the stars, like dust

      rather than give the indignant verbal response her companion is surely expecting ( he always WAS the best at getting under her skin ), april removes a cup from the top of the stack, weighs it in her hand for a moment, and then throws it at raph. it bounces harmlessly off his shell before rolling somewhere across the floor, and she turns back to her chore in an attempt to feign innocence. ( what was that about carrying herself with grace? )

      “ i don’t know why you’re so surprised – i’ve been getting you guys presents since our first christmas together, ” she says, her tone kind if only to spite his lame attempt at humor. this year, though, april would like to think she’s outdone herself ; “ charred walls ” is playing the barclays center in february ( a time where no one would think twice about a grown man wearing a trench coat ), and the venue would be dim enough to hide raph’s features from any curious concertgoers. it isn’t the SAFEST gift idea, and leo has already lectured her on the ways their endeavor could go wrong, but that didn’t stop her from purchasing tickets for the both of them. it’s the least she can do after six years of friendship. “ but, i guess if you REALLY don’t want it, i can just go give it to donnie instead … ”

“hey now, i don’t think donnie’s even focused on things this year what with--”  a grand old gesture with his hands, cutting through the air and leaving the shape of indecisiveness behind. a raphael specialty. “everything else. i’ll take it fer uh . . . safekeeping. yeah, that’s it!” and a snap, something that is louder than his laugh and their careful teasing. 

he takes note of the silence that leaves behind, too. tucks it away for another time, another night. 

he grunts, rolling his right shoulder, bending down to pick up the cup that had bounced off of him. in the safety of privacy among the shadows, his thumb runs along the rim of the cup--where her thumb was. he’d never be so crass as to suggest that this meant something more to him than it did: an absorbing of her warmth, the company she’s given the four brothers over the years. yes, since their first christmas together. every gift she’s given him specifically is kept together, tightly lined up. 

and not a speck of dust on any of them. he wonders what it is this year--what he’ll feign annoyance at, what bitter, cynical thing he might say in response. and where it’ll go in his stash, kept pristine in the shadows. just like this cup. 

“d’ya think mikey’s gonna eat all the pizza this year? just once i would like to get to the peanut butter anchovy side before he does.” his head throws itself back, gaze narrowed to the emptiness of the ceiling. “just once, oh lord! why must you forsake me so!” 

and in proper dramatic fashion, he falls to his knees, forearm covering his eyes. 

i actually rly like the psd i made in like .2 seconds, these are all different lighted scenes and it works with all of them without having to fiddle. 

HANNIBAL LECTER, THEY CALL HIM JOKINGLY. Even as a joke, it’s unnerving – he piles sugar into his coffee, it’s the only way he can drink it black. He wonders if this makes him Albert’s Clarice Starling. It isn’t so terrible a thought, and that worries him.

When someone smiles with bared teeth, it’s the natural thing for a beast to do in the wild when stalking its prey. Wesker’s a lion, and he doesn’t know if he feels human anymore – more like a gazelle, small and graceful, but delicious to the animal’s jaws. Was that what Wesker was doing? Eyeing him up and taking note of just what spices to use on his flesh to make him appetizing? Like a meat-eater, a cannibal. Yes, Hannibal is an apt nickname, then.  

❛ Questions, eh? I’m not good with asking those, but I’ll try. ❜ He pulls out his own cigarette, lights it and takes a quick drag, before pulling out a notepad and a pen, taking notes, just as a good writer is wont to do. ❛ What’s your best quality, and your worst quality? ❜ He inquires, almost as though this is an interview of sorts – the protagonist of his book may remind him of Albert, but perhaps he’ll actually model a character after him in his next novel. 

In between the scratching of his pen on the rough paper, he takes a sip of coffee and then another drag of the cigarette, in that order.

“Now I’m afraid I’ve opened myself up for a job interview.”

He laughs, and this is somehow unlike the others--genuine, but only just. There’s enough lacking in this gesture to suggest something more sinister and, again, performative. He thinks on the question for a few moments, running his fingers along the top-edge of the book as if playing piano, a tuneless melody taking physical form in his mind. It calls to him, that melody, but--so unlike Wesker--he’s unsure as to why. It is vague and uneasy, so much like his actions towards Matthew. 

“I’m detail oriented. It’s both my best and worst quality. They go hand-in-hand, I’m afraid. Looking so deeply into things makes me miss the obvious, but as a result, I do tend to get things done.” he spreads his hands, the back of his right pushing the coffee cup a little further away from him. “And you? What would you consider your worst quality?”

Another chuckle this time, then a finishing of his cup. 

“Not to worry. I have no ulterior motive for this, merely a fan asking, admittedly, a far-too-personal question.”

HE’S NOTHING IF NOT PERCEPTIVE AND a man like Wesker, he believes, has plenty of secrets lurking beneath his ‘friendly’ mask. He knows this because he’s reserved like that, keeping his deepest emotions masked away. People believe he’s changed fundamentally since Susanna’s death and he has, but he doesn’t show it. Keeps a faux-charming smile plastered to his wan features for the masses, is polite when he does his signings and appears for interviews, and goes home to a happy child to be a role-model for him, as well. 

All is not as it seems, but just as he isn’t one to pry into another’s business, people don’t pry into his either. To them, he’s an entertainer, an author, not someone to be deeply looked into. Model citizen. He isn’t the villain of this story, he’s the hero ( though he isn’t aware he’s sitting across from someone who is definitely the former. )

❛ Not at all. I’m a smoker myself, have yet to try one of those fancy Cuban cigars though – Cohibas? I’m sure you’ve tried them – how are they? ❜ He says with a chuckle as they stride into the coffee shop, the clerk’s eyes nearly popping out at the small venue receiving esteemed guests – their presence’ll definitely boost business. He opts for a booth at the back of the place, the crisp fall air flowing in through the open window and serving as ventilation for when they inevitably begin to smoke. ❛ I’ll admit, when they made you Captain of S.T.A.R.S. I was a bit surprised, but your successful missions speak for themselves. You remind me a lot of Departure’s protagonist, actually. ❜

“As fancy as their name might suggest. Though a bit tart for my tastes. You might not know this--few do--but I tend to have a more refined palate.” 

As if to hammer this point home, he bares a wide-toothed smile, following Matthew into the coffee shop like a predator stalking worthy prey. He makes no motion to regard the onlookers, only keeping his smile, slipping the book back underneath his arm as he slides into the seat opposite his newfound companion. Almost wordlessly, he orders them both a cup of coffee, black just for convenience’s sake, and turns his gaze back toward Matthew. 

“Oh?” his elbows dig into the aged wood of the table they occupy. The book, somehow, stays still under his arm, a watchful, waiting guardian. “I’m flattered, quite frankly. The only other time I was likened to a character in media was Hannibal Lecter, and as a joke among my team.” he laughs, that chuckle again, so mirthless--performative. “Feel free to ask any questions you may have. I’m an open book.”

And here, he drops the smile, leaning back in his chair, laying one leg atop the other under the table. He places the book in front of him, worn hands covering the title, the art--leaving only Matthew’s name exposed to the world, to the watchful gaze of this faux Hannibal Lecter. Absently, Albert removes his glasses, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm, offering up a sigh and a polite smile as the coffee arrives. 

“Anything about S.T.A.R.S though--” absent, too. “Classified information, I’m sure you can understand that. If I asked about your new novel, I might get the same response, no?” 

THE SMILE THAT UPTURNS HIS LIPS IS MASSIVE as he spots the novel tucked neatly under the dignified doctor’s arm – the first of the Departed series, his own writing. And for a man of Dr. Albert Wesker’s stature to be reading it? He’s definitely surprised and flattered. He can’t help but match the man’s stride along the city sidewalk, addressing him quietly so that others can’t overhear. 

❛ Means a lot to me that you read my writing, Dr. Wesker, ❜ He begins. ❛ Matthew Bellerose. It’s an honor. ❜ They’re nearing a cozy coffee shop, one of his favourite joints in the city to simply take a break. The nice thing is, the establishment allows smoking if one sits next to the open window booths in the back. ❛ Can I treat you to a coffee? ❜

@multahomines ALBERT WESKER ♥

One must spend time to refresh the mind in-between strenuous tasks--it doesn’t do well to be overloaded with stress and work all the time. This is something he finds himself reminding his team, when appropriate, offering them time away from filing reports in favor of a good scotch and a recording of Janacek’s Sinfonietta from his own personal collection. His deception a minor footnote in this case, he must keep a stable work environment for them all, and his own sake. His own peace of mind. So, it isn’t surprising he found himself engrossed in the world of the Departed; normally a connoisseur of frightful crime novels and the occasional fantastical tale when it comes to fiction, Bellerose’s work strikes the best of both worlds. 

Even less surprising is running into the work’s very own author on his way back to the office--a fan, no less. Or, at the very least, someone knowledgeable enough in the medical field to recognize him. He matches the man’s smile, though his is a depth unmatched--indulgences like this for Albert Wesker are few and far between. It is unfortunate, then, that so much of it will be forgotten once his plans come to fruition. He slips the book from under his arm, looking at it casually, then at his watch before sticking his hand out. 

“You have me at a disadvantage, I’m afraid.” a mirthless chuckle. “It’s rare I’m so easily recognized. Definitely not as famous or well-known as you, Mister Bellerose.” 

He pauses in front of the coffee shop, right foot slightly in front of the left, turning to angle towards Matthew. His chest rises and falls, a heavy breath designed in part to appear more genuine than he perhaps feels. There is an aching there that follows, brought on by memories long past, etched into the hollows of his bones. Maybe it’s the author’s smile, or genuine excitement over finding someone so well renowned reading his works. 

𝚘𝚗  𝚊𝚗𝚢  𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛  𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝,    in  any  other  city   ——    to  be  covered  in  filth,    drenched  in  mud  &  stained  in  the  blood  of  lesser  creatures  might  seem  ill-fitting,    unbecoming  of  a  lady  of  her  caliber   ;   but  one  could  tell,    by  the  sharpness  of  her  smile,    the  blood-drunk  look  beneath  her  glasses,    that  grell  𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍  in  it .    it  was  paint  like  any  other,    the  crimson  which  ordained  these  putrid  streets,    &  one  could  never  have  enough .

❝    &  how  do  i  know  you  won’t  turn  on  me,    darling .    only  beasts  hunt  in  packs,    you  know .    ❞

Gascoigne’s laughter is wet, pressed against his presence here in permanence. It dies out soon, replaced by a grunt of effort as he removes flesh from bone, bone from blade. His gaze towards her is obscured by dirtied, clumped together hair, but it’s there all the same. He stands in full, unmoving. He hadn’t expected someone so clear-minded out and about ... or at all, for that matter. Though, perhaps his definition of clear-minded is different than what it once was.

(         𝐨' ,   𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐞   &  '   𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐧𝐞𝐝  ...   𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐬   𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧  .    𝐭𝐡𝐲  𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬  𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞  𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬  .   𝐩𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞 :  𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝  ,  𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐭  ,  𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬    /    𝐰𝐡𝐨   𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝   𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮   𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬   𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞   ?     𝐰𝐡𝐨   𝐡𝐢𝐝   𝐭𝐡𝐲   𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐲   ?    𝐰𝐡𝐨   𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐝   𝐭𝐡𝐲   𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐬   ?           joyous  winter   ,     dejected  summer   .      warm  is  the  snow   ,    cold  is  the  sun   .     shores  are  heaving  up   ,    beware  !     before  the  bittersweet  corpus  lies  on  the  beds  made  of  quicksand  .      gold  doubloons  that  tog  up  into  secrets   ,    hidden  truths   ,    undiscovered  thoughts  .     they  shine  an  unseen  light   ,   blind  hawk’s  eye   ,    bleeding  acridity  .                                                           mentis  elementum  :    tell  me  ,   creature  ,   how  many  diamonds  are  sojourning  at  bottom  of  your  figure   ?      where  did  you  drop  the  key   ?                                 cordis  elementum  :     underpaint  your  sorrow  ,   poor  being   .      i   won’t   sliver   your   delicate   marble   ,    my  fingers  will  fawn  upon  you   ,    i  will  take  care  of  you   .        )

❛     you  better  talk  now   .      i  can  see  you  standing  there  ,   rem   .     ❜

@multahomines​ .

“Hm.”

The sound is an ancient thing, like stonework being pressed together by some unseen force, creaking and groaning. The shinigami stands vacant against the wall, a watchful eye on the man before them--Mello. They seek only to protect Misa, never desiring to interact with other humans, least of one so bitter and broken as this one. Making no motion to come to eye level, Rem crosses the room slowly, not unlike a ghost--each step followed by that same creaking sound. Bones on death’s wind.