitality for me, won’t you?” They know what she means, but it brings them a giddy delight to appear as ambiguous to Neve as she does to them. Had she rushed through the list, skipping names, to R, only to find Angela, and no Raemers? If it had been Damien hosting the party, perhaps Jackson would have been to eager to do the same, but Neve doesn’t need to know that.