may i fury. may i burn.

tongue waxing lyrical, of both beauty and battle cries.

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where. – their house, hammersmith. 

when. – 16th of july, 2021.

@kashvis​

No amount of blood shed by War’s panicked hands could undo the few minutes that have been replaying in Solomon’s mind. Sweat that had dried on his skin felt sharply cold as something brought him into a melted awakening, all hazy and nauseating. A pristine scene that left no trail. The noise of people on the streets, certainly no longer six in the morning. This is a trained man, whose first instinct was to reach one hand for the gun on his hidden pocket, another in Gabrielle Warden’s direction - but her chair was empty. He reaches for another cigarette, the old one still warm on the ashtray, just as he reaches for his Horsemen in his head. Again and again and again. The first few days were sleepless, a paranoid soldier guilty of losing the one they’d sworn to protect for countless years now. Then he got it all a bit more under control, becoming much more useful in the search for the missing Horsemen than before ( he did always act out heart first, even if his heart was more often made up of unloving emotions than any sort of softness ). The last time he’d gotten involved in the hunt for a Warden had been for naught, though, and the comparison weighed heavy on his chest - but he’d still kicked down every door and face for his maker. He’d used ancient contacts, he’d made promises ( never ones he could not fill, but certainly some that could cost him harsh ), any sort of bargain but it was fruitless. He’d slept eventually, head heavy on Kashvi’s skin, whispers of guilt, sadness, FEAR. War was trembling, and one of its longest serving soldier shook right along with it.

But it has been a week. No sign of Gabrielle, no clue on how or why it had happened at all, and no instructions from her on how to proceed. “See, this is what’s so damn incomprehensible.” The sentence starts without the context which lives in his head, but that’s not a new habit. He sits right on the edge between the living room and the backyard, patio chair engulfed in the warm light from inside, voice drowned by the low sound of music that Sol isn’t picking up on. The pushed back glass doors comply with the summer breeze, not quite comfortable at such hours. “There’s no measures in place. Why wouldn’t there be a plan B? C? The bloody alphabet and back.” They’ll hear you, his mind yells, but the house has been swiped for bugs on the daily, and the closest neighbours are offices, closed and empty. Solomon does ignore the pesky voice on his shoulder more and more these days, preferring to chat with the voice of the one approaching the glass doors. “I’m sure there’s one on her will, I guess, but what the hell happens in shit like this? So fucking reckless.” The criticism feels acidic on his tongue, but it has felt especially venomous in the later years. Eyes gaze up at his partner, staying there for a moment too long as he continuously inhales and exhales sharply, like someone about to open a dam of thoughts, yet no words come out. She knows this. She’s thought it too, we all have. Had the Wardens spoken about this amongst themselves? Had confused Angels whispered the same fear? 

Solomon’s mother used to tell him that a fear would only become real once it was a sound, out into the world. The monsters under his bed were only his foes if he told the world that they existed, and that he was afraid. Her voice warms his brain with every inhale - sin temor, keep all your fear in your head where no one else can hear it. And he’d held it in, every childish scare, but also every atom shaking kind of fear. No, his mother could never forget his face when she was living across the ocean, only listening to him on the telephone ( because he didn’t tell her that ). No, his little sister, the new and accomplished one, would never be more preferred over him ( because he didn’t tell her that ). No, that first bullet hole on his leg couldn’t be the end of his less than two decades worth of life ( because he didn’t tell them that ). No, that hospital trip that told him his life would forever have to adapt couldn’t scare him ( because he didn’t tell them that, and even if he told it to himself, it would have gotten lost in the ringing in his ear ). It was a simple philosophy to get a restless child to sleep, but it has carried him through decades of a thorny life full of paralyzing fears that he refused to turn into reality. After a week of searching, however, it iss time to give that fear a corporeal form, even if it means it can now attack. “What do we do if she’s dead?”

Kashvi understands the weight of responsibility. All her life, she has carried her own responsibilities with a certain grace, almost effortless, though not at all. It comes with being only child in a family like hers, with being one of the oldest cousins, with being branded heiress in more ways than one. She knows responsibility. And when she watches it weigh on Solomon – who can hide so much less easily from her now, now that they have decided to live together permanently – she wishes to take it all off his shoulders, tell him it is not his to carry. But she cannot say that, because she’d carry that same burden if the roles had been reversed, though perhaps with less of the heaviness. Her loyalty to Gabrielle Warden had always been less strong than Solomon, after all, who might as well see the woman as a deity in her own right. The Wardens were proving to be more and more mortal with the days, though, and Kashvi does not take pleasure out of it. She does, however, feel proven right.

She looks at him as they sit, the heat at this hour still simmering. Skin flush, mostly bare except for the light, flowey fabrics, legs extended, all relaxation except for the crease between her brow, the pull of her shoulder muscles. “It makes no sense.” Gabrielle Warden must have had a plan, in the case of disappearance. In the case of her untimely demise. “Unless she was too arrogant to think that something like this could happen.” It’s what leaves them in limbo, the fact that they have been left with a gap where their leader should stand and no one stepping up. Saint and Remus a united front, which is warming to see, but also worrying. Her ambition has always been a strength and a vice at once, and it’s hard to not look at the place War has been left in and not see opportunity. Did others see it? Did Cemile sit at home, thinking about how she could protect her sister better if she took a leap? Did Domenico, Kai, even Rita? Would those that didn’t want to be here as much, like Liam, see this lack of concrete leadership as an opportunity? In the end, though, it’s not these worries that make her look at the empty Horseman spot with a hunger, but it’s her own selfishness. Her own righteousness. “Maybe she left no plan on purpose. Maybe she wants her children to fight it out.” 

Ikki treats the party like he does every single party he’s expected to go to. Like an annoyance. Like he has better things he could be doing, even if that is not always necessarily true. Right now you could argue it was. He did not believe in this truce, he certainly did not think it was going to last, he did not respect over half of the people in this room, and he had a pile of work he could be doing back at the office  ( or at his home office at the very least ). But like everybody else he had to be here, so he was. Mostly keeping to himself, and minding his own business at a table by himself, with body language that read  ‘please leave me the fuck alone’.  However, he gets up eventually, making the rounds to people he knows he should greet. Some he respect more than others. Kashvi Singh is, in fact, one of those that he does respect more than others. So, he doesn’t hesitate heading up to the bar and ordering a whisky before nodding his head towards her.

“It certainly has,”  He agrees, repressing the smile that rang with both pride, and ( god forbid anyone see such a thing on his face ) actual happiness.  “Thank you.”  Ikki takes the drink the bartender sets out, and turns to lean against the bar, his eyes scanning across the party. The distaste showing across his face once again, as he shakes his head.  “It is funny,”  he says, looking over at Kashvi,  “the moment the fight gets taken to them, the truce gets reinstated.”  He meant Death, the pathetic cowards. Were it up to Ikki, or a lot of others in this room he believed, the fight would have continued until it did not need to continue any more. And he hardly considered himself a vindictive or violent person, so he could only imagine what those in War thought.  “It’s almost like they should not really even be here. It must have been easy to feel intimidating when they are too afraid to say who they are.”  Ikki rolls his eyes, as he sips his drink, with a sigh.  “But it is nice to catch up with some people,”  he adds to Kashvi, tilting his glass towards her.

“Hm, who knows? Maybe in a few years we’ll both be CEO’s.” She gives a smile, wonders if a business ( purely legal business ) collaboration could be in the future of Singh Industries and Femenias Energy, but does not voice any such thoughts. His observation on Death’s change in position makes her smirk. “They’ve done nothing but proven to be slippery rats. Running off when the water gets too hot.” Kashvi reconsiders her words. “Or, in their case, too cold.” Her mind flashes to the day the Truce had broken, of Domenico in her car, freezing because of Ikki’s actions. Quite some things had transpired since then, though. It’s not her grudge to carry, anyway.

To talk badly of Death is easy; to acknowledge that they had blindsided them all is hard. And so Kashvi goes along. “See, that’s my problem, here. How can we agree to a Truce with people we don’t even know? Some of them will still be able to run around anonymously, break the rules we’ve agreed upon, and we might not even know. So much room for deniability when you’re partly anonymous.” To agree to a Truce with the other two gangs was one thing, but Death? They were fresh, amateuristic, new to the scene and not deserving of such an agreement, if you asked her. “But yes. There are some bright sides.” She gives a smile, straightens her dress a little. “Catching up. An open bar ...”

It’s always fascinating to watch leaders of elite empires stretch their hands across new corners of the world, trying desperately to stick their fat fingers into yet another pie. Russia is often a cold and unwelcoming place to outsiders — though Sacha’s father hungers for his influence to reach beyond his motherland’s strict borders himself. This dance with new business partners is part of that fickle effort, Ruslan’s decades long mission to compete with Western powers, all while trying to maintain a safe, uncompromised distance. Having Kashvi Singh over to tour one of his father’s sad little subsidiary companies is a sight to behold and yet a tempting irony; she’s wandered into their barren fields on her father’s behalf, who touts visions of some grand manufacturing plant or the other that will give life to Dhaval’s own piece of old Russian empire. Ruslan Tarasov lets his only child loose like a guard dog to sniff out any potential threats. 

What a bitch it is to meet her halfway around the world when he could’ve just as easily popped by the London office of Singh Industries to talk formalities— but neither of their fathers know of that opportunity, and besides, isn’t it better to see what you’re purchasing for yourself? They met in the factory for sale, a mess of mechanical noise and gruff Russian of workers flitting about. Sipping black coffee offered by Kashvi, Sacha offers an amused smile in response. “Awkward for you, maybe. I feel right at home,” he lies, as unfamiliar with this corner of the city as she is. Sacha only makes the trip to Moscow for major holidays and the most important of business ventures, and isn’t exactly pleased about this last minute trip to a home he hardly claims. “He knows who I work for, yes,” Sacha says cooly, “though when compared to the circles he runs in, he thinks of this,” they point from themselves to Kashvi, “as almost like. Fraternity shit.” Knowing his father’s deep involvement in governing Russian state media and related policies, Sacha can laugh at his own little joke.

Eyebrows squish together in amusement at such a stupid question. “This is Russia.” They lean forward, voice soft as it passes across the table: “nine out of ten people in this factory are concealed carrying right now.” It’s certainly an over-exaggeration, but they don’t mind letting stereotypes play to their advantage. Sacha shrugs and adds, “but I won’t shoot you, it’d be bad for business. And there’s the whole truce thing to worry about,” they say, laughing at the very concept, “if you follow your Horseman’s commands.”

She nearly makes a comment on how she feels quite comfortable too, really, among large machines and with the creak of metal in the background, but then swallows the comment. She has nothing to prove to Sacha Tarasov. “Oh, I meant more awkward as in ... not too long ago that we were facing off as your boat sank, was it?” The Truce does not erase their status as enemies, even if they have never gone eye to eye directly, but it does keep her from reaching for his throat. Which, after what she has learned about Tarasov so far, is something she’d love to do. “I hope you didn’t get hurt.”

A mental note is made to look into who Tarasov’s father is. Dynasties like these are worth keeping an eye on, especially if there will be collaboration going forward. Fathers: so much seems to trace back to them. War, having been started by Warlock — Ruslan Tarasov and his son across from her, now — and then her own father, inheriting a company and connecting it to London’s underground business, dragging his own daughter into it. Sins of the fucking father, indeed.

Kashvi refuses to look impressed as he makes an estimate of the amount of people carrying, “I didn’t ask if my company’s future employees are carrying, but thank you for the assessment. I asked about you — I asked because I wonder if you find it necessary to meet me with a gun, despite the little Truce.” She has her own weapon, picked up upon arrival in Russia, a non-Bellum brand thing. It’ll do the trick if she needs it, though. “Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m not planning on negotiating with a gun, knife or even dagger against your chin today. It is my preferred method but, hey. Let’s stick to our agreements.” She takes a sip from her coffee. Doesn’t pull a face, even if she thinks it’s shit. “Besides, I don’t think this should have to take long. You’ve read the paperwork?”

Kashvi wasn’t wrong, but she also didn’t know the full story and wouldn’t unless his cover was blown. Which was the real reason he was nervous. Otherwise, he would be business as usual except there might be some concern that he was doing a good job but that wasn’t enough to leave him so visibly shaken. “Y-yeah I suppose you’re right.” He answered and offered a small tight lipped smile. It doesn’t ease his worry that someone might have seen him with the other agent, but he needed to attempt to make it seem like it helped. He’d been trying for the past hour to calm himself and stop thinking about everything that could go wrong as the day moved on. Obviously it hadn’t worked very well if it caught Kashvi’s attention. “Stick to the side, listen, got it.” The Power nodded and rolled his shoulders back at the suggestion. 

He stepped into the elevator after the Virtue and bowed his head to watch his hands wring together slowly. “No, I don’t think so.” Samir had visited many warehouses in his time with War but he didn’t spend as much time in the Ritz. Mostly it was split between the gun range and the houses of parliament when he wasn’t on a transportation or by Rita’s side. There was still a small fear that Kashvi was bringing him somewhere to dispose of him. But it was small and the larger part was interested in what she was going to show him. Plus the quiet of the elevator was nice in comparison to the noise on the main floor. “What’s in the basement?” He asked to continue the conversation.

There is a part of her that wonders how Samir is on the job, if he’s this fidgety in the face of illegal activity and bloody violence, too. But he’s not her Power, and she has enough on her mind to also meddle with Rita’s ( et al ) crew, so she lets it go. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll hear something interesting.” That it should be reported back goes unsaid; Samir is smart enough to know that’s what’s expected. She gives him another smile, one of reassurance. 

Her gaze falls on his hands and she wonders, truly, where all this anxiety comes from. Maybe she’s too used to this, these kind of events with bigwigs and backroom meetings, having been part of this world since she was old enough to step a proper foot in it. “An arsenal.” She pushes the button that’ll take them to the basement, then checks her reflection, pulls out a bobby-pin and puts it between her lips. “Our very best. You should have been shown it already, I think, but you don’t step by often enough.” It’s hardly a secret, after all, among the ranks; but maybe it’s good that it’s not spread around too widely. Not that Samir can access it so easily, anyway. “I oversee it.”

Kashvi’s laughter warms him, in its genuine joy that sparks from her through like a swarm of butterflies; their wings gilded in molten gold, dripping pearls of precious metal to cling to the fibers of his own soul and bring light to caverns that previous lay baron and cold. It was often that way in Kashvi’s presence, a woman who basks herself in pride, and tangible ego wears a crown crafted from her own surety rather than one that is to be earned from a cold and wary Horseman. “Yeah, whatever, I’ve seen that big love heart in the back of your notebook with ‘Mrs. Kashvi Romero’ written in the middle,” Saint continues to taunt, teasing in his tone as light and playful as the conversation continued to exchange. The jaunt of love blossoming, in both of them, even if the truth was only permitted to be spoken by one. “Good. It’s nice, I’m happy for you both,” he responds, earnestly considerate. In many ways, he’s certain Gabrielle would too, behind the serious expression of his Maman, lives a woman softened by love, the right kind, at least. Love that strengthens her gang, and builds stronger connections between her members. 

Then as Kashvi’s curiosity displays itself in the form of questions, he smiles again, validated and grateful for an idea he can call his own to be met willingly and without skepticism. “A couple of months, since Nadia Salem gave me that concussion, it knocked some inspiration into me,” Saint’s hand idly wanders to comb through his hair, a nod in reciprocation paid in reassurance. “Entirely separate. It won’t depend on Remus’s election to sell, but it would benefit from it, as all things concerning my family and our businesses would,” he continues, head tilting in observation of their location as the driver takes a turn closer to Solomon’s place. “I’ve got all the numbers worked out, Rem is writing up a pitch for me to perform for investors– and well, you don’t get the official pitch, but as a friend, and a friend who is like a sister to me, your involvement in my company would mean a lot to me,” Saint turns, green eyes meeting her brown, “whatever that would mean for you, if it’s investing, or just advice. I want you to be part of this,” he pauses, unsure if the wine that accompanied dinner had caused too much heartfelt rambling that he’d usually feel secure with sharing. “Our parents have their own relationships, I think it’s time the next generation started walking in their footsteps and building something even better. Will you think about it?” 

There’s more warm laughter, spilling out. If there is anything these past weeks and months have taught her ( it’s a reinforced lesson, really, as she has always kind of known this ), it’s that it’s crucial to hold onto what is warm, what is good, what is there. Grief leaves a hole within War, and she may not feel it as intensely as the brother that sits next to her, but it offers perspective all the same. Strange, how love blossoms in the face of death and loss. But at the same time, not strange at all. “For the record, if we were to ever get married, he’d have to take my surname,” she quips, extending her legs, toes upward, a muscle or bone realigning. Stress shows itself in the tenseness of her body, most of all. She looks at Saint, for a moment, appreciating what she does truly think is sincerity. “Thank you.” 

We have time. It’s clear as water now, with all the distance. Have I finally stopped being foolish? Solomon did always wait for a certain click that would put his brain in the right place, no more fighting winless fights and chasing the kind of adrenaline that only ends in bruise - to grow, so to speak. In his disorganized brain flow memories of Kashvi over the years, mutating as he too did: old smiles he can’t remember the cause for; target competitions he’d often win; the first drink after work at a bar that has been closed for years now; first dinner party at her place, Solomon? He’s a friend from work. There was a green suit once, maybe in 2017, as she stopped before a conference room to trade a quick few words with the security man by the door - or maybe he’d been the one to talk to her. No, that was 2016, early summer. They’ve been solid for so long, even before kisses, before sex, before love. Sol gets lost in the tangle of memories that he didn’t pay enough mind to as they were happening, FOOLISH, not realising how she was the only path ahead. Crossing glances that sent electricity down his spine, knowing damn well that it was a matter of time before one of them took the missing step. Leaving meetings an extra half-hour after, so that no one saw how his car went in the same direction as hers. Thinking, ‘this was one time, and it won’t happen again’, a few times a week. The mental snapshots show behind his eyes as he unleashes what they truly mean, and Solomon is somewhere between painfully present in the moment, and drunk on emotions, and quick words, and images of her that cannot match the detail of what is in front of him. 

The moment the very last sound leaves his throat, the silence is terrifying. There he is, reckless words and reckless manners, no witnesses but the most important one, and the noise of his breathing is louder than a gunshot inside his ear. It’s the very same kind of adrenaline as the moment after jumping from deadly heights, caught after the act with red hands and red face, and far too late to take anything back, but not yet in the fall. Kashvi breaks the silence with the loudest word of all, her lips on his, fitting as perfectly as it did the first time he realised that it was as if their mouths had been formed to snap in place. One of his hands curls in the space between her jaw and neck, the other holds her back, slowly pushing her in: out of the cliff, right into the fall, with him coming along. 

He makes some sad noise as she pulls back, something weakly hungry. Solomon can’t stop himself from stealing another quick kiss as her lips leave, though. I could stop looking for places. The smile on his lips grows at the idea, even if he hasn’t really considered that Kash might actually leave eventually. “No. No, stay.” No unless, no but. “I mean, were you even really considering going anywhere else? I think you’re pretty stuck here.” He doesn’t know when he started imagining home and seeing her on his couch. Maybe a while ago, in a dreamy fantasy he refused to dedicate much time to. Or whenever she stayed over and it felt violently cold to watch her collect her belongings and drive off. Or when he got a key to her house, dangling on his keychain with his own. But now he simply knew he’d return to her shoes in the hallway, her face in the backyard, or at least her dog on his couch. It happened fast, like a fall, like everything they did, but their speed did always work out so why wouldn’t they get lucky again? “I’m an eloquent man.” Drops of laughter fall from his smile, but his eyes are locked on hers, even when they move elsewhere. There is no hiding when he’s this close. “Sounds like we got it figured out.” His hand moves up her face, in a manner so gentle he’s barely even touching her at all, skin grazing up to her cheekbone. “We’re doing this right. Yeah? You want me completely? You’ve got it.” It’s not a lie. Perhaps aspirational, but he’s itching closer and closer to making it the truth. Solomon takes a second before pulling in closer and placing a kiss where he was just touching, and then another closer to her ear, before whispering in. “Thank you.” For pushing me off the cliff. Or for letting me jump. For making me want to jump. For going into the fall with me. Maybe he even thanks her for everything he hasn’t thanked her before, for all he’ll be grateful for eventually, or for being there in this moment. There’s isn’t much thought behind the words, but an overwhelming need to let Kashvi know that she’s the reason, the key, the cataclysm.

Stay. He says it so easily, that word, and yet not at all — there had been so much leaving before. Leaving through the bed, leaving through the front door, leaving the conversation before it became too real. It’s been a dance, for years: a skilful one, one of technical perfection, one of passion and unspoken devotion, but one of always pulling away, in the end. Stay, he says. To live like this, with Solomon next to her most mornings, sharing a kitchen, sharing a home ... a home! There’s something giddy about her, something lovesick at the thought. “I think I’m quite stuck here too.” There are things to arrange, strings to pull, but her mind is not yet on the paperwork that she might want to look at with Solomon — it’s on him. On giving all to him and receiving all in return. “I’ll stay. We’ll make this our home.” If it wasn’t already. Home. It’s been in her for years, this yearning to share that word with someone. To do it with Solomon? Right now, she cannot think of a thing she would rather have. She leans in closer, kisses him again, soft and short but like a seal on all of this. 

There’s commitment, in this kitchen. Agreement. Kisses of passion and happiness, but a promise as well: you’ve got it. “We’re doing this. All in.” Her fingers move from his curls to his eyebrow, pushing a hair in its place and rubbing, softly. All in, she says, she thinks, and what else would make sense for them? Two people wrought from passion, from protectiveness, from devotion: how could they love half-heartedly, with one foot out the door? It’s a miracle they lasted as long as they had, dancing around it all. 

His lips hover over her ear and he whispers words of gratitude. She does not ask why he speaks them, because Kashvi thinks she knows. She thinks she knows Solomon better than anyone has ever known him. Who else, after all, has shared both the intimacy of murder as well as the intimacy of sex with the same person? There’s blood shed between them, but things created too: love, life, death. She leans into him, whispers, “You’re welcome,” and when she kisses him next she thinks that they could do it. All of it. Any of it. London could be theirs for the taking. But for now? There’s just him. Not even breakfast matters, now.

He dips into the car, head buzzing from wine and thoughts weighing less heavy on his conscience. It’s the victories like this, evidently, that mattered. Or at least they had to Saint, born with the need for validation and approval in everything he did, the suggestion a shareholder was considering pulling out due to his credibility in Bellum was enough to knock him sick. But it’s done, and tonight would become just another merit for Saint to cross off his list. Punctuate his validity with a job well done, and an acknowledging nod towards his friend that helped along with the persuasion. “Oh sorry, have you guys skipped straight to fiancé already?” he teases again, the familiar spark returning to his gaze as an elbow nudges gently into Kashvi’s side, and he’s met with a familiar feeling he’d not experienced since February. Sisterly love isn’t so easy to capture, not when the variety in which Saint experienced were polished like a blade that twists still in his abdomen. But Kashvi’s consideration is perpetually warm as the hearth she conspires to ignite in the belly of War. Warm a gang born from ice from the inside out, to thaw and fuel themselves on more than just violence and dispute. 

“Deal,” a grin sprawls across parted lips, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as the car starts, and passing street lights immerse the scenery outside the window in delicate hues of amber and yellow. “I’ve been thinking about Remus’s campaign for Prime Minister, and how I could help both him and War,” Saint begins, hands reaching for his trouser pocket to dig out his phone and tap away at the screen to pull up a BETA version of an app. “So I had an idea, take what Remus is saying about supplying weapons to the masses for security, but make it idiot proof. Essentially the business idea is centred on safety, and it will have nothing to do with Bellum Nova, or weaponry. It’ll be separated. It’s CCTV cameras, and programming that can be installed into existing cameras,” he passes over his phone to Kashvi, the home screen showing all Warden owned properties in real time. Recording, capturing, watching. “It’s accessible, that’s what makes it brilliant. Remus offers free installation to all households, public areas, and companies, and it’s viral. The more people using the cameras, or installing the app onto their existing security, the more eyes and ears we will have across the whole of the country,” Saint’s voice dips, low enough only for Kashvi to hear, “it could allow the opportunity for us to manipulate certain areas and timeframes of footage to War’s advantage. Our advantage, Kash.” 

She chuckles at his words, does not say that she has considered it, that kind of commitment to Solomon, though she wonders if they need such archaic agreements when they are already as united as they are. “Oh, no, no. It’s just interesting to hear someone use that word, for us.” A change, to be sure, from the previous partnered Dominion or simply Solomon. “And it does sound a bit ... youthful and girlish, hm? As if I write his name with hearts around it.” This was different than such puppy-love: as strong as the heart itself, that bloody, beating organ. No frilly anatomically incorrect hearts, here, but the simplest and purest of desire, devotion and commitment. But boyfriend, too, is a simple term, and maybe this is just that: love has always been simple for her, anyway. “Sainty, know this: if it ever comes to that, I’ll let you know quite soon after.” And she means that.

She listens, eyes on Saint and then on the phone screen, tapping through the application with genuine interest, business cogs in her mind moving. “How long have you been sitting on this brilliance, Saint?” Kashvi hands the phone back over. “So, what’s your proposal? Or do you want to hear my thoughts, first?” She’ll give them, regardless of the answer. “It exists apart from the campaign too, right? If we’re thinking long term, sustainability ... assurance. Remus might not win.” And this idea was broader than politics and policies, though if the two could be combined she supposes it would be stronger. “I don’t say that because I don’t doubt him, you know that. I doubt the general public.” That’s met with a smirk, turned grimace. She does not wish loss upon her friend. Nor her ally. “But it’s good, Saint, truly. If you make people feel like they’re in control of their security, rather than have them feel as observed as they most likely do now ... give them the power. And more importantly give ourselves some, too.” 

She’s not particularly pious, even if religion continues to play its role in her life through the strong bonds with her family. And yet, in moments like these, she is certain of the forces she grew believing in. This is karma, truly. Her father and Sacha Tarasov’s father, somehow ending up doing the business tango and using their heirs to smooth things over. It’s ironic, hilarious, the absolute most fortunate yet unfortunate timing for this to happen. Truce fresh in place, but revelations still freshly made, as well.

They meet in Russia. Home turf, for Tarasov. She’s not pleased about it, but it’s good to be near the location where the factory in question is: a downtrodden thing that Singh Industries will breathe new life into. They want good press, though, or rather the influence that comes with it. For local workforce, local influence, for more-than-regional clientele. A job that doesn’t even fall under her job description, but her dad’s been pushing her around more, as of late, which can only mean good things.

They are not made for peace, these creatures of War. For a while, in those first days after the Truce had broken, Kashvi had thought that she wanted the arrangement back. And there were perks to Truces ( a reassurance when it comes to her loved ones safety and business benefits, for example ), there were also plenty of downsides. Namely: her unquelled rage. With Famine and Pestilence she could shake a hand again, perhaps, but Death? Well, she’s certain she’s not the only one dissatisfied with this agreement. With this shake of a skeletal hand.

So there’s something simmering below the surface. She moves towards the bar, sheer fabric moving around her, fingers itching. A thought that calms her is that it’s worse for the Warden brothers, or so she imagines. In the room with their sister’s killer: at least that grief does not weigh on her, tonight. Or hardly ever. At the bar, she orders a martini, taps all her manicured nails against the surface thrice and then looks sideways. “Ikki Nakamura,” she says, as if she’s surprised to see him. “So much has happened in your life since we could last ... cordially interact.” She holds no ill will towards him, she thinks. His fiance, of course, is another story. An irritant, even now. “Congratulations, on many fronts.”

As Alistair leaves, Saint is prompt to take his phone out, motioning for Kashvi to give him a moment as he dials in a familiar number and leaves his card on the table to pay for the check. Getting up from his chair, he moves towards an empty hallway in the restaurant, the secluded area muffled of the sound of chattering guests and clink of wine glasses that permit the entirety of the building. The phone rings, once, twice, and then promptly it’s answered. “Dad, hey, I just finished up with Alistair,” Saint informs, waiting for response. ‘Hello, Sainty. How did it go?’ but Warlock doesn’t allow much room for reply, his father’s will to rant quickly overbearing curiosity for the deal as he huffs down the line, and says a thing or two about ‘stupid Americans’. “-Dad, it went well. He agreed to not pull out, and he’s going to come play golf with us,” ‘Oh!’ Warlock’s tone significantly improves, a joyous blare as he shifts into French, spoken only with a painfully British inflection. Now informing Gabrielle that the dinner was a success, he’s repaid with the approving sound of a kiss. Saint roles his eyes, looking down at his Rolex, as he stays on the line to listen to Warlock run him through some of the following month’s agenda. After a few more moments, the pair say their goodbyes, Saint hanging up first as he makes his way back over to Kashvi and slides his coat on. 

Outside, the air is crisp, the sky still light in the charming way that Spring had swiftly shifted to Summer and the days gets longer and longer with each passing day. “Good job, you,” Saint corrects, as he walks with his friend and searches in his pockets for his lighter and a packet of half smoked cigarettes. “I’m always free for you Kashvi Singh,” he chides, happily with a skip as he takes a step out in front of the other, walking backwards so to remain merrily in conversation. “Whichever you prefer, i’m not hungry, but I’ll happily tag along and make sure I get you back to your boyfriend,” the last word is spoken with a wide-toothed grin, his lips sprawling ear to ear in a friendly but teasing tone; perfectly executed in all his years practice as a younger brother. With a cigarette moved to balance with his teeth, Saint lights the end, returning his lighter to his trouser pockets before tilting his head. “How fed up are you with business talk this evening?” he asks first, green eyes squinting playfully. “It’s only I have a proposition for you of my own, and it’s really fucking brilliant.” 

Well sure, she thinks, if he’s set on insisting that she should receive the bulk of the praise, she’ll take it. Kashvi grins, lifts a strand of hair and flicks it over her shoulder. There’s smug pleasure to be found in being needed, in being invited along to a business meeting solely because of her connections, not her involvement with the business itself. “And I for you, Saint Warden,” she says, going along with his ease, watching him walk backwards. It seems to always sway between extremes with the Seraphim doesn’t it? Perhaps it’s a way to cope: mania versus depression is one of the oldest tales in the book, after all. “My boyfriend?” So maybe her face twists into something even brighter, now. “Well, really, it’s the least you could do. Drop me off like a real gentleman.”

The proposition of more business talk, of a proposition of Saint of his own piques her interest, “Tell you what,” she says, a decision made with ease. “You can talk my ears off about your proposal on our drive up to Solomon’s, and once we’re there, we indulge.” In food, in something else than this professional tether that ties them together. Kashvi likes working with Saint, for his shrewdness when it comes to business ( and for the fact that he’s not above her, when it comes to her position in Singh Industries, but rather a business partner: an equal, of sorts ) but she likes being around him as a friend, too. A sister, maybe. These days she finds it harder to see their relationship as sibling-like, as she once had, with Juno’s death so omnipresent. ( Even in death, she was everywhere: she’d love it. Kashvi has to respect her for it, she supposes. ) Kashvi moves to her car with chauffeur which has pulled up and opens the door for Saint. Once she’s in herself, the door closed, and directions extended, she looks at Saint. “Indulge me in your brilliance.”

her rage is so familiar, and it makes his cheeks shift into a knowing smile under his mask. in this setting, she looks divine, and if she were someone else, they’d be far more upset about spilling red wine down a dress like that, the detailing of which they wish they could fawn over with penny. but not only does his sister’s heart not belong in a place as rotten as this, emil fears she could crumble into so many pieces that he would never see her whole again. so while he longs for the love and support that once never left his side, to confide in her would serve only himself. he can not tell penny how he purposefully ruined alexander mcqueen with red wine because the woman wearing it is a mass murderer, but at least he can laugh about this with laura. or gigi, or gwen, or buffy. perhaps he’s not as alone as he goes to bed feeling.

an apologetic smile does nothing for them hidden behind a gas mask, so their faux guilt is forced into how their hands rub at the back of their neck. “hey now, you’re making it sound like i did it on purpose,” they could laugh, but they hold their tongue. emil pretends to glance around for a solution, and in doing so, catches a passing server, handing them the empty glass. “hey, buddy, could you get us some napkins or something?— thank you so much,” when they look back at her, they are met with an intensity that makes them grin. emil wonders how much his height difference is throwing her off, if there’s anything recognisable in the way he speaks now. “i know,” he sighs audibly over the music, “alexander mcqueen, right? it’s gorgeous.” shame about the fucking model. they consider her question with a hum to mask their amusement. “hm, are we talking my property, or someone else’s?” like a lamp, or a coffee table?

A drink spilled in a place like this? Kashvi would think herself stupid to assume something like that was an accident. Perhaps it’s fucked, to see everything as a cloaked attack, but there has been too much bloodshed, too much fire and explosion, to not assume the worst in people. Besides, she’d rather be angry at someone who did something on purpose, than at someone who did it on accident. Righteous rage, and all that. “Didn’t you?” She smiles, teeth bared. “If you didn’t, you ought to be more careful. There’s some fucked up people around here.” He knows the designer and Kashvi files it away, the fact that someone among Death seemed to have a good eye for fashion. 

Maybe she wants this person to be her assailant. Maybe this is the simplest form of projection, a desperate attempt to grasp at straws: but they had to be in the room, didn’t they? And as he speaks, Kashvi feels like her instincts are right. “Someone else’s,” she drawls, stepping closer, eyes piercing at his as if they’re daggers. How she wishes she had one to press against the back of his ear right now, pull it down so a red stain would form on his suit, too. “Though, really, I wonder if you’ve got a tendency to purposefully break things that aren’t yours, come into places that aren’t yours, only to stain them, attempt to ruin them, leave your pathetic mark.” Kashvi presses closer, takes the stranger’s hand, lifts it, as if they’re dancing. This was a ball, after all. “Do you have trouble with boundaries? Respecting them?”

As with all things, Saint falls quiet. Although it’s never from a lack of things to say, rather it’s his ability to sit comfortably in his own silence as he watches the world around him proceed to unravel with its momentum without the need of his persuasions. Not now, anyway, as Kashvi takes lead in their conversation as makes points less factual, but far more charming, to their beloved shareholder who currently holds Bellum in a chokehold with his sudden ambiguity. And there are perks to being observational, as Saint’s fork dives into a slice of cucumber before popping it into his mouth. Chewing carefully, he can see how Alistair’s gaze lights up, eager and with an inflated ego that finds evident amounts of self-worth in the way Kashvi keenly offers up attention to him as if served on a silver platter. It may even make him feel sick if the notion of losing out on one of their most vital shareholders weren’t a deadlier contemplation. So Saint simply keeps to himself, waiting for his next moment for the fish to finally fucking bite.

With gentle retorts and flirtations, Kashvi pushes the other man in the right direction, a joyous scoff and a shrug accompanying Alistair’s expression as he grabs the bottle of wine from the center of the table and, at long last, liberally tops up his drink with the cabernet. ‘Okay’, the American’s accent is harsh for it’s setting, a sudden end to his relentless games insight as he leans back in his chair and nods to Saint with the type of trust he’d certainly not helped to install. “Okay,” Saint repeats, with a merry nod, leaning to fill his and Kashvi’s wine glasses, and once full, grabbing his own to clink in ‘cheers’. With the ring of crystal cut chalices, comes the favourable news for Gabrielle and Warlock, that their investments for the next year wouldn’t see a dramatic peak in the vacancy of a crucial contact in the states. “You won’t regret it. And if it’s ever our transport that you’re anxious about, my door is always open,” a pause, Saint grins, charmingly sarcastic, “well, almost always. I’m a very busy man. But I’d be happy to continue building our relationship together. My old man and I, we play a lot of golf, perhaps you’d be interested in a game?” Alistair’s line of sight flickers back to Kashvi, and with a shrug, agrees. 

Okay, he says, and Kashvi gives Saint a look that says fucking finally before smiling widely at her family friend. “Okay,” she echoes, finishing the chorus and clinking her glass before taking a sip. It’s on Saint again, this much like a game of chess where Alistair is nothing but the pawn they somehow both shove along. “Oh, you must say yes, Ali. Warlock is a wonderful player.” Kashvi hates golf, in all fairness, but she knows as most business people do, that the golfcourt is where some historic business agreements are made. ( And broken. ) 

Desert follows soon, the rest of the evening spent chit-chatting about topics of lesser importance to Bellum Nova, Kashvi showing a picture of her recently-turned-one niece ( technically a cousin, but she calls her her niece regardless ) before demanding Alistair shows off his own tiny relatives. They’re outside in an hour, expenses paid and Alistair getting in his town car, zooming off as Kashvi watches red lights trail away before looking at Saint.