ODIN BELLO

Fate worked in mysterious ways. Delilah had seen countless people walk through those doors. She had held many books within her grasp. She spent hours flipping through pages and picking out novels that would resonate with the customer. Little did she know that this meeting would lead her down an unfamiliar course. She didn’t know that this man would sweep her off of her feet. She didn’t know the blissful nature that would trail the two of them for years or the deceit that flickered underneath the surface until it would rise up to suffocate them both. She didn’t know any of that—- she merely knew he was a customer searching for the perfect book.

She let her eyes trail over him as he browsed the bookstore. He was handsome. There was a certain ruggedness that made her curious, and him entering a bookstore In the middle of the workday only increased that need to know more about him. She let her eyes flicker back to her book when she sensed him turning around, but there was a small smile that didn’t leave her lips even as he wandered back over to her station.

She plucked the book out of his hands. Her fingers brushed his momentarily before she pulled away to examine his choice of novel. That ghost of a grin grew bigger as she looked at the title of the piece. The Murder of Roger Ackroyd happened to be one of her favorites from the author. A slight hum escaped her lips as she traced over the spine. “An excellent choice. One of her best novels. It was a bit controversial too—” She paused, letting her eyes settle on his before she continued, “—-but some of the best books always are.” There was always a certain spark that showed in her eyes whenever she discussed books. They were her safety net, an escape from her mundane life, and she enjoyed seeing that spark transfer to someone else. Perhaps this stranger would develop it. 

Odin looks at her as she speaks, nods as if rapt, he lets her know that he’s paying attention, that she’s the center of the conversation and the most important thing in the room; he shows her respect. He’s made up with an easy smile, a shrug of his shoulders as he says, “It sounds interesting but I have to admit something -- I have a curse when it comes to books.” His tone is casually playful, a colorful story-teller as he elaborates, “I can get halfway through, maybe more, and I just stop. I don’t know what it is, I’ll be interested in the story and I’ll wanna know how it ends but I get distracted and just never go back to it, I start a new one every time." It comes with a laugh, something short and simple to punctuate the fact. 

“Have any remedies for that? Maybe a special tea or a certain light to read under?” It was the type of joke that could come across rude or taunting if it weren’t for the tone of his voice, while yes, there was a bit of teasing, it was overall sincere and kind. He was making conversation in the best way he knew how, and well, books were the opener he needed, they’re what he knew about her, but soon he was ready to build into other topics, a growing confidence in him.

He looked at the grin spread on her face and found his own widening in response, watching the passion dance in her eyes as she talked about the book, it was endearing. He liked watching it happen, the light shining lowly on her face, lit up with what can only be sheer enjoyment and love for her work. He had that feeling once, it was strongest when he held his place among the military, something that hardly lingered as a memory anymore. He supposes that the police work and Capulet work kept him busy, and he wouldn’t say he hated his job or his duties, but he certainly didn’t look at his cruiser or his gun the way she looked at the book cradled in her palms.

After a moment he speaks up again, all charming and open, he says, “Okay, okay, if you say it’s good, I trust you, miss...” He trails off, eyebrows raising and head cocking as he asks her for her name.

date: april 17th, 2015 time: late evening location: the dark lady closed to: @odinbellc​

He’s heard stories about this place, but none, no matter how glorious, no matter how grandiose, hold a candle to the truth of it. It’s a marvel, really—some mirage plucked straight from the minds of every Veronese who ever wanted, who ever wished. Resplendent in shades of rich golds and reds, dancers draped in Parisian lace, air thick with perfumes and spices. It’s a fantasy catered to tickle the human appetite, a nightmare so pretty that its patrons no doubt mistake it for a daydream. But Ivan himself is well-versed in the stuff of nightmares, and he sees Madam Chen’s temple for what it is: a snake pit.

The perfect fucking place for Odin Bello’s bachelor party.

The Sparrow dancing on the small stage before him leans forward to brush a hand across his cheek, but Ivan catches and releases her wrist before she makes contact. “I’m afraid I’m not the guest of honor tonight, little bird.” He jerks his chin at Odin, seated just beside him on the velvet loveseat. “Your attentions belong to him,” he drawls, one corner of his mouth hiked impishly. “He’s getting married, you know,” he tells the Sparrow. Her eyes, a lovely shade of green, are already trained on Odin, and a sly smile parts her full lips. She’s happy, he can tell, that Odin is her new target, and not Ivan. He’s always had a way about him, Odin—a likability that traps flies like honey, a distinct charisma that fosters trust, safety. A charming foil to Ivan’s unnerving otherness. They make a fine pair, the two of them, like night and day, or lightning and thunder, each a lovely complement to the other.

“He’ll be an honest man by this time tomorrow.” His smile, now full of mischief, doubles in size as he turns to face Odin. “But it’s not tomorrow yet, is it?” he asks, making a show of checking his watch. The Sparrow seems emboldened by that. She slinks over to the edge of the stage (about as close to Odin as she can get without mounting him) and peers down at the groom-to-be with an eager smile and bright eyes that practically scream daddy issues. Sweet, stupid thing. She must be new here. 

She’s looking at Odin now like he hung the fucking sun in the sky, and Ivan has to cough into his elbow to muffle his laughter. Simpering, he holds his palms up in mock defense, mouthing a coy ‘sorry’ to Odin.

A MAN ON THE EVE BEFORE HIS WEDDING stands not nervously but maybe a tad bit uncertain in the devil’s den that is the Dark Lady -- not from fear of what Delilah would think or because he wasn’t sure in his decision to marry her but because he used to know so well what to do with his hands in clubs like these. Though the bachelor party stands as a tradition to be a scum bag one last time, especially among the Italians, he finds himself not a man fit for indulging selfish desires, especially not when he finds himself so dedicated, so in love, that it could paralyze him. 

Perhaps it was a night more for the entertainment of his friends, or just an excuse to catch up and have fun with people he hadn’t seen in years. Friends like Ivan, his brother in arms, blood, and youth, who had come back from the military to watch him get married, to be his best man. Whether Odin considered it Ivan’s scene or not seemed irrelevant, because he had yet to him in a situation where he was unable to find ways to entertain himself, no matter the environment. Odin watches the room carefully behind his drink and wide smile, watching his friend reach over to whisper in a girls ear, eyes pointed in his direction and already he feels a laugh rising up, a small shake of his head. 

The smoke screen and slow, thumping beat of the music the sparrows dance to creating an atmosphere that brought nothing but chaos to life under coated lights, and his groomsmen were nothing if not susceptible. He watched as they took over the dance floor like spilled oil, clapping hands on his shoulders and trying to get him to join the festivities, shadows lurking through curtains and open doors. At first he indulged just enough to keep them happy, firmly drawing the line after body shots, waving them off and telling them to just ‘go have fun.’ 

Yet Ivan persisted, Odin’s eyes following the girl as she walked across the stage, all legs and revealed skin, towards him. When she leans in at first he grins, his smile, for what is not the first time, matches Ivan’s so closely. “Why, he sent you over here, hasn’t he?” He says with a voice that comes soft as satin, eyes narrowing down to his friend. “You know, you’d think when I told him I was engaged he’d stop this but... well, he’s been trying to get me into a threesome for years.” Her face, though it changes to something of benign confusion, does not immediately look discouraged. He laughs, it comes out quiet, the mischief slipping from his features before speaking up again. “I’m sorry, you seem like a very lovely lady, but I have someone at home, I’ll go break the news to him myself.” He says, slipping back into the crowd and sidling up to Ivan, a hand clapping his shoulder he says.

    She had been fighting against it for a terribly long time – that urge to bite and lash, to make others feel a fraction of the all-consuming torment that she still endured to this day. Maybe it’s why God had been so wrathful when punishing his people, he wanted them to know the pain and sorrow that he had been forced to endure the moment that Eve’s teeth broke the skin of the apple. She had seen the sorrow that marred Orion’s features when she had bared her teeth, had watched Maeve endure her verbal lashings, had seen Vivianne swallow down the horror at Rafaella’s appearance. Disappointment, sorrow, rage, pity. And she had forced herself to endure it, to try to understand how to process such overwhelming quantities of bitter emotion. 

    Odin had been the pillar which she leaned on, finding solace in the knowledge that he understood her confusion, too frustrated by her own state of being. When she had seen him, she had wanted catharsis so that she might move on but all she saw was a reflection of her own self. A soul intent on commiserating – lavishing, wallowing – in pain. Neither of them were fit to bear it. Before she had been more than willing to shoulder what glimpses he gave in, too happy to show him what beauty could be drawn from it, how to drink it in, indulge in it. It had been as rich as fine wine to her, its bitter taste coating her tongue, making the vitality of living and joy far sweeter. Now it was rancid. Now she was choking on it, but it filled her lungs still. Rafaella was drowning and she needed him to help her hold her head above water – but their grip was slipping. Odin was losing his hold on her, and she with him. He was too fearful of her fragility to hold on. She didn’t have the strength to try – and who could blame her? What strength was to be expected of a woman who had spent her days alternating between inescapable pain and overwhelming loneliness? Her fingers tightened into a fist, trembling with frustration as she hit him, bones aching with rage and weariness. 

    She remembered when her rage used to lick her like flames, warming her, spurring her. When did it start to chafe on her shoulders? When had her rage become a burden to bear? His hands circled around her wrists, still raw and bruised from her restraints, but before she could pull away, his eyes caught on her fingertips. Her breath stilled, and she choked on it, a strangled noise of protest as she pulled away. But then he stepped closer, looking at her still – when all she wished was for him to look away, to imagine her as the woman he had known rather than the one that stood in front of him. He deserved that, at least. To not be disappointed by another person in his life, yet again. 

    A quiet, muted part of her wondered if she deserved such a thing too. But she had stopped hoping for things she didn’t deserve long ago. All she can hear is their breathing in the silence of the room until – hit me harder. “What?” She whispered before he could finish, her head snapping to look at him, eyes flickering between his. Her chest rose and fell breath coming in harsh gasps of air, equal parts panicked and angered by what he was asking of her. “Stop it,” her lips were numbed. She said it again. He didn’t seem to hear her because he kept stepped closer still, still begging for her to fix herself, to fix him, to fix what neither of them understood – how to let go of the pain and build themselves anew. She searched his gaze for an answer, for an explanation. There was none to be found.  

    He wanted her to hit him, to remind him of the Rafaella that he remembered – laughing before clocking him, giggling as she swept her leg under his feet. He wanted to be reminded of her violence, but there were so many other ways that she could prove she was unbroken. Slowly, she took his face in her hands, her thumb smoothing over the curve of his cheek, “I hate you. I hate you for looking at me as though I died – as though I’m dead.” The words were whispered in the space between them, her breath shuddering in her chest. “But I am exhausted by my anger, and even if I hit you –” Rafaella closes her eyes, pausing. “If I hit you it won’t make up for the fact that you – that every single person that I care for, that I –” she turns her head away, gritting her teeth against the anger, the hurt, as the far too visceral feeling of abandonment threatens to overwhelm her. “You all left me there. You left me there.” 

    Her eyes open and she finds his face blurred by the tears, feels them spilling hotly against her cheeks. Maybe he’s right, maybe he was fragile, broken by the torture and abuse. Rafaella shuddered as her body warred with her will. She wanted to be held. She didn’t want him to touch her. Her hand fell from his face as she pulled her arms around herself. Had she been the same Rafaella, she would have swung, laughing until the moment the door closed, so that she might lick her wounds in peace. Instead, she met his gaze, unable to keep herself from begging. Perhaps her parents would have asked her this if their tongues hadn’t been leaden with drugs. If they had loved her enough to begin with. “Please don’t leave me because I’m broken.”

Suddenly he is so small, so, so small that Rafaella holds him in the palm of her hand. 

He is six years old and he stands at one end of a hallway facing nothing but a closed door, the sounds inside disturbed and rattled, his form small and hunched, knees weak. The sky opens even though he cannot see it from underneath the roof, but it pours hell all the same. Every move of his foot causes a floorboard to creak, as if even existing is a burden, never silent no matter how hard he tries, clothes not looking enough like the wallpaper to disguise him. He is an unfortunate decoration to a broken marriage, a disturbance that cannot be solved, permanent furniture that can talk, walk, and eat. When the door creaks open his mother walks out with a hand to her mouth that turns to a finger to shush him, freshly mottled and wet eyelashes. His chest aches and she pulls him in for a hug. She looks so different from in the morning when she was making breakfast and chattering, she isn’t the woman with the packed lunch and kiss to the forehead that sent him to school while his father was working; now she’s withdrawn, her skin is hinted with different shades of different colors. She looks so sad, and so cries with her.

In that moment Rafaella is a spitting image of her, and he has never felt so brutish, has never felt so much like the man he had once known in his own home. Her words are too familiar, ‘You all left me there. You left me there.’ It rings in his ears and he’s holding his military slip and his mother is smiling through her tears, she tells him she’ll miss him, she tells him she loves him, and he set off to what he does best; fight, hunt, destroy. He doesn’t see her again. He doesn’t see her again because he is his father’s son, and he looks at a women he loves who’s been through hell and asks her to hit him because he needs her to, because it’s the only way he really knows what love looks like despite a long healthy relationship that survived up until the inevitable destruction he wreaked on himself and her. He only knows how to feel things he doesn’t want to feel through pain, and the Rafaella he had known would’ve given him hell in a blow to the face.

Maybe he didn’t know her as well as he had thought. Maybe she was enlightened, but he felt so small, and the mighty are as weak as their softest places -- he loved her so much he fell to his knees, his arms wrapping around her torso, his forehead pressed to her lower stomach and he says, “I’m sorry.” He says it like he’s begging and the world grows smaller and smaller around him and he’s suffocating, but it’s not about him, it can’t be about him, so again he says, “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t even know what part he’s apologizing for, he doesn’t know if he’s making it better or worse, but he feels his breathing getting away from him, a heaving chest, and he squeezes her, holding her tightly despite the carnage he can’t see through the fabric of her clothes.

This shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, he’s spent his whole life angry and sad and yet this feels like drowning, like he’s trying to resuscitate someone when he has no oxygen of his own. He just wants to help her, he wants so badly to take her pain away and he knows he can’t. He would’ve done it all for her, he would’ve gone in instead if he could’ve, he was willing to take any beating or torture the Montagues could have thrown at him, but he couldn’t. It was her cross to bear, and he now all that remained was to heal.

    It was unfortunate when a person’s gaze that often brought such comfort does nothing now but cause a visceral and inescapable shame. Perhaps, she reasoned, it was in her own head, but the longer that they looked at one another the more real it began to feel. The soft downturn of his lips, the knot of his brows, the flicker of his gaze as it skipped from one visible wound to another. He was terrible at keeping his thoughts hidden, his thoughts colored his eyes, his emotions were painted across his face, and his distaste for this all seemed to press on his lips like a kiss, soft and half-hidden in the corner of his mouth.  A picture of disappointment and shame. 

    There are very few opinions Rafaella bothered to listen to and take into account – in fact, she could count them on one hand. The man standing in front of her, looking at her so pitiably was one of them. It was one thing to disappoint someone you don’t care about, their disapproval and pity is easily shrugged off, like an ill-fitted coat. 

    But disappointing someone you care about so ardently…for Rafaella, it is not something so effortlessly ignored. It is a physical pain, like drowning (an experience she was now intimately familiar with, ten times over) – like choking on your own heart. It made her half-wish for the isolation of the four dank walls of the cell she had been kept in. Worse still was how he seemed to second-guess every touch, reconsidered every movement. Such a stark contrast to how they normally were, the pair of them. When they had first met, there weren’t any qualms about their touch, orbiting around each other, slipping into the other’s pull seamlessly, as though it had always been and always will be. As the years stretched on, there had been no reason to question it – and so she hadn’t. Until she realized what it meant to go without. 

    They looked at one another – and it hurt, it ached. His fingers tentatively touched her hair and she stiffened, wide blue eyes flickering between the quiet ministration and his gaze. Her fingers dug into her sides, as though that alone would hold her together. It was too gentle. It was too much. Yet, it still wasn’t enough. Her lips parted to ask him to leave, the silence that had descended on them was quickly becoming unbearable. But he broke it first, warm brown eyes tentative and cautious. She shifted her weight uneasily. Since when had they been the kind to do this? Her brows knit together as he stumbled along with the small talk, her frustration – with him, with herself – growing with each passing moment. Though her anger with her loved ones for abandoning her was still a fresh wound that she constantly probed at, this was something that ran deeper still. He was treating her like porcelain and looking at her as though a fissure ran through her frame. Did he think that if he touched her too eagerly she would shatter? Did he not know how many times she has had to piece herself together – within the last hour? 

    She was just about to step away, to tell him to see himself out when – 

    I’m sorry. Her brows drew together in confusion, lips pressing together as she began to realize what he was apologizing for. “Are you apologizing for visiting me?” She asked, hand hesitantly reaching for his. Her fingers slipped between his, the touch as familiar as ever. The warmth of it appreciated more so. Belatedly, she remembered why she had hidden her hands and she quickly pulled away, hoping instead that he wouldn’t linger too long on it. “I don’t –” her thoughts were scattered. Her words more so. “I’m just tired of you looking at me like I’m going to break. Do you know how many people have seen me and wept, crying over me as though I’m already a corpse?”

    The longer she talked, the more frustrated she grew, the stream of agitation becoming a river, the river becomes a flood, the flood becoming a violent deluge. “When I saw you I wanted to hug you. I wanted to – but then you looked at me like that and –” She shoved at his chest helplessly, the motion weak, her aim blurred by the hot, frustrated tears. “Stop fucking looking at me.”

He could feel her breaking down under his gaze, he could feel her hurting from where he stood, and he could do nothing about it. He never felt large around her but suddenly he was monstrous, he was the massive demon he contained, capable of nothing but destruction and if he so much as moved she would crumble under his touch, and if he refused to move at all she would consume him, rip his flesh from his bone as if cursed because it was what he deserved. He didn’t want to treat her as if she was made of glass, hadn’t wanted to see her differently but she was hurt and he was making it worse, he was pressing the wounds by trying to soothe them, by not walking in and lifting her up into the crushing embrace he had wanted to, by trying not to harm her skin he had done something much worse and now she was seething, now she could ingest him whole and bite off flesh with her teeth.

He felt it like a blow to the chest and he knew it was his fault, and he was trying, he was trying so hard to see the Rafaella he’s always known, he was fighting and struggling but he couldn’t find her in the form in front of him and it was killing him as much as it was killing her. The weight of it was crushing every muscle in his body. He couldn’t shut her out, he couldn’t, and yet he found himself trying, trying to spare her as she was burning in front of him and he couldn’t put out the flames, the smoke emitting from the forest fire of her hurt, the sparks of her anger. He was making it worse, so much worse. 

He sinks his teeth into his tongue til he tastes blood, eyes squeezing shut when she speaks and he wants to reassure her, he wants to forget and to hold her but he’s ruining it, and he doesn’t blame her, not at all. He knows why she feels this way and he wants to be different but he can’t, he feels too violent for his own good, too aggressive for hers. He can’t see Rafaella in this form even though it still looks like her, though she’s still beautiful and strong even despite the carnage of this war written on her skin and body and still he can’t find her. 

Perhaps it’s because he’s lost himself, maybe it’s because, as she says, a part of himself had been convinced of her death, of the loss of someone so important and so dear to him that it’s hard to come back. He barely managed to close himself off, to hide the war waging in his eyes and in his being when she snapped on him, flush with frustration and betrayal, and suddenly he wanted her to destroy him so wholly and completely that he would match her on her the outside, so that he could no longer feel as if he was too powerful to even handle her delicately, as if he was too great to see and touch, something he refused to admit he felt. When he thought of their reunion this isn’t what he saw and it was a fault entirely his own, because he was the one who lacking. 

She wanted to hug him and he could barely even touch her, too scared of physical harshness to show her how much he had missed her, how much he would’ve done to save her and how glad he is to see her home. Instead he showed pity, and it made him as sick as it did her, he couldn’t blame her for hating him in that moment, for wanting him gone. 

when: march 25, 2019 where: an no-name, hole-in-the-wall bar where a montague and a capulet having a drink together won’t be remarked upon. with: @odinbellc

they don’t speak upon entering their usual spot. 

they never do–not because they dislike each other, not because they don’t have anything to say–somehow odin has just come to know that bellamy needs time to process the things that they see when they’re out on the streets, that sometimes he’s just too angry about the proverbial gun the montagues have pressed to the small of his back every time he goes out to do his job to have a conversation–especially with someone like odin, who makes little effort to hide how deeply entrenched in the warfare that bellamy has devoted his life to ending. 

for a long time it made him uneasy, that odin knew him well enough to know that there are times when he would rather fall silent, when he would rather let his rage sit in the pit of his stomach and burn. it felt like his partner was pocketing each piece of information that bellamy wasn’t able to keep quiet, keep close to his chest, and sharpening them into something that could eventually be held to his neck. 

but odin hadn’t done anything with it. 

he’d just walk in and save two stools, order enough shots of something strong enough to strip paint while bellamy went into the bathroom to piece himself back together. he’d listen intently when bellamy finally felt ready to speak again, and never once during their time of being paired together, had he said a word about bellamy being too idealistic, too weak for the work he was tasked with, or a poor excuse for a soldato or a son. 

so a tradition was born. the car was odin’s confessional, where he laid whatever was troubling him bare in the hopes that bellamy could provide some kind of salve for it through a kind word or action–and the bar was bellamy’s soapbox, the podium that no one else would provide him with. 

on this particular night it hadn’t taken much at all to get him talking–he’d downed three shots in quick succession and laid his head down on his folded arms in a rare expression of exhaustion, peered at his partner with one eye. “i don’t want to do this anymore.” he says, probably not as quietly as he should. it’s not exactly an unusual declaration–he says the same thing to odin at least once a week. “i can’t keep coming up on dead bodies minutes too late. it’s going to be someone i know–its just a matter of when.” 

Partners in justice and enemies in crime, Odin and Bellamy were brothers by arms, blood and secrets, pushing and pulling, their relationship like that of an alcoholic and a bottle of whiskey, ironically a bond usually furthered by such. They were both cursed in similar regards, both doused in the blood and mess of both being and arresting criminals, of being liars beyond the understanding of God, thieves and false idols, impostors. They understood each other in the way they were supposed to secretly loathe, smiling in the precinct and playing as friends just to wish death on the other, a blade against a brother’s throat, but instead they held confessional. The bled their sins over drinks, repented and repented as if forgiveness was in reach. 

Odin still found a way to be the worse man, the darker spirit, taking and taking information strategically, sharing as needed, trying to coerce Bellamy even further into the darkness, trying to turn his colors to more closely match his own. He doesn’t want to relieve him of his sin but instead make it resemble the cross he himself bears, so he uses the word brother, one of the few he feels he has, and he cannot save him, refuses to even try. Odin wasn’t meant to survive on his own, not without pulling others down with him, a vice grip as he claws his way towards air -- towards the redemption he will never grasp. He lets Bellamy be honest with him, he shares his own plights an inch deep, a nail sunk into thickened skin so he bleeds just enough to gain trust while allowing his partner to almost bleed out entirely, just to be the friend to rip his shirt and press down on the wound.

‘You can trust me.’ He said, and Bellamy believed him, a mistake he has to live with as he sits next to him in a bar and slices himself open over and over again.

The shot burns on the way down, and just as it begins to settle, Bellamy speaks, and Odin listens.

He doesn’t say the first thing that comes to mind, that the bodies he’s likely to know would be put there by the Capulets or even Odin himself, that most of the bloodshed that could stalk him is from his friends or their consorts, from his affiliation itself. He doesn’t say that Bellamy needs to fucking wake up, that this is his life now, that this is what it’ll always be, that escaping is impossible. He’s made his bed, he’s cultivated his demons and they will follow him and ruin everything else he touches. He doesn’t say these things, he only thinks them, a quiet thoughtfulness on his face and over his expressions. They have this conversation often, and every time he holds back, calm.

THREAD 1

date: january, 2013 location: Libraccio Liberia  availability: closed to @odinbellc​

She hummed as she flipped through the worn-out pages of The Wizard of Oz. A customer had come in to return the book, but instead of placing it back on the shelf, she had found herself engrossed in the pages. The words were faded from the years of use, but the entertainment of the story stayed the same. Delilah often wondered what it would be like to wake up in a completely different world. She felt pity for Dorothy— a girl who merely wants to get back home yet gets accused of a murder she didn’t intend to commit and stealing something she didn’t want to steal. 

Her eyes strayed from the story when she heard the ringing of the bell that signified a new customer had entered the shop. She slipped a bookmark into the crease before tucking the book away for later. Delilah eyed the individual that had entered the store. She liked to guess what type of book someone would be interested in before they voiced their own opinions. It saved her time if she got the right answer, and if she was wrong it made for good conversation anyways.

She slipped out from behind her desk and walked over to the man. A soft smile painted itself onto her lips as her arms crossed in front of her. Head canted to the side, she mused out loud, “The mystery books are in the back alongside the wall. I tend to go for Agatha Christie’s books, but there’s plenty of other authors that might catch your eye.” 

Odin hadn’t considered himself much of a reader prior to enlistment, but in the time following his discharge he found a desire to be someone different, to change the little things that would make him feel perhaps more refined, like a better man, things such as police work and becoming someone who reads. He still fumbled with it a bit, not sure what best catches his interest and more often than not hovering from book to book midway through without ever finishing a single story -- it was a bad habit, he knew it, but still he found himself searching for something that could hold him, enrapture him, something that he wondered about until the very last lines. 

He found himself in a bookstore in the middle of a day meant for running errands, a coffee cup in hand and casual wear, jeans and a long sleeve shirt, he had no idea what he was looking for, but as he walked it, the bell ringing overhead, it seemed he didn’t have to even guess because a feminine voice rang out, deciding for him so easily.

A laugh left his lips, an easy smile taking it’s place on his face as he says, “Yeah, okay, I could go for a good mystery.” He says, gaze catching the clerk as first a glance and then a subtle double-take, a simple shifting of eyes as he slowly drifts around the store, first to where she directed him and then making his way up towards the counter after what couldn’t be more than a minute of browsing spines. In his hand he holds a copy of “The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.” He holds it up with a slight shake and a charming smile. “Is this a good one? I’m bad at picking out my own books, so I’m gunna take whatever recommendations you give me.” He says, leaning an elbow on the counter, body turned outward in a way that shows he’s prepared to have a conversation, the thoughts of other things he has to do for the day muted, a mentally cleared schedule. For now, he decides, it’s him, the pretty clerk, and a potentially good book. 

The air tasted like blood. It was always the first thing she noticed upon entering the caves and descending down into that secret haven. Or was it hell, perhaps? She liked the way it felt, the heaviness that came from slipping underground. It held the same out-of-time feeling as museums or empty stages, existing in all moments at once while entirely its own little pocket world. But Measure by Measure lacked the silence she loved so much about those places, filled instead with an electric crowd, glistening bodies, blood and teeth spilling out on the floor. 

Mikael wasn’t fighting. If he was Lucrezia wouldn’t have been nearly as calm. She both hated and loved to watch him, and hated herself for caring so much what happened to him. When he won, she’d kiss the blood from his knuckles and let him fuck her in one of the secret hidden caverns off the main room. When he lost, well, Lucrezia raged worse than her husband ever did. 

Tonight she was alone, drifting through the crowd on a cocaine high. She wanted Prosecco, the mood tonight was bubbly, but Lucrezia feared the bar would be lacking. Perhaps she’d leave early and go find somewhere else to play, with far more interesting attendees when she spotted him. Odin Bello, the great brute, terrorizing and tormenting her darling Delilah. An excellent reason to stay. She crept up behind him slowly, weaving through the people and appearing at his side just as he turned to her and spoke. 

“The bigger man favors his left side, and if the smaller weren’t such an idiot he’d be able to take him down easily. But most men are stupid, are they not?” 

Ah, a demon in the midst of demons, how fitting. The Lady. She always had loved games, and play them she did; hovering and floating above the crowds, perched to swoop in and take whatever prize she desired whenever she so decided to desire it. It was a skill worthy of respect, surely, but he couldn’t find it in himself to favor it. Lucrezia was not the last person he wanted to see, but she was certainly on the list of unfavorables. Though he couldn’t prove it, the emissary had it out for him, tooth and nail, blood over blood, he could feel it, and he couldn’t stand the thought of such an undoing. If he was to be taken apart limb by limb he wanted it to be more personal than that, but in this city that was asking too much.

He felt sharp, oh so sharp, tonight, a blade dragged across the edge of the world, the energy intoxicating, his muscles tense and knuckles tightened. She was not someone he would want to fight, not a person designed for physical warfare as she was much more acclimated to the human brain than the fist. 

At first he said nothing, directing his attention back to the two men in the ring with her words in mind, watching the swirling of muscle and bone, some punches thrown without thought and others so carefully considered. In some regards he supposed she was right but fighting for sport is so very different than fighting for something solid and real. He took a moment, eyes trailing back towards Lucrezia before he says, “It’s only stupid if he’s trying to win.” A slight pause lingers as the crowd roars again, a certain solidness behind his eyes as he says, “Maybe he just wants to get hit.”

    The cravings were beginning to hit her again. She had begun counting the days in between the cravings, tediously disciplining herself and counting the hours when she’d allow herself a hit. It had to be carefully done, like tactfully delving into a honey pot and licking off a finger rather than taking in a spoonful. But she knew that a spoonful of honey would taste so sweet, calm her raw, aching throat, and bring her the sweet relief that was so very much needed. Counting seemed to be the only thing that distracted her, aside from the soft touches of her beloved and the press of his lips on her wound. Always cautious, always gentle. 

    Her wounds would be slow to heal – the blisters were flaking and healing was as painful a process as the torture had been. Perhaps more frustrating, since the limits were not being imposed on her, but were of her own making. Matthias had made her own body a prison, and this is a prison made of bramble and bruises, iron slats and red welted scars. It was not one that she could escape from as easily. 

    It was a bittersweet thing, to be loved so much that she had no choice but to accept the bars of this cage. To live in them for as long as she could bear. Her fingers combed through her hair, gaze flickering towards the door as she heard heavy footfalls echo in the hall. They weren’t Orion’s, she knew that – these carried a gait that was familiar enough that she knew his face before she saw it. Her eyes flew around the room frantically, searching for any sort of garment that she could throw on over her shirt, to hide the mutilation, hard ridges, bruising and burns that adorned her. She couldn’t let him see her like this. He thought of her as marble and silver, not mottled flesh and ragged bones. It was what he had seen in her, had built her to be, and anything less would be…disappointing. 

    And she was well and truly tired of being a disappointment. 

    Rafaella grabbed Orion’s FUA hoodie and pulled it on, perhaps a bit desperately, her head popping out just as Odin stepped in. Her head turned and she looked at him, a doe caught in the headlights. He looked…healthy. His eyes were warm. She waited for them to fill with horror, with anger, with pity. She hid her fingers in the sleeves that were a little too long for her, knowing that her nailless fingers would be something his gaze would linger on. But she wanted them to linger on her. Her face. Her eyes were still the same, were they not? As were her lips, her nose, her brows. 

    My treasure, he calls her. Tattered and torn, but still, he saw her as a treasure. “Odin,” she says, voice soft. Apologetic. Aching. Rafaella stepped towards him, only to remember the state of her frame. If he held her, he would know the wreck that lay beneath the layers of clothes. So she pulled her arms around herself, tighter still. “Who…told you I was here?” She asked, gaze peering up at him. Rafaella wanted to hug him. She wanted to cry and tell him the wretched details that kept her up at night. He could understand wanting to be delivered from this. He could understand the need to free herself from this cage. 

The first thing he sees is that she’s in pain, he could feel it hovering around her -- crackling like a storm, reverberating through the air and into his lungs as well. She didn’t look how he remembered her; he’d guessed that much right, but he held his tongue and breath and didn’t let her know with his features or his words. She didn’t deserve more suffering, he couldn’t bear to think of himself as a conduit for more aching and pain as he steps towards her slowly, feeling as if he is cornering a wounded animal but trying to convey something different. How is he to face her as if nothing has changed? 

Is it a mercy or injustice to pretend as if nothing has happened?

She looks so delicate and for a moment he thinks of the Rafaella before all this; so powerful and intense, she bled different colors and despite towering over six feet Odin had never felt bigger than her until now. For a moment he felt otherworldly in her presence and it was almost unnerving, he felt the need to compensate, to be too soft, to be too small in order to make her feel large. This was his undoing, he was so delicate for what felt like the first time with her. It used to be different, their tenderness towards each other, they were both larger than life the last time they met, the last time his fingertips touched her scalp and ran valleys through her hair, it always just was, no thinking about it or changing the curves of his fingers for the sake of fragility.

Now they must both be smaller than the other, it was a competition to curl into himself and make her comfortable, and he hated the thought, hated that she might see it in him. He was never good at hiding from her, his eyes betraying him in all instances, too expressive and too open around her, and still, he couldn’t close off. God, the thought of locking her out now made him sick in every regard. He hated to see her differently, but as he walked to her with the intention to embrace her he found himself almost hovering, his touches too soft, his arms too loose in fear of hurting her, of scraping unseen bruises or pressing on unhealed wounds because above all else -- he didn’t know what happened to her, and he couldn’t be too careful. He was worried she would hate him for this, but he’d rather be loathed than feared when it came to her, never feared, never a source of pain, never careless.

His fingers touch her hair, much shorter than before, and once again too soft, as if afraid breaking her. He sits far enough away to see her face clearly, ignoring mottled skin or the dullness in her features, looking only in her eyes, the way they’ve always connected easiest, gauging to see what lays behind them and showing her what he holds so dearly in his own. Blue to brown, he feels the open wounds bleeding freely. He begs her to trust him, not to hide, not from him, and he says. “I was hoping you’d be open to visitors...” Unspoken he elaborates, he didn’t ask in fear of being turned away, it was always easier once he was there with her in the flesh. “I had to call in favors to find you.” He laughs lightly, “It wasn’t easy, and then I had to convince Orion to let me in.” 

“Men in rage strike those that wish them best.”

He takes up all the space with one spread of arms, the thrumming of drums loud in his ears with the energy of the room. At first he just watches, something calculating, something curious unfolding behind his eyes as he observes the fighters dance around each other, delivering blows that could easily prove fatal as if it were nothing more than a game. He often wondered about this place, had once banned himself from it knowing that it was the sort of atmosphere that could grab him by the throat -- squeezing and shaking his limp form as if held in the jaws of a wild animal. He liked it too much, the sweat and jeers, the feeling of a hell hound pushing forward the violence behind the mask of a crowd. 

Yes, it was dangerous for him, but tonight he found the caves calling his name, drawing him nearer and nearer like a siren calling to a sailor and he could not turn away. He was just there, taking it in, not drinking nor socializing, not struggling towards the front of the crowd or screaming, just watching silently, enraptured with the sanctity of the grandstand he sat in. The sight was vile, abhorrent, and yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Oh, what devil was he? Looking from the edges of the world to a scene that could play out in movies and stage plays, a part of him always thirsted for the spotlight, center stage with bruised knuckles and his fingers closed tightly around a beating heart.

Another fist is thrown and the crowd erupts, it’s the first sight of blood in this match and the audience hungers for it, faces filled with enthrall, with intensity. Odin is but a spectator of the greater image here, the Renaissance painting showing him only in a blotch of color faded into the background as the saints sing their prayers from the pews. Oh, Mary, forgive them for the muse of their stained glass portraits.

Somewhere close behind him he hears words whispered in his ear, “Hound, hai intenzione di combattere anche tu?” 

It casts a shiver down his spine but no, there’s no one there, it’s just him, he knows it before he looks, it’s just his mind and yet as he turns he sees a face, familiar or not, it doesn’t matter. He cocks his head slightly towards the ring, a motion to draw their attention back to what’s important and with his face so carefully blank, his eyes darkened and devoid, he says, “What do you think of this?”

He hadn’t seen her in a month, but the heavens had cast the weight of all time making it feel much, much longer.

Odin remembers hearing the news so clearly, the word of her disappearance, her fate; it sunk his rib cage into his stomach and curled his insides. Not even Gods could touch a man like him, so in agony and so numb from it, so pale-knuckled he found his gaze lingering on hot stoves and delicate balances -- his mind wondering if he still had the capacity to feel any more possible pain with his quota so well met, his threshold bubbling over with the clench of his heart in his chest at her name. Most days he couldn’t stand it, thinking of her with no clue where she was or what was happening to her, and worse yet, knowing how well he could guess the truth of the latter with the things he’s seen and done himself.

If he felt this level of suffering just from knowing her plight, he ached to think how she must feel under tooth and knife; her only audiences those who want to take her apart and the devil himself.

Then she was rescued, and in the time since he’s been restricted from seeing her for one reason or another, but they spelled of the same nightmare; she was simply a fucking disaster. He didn’t want to imagine the aftermath, being a man of war and chaos he knew what could happen post bellum, the lingering of suffering, the ghost pains and long-term effects that followed such a lack of mercy. It was selfish of him to be scared, he knew it was, and yet as he hovered outside the door where he knew she was being cared for he hesitated for only a moment.

He didn’t consider leaving, no, but he didn’t want to go in just yet, didn’t want to see what was done and what was left, not for another moment, as he spent those last seconds thinking of the Rafaella he remembered and tried to take her apart -- if for nothing else then to spare her the hurt of seeing shock on his face. He couldn’t do that to her, he wouldn’t.

The sky held a million stars tonight.

He missed her so dearly, his hand hovering over the doorknob, eyes squeezed shut in the second before he dared turned it. Inside she was waiting for him, inside she was alone, and he just wanted to be with her. She was the one who had been there for him in his times of need, they were tethered together by soul and choice and he ached for her every day.

Behind the door she is alive, and that’s all that matters.

she’s been expecting him, if only because it’s become something of a routine. a bottle of wine between them, perhaps a movie playing in the background that neither of them watch and a lot of laughter between the two as they discuss the petty grievances in their lives.

of course, odin’s grievances are not always so petty. it was pure coincidence that placed them in the same room, and by luck that the two ended up sharing a conversation over a minor detail paola couldn’t place now if her life depended on it. she had no idea that odin was a capulet, then; she hadn’t even been lillian’s assistant then.

it complicates things now that she is lillian’s assistant. but not so much that paola doesn’t find herself brightening at the sound of his voice, the sight of his smile. it’s one of the few predictable things she has in verona: odin’s friendship.

“i can’t wait to hear about it,” paola steps to the side for odin to step in and shuts the door gently behind him. “but let’s wait until after the first glass, because i’ll be tipsy enough by then to forget how bad it tastes and how deeply i resent you for always bringing wine.”

walking over to the kitchen, paola stretches upwards to grab two wine glasses and an opener from the cabinet. “do the honors, mio amico,” she says as she hands them over to odin with a grin.

odin’s laugh is deep yet rings beautifully, as if joy truly inhabits him, seeps from his eyes and lips at the sight of paola, such a welcome feeling, a freeing feeling, all too unfamiliar in the present days. a beam of light in darkness, a moment of reprieve. “i’m trying to make you a true woman of taste, i still believe you’re going to start liking it one day, really, i do.” a sort pause and, “at least, i hope so.” it comes with a cracked grin.

he walks into the apartment, a place properly deserving of the term ‘cozy,’ and closes the door behind him, somewhat leaning against the counter as she grabs the essentials, relieving her of them at eye level. he gets to work with the cork, twisting the opener before drawing his attention back to her, all thin and short stature. no one truly makes him feel more like a giant, and he finds it near comical, towering by about five inches in height and not even accounting for width in shoulders. 

“while we drink this first glass to lead up to my week, tell me about yours. how’ve you been?” his tone doesn’t lack the earlier joy, but it comes mingled with a sort of fondness, a true curiosity that doesn’t meet with empty questions. he actually wants to know the answer instead of asking for formality and waiting for his turn to speak, something far too common, even among friends.

    It was like trying to lure a wolf into its cage – wolves did not belong in cages, he did not belong in his self-made cage, but there were others who thought themselves safer for it. As though watching a feral creature pace behind iron bars would help them keep their own demons in check. It was a foolish thought, and yet they indulged in it time and time again. He indulged in it, held it up like an armor made of silk and satin; a beautiful armor, but easily torn, shredded as soon as the demons claws sunk into the fabric, tearing at his skin. And he bled for it, would continue to bleed from it. She was young and had not seen much of the world, but she knew that there was nothing more tragic than a man who thought such reasoning was half-sane.

    Her eyes lingered on the breaks of his knuckles, on the dark blood that glistened on midnight skin, the white cloth in her hand such a stark contrast to both. Absentmindedly, her thumb ran over his knuckle before dipping the towel into the bowl and wiping his hand again – carefully, gingerly, as though his skin was made of fractured porcelain, of cracked glass. Perhaps it was guilt that guided her hands in these movements, but she knew herself well and knew there was no chance of that. The small spark of chaos had rippled into a flurry of havoc and in it, she was able to witness the demon that Odin tried so fervently to hold back with an iron chain. There was satisfaction in watching the iron break, fall to the ground in a great clatter. There was satisfaction in watching the bones break and blood spill, knowing that she had been the one to dictate it all – like a god who merely observes one disciple after another spill blood in her name. 

    But the conflict that had broken out moments ago was nothing compared to the conflict that she saw in his eyes when he looked down at her, dark hues made darker with despair and regret. Then, it is as if a shutter is drawn between them. It does not stop her from trying to peer past them, all the same, to discern whatever thoughts kept him from reveling in the victory that he had earned, fought for, and bled for. Was it the senselessness of the chaos that did it? Or the act itself that made him turn away from her so? Orion had been the one to remind her that there is no shame in partaking in the corrupt aspects of man’s nature. There was a blessing to be found in robbing another person of their life – an enthralling gift that was God-given. A certain beauty to be found in the pain of others, of herself. But Odin was disgusted with it ( with her ). Repulsed by it ( by her )

    He turns to her, scarlet shining against the white of his teeth. 

    He promised her, with his whole heart. She promised him, with her whole heart. But she found more comfort in the logic of her mind and what secrets it could tell her, siphoning them from the pieces of others that she could put together. Her heart could not be trusted half as much, which is why she did not trust the way it settled in her chest at his grin, nor in the way it warmed when he met her gaze again – without shame or apprehension tainting his eyes. Instead, there was only melancholy. There was still no guilt to be found within her, no inkling that made her ashamed of what she had done or regretful of it. But she was surprised to find that she did not like to see him this way, with this heaviness on his shoulders, clinging to the slant of his mouth, painting him in colors of grey. Rafaella’s lips curled into a smile as she looked at him, gently pulling him closer and wiping at his mouth with the towel in her hand. There was a half-thought to wipe any notion of sadness away. But all she does is wipe the blood from his mouth, fingers trapping his chin to hold it steady, meeting his gaze for a beat before looking away. 

    There are steady aches and pains that resonate in her, to be sure. But she does not mind them, finding a quiet solace that makes her feel more at home within her own skin. She can still hear the crack of a skull, could still see the way the man’s became vacant – remembered how the soul that had gleaned within them seemed to be whisked away. Being in pain or delivering pain did not seem to make him feel the same way, at least when he kept the demon at bay. Her shoulders fell and she picked up his glass, taking a sip from it before setting it aside once more. Was not she going to be seen as one of his demons? Would it not follow that he should cast her away too? Her parents had – forsaking what they had molded her to be in the name of inebriation and a loftier state of being. One that their daughter did not have a place in. This would not be so bad as that. She would not have to build herself from whatever serrated edges of porcelain remained. That did not mean it would not hurt, all the same.  

he does not like the way she looks at him, not because it causes discomfort but instead because it almost feels good. it’s the kind of look that nineteen year old girls should not yet be able to muster, should not yet truly know what it feels like to hold such intensity. it is not sympathy but it does feel like understanding but perhaps with pity instead of comfort, almost strained as if he is doing wrong. she looks into his eyes and he knows she is reading him, and when he looks back into hers he sees something more guarded, but this time he attempts to not avert his gaze. despite everything, he is not weak, is not submissive, even in the midst of his own suffering, his own revulsion and scattered straws reminding him that she is still new to him, she is still foreign and someone that he can’t allow himself to trust so openly so quickly despite the draw in the air, the taste of the atmosphere. verona is not truly a fair place, tongues twisted with harmful intent, fumbling lips; people lie, and though he promised not to she had made no such vow herself. besides, even if she had, he knows the grass is full of snakes and empty words, anything to get what the people want, and that is something he cannot forget.

not again.

it isn’t dominance he seeks in standing his ground but instead a sense of something solid underfoot, a hardened reminder of who and where he is. who she is. he let her lead in his mending, but he reminds himself that it’s him who is supposed to prove himself as a leader to her. she’s young, and he hates using that as an excuse, even in the privacy of his own mind, but he finds he needs a scapegoat for the chaos the girl seems so at home in, the comfort found in instability. he thinks of missions and orders and worries about a wildcard, attempts to obscure his quickly-found fondness with facts, with logic, because his emotions are too unpredictable to be allowed to run so rampant, so unhinged as the last few minutes have permitted them to be. yes, something solid, something to hold onto.

even devils have vices, even hell has it’s beautiful pieces as proven by the city they live in, the body he resides in, the home he grew up in. shadows dance on the walls and drinks all taste poisoned, cigarettes start to smell like pastries, but bruises still just look like bruises. ugly and mottled, no romanticism for the torture, nothing light in the cavernous dark that drenched the hallways at night with thumps from the other room. the closed door with cracks of lamplight pooling underneath it. sometimes it is best not to peek around corners, sometimes looking or listening too hard is a horrible, horrible mistake. rafaella is making a mistake and she isn’t yet aware of it, pressing her ear to the outside of the bathroom door after the sound of footsteps. she’s looking too hard, he can feel it, he can see it, and she’s going to find only what she’s looking for, she’s going to fool herself, she’s going to confuse him. he wants so badly to be fixed, but he wants no one else to do it for him, no one else to touch him. he remembers her voice and finds it so easy to imagine her attempting to meddle. he folds his mind inwards.

his hardened gaze feels as if exposed, both affronted and horribly naked, as if what she sought to uncover, revealed within black pupils was stolen. still, he doesn’t look away, still he holds the smile that was pushed through melancholy as she wipes at his face. it’s only once she’s finished that he steps away, abandoned drink and perspiring ice pack leaving puddles on the table. abandoned silence leaving more to be desired, what feels like a conversation left unfinished, as if to be continued at a later date, though he will give no such promise.

it feels as if the sky is lacking rain, the rolling clouds before a breaking storm, distant sounds of thunder, the clouds lighting up but not releasing anything to strike, and then all at once, he acts as if it has cleared. he reaches into his pocket to extract a wallet, pulling out euros for the drinks as well as a hefty additional payment. money doesn’t cleanse the guilt of what he did to the man, but it does cure the burden of watching others clean up his mess. he offers them no smile but a one shouldered shrug, perhaps an apology, before he returns his gaze to the girl and her understanding, her silent judgement that he has yet to fully gauge. he allows a smile to return to his features, although again it lacks the complete joy of earlier, instead perhaps with something knowing, something truer yet. he permits the teasing to find its way back to his tone, heightened brows and recovered voice. it remains steady now.

Chaos erupted tonight, as did the molten fire in the veins of Matthias Warren, and for the first time in a while, he felt in his element, despite the injury keeping him from what he believed was his full potential. Perhaps it was because he’d succeeded in incapacitating two Capulets already, Everett Craven and Orion Massetti mere heaps upon the carpeted floor. How satisfying it was to see men who thought themselves so great or noble succumb. How satisfying it was to feel things turn in favor of the Montagues.

Perhaps things might have been different if a bullet hadn’t been lodged in Matthias’s knee, but it could have taken two very different paths. Would he have merely been fighting for the safety of Damiano and Roman and those who needed to evacuate before turning his focus on the only subject his vengeful eye needed to set its sights on? Or would he have spread even more damage than he did now? The latter seemed less likely, as the bullet and the scars poured more fuel on his flames, allowing his anger to grow hotter and more wild and obviously less controlled. Violence still would have found his fists easily, but his serious mind would have been the one behind every movement, and would have ensured it stayed firmly planted upon his shoulder. Now, there was only fury, only fire behind eyes that should have known better.

The objective was clear: stop as many Capulets as possible, especially those most important, from leaving the building. Alexander already had the heiress and would work on the underboss, as well (perhaps it was better Matthias had not stuck around to see his old friend fall victim to his other friend). Now, his sights set upon another old friend. It was uncertain whether he would have hurt Rafaella. No, it was difficult to say if he could have, or if he would have simply held her and allowed the Montagues to gain an even greater upper hand in this moment than they already had. But such things wouldn’t be discovered, for the other man she was with, Odin, wished to involve himself in the fray. Perhaps Matthias knew that all along. It didn’t matter now, not when Odin was squaring up.

Matthias wondered if Odin knew how friendly he was with his ex-wife. He wondered what the benefits were of mentioning it, but in a show that his head was still somewhat there, he said nothing of the sort. Delilah’s safety was important. He didn’t need to say anything at all.  Saresti saggio a correre. He didn’t wish to warn the Capulet. So, he lunged, crutches and knee and all be damned, aiming for where he seemed to have the most success tonight: the throat.

shoulders haunch and teeth bared, equal parts devilish and feral, perhaps some sick vanity in the look of it all, a bigger picture shown as well as any painting. the image of two men reaching for insanity on a battle field, all fingernails and smooth muscle, blood and carnage. pan out just a bit further and you can see other matching pairs, the running and yelling of soldiers and mere unfortunate civilians alike, pan even farther and you can see the night sky outlining the building they all stand in, the night almost deceiving the eyes as still, stars shining despite the call for darkness. you can see where the bodies hang, where guns and knifes and fist are thrown and used in separate stances; some careful, some careless.

if stood still one could analyze every action, every interaction taking place, every command and widened eye slowly taken in and made to be understood, but hit play and everything comes together in a blur of moving bodies and checked shoulders. odin and mattihas play their game in movements none-too-slowly, the energy already far too high, air too thick for restraint or careful planning before making attacks. instead it looked as it was; pure survival, pure loyalty. matthias seemed to fight out of his feeling of fealty to the montagues, for the strength and power within them and within him, but odin perhaps had a different place of which to draw his fury, shown only in the retreating figure of rafaella. 

the part of him that hasn’t been trained and refined for so long wants to leer, wants to pick fun and draw fists, bubble anger as to perhaps make it all the more sloppy. however, he knows better, games of words always being something of a weak point for himself, calling for what he gives and making it his own destruction. no, he stays silent, alert, watching the other man as he throws himself forward.

rafaella: do you even sext?

rafaella: probably not i'm sorry :(

rafaella: cat needs help moving cargo

rafaella: with orion and i gone i don't trust anyone else to help her get this done

rafaella: please?

odin: you assume i DONT? i'm not sure why but i'm offended

odin: cargo, huh?