lance navarro.

𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚗𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘 , 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙞𝙢𝙞𝙘.

𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚚,          +         open     starter.

with:  anyone  ! location:  foyer  /  heading  towards  the  bar.

reality     aches     towards     precarious.   a   balance   quinn   tried   desperately   to   maintain   began   to   reveal   cracks;   dreaded   vertiginous   sense   that   came   with   his   stomach   dropping   at   the   sight   of   his   childhood   home.   [   no   headmaster   waiting   for   a   report,   budding   teammates   alongside.   it’s   low   hanging   lightning   +   a   congregation   of   flashing   bulbs.   ]   fight   for   a   steady   composure   against   the   current,   feeling   greedy   hands   grasp   at   the   seams,   searching   for   a   loose   thread   to   tug.   it’s   an   event   quinn   had,   admittedly   with   misplaced   faith,   hoped   would   never   happen.   figured   knox’s   ingenuity   would   absolve   him   from   the   inevitable   -—   be   there   to   guide   quinn   through   the   murk   of   it   all.   but   fate   +   heart   complications   refuted,   otherwise.   front   door   slammed   with   outer   layer   shrugged   off,   feel   immediate   guilt   weigh   down   the   armour   that   comes   in   the   form   of   a   black   suit.   edges   worn   like   it’s   owner,   altered   to   safely   hide   holsters,   throwing   knives   at   the   ready.   old   habits   died   miserably   hard.

attempt   to   avoid   nostalgia   like   some   old   friend.   the   afternoon   was   meant   to   comfort   others,   balance   trepidations   with   steadfast.   [   grievances   were   already   dealt   with   a   cheap   bottle   +   a   late   night   in   the   office.   brushed   off   under   the   label   of   minor   feelings,   someone   had   to   keep   pieces   together.   ]   grey   hues   caught   sight   of   the   bar   across   the   opening   of   the   dining   room.   one   drink   to   bring   himself   steady.   movement   breaks   into   callous   actions,   an   accidental   collision   of   shoulders.   ❛   christ   -—   ❜   it’s   instinctive,   spit   out   the   name   to   fill   missing   gaps.   heels   turned,   features   contort   into   a   sheepish   apology,   ❛   sorry,   my   bad.   i   just   .   .   .   haven’t   seen   the   place   filled   with   so   many   bodies   in   a   while.   ❜

He   knows   that   voice.

Of   course   he   does,   of   course   he   would—he's   been   playing   it   in   his   mind   something   bloody.   Lance   hears   that   Christ,   half   broken-off,   half   battered,   the   word   he'd   drawn   out   from   Quinn   in   so   many   ways,   so   many   settings,   and   he   doesn't   know   how   he   can   get   through   this.   His   throat   constricts.   It   squeezes   around   the   sound   like   anticipating   the   punch.   His   shoulder   feels   singed   where   Quinn   knocked   into   it.

He   can't   even   look   at   him.   Thankfully,   he   doesn't   have   to.   The   layout   of   the   bar   shields   them   from   the   brunt   of   contact.   The   lobby   allows   for   little   elbow-rubbing.   It's   as   if   this   house,   this   cavernal   and   calloused   hall,   knew   beforehand   that   its   residents   will   not   want   to   come   together.   The   Knox   estate   is   a   place   built   with   distance   in   mind;   built   on   the   very   bones   of   loneliness.

He   feels   like   he   understands   Quinn   better,   now.   He   feels   like   he   understands   everything,   everything   and   nothing   at   all.

There's   no   way   to   say   it.   Maybe   there   never   was.

With   people   all   around,   with   their   families   bracketing   them   like   frontline   defenses,   like   a   metal   casket   raised   to   hide   something   radioactive,   Lance   is   hand-tied.   Tongue-tied.   If   he's   honest,   here,   which   he   tries   not   to   be,   what   with   his   strict   diet   of   self-delusion—but   if   he   were   to   be,   against   doctor's   orders   and   better   judgement,   he'd   admit   that's   not   true.   Their   families   have   nothing   to   do   with   it.   He'd   still   be   stone-faced   if   they   were   alone.   He'd   still   be   unable   to   say   sorry,   to   say   anything   that   could   bridge   the   gap.   Even   if   it   was   just   them   in   the   whole   world.   It'd   take   doomsday,   and   he   still   couldn't   get   the   words   out.   And   so,   Lance   does   what   he   does   best:   he   acts.   He   pretends   they   are   strangers,   now,   forever.   He   steels   his   body   the   same   way   he   would   if   another   one   of   the   Oculus   poster   kids   approached   him.   It   goes...   well.   It   goes.   For   all   that   Lance   has   staked   himself   on   acting,   built   a   hideout   inside   it,   he   never   found   it   as   hard   as   he   does   now.

In   a   way,   it   was   never   quite   as   easy,   either.

Finally,   after   a   silence   that   makes   his   teeth   knock   together,   he   rounds   the   bar   and   approaches   Quinn.   His   heart   goes   double-time.   He   can   smell   the   booze   on   him,   just   a   faint   layer   under   the   press   of   silk.   He   can   smell   the   exhaustion   and   the   tinge   of   fire—not   his   powers,   no,   not   that   inhuman   tinge   they   streaked   across   his   skin,   but   something   more   mundane.   Chimney   and   soot.   The   smell   of   fall   and   gathering   clouds.   It   drives   him   mad,   really.   It   drives   him   half   wild.

It's   two   seconds   into   this   meeting   that   he   realises,   honestly,   honestly,   that   he   won't   be   able   to   be   normal   about   this.   He   grips   the   edge   of   the   bar   and   leans   down   on   it.   People   will   be   watching,   he   knows,   he   knows.   He   always   thought   he   cared   little   for   that   part,   far   less   than   most   of   his   kin,   but   he's   never   reached   this   level   of   carelessness   before.   This   sheer   indifference,   this   disregard   for   anything   except   the   present   moment.   It   could   be   doomsday.   The   world   could   burn.   It   wouldn't   matter.   He   tilts   his   head.   Slowly,   Lance   tips   himself   back   to   regard   the   other.

The   inner   courtyard   is   deserted.   It   feels   hostile,   and   hollow   in   a   way   that   has   nothing   to   do   with   death.   It’s   not   a   ghost—nor   the   setting   stage   to   one.   Rather,   a   door   left   half   open.   The   emptiness   that   sleeps   here   isn’t   owed   to   a   sudden   departure,   but   to   each   absence   gathered   over   the   years.   Children   leaving,   children   never   looking   back.   Lance   knows   these   smaller   hauntings,   he   knows   them   both   too   well.   He   wouldn’t   be   surprised   if   the   Enigma   house   had   a   part   that   showed   it   all   the   same.   The   wrecked   aftermath   of   departure.

He   cuts   across   the   wind-swept   path.   On   either   side   of   him,   the   larchwood   bower   parts   and   gives   into   an   opening.   The   square   is   hidden   by   the   greensward,   rising   on   a   slight   incline.   Inside,   two   benches   face   each   other   under   a   red   brick   wall.   Lance   doesn’t   need   his   training   to   tell   someone   is   already   here.   Of   course.   They   would   be,   wouldn’t   they?   This   is   the   best   hidden   spot   on   the   estate.   It’s   also   where   the   past   is   at   its   most   inescapable.  

When   he   squares   his   shoulders   and   puts   his   mask   back   on,   it   isn’t   some   sixth   sense   that   makes   him   do   it.   It   isn’t   battle   instinct,   either.   It’s   just   avoidance:   he   has   a   deep   awareness   of   it,   one   that   precedes   his   Enigma   years.   He   learned   to   hide   before   he   learned   to   fight.   He   clears   his   throat,   once   over.   Then   again.   He   lets   his   steps   tread   louder   on   the   foliage.   He   makes   himself   sure   to   be   seen,   just   as   intently   as   he’d   do   the   opposite.  

He   doesn’t   have   patience   for   a   lot   of   things   these   days,   and   he   has   even   less   reverence—especially   in   the   enemy’s   goddamn   den.   But   this,   this   safekept   loneliness,   this   licking   of   wounds?   This   is   something   he   knows.   He   respects   it   more   than   the   living,   more   than   the   dead.

open to all

“I’m moving all the cheap booze to the dining room table, wanna help me?”