DEVIL MAY CRY.

"Literally, I guess." While she and Dante weren't close, due to their differences it seemed, seeing him with some cuts and bruises wasn't foreign. She truly didn't understand Dante at times, so astute yet so impulsive, deep yet reckless. It almost seemed more tragic to have someone so bright choose conflict so often, or maybe it was just too different to Naomi, who avoided conflict when possible. "Is the bag of peas helping?" Her tone was a little more judgemental than previous, but the slight slurring was still present.

at the moment, there had been very little dante had concerned himself with. not his irregular appearance, or the phone that he'd left in his room⸺certainly not the judgement naomi had mustered for him, and the way it held in her tone. it had been merely another constant between dante and most others in his life: they make their assessments of him and he allows it. he lowers the bag of peas from his temple when he sits up, wiping the residual half-melt freezer sweat on his pant leg. " at one point, yes. i'm not sure anymore. " it's nostalgic almost, he felt as if he'd had this conversation before. toeing around eachother, making conversation⸺or worse: an argument⸺out of nothing at all. they'll never be those kids again, or maybe they never stopped. gaze lifts to take her in and it's perhaps the first time they've made eye contact that wasn't incidental in years. " right now, propel, " his manager had talked him into a sponsorship the year prior: gatorade player of the year, they called him. considering dante's current losing streak, it was no longer a befit title. he wields the half-full bottle, " about uh ... thirty minutes ago it was vodka. you? "

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀There’s a certain comfort in sitting with Dante. Maybe it was because he was older but still felt like the younger one somehow. Or because Dante somehow was the only person in the world Reuben still wanted to perform for, seem cooler than he actually was. He could do that, he’d bend over backwards to do it too. In their quiet moments he could relax, like Dante had invited him into the club and he was finally a part of something. The truth in these statements was still yet to be proven but Reuben was for once satisfied with the unknown.

boyhood tags along like an old dog, age fraying away the new tricks learned into bones too old to remember them now. it lays at their feet, wagging off the dust of memory. dante's too old to perform anywhere but a boxing ring, he required blood for the limelight he simmered beneath. it's a subtle kind of rejuvination: the sort that seeps beneath epidermis over a set period, you gotta let this ache sink in.

LOCATION: One of the shared bathrooms in the house DATE: Sunday, September 4, 2005 (post-wake, 9:30 ish? what are timelines) Closed starter for @mustdies

the door wasn't locked. it's the first thing dante noted about this big, empty house. the shared bathroom on the second floor ( meant for guests but woefully misused ) had a broken lock on the door. it would just turn and turn with no sure fastening, it only gave the illusion of security. at the very least knuckles backhand a few knocks on the door before permitting himself entry. dante never had waited for permission. a door was a door, you could either let it stand in front of you or you could take it right off the hinges. this is all to say that whatever had taken place behind a mahogany door usually kept ajar had not been sacred, and thus it was only right to be impeded upon. there's a murky grin plastered upon features, intentions unsure when round gaze falls upon angus. one thing is sure though, he hadn't meant well. dante let's him pray, offering the vaguest waft of solidarity in retortion. he looks up at the ceiling, pretending to harbor the same catholic guilt. " forgive me father, " it's an unheard plea. " you know there are places for this sorta' thing right? " a chapel, the foot of your bed, somewhere with a functioning lock on the door. he doesn't mention the contents of the first aid kid strewn about the edge of the sink. or the balled fist held at centermass. " you don't have to hide your devotion in the bathroom man, it's kinda pathetic. "

where: the great room

there's a yawning lonely feeling come night, where those earliest flecks come piquing over the horizon and it's just you and the sun. it's like childhood, that loneliness. dante was found incapable of adjusting to it then and now, as he roams the furthest wings of this great big house he is only part man part figment. the woodrow house, neatly comprised of stone, stood alone against the foothills of the countryside⸺whatever placid horror had lived within its walls had also dwelled within each of its inhabitants. though not in any truly horrific way, only in the way that a family could be part terror and still be brimming with love. depending on who you asked, woodrow had been no home at all but instead a great big dollhouse filled with little children undone and resewn in all the wrong places. kept but not particularly loved merely because of the sheer volume of them. the woodrow wards were closer to trophies than they were children and still, they return to the place that had such a hand in baring them. this house that raised them, this house that ruined them. " i don't think this house, much less coming back to it has ever been anything but weird. " there's a softening in his gaze when he finds her in the quiet expanse of the room. " even when we were teens i was barely here. "

Who: Naomi and Dante @mustdies When: Saturday, September 4, 2005 Time: 11:04pm Where: Game RoomGif Credit: Here

there had been an amiable quiet in the lamp-lit room when she happened upon the doorway. all the while he'd been none the wiser. dante wasn't chasing nostalgia tonight, not yet at least. rather, he sought only the quiet. found himself walking the halls until it found him. there, in the game room⸺door half shut. it seems they only knew how to run into eachother this way, with the briefest estrangement. both a little tipsy. he's outstretched across a couch that probably hadn't been sat on in months, bag of peas pressed to the temples. doctor's orders, minus the drinking. " hey chef. " voice piques from his recline, not bothing to perch himself up to properly greet her, much less make eye contact. what are you up to. it's an oil slick question, easy enough to slip into when you're not paying attention. what could he even say: that he was drowing his sorrows with svedka & anything else he left in his coat closet? this shame is double-edged, it's fucking pathetic. " licking my wounds, counting those weird spots on the ceiling. " he sits up just then, a placid expression enveloping features. " settling in alright? "

Natalia pushed passed Dante with a roll of her eyes once he let her in, going straight for the sink to do her best to salvage this dress. One might argue it was dramatic but this was vintage Christian Dior and a gift from Richard. If it was ruined on the day of his burial… She didn’t even want to think about it. She busied herself with carefully scrapping away the drop of Dijon mustard with well-manicured nail and then dampening one of the neatly-rolled hand towels on display with cold water.

they make space for each other, perhaps the only shred of civility they could put on the table. evasion, until they had been forced into such an unfortunate circumstance. " i can do math, " though he's sure the admittance does little to convince her. he had nothing to prove regardless, proficiency to count included. they would never satisfy each other, it had long been time to make peace with their individual lackluster. dante humors her still, shakes his head instead of saying something he might regret. he'd save all his most unsavory words for someone less ... fragile. " you're missing my point. " he watches her work briefly, in quiet admiration as if she were a doll behind glass and not a living being stood before him. " nah, i'm saging the place. " he wafts the emanating blunt, dusting smoking like a fairy godfather waving a wand. he halts, as if stunned by the sheer mention of respect. much less harboring such. gaze narrows upon her, drawing a slow⸺deliberate drag before finally ashing the runt out on the edge of the sink. " when have you ever known me to have respect? "

The damage has always been done—not already. Always. Angus' face twisted into an expression of bitter vindication, however brief. Fucking right, it was. Dante historically left damage in his wake with no care and no remorse. It'd been years of Angus trying to clean it up after him; years of Dante annoyed with the needling, the corraling, the one-sided attempt at keeping both sides of the street clean. Constantly at loggerheads, they kept getting pulled back into the same gravitational pull nevertheless. Theirs was a Dialetheist existence. They pissed each other off and there was no love lost: true and untrue.

this man had lived as a flurry of retribution unfulfilled. even as a child, he was a catalyst with a human name. dante, meaning to endure. dante, inventer ( and a very frank impression ) of hell. he had been bred for survival, it had only been course for his temperament that all he'd done had been conducted despite despite despite. all of which is to say that dante had not grown up. he had only done so in the ways that mattered: he'd gotten a legal state id, and filed his taxes once a year. but boyhood coiled inside of him like something left to wilt in the sun. it's a rotten thing that asks too much of him. like a craving on a diet, except it makes him ache for a summer that ended seven years ago. it's this very ache that informs him that he can never truly return to the place from which he came. not in the same manner in which he had left it all those years ago. these two would one day need a shovel to love each other, dante hardly considered that the day had already occurred and they were standing in a grave already. knee deep in the dirt of nostalgia unearthed. this car was like a casket. dante watches carefully as angus contorts with childish misery. absolved of the notion that ones own body could betray the mind. what a fucking treat this was going to be, the defiling of the dead man's car. dante watches the keys gleam, it's like baiting an old dog with something shiny. he was severely unimpressed but gave him the smallest reward of feigning brief excitement. albeit ten minutes too late, it was a feat nonetheless. " and i'm the one that started the car, bitch. " only brothers could hate in the way they do. that not-quite hostility⸺bare knuckled love. he wonders briefly, in how many ways they will reinvent this violence. " you know me so well ange, truly. " in all honesty, he hadn't. and dante had not known him, not in any true capacity at least. the only things they had chosen to harbor as memory of each other had been their worst shades. all that is done in the dark. palm itched to trigger the motor horn, just to piss angus off one last time before they were both crammed into arms reach. " just get in the car miss daisy. "

He wondered if he was the only one with a transactional relationship with Woodrow house. He lost, it gave. Then when he had nothing left, he’d find his way back and beg for more. He wouldn’t say he was ungrateful. Maybe just a little stupid for thinking it would always be there. It had been there hundreds of years before him, and the 16 of them stood between it being there for hundreds more. 113568. 113568. He repeated to himself every time the turrets broke over the horizon on the drive up. It was the code to his safe deposit box at the bank, and a shortened version occupied voicemail boxes and credit card pins. For as little as he looked back, it was part of him. He wasn’t Richard’s favourite but, he was still weaved into the threads of Woodrow and all it encompassed.

summer is a candle burned down to the wick, only few gusts of heady scent remain. still, the flame remains⸺that warm flicker of hope. life goes on, winter is coming for them. it makes him miss those dizzying evenings out on the lawn, one of the many summers richard had neglected them under the care of mrs. tristan. those shimmering summers that were nothing but illicit affairs & confetti. he's a cool, slick figure in the partial-night but his words are champagne slurred; a certain libation pierre had brought up from the cellar. the summer had been entirely too busied to be any sort of romantic, only short weekend jaunts to mykonos when he was desperate & looking for someone to keep him warm from the comfort of a white-sanded beach villa. as a collective, they'd aged out of relishing in those warm evenings. life had passed by with the speed of a train, all that came of it was a whir of rememberance. those hazy, blurred-edge recollections are all that bind them now. it's one of the last things dante allows himself to cling to: the sly, vestiges of memory. he's tipsy, sure. but dante's drunk on reminiscence. eyes flicker shut briefly, bracing against a gentle bypass of wind. he savors the subsequent drafting of cigarette smoke. " fucking biblical is what that was, " he adjoins casually, tries not to mull over the notion that either of them had been made for fools at the very same altar. " gone and cast yourself out of this little corner of eden, i was almost proud of you. " a grin unfurls just then, when he utters that sly truth. i was almost proud of you. dante had heard something of the same vein from richard the last time they had spoken and decided to reward reuben with that hand-me-down ache. a shame how love could make you cruel. sullen gaze follows the pointed direction, bites down on his lip hard enough to draw blood from the wound already split upon it. it's juvenile the way his expression collapses, like wiping chalk from a bored. you could call what dante had felt next envy, though he would not know it by name. he catches himself imagining such an altercation, that heady ravaging of someone elses form. the very first time: young and too hungry. dante cannot pinprick which part of him was jealous, his heart or his head? he brings the cigarette back to his lips instead of saying anything. takes a brief drag before extending it back to reuben. they're both on the ground and it's the first time they've physically been at eye-level in years. what a shame. " i don't think i could have ever brought anyone here⸺never had a reason to. "

" It's his skull. " Alison answered, only realising the how macarbe that sounded after she said it. " Deep set eyes, so he– he's always been that cross eyed. " She attempted to explain the way her vet had told her. Though she didn't have that same understanding of a medical professional and opted for the easy answer in the end. " He can see fine though. " She assured. Benito had even been complimented many times at the vet for his impeccable eye sight. After he was called nervous and aggressive and sometimes a little shit by the nurse attempting to clip his nails. She crossed her arms over her body casually as she took up stance in the room. Keeping enough distance from Benny so he wouldn't be distracted from Dante's attention. " Are you using my dog as an excuse not to mingle out there? " She asked, direct as ever. But there wasn't an accusation in her voice. She was there too, after all.

his body had become one big, aching wound. some terrible mixture of hail in a storm, dante harbors the sort of blinding fury that cannot be contained by a singular man. no, it had become the job of others to suffer his indescriminate violence, by whatever shade it had chosen to paint itself. there is no harm here though, he lets it simmer on a backburner. though do not forget, this man is still red-hot. " pauvre vieux bâtard, he'll outlive us all. " dante retrieves the ball from benito, gives the dog a vigorous scratch on the head. he gives the slobber-wet ball another toss. " was i being too obvious? " the remark is made with blatant, false concern. he had no true capacity for being understated, they both knew it. he permits himself to be candid, voice quieting so this can be a 'secret' kept between just the two of them. " the small talk⸺shaking hands with these people, i don't have the stomach for it. "

this estate had been rife with tragedy since the start, surely it would remain long after richard was laid to rest. such is life: the reaper knocks and the earth still turns. the world turns and turns and they're all expected to change with the tide without standing in the same place for too long. don't let the current take you. it's hard to stand still. infuriating for someone ever in motion. " yeah right. " he concludes, some brief air that suggests i see right through you. he won't press too hard on the wound yet, there would be much time to upset her with his patronization. who the fuck paintballs without goggles, anyway. " you know i found an ounce i kept stashed this morning, " seven year old weed hidden from himself. lest he fell victim to the sharpest corners of his own mind and it was misplaced from its initial hiding spot when mrs. tristan or one of the other harks decided to riffle through what was left behind of his childhood bedroom. there's a silent accord, nodding his blonded head before falling into step toward the house. " i tried writing something on the plane, but it didn't mean anything. " it was just words on paper he means, mostly crafted from his manager's suggestion⸺it was devoid of what gave a eulogy impact: grief. a pause, mischief flickering across his features; he nudges her shoulder. " fifty bucks says angus breaks first. "

it felt oddly comforting as dante sat down beside carmen. comforting is not a word she would ordinarily have associated with the man sat next to her, but the company was unexpectedly welcome. dante was not the kind of person she felt like she had to hide her mess from, or lie to. only because she wasn't sure how much he really cared.

people died all the time, in different ways. sure the body had gone, but your name could stay. you could be remembered, recognfigured phantasmically into a thing that only lived when spoken to. it's the same as living obediently, you only ever exist when someone remembers you're in the room. " mm, " he hums over her retortion, unknowing of any how to impart comfort in a way that mattered. so he treats her ails in the same way he had his own, with a warm body. specifically his own, sat quietly in the grass beside her⸺trying to ignore the fact that his socks were getting dewed. " it's not so bad. " he doesn't mean it in the way it comes from his mouth. like looking out at a whale beached infront of your beachfront property, waiting for it to implode from the mere pressure of being absolved from its usual environment. dante spoke as if he were waiting for something bad to happen. " i mean this is⸺so fucked. but we're here. " this week, they show up for each other in a way that matters. " rich is gone but he's here too y'know? so long as you can stand to remember him," fingers curl into a fist where his heart should be, " he's right here. "

They bicker competitively like each counter is ranked by a table of judges à la American Idol. Reuben was snarky but Dante was always a step ahead— as it had always been. Reuben trailing behind and trying to keep up. Maybe it was good they went their separate ways, had they not, Reuben would’ve been pummelled to death in an underground cage match at the ripe age of twenty-two. Albeit a much cooler exit than whatever awaited him in the future.

this had been a day of habit, slowly inching back into those old routines⸺handing off one pattern for another. this ouroboros cycle, everturning vice. woodrow had been the only thing swayed by times advances. the house is unmistakebly quiet, no aching of swollen wood heard when angry feet pace the hallway. they'd all become too sparce to cause any true harm, and that was a little death within itself. this big, warm house made it hard to forget that home was the first grave you were made to climb out of. what happens when you return to the place that has always kept you? it's hard picking up things where you'd left them when the very idea of normal has become estranged. dante was supposed to be in barcelona, reuben was supposed to be at the capital. and yet: they're here, reliving what never was. they ache together, dante won't admit it but even now, sat into old impressions on reuben's bed there is something deliciously tender pluming. there is tragedy among them, something worse than death. perhaps they've been separated by a degree too many, it's hard to tell when a joke is only a joke. " are you trying to call me a bottle-blond junkie right now, " brows ebb together, line harshed between as a wink of irritation threatens visage. part of him wanted to be mad, at several points he had been both things. never quite both at once but things had gone too soft⸺dante wanted to give himself a reason to bite down, and hard. he smiles against the anguish, a tendancy he'd kept since they were boys. it's like sun before a hailstorm. what the fuck is this, new jersey? " broads ... " he parrots dryly, running a flat palm over the side of his face. " have you been watching the sopranos or something? " dante finally stands from the bed's edge, hardly as damp as when he'd first crossed that threshold but just as warm blooded. he chokes down a laugh, at no point had reuben exhibited the traits of a fighter⸺one who bared teeth merely for survival. those who'd brave the whole world for an inch of freedom. you either got it or you don't. and from what dante could see from reuben's display, he did not in face have it. " tell you what, come for a run with me this week ... we both need a distraction. "

who: Sama and @mustdies where: the wake when: around 3pm

among the imported crowd, dante has all the elegance of a domestic cigarette. he bears all his grievances on his collar. there's a warning label where a prada tag should be, sewn in black thread with the caution of: fragile, do not disturb. he'd spent the last two days making nice for the sake of appearances, not yet stepping down from center stage. even in death, richard had wielded this young man as one of his pawns. they do little to remember that it is dante who cracks so finely in the limelight. be yourself kid, show them who you are and let them gawk. when there's no one left to pry him open, dante reverts into his truest self. it is september, the age of mourning and those few strays of august heat still haunt. the density of the air weighs upon him, displaces mind somewhere between dread and annoyance. this man is an island, secluding himself on the furthest corner of the lawn. trying to distract himself from the heartbeat throbbing in his palm. a singular challenge: dante becomes still as death. as if man could deny himself. briefly wondering that if he just continued to sit here for the rest of the evening, mostly still, they would all forget about him. another relic of this house that had become more husk than home. gaze levels, finding some comfort in the distant whir of chatter. he watches the crowd ebb, takes note of how many faces hadn't looked particular displeased to see the old man six feet under. she's a pinprick when he first sees her, squinting against midafternoon sun as if she were a mirage for dante to make out. he's sat forward in his seat when she finally closes the distance, some sort of interest rifling his otherwise disinterested visage. if there were anything to admire about sama, it was her forewardness. " whatever happened to hello, how are you? " it's poised lazily, the sort of jargon he wielded instead of entertaining small talk. truthfully, he hadn't wanted to talk at all. still, he pinches a small metallic vessel from his inner breast pocket, glancing over a shoulder before offering it to her. " it's vodka. "

there was clearly a reason why reece, dante, and mickey were the last three to be taken in by richard. the trio always had a knack for breaking rules, even if it was never mickey's intention. which was exactly why she accepted dante's proposal to slip away from the large crowed of mourners on the lawn and find another way to grieve their dear father. "no idea. one time reece and i snuck down here as teens, mrs. tristian caught us before we could even get our hands on anything good. right now, i'd take some boxed wine if it meant not having to deal with everyone outside." richard always had expensive taste so she knew they would find much more than some crappy wine, maybe a good vintage or some expertly distilled whiskey. richard had his secrets, she was sure there were some real treasures down in the cellar.

there are only two great fears known by man: the fear that nothing survives, and the fear that something might. such beliefs flatten eachother, all the easier to swallow. all things die, but what happens when they come back⸺what price is to be paid? he peruses the cellar like a child in a candy shop, all wide-eyed and hungry for everything within arms reach. desire had become a weapon. " i didn't even know this place even existed until i was sixteen. " oh, how richard wanted to save dante from himself. they knew he was trouble before he even came up the driveway, so they deprive him of potential drunken eden. there's a thought said aloud, " it's almost like he was trying to punish me. " blame the poor boy for abandoning his tenderness and picking up something rougher, call survival a crime. he retrieves a bottle of wax-sealed cabernet sauvignon, presents it to her like some prize to be had. as if the bottle hadn't been sitting around for forty someodd years waiting to be savored. " la vie est trop courte pour boire du mauvais vin. "