A Tender and Mercurial Heart

EPILOGUE

For the better party of his thirty years, Rafael imagined leaving the weight of his inheritance behind. Just shy of thirty-one years old, he gets his wish. The family dynasty crumbles, and Rafael can barely sift through the ashes before he boards a plane to Tokyo, Japan. It is too late for his father, his Horseman - but it is not too late for him. Rafael Senior makes it known, and makes it so. You are free, his father says, through a smuggled smartphone from behind the cold cell. The Femenias’ many assets are collected and prosecuted, with what remains of Rafael’s considerably smaller fortune hidden away in an offshore account.

The first five years since the end of times run by in a blur. Settled into Tsuchiura City, Rafael spends the first few years grieving. Kitty’s death, the prosecution of his father, and the heart attack of his mother come swiftly (as tragedy often does). He finds solace in the quiet country life Ikki builds for them. Rafael Nakamura (his name changed, to avoid the tarnish and danger of the Femenias name) walks the small city for miles and miles. After a life of only ever running forward, he feels what it’s like to settle.

Rafael and Ikki wed in late March, 2028 in a private ceremony with the Nakamura clan and the Reyes’ in attendance. Years later, they have two children: Kitty Nakamura (FC: Shiori Kutsuna) and Rafael Nakamura Junior (FC: Taylor Zakhar Perez).

Now, Rafael spends his days as a stay-at-home-father and ‘trophy husband.’ His life is smaller now, and his kids may never know the grandeur of the Femenias Estate. But the scattered, broken pieces of their lives come together to build something new.

THE END

And then he snaps. Rafael splinters before her, and Nana feels sweat bead at the back of her neck. There is no talking this down, she does not think. There is no consoling him, not like before. There is pure, unadulterated anger, and Nana is left to catch the shrapnel in hands that, as he continues to speak, voice rising, cannot seem to stop from shaking. Nana clasps them together in an attempt to push down the misery rising in her chest. It floats over her like a cloud, showering acid rain – it’s there in front of him, that Nana is pushed through to the other end – the end in which she comes to the realization that Rafael, at the end of all things, is not her family to keep. She is as easily disposable as any of the rest. 

No amount of explaining will ease Rafael’s worry, and Nana knows this by now, can see the red blooming at his neck, can see the way it hollows out his cheeks. “We’re looking into the software that was installed on his ring. We can’t determine whether or not it was turned off or hacked until after. We would need to take into account the number of people who knew about his ring for it to make sense that something happened to it.” Nana holds onto logic, onto the facts, because if she cannot do that, then what the fuck is she doing here, before him? She knows this opens the door to a plethora of theories – that she’d been behind it. 

Nana does her best to maintain her composure, to hold the anger, to swaddle it, to press it down until Rafael is far from her. Maybe we’ll throw you back in Cat and Mouse. Nana’s face ashens at the words, and the splintering feeling cascades across her chest. “If you have to do that, then fine. I’ll be the first to volunteer, I’ll take the knife to the throat. Satisfied?” Nana unclasps the knife hidden just inside her sleeve, strapped to her forearm. She unsheathes it, flips it, thrusts it towards Rafael handle first. “Do you want to do it now? Or should I find your father first? Do you want to put an end to me now since I’m so useless? Or do you want me to continue to do my job?”  Nana’s hand still shakes, and she reaches forward, grabs Rafael’s wrist, pulls it forward, makes him grab the knife. “I told you,” Nana whispers, steeled – far from the woman who fell beneath Rafael’s smile, his golden heart, “I would do anything for your family. So if you want me to spill blood for a crime I didn’t commit, but couldn’t prevent, then by all means.” Tears prick her eyes as she holds Rafael’s hand around the knife. 

-

His privilege dictates that those beneath him, are akin to living marionettes. If Rafael asked his people to jump, they would ask how high. If he wanted to watch them dance to prevail from death, he’d merely give the order. He is learned in this; the art of asking the impossible, and dangling certain hurt if he does not get it. But it burns all the same, when Nana offers what once was unthinkable. A look on her face that’s as unfamiliar to him, as his own unhinged cruelty. The knife slips free from her arm, prominent and sure, and he recoils when Nana reaches for his wrist. The knife is simultaneously weightless and heavy in hand, with Rafael peering at her immeasurable face in stoic silence.

“You would offer me your own blood?” He wonders in quiet inquisition, the spiraling anger once in his chest dissipating into something real. His throat runs dry, caught between simultaneous disbelief and gross satisfaction. How could it be that his affection for her, could grow so cold? He squeezes his eyes shut, the frustrated hot tear spilling down his cheek. He edges the knife closer, until it just grazes her collar bone. And just as quickly, he pulls it away, dropping it to the ground.

“Find him, and find him soon.”

END

Where: The House; somewhere outside of the kitchen When: 17th of July Who: @rfjofficial​

The past couple of weeks had been rough on everybody, not least of all Rafael and Ikki— specifically them together as a couple. Things had been rough the past couple of weeks. And perhaps even before that, when he let him know that he had begun to speak with Fazal again. There had been a cool silence between the two after that, that was clearly not the sort of silence that one should leave lest it lead to more problems. The problems that cropped up and pushed things to a freezing point had nothing to do with the people he spoke to, however, and everything to do with Rafael’s missing father. In all honesty Ikki didn’t take offense to any passing accusations or blame that Rafael tossed his way over the past couple weeks, he really didn’t. Rafael was scared, and angry. If he really thought Ikki was to blame they would not have continued to share the same bed, no matter how cold the space between them had gotten. If he really thought Ikki had done it, that would be simply stupid to stay that close, and even though he liked to pretend he was at times Rafael was not stupid. Beyond that there were drug allegations on Rafael’s side causing stress, there was Marcus’s promotion on Ikki’s side causing stress, there was an entire wedding the two of them were still attempting to plan on top of everything else…

It had been a rough past couple of weeks. The addition of staying in this ridiculous house with the other gangs was not helping.

Ikki was trying to keep a cool head, he was trying to not let any of this get to him. Or at the very least he was trying not to let it show that all of this was getting to him. However, Marcus’s speech to the rest of the Famine just may end up being his own personal breaking point.  

His eyes moved from Marcus, towards Rafael as he angrily stormed off. Ikki quietly slid out from behind the rest of the group and followed, unsure if the speech had even ended at that point, but not really caring.  

“Hey,”  Ikki says, as he catches up with Rafael in the hall outside of the kitchen easily enough. Probably not private enough for any conversations they were going to have, but this entire house wasn’t private enough for any conversations he wanted to have with Rafael.  “Are you going to tell me what the fuck that was about? What are you doing letting Marcus stomp around like he owns the place, and wasn’t made Seraphim just yesterday?”

-

drug and addiction cw

Rafael Senior’s chosen minister said it best - don’t go to bed angry. Just one of the many tidbits of marital advice shared during their counseling sessions. And though Rafael could never claim to be a good student, it seems both himself and Ikki fail to meet the assignment. The work around? They never truly got angry. There was disappointment, fear, and even resentment. But it remains below the surface, and many cold nights pass with numbness reigning supreme. Arguably, not the first of their fights, and certainly not the last. Yet it represents the first true reckoning, since Ikki laid his betrayal out in Rafael’s all too accepting hands.

Despite all else, Famine’s trials and tribulations go on. A nightmare of an image problem, turned into a golden ticket. Who would suspect the prodigal son, fallen from grace and second to the ‘worthy’ successor, of being much of a threat? As advised, Marcus and Rafael put on a good show. An obvious uneasiness, represented by Rafael’s temper and wordless presence. The finality of his walk, ensuring the message is clear to those in Famine and the others looking on.

“I don’t want to do this now.” Rafael prefaces, his stride continuous and with purpose. Although he could not claim a cool head quite like Ikki, he could boast far more patience than one might expect. Yet it runs thin, the harsh accusation from Ikki’s lips making it even slimmer. “What? I can’t keep some surprises from my fiance?” He goads on, with a condescending smirk that fails to be mature. As per the ammo of Rafael and Ikki’s many fights over the years. His best friend trades in cool ambivalence, and Rafael turns it back with undeterred humor. In some way, it’s almost predictable of them. Maybe they acted like a married couple, long before the engagement.

“Don’t worry, babe. We’ve got a plan. This is still my fucking legacy. Just-” he shakes his head, a petulant stance as he wraps his arms over his chest. “Go back to texting your Pestilence boytoy. As if they didn’t cause enough problems circulating that fucking picture of me at Pest. But by all means-” he raises his hands in mock surrender. “Continue on. You know I love that.”

WHEN: 17th July, post vote WHERE: Rafael’s and Jack’s room in the Manor  WITH: Rafael @rfjofficial​​

It’s quiet in the hallway, an unnerving quiet after the accusations that filled the air only a few hours ago, maybe it’s just the calm before the storm, or maybe everyone under this roof is all too familiar with the idea that that fingers could be pointed at you at any given moment. Who was he to question anything when he had been an unsuspected traitor to Famine only a few months ago? Climbing up the stairs to the third floor slowly, there is a hesitation in his step as he gets closer towards Room 11. Omer was no longer the brother that Rafael would seek refuge in at the times he needed most, and yet, despite everything that happened between the two, a part of Omer knew that this was where he was supposed to be tonight. A perfectly made grilled cheese in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, Omer pushed the already ajar door slightly, tapping on the wooden frame with his foot to grab Rafael’s attention.

“Can I come in?”

-

He couldn’t tell which was worse - knowing that Ikki would be painted as the traitor, or allowing it to happen. The series of events happen quickly, and the even-keeled voice of his father keeps Rafael steady in his stand. A distant eye as Ikki’s phone is put in his possession, and the person himself escorted to the room of the guilty and damned. An uncomfortable pit gnaws at his stomach, with no comfort to be found in either Kitty or Marcus. Their opinions ring too loudly, and for all of Jessica’s generosity, it’s not her bright optimism that he needs. Rafael is settled by a desk chair, shredded paper piled on the mahogany. The rapping at the door, second only to that unmistakable scent. “Go fuck yourself, Omer.” Rafael says, out of quick instinct. An anger that’s as true, as the melancholy on that night. He glances sideways, catching the perfect hue of golden brown. A four-cheese melt, with a hint of apricot jam and a light drizzling of truffle oil. No matter how often his personal chefs have tried, none could create it quite like Omer.

A long, brief pause and a roll of his eyes later - “Give it here. But don’t even think this squares us off.”

drugs & addiction cw.

for a fleeting moment, it feels like his uncle isn’t gone at all. marcus looks down at rafael sorting through budgets and other things his eyes won’t focus on, and it’s as if his uncle is right there with him. then sadness seeps in, making his muscles feel weak. ever since the disappearance, marcus has thought of a million ways in which he could have prevented their current situation, it keeps him up at night, or babbling nonsense and moving uncontrollably whenever he does will his mind to shut off. all that built up tension releases in an audible sigh as rafael explains himself. marcus likes to think he can read family like an open and willing book, and there are no signs of dishonesty anywhere on his cousin. “cupid, right, yeah. tried it at jess’ party, can’t knock it really. fuck michaela and all her little snakes, but they make good shit.”

marcus sighs, pulling out his phone to search for the photo that triggered his concern. “well, speaking of fletcher, he posted a cute picture,” sarcasm drips from his words as marcus finds the evidence and hands rafael his phone. “this is the first thing i’m hearing about you looking into cupid so, i… was expecting the worst, i guess.” am i bad brother? “i’m glad it’s not that,” marcus pauses, one last scour of rafael’s eyes for something hidden, “but it’s not a good look for you regardless.” a hand finds raf’s shoulder, hoping his concern won’t be taken as an attack. “i just want to make sure you’re alright going back there, with tío missing. if you are, good, and you let me know what i can do to support you. but that picture is a problem unless we find a way to use it, or get rid of it.”

-

drugs & addiction cw.

"Don’t I know it?” Rafael comments, a distracted rhetoric as his eyes keep to the written page. His father’s handwriting as a grown comfort. Its been months now since the topic is broached within the privacy of the family. All mention of it dissipating, and Rafael’s own struggles handled through a wordless approach. The absence of substances at their parties, the allowance for time during his meetings... It is there, like the wind. But never spoken of. And merely speaking of it prompts an uncomfortable, detached stance. Marcus is careful with his words, but the worry rings even louder now. The image is no better; a stark, fluorescent image of Rafael within the familiar confines of Pest. Surrounded by his old nightclub chums, and an array of Cupid pills and white-dusted credit cards on the VIP table.

“Fucking asshole.” Rafael grumbles, holding Marcus’ phone in hand. It looks like every other photo of him, from his twenties to the present. The only difference is in the details. A sharp eye could tell the difference. But no one glosses over the details, when the overarching message is far more distorting. With a paranoid swallow of his throat, he’s quick to shake his head. “It’s not what you’re thinking.” Rafael cuts in. “I haven’t touched anything since-” since my father last disappeared. His Adam’s apple bobs against his throat, a nervous color on his eyes. It dawns on him, then, just how present such a weakness is. Not just how believable it is to those who love him, but how true it is to how he feels within. “I’ll admit - it’s not easy.” Despite the kindness Marcus attempts to share, Rafael rolls his shoulder, easing away from the touch. He didn’t need to be held in kid gloves, he needed a firm hand. “And everyday, I still think about calling up Pierce, or some old contacts in the South.” Wandering away from Marcus, his eyes glean out the window.

“And Pestilence knows that.” He says, a weakened tone. The color of shame, revealed only to a brother who knows him well. “Everyone’s already expecting me to fall off the fucking wagon.” He scoffs, a half-sarcastic smile on his face. Better that than a slew of tears, or crawling beneath his desk. “Maybe we just give the people what they want.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅ 

There’s the slightest hint of bite in Rafael’s tone, disgust curling at the edges towards the situation they find themselves in, and Kitty is almost relieved. At his best, her cousin is bright and playful and loving. He lights up every room he walks into, whether he means to or not, faces turning towards him like flowers in the sunlight. But as the weight of duty continues to pile higher, as clouds gather across azure skies, she worries that he’ll blind himself to what sees in him: a golden leader capable of turning love into action and action into victory. “There are things we can do,” she insists, uncomfortable with a game plan of simply waiting. Hoping. “Beyond choosing a wedding cake, which I know is important to you because it’s important to him, but— you could literally order one of every fucking flavour if you wanted to.” All but itching for something to do, needing to sink her teeth in and taste progress rather than vanilla or chocolate or strawberry, she tries desperately hard not to counter his desire to focus on buttercream icing and sugar decorations yet cannot keep her earnest persistence trapped behind her teeth. “If an Angel doesn’t work, I’ll find someone higher up the ranks. I’ll even make a Seraphim talk, you know I will. I’ll do whatever you need me to do until we find something useful.” 

His question doesn’t require an answer. She watches him, dark eyes fixed on his own, sitting up a fraction straighter as if to prove she can take whatever ugliness he wants to pour out from his chest. It’ll find a worthy home in her own — and it does, settling in amongst every other word he’s ever uttered to her in confidence. “I get it,” Kitty responds, sympathy twitching at the corners of her lips only to turn into something more serious as Rafael’s mind twists towards hopelessness. He’s not dead, she would have insisted, once. Not even that long ago, in fact. But times have changed and her stubborn desire to ignore the worst of their fates has worn thin. She thinks of Saint, suspended in time while waiting for news of his sister, only to have his heart shattered by the truth. “Then— I think we should plan to carry on as if he is. And when he walks through that front door, smoking one of his disgusting smelling cigars, we can be proved fucking wrong and for once we won’t be mad about it.” She moves to perch on the very edge of his chair, quick to wrap her arms around him, fingers digging into the material of his shirt. Quiet, it takes a moment of consulting her heart to figure out a way to try and soothe his. “You know, the best goodbye I could give him is to promise to take care of you.” Leaning back, she meets his gaze. “And the best goodbye you could give him is to promise to take care of Famine.” 

-

It’s with fond, somber eyes that he stares back at Kitty’s trademark petulance. A color of mirth on his pink cheeks, that contrasts the otherwise dour mood. Historically, it’s what they both have in common; thinking fast, acting even faster. A distinct opposition from the likes of Marcus and Jessica, who were far more methodical than the fiery pair. Except this time, there’s something dour that keeps him stead. A son’s intuition, perhaps. What if he digs further, and finds a reality he isn’t prepared to accept? “Why do I bother trying to stop you?” He asks, a color of mirth in his eyes. Nothing but fondness, for the person that redirects Rafael’s worse ideas. “You have a point.” Rafael considers, though there’s an after thought to the other impacts of it. No cake selection, would make the coordination of the other pastries harder. Whatever, he resolves, lowering the fork against the fine China. With a patient chuckle, he forces himself to tune in. Even if the desire to mill around mindlessly fights to prevail. “You know what egotistical, pompous shit-bags Seraphim’s can be.” Present company included. “If they did this, they would have made a bloody announcement of it.” Literally and figuratively. In a lengthy pause, he cannot escape the demons that prompt a next question. “If it’s Death - there’s a chance. It took them weeks after kidnapping to...” He doesn’t say the word kill, he doesn’t have to.

He falls into the comfort of Kitty’s arms, inhaling that childhood scent that never quite leaves her. The hurt in his heart is too painful to conquer. A breathlessness is there - but it’s not from the blasted lung, still wary on its recovery since the coma. It’s from the pragmatic truth Kitty shares with him, holding him closely in her arms. He rests his head on her shoulder, as he has many times over. An opening and prompt closing of his mouth, the struggle for words without tears ever-present. He coughs, attempting to stifle it. Not for her sake, but for his. “You already promised him that. Many, many times...” He mumbles with certainty. Would Rafael Senior really let his son rise, without Kitty to catch him when he falls? “And if I can’t? Look at what’s come of us. We’re fucking falling behind, and it’s not just because of what’s out there. But what’s within our own ranks.” It’s a confession meant for someone like Marcus, his fellow Seraphim. And yet, he cannot say it, without speaking to Marcus’ own missteps. “If they aren’t putting the knife in our fucking backs, they are talking shit to our faces. Or, they are failing us.” His thoughts drift to Omer, Wren, and Nana. A endless cycle, it seems. He pulls up his chin, sighing against Kitty with a bout of uncertainty. “Maybe there’s something good in Marcus stepping up...”

Rafael’s anger is justified. His father has disappeared, no smoke in his wake. The signal that should have carried herself and Ikki to him had died, a fragmented heartbeat – thousands of hundreds of dollars put into security for their treasured Horseman, and for what? For it to fail? Nana tries to hold onto the logic of Rafael’s accusations for fear of losing herself to the venom hidden beneath her tongue. She has no right to lash out, she doesn’t think – she’d failed him. It wasn’t the first time, either. Even if she hadn’t been present, it was still her obligation to ensure the safety of the Femenias family. 

You lost him. Nana holds herself steady, gaze leveled with Rafael’s. She allows him to speak, because despite the excuses that build at the back of her throat, she knows that they will mean nothing to him. He will shred them apart and leave them at her feet. “My team had done an inspection of his car an hour before departure. We’ve already viewed the security camera footage of the lot that the car was in, nothing was out of the ordinary. We’re checking to see if it had been tampered with.” Nana does her best to keep her tone from imposing the anger lighting atop her skin. 

“Security was to meet them once they arrived just beyond the bend.” It being early morning, even Nana had questioned why extra security hadn’t been put into place. With both Wren and Ikki accompanying him, too, Nana had to wonder. “I understand that you’re scared. I’m worried, too. We’re doing everything we can. I’m doing everything I can. Raf– Rafael, please.” Professionalism leaks from her at the seams as she settles into her skin as his friend – confidant. “Can I please get you water? Can you take a seat? I’ll show you everything I have right now, we can look at it together, put everything into place, see where it goes. I’m heading into the office– I was, I was heading into the office, to review everything, anything new.” 

-

It’s the thing he loves most about her - she’s relentlessly steady. Come whatever storm or mishap, Nana finds a way to remain unmoved. What a rare thing it was, in his circle of cohorts. His cousins, like him, languished in beating hearts and mercurial ways. Ikki, for all of his reason and collection, always worked to pull himself higher. But not Nana. No, she was ever-present, ever-sure. An unwavering, sure force. Rafael colors himself secure in her presence, as did his father. As did the rest of his family.

When did the thing he loved most about her, become the very thing he hates most?

“What about before that? Huh? Did someone hack the tracker in his ring? Did they put something in his scotch?” He was needling in further. Yet they both knew the truth. No answer could satisfy Rafael. The only cause for satisfaction, was to watch his rage leave its mark on Nana’s resolute stance. His closest friend, his trusted confidant... Yet all wanted Rafael, was to see her hurt. He thinks, though tinted glasses, that it would offer some reprieve. And he’s far too undone, to think anything else.

“Then what you’re doing is not good enough.” Rafael settles, petulant and set in his ways. No space for reason, in what’s become a hunt for someone to blame. “We’re well past scared and glasses of water now, sweetheart. I’m fucking pissed off. You had one job - keep us safe. What’s the point of you, if you can’t do that?” His Adam’s apple bobs, dry from rage. A close approach, staring into her sunken eyes. Did it hurt? He wants to hear it hurt. “Maybe we’ll throw you back in Cat and Mouse. Worst case? We earn back the high fucking cost of your damn security measures.” He doesn’t say it, but the cruel indication is there on the tip of his tongue - would the best case be that I lost you, too?

After all, if Rafael Senior’s blood was nowhere to be found? Then maybe her blood would do the trick.

drug and addiction tw

If his fall from grace were true, he would look to something stronger than the contents of the pill box. It’s never been his particular vice. Yet it’s strategic, is it not? No one ever pays attention to the details, when the overarching message is too sweet to resist. After addressing Famine’s ranks (or rather, watching Marcus address them), he is quick on foot. An eager switch from the kitchens, out onto the sun-kissed rose garden. A dangling cigarette between his fingers, and the scent of smoke contrasting against his Armani cologne. Performative as it may be, it was also rooted in something true. A stomach-aching anxiety loomed over him; with his father’s disappearance and the touch of arguments between himself and Ikki. Maybe he wasn’t acting as well as he’d intended.

From the corner of his eye, he catches Gwen looking on. It’s almost like he is twelve-years-old again. With the Goldsmith’s and the Femenias’, attending one posh event or the other. Their decided heirs, making a spectacle through one debauchery or another. Gwen with her upheavals, Rafael with his escapism. Funny how they both chose differently, from the same likened tree. “Looking for your worse half?” He asks rhetorically, thumbing along the cap of the container. “I doubt she’s hanging around out here.” In the last five years, May has supplanted Gwen as the righteous voice in his well-to-do life. Seems only right that they pick each other. “I always thought you’d end up spray painting and kicking shit up for one bullshit cause or the other.” Rafael exhales, smoke laden around him. “Guess I was right, in a way.”

—  JULY 8TH,  FEMENIAS ESTATE,  WITH RAFAEL FEMENIAS JR.  ( @rfjofficial​ )

drugs & addiction cw.

the picture is burned into his brain. marcus sees it when he’s eating lunch at his desk, alone, scrolling aimlessly through his phone, forcing his mind to focus on anything but the void that his uncle’s absence leaves in his chest. posted by fletcher grey. it was just a harmless photograph at first glance, and then marcus catches the eyes of someone too familiar. rafael? what’s he doing in PEST? fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck. 

he makes plans to meet his brother at the estate after work, but it doesn’t ease the worry that makes his head spin. in the car ride from london to surrey, marcus considers his options. his instinct is to go in guns blazing, stop the problem before it becomes more of one, send raf to rehab if they have to. but that would be assuming the worst, and not giving rafael the credit he’s due. when ravi calls to ask why he hasn’t yet returned home, marcus skips over the details, not wanting to trigger worry in anyone else. after all, it could be nothing. more than anything, marcus hopes it’s nothing.

when marcus arrives, he freezes over. fear grips him. not only fear for his cousin’s mental state, but for his own image. kidnapped uncle, a relapsed cousin, it all works out rather well for a man who’s never shied away from wanting power. but when he finds rafael in his father’s study, marcus forces a warmth to return to his features, even if he doesn’t quite smile. “hey,” he greets, walking slowly over to the desk and perching on the edge. marcus inhales deeply, clearly burdened by something as he massges his knee. “i’m gonna get right to the point, man, i—” he sighs, hoping his words don’t leave his mouth sounding accusatory, “what were you doing at PEST? last night.” please, brother, tell me this isn’t what i fear it is.

-

drugs & addiction cw.

Only a stone’s throw away, Rafael abandons the prospect of a frosty dinner for his father’s study within the Femenias’ Estate. The sturdiness of the mahogany desk and the timelessness of vintage furnishings reveal the energy of a man who is no longer present. A sense of comfort, that cannot currently be found in his and Ikki’s own space. Not without accusations. Some fair (how can you go back to texting Fazal Khan?) and some unduly cruel (how could you let this happen to papa?) The end result is a well-placed distance, with Rafael’s own growing number of tasks keeping him busy. Famine’s Horseman would not want the world to stop, even if its center is no longer present. So, he keeps to the task - an operational eye for Famine’s enterprises, and an investigative focus on the filth behind Fletcher Gray’s easy smile.

The afternoon gets away from him, lost in his father’s journals and hard drives. A great many things to get done, and unlike his technology-savvy Seraphim’s, Rafael Senior liked putting pen to paper. He is halfway through gleaning the operational expenses for July (too rich for our blood, his father would say) and makes note of coordinating with his respective Virtue’s to pull the cost down.

He glances up, far too quickly than is usual. As if waiting for the other shoe to drop. The unexpected but not unwelcome appearance of Marcus is a curious one. He tightens his grip on the paper, wondering what’s happened next. A Seraphim missing? Death revealing themselves as the mastermind’s of the loss? Yet Marcus is warm and seemingly pleasant - though it does not reach his eyes. “Hey,” he echoes, continuing to stare back down at the budget. The question is innocuous enough, and Rafael shrugs nonchalantly. “Following up on a lead. All my old buddies couldn’t shut up about this new Cupid drug hitting the nightclub scene.” the very ones that fostered Rafael’s ten long years of reckless usage. Fletcher’s all bark and no bite, but he seemed especially keen on this one.” “My buddies keep saying it’s the next big thing since Pest’s cocaine. Cleanest powder in London, fastest activation in the damn market.” Without missing a beat, he drops the paper back on the table. “It could make them millions if it’s global by now. Would sure put them back in the green after their shitty deals with Death.”

Finally, he catches that look. At that, he can only pause with a furrowed brow. “Why?”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅ 

It’s quiet in the dining room. Kitty drags her fork through a field of icing, prongs tilling up the sugarscape like a plow through fresh earth. She chews on a mouthful of cake and it’s sweet and soft and she’s sure it would be delicious if worry wasn’t gnawing at her insides, gaze fixed on Rafael who has barely had more than a few bites of the tasters lined up in front of him. So much of her time has been devoted to worrying about him lately — after his father is stabbed; after Marcus lays his hands on him; after he is comatosed — that it’s almost beginning to feel a normal state of affairs, which she hates. Because they shouldn’t have to live like this, especially now that a new truce has been conjured into existence. “Such bullshit,” she murmurs, setting her cutlery down with a clatter. The spike in anger is swiftly followed by guilt, Rafael stirring from his own stupor. “No, not really. Nothing important.” Her answer is accompanied by a small shake of her head, apologetic yet dismissive. And then he’s talking about flavours, clinging on to mundanity and duty. “I don’t know, Raf.” She’s frustrated but not with him. She searches the dark depths of his eyes from across the table. “What are we doing? I get it if you need a distraction, I just— are we pretending everything is ok?”

There’s too much distance between them, Rafael Senior’s vacant seat looming in her periphery. An uncle and father first, a Horseman second. Kitty stands, moving around the table to her cousin’s side — forever her preferred place. She pulls up a seat, close enough to knock her knee against his in a silent reminder that she’s there. Always. “I can go out and catch an Angel, if you want? Death, Pestilence, War. I’ll make them talk. Someone must fucking know something.” She’d even use violence, if he asked. Wouldn’t think twice about breaking the truce rules for him, consequences be damned. Her attention returning to the unsampled slice on his plate, offering a tender smile. “Do you know what cake he had at his wedding?”  

-

"Trust me - none of this is okay.” A sharp intonation in his otherwise flat demeanor. The only sliver of liveliness, in what has otherwise been an eerily silent lunch. How common silence has become, as of late. The years prior, every arrival was a reverberating sound. Femenias Estate knew nothing of cold silence and vacant gazes. The constant ebb and flow is jarring, and even Kitty begins to show signs of her ferocity wavering. After all, how consistent can rage become when turmoil becomes normalized? “But he’ll be back, and when he returns? He’s going to be pissed that I didn’t pre-order the wedding cake.” It’s the last vestige of his father’s plans that he can control. Famine’s operations carry on, business as usual. Femenias Energy’s daily operations are manned by Ikki, anyways. “There’s nothing we can do, Kitty. We don’t have any jaws to break. No leads to follow. We’ve got nothing.” He sighs, scratching his fork along the porcelain glass. “But we can do this for him.”

He leans back against his seat, an instinctive reaction to her approach. What did he fear more? Being far away from her, or the reality that one knowing look could undo his barely-contained composure? Ultimately, it seems to not matter. She is present and willing, clinging onto her own version of control - rage. It’s her tell, a revelation of where her own heart and mind resides. If Rafael distracts, Kitty digs her heels like an unmovable object. “An angel would know fuck all.” He mumbles, unhelpfully. It’s not as if they bequeathed their largest secrets to the likes of Wren or Omer. “Wanna hear something awful?” He knows the answer before it comes. Kitty’s seen and heard the worst of him, to change her mind now. “I preferred it when he got stabbed.” It’s a dark revelation, shared only with his secret keeper. “Because he was here. We had some control over whether he lived or died. We had him.” He turns in his chair, facing Kitty head-on. “He could be dead by now - and we never even got a chance to say goodbye.”

The moment she’d gotten the call, the world started to spin. It’d been an Angel’s voice, low and husky. There’d been yelling in the background, directions being thrown this way and that. Afterwards, she’d been out with Ikki the majority of the afternoon, chasing a lead she’d installed herself, only to be left empty handed. She had barely enough time to come home and shower, let alone enough time to eat before she aimed to head back into the office.

As soon as Nana shoulders her door open, however, the sound of steps, heavy with purpose, cause her to look up. Slightly dazed, Nana blinks once, twice, before she can process Rafael grabbing her wrist, backing her up into her home. She’d been in this position more times than she could count, especially after the truce had broken – but now? What was her excuse other than incompetence? 

Nana knows to keep her mouth shut, to let Rafael speak his piece. Anger draws the veins at the base of his neck, in his forehead. There’s turmoil, too. It’s embedded in his features. She’d seen it time and time again, and truthfully, she hoped she’d never have to see it again. This temper is what Rafael is known for in his darkest moments, and Nana had spent enough time in his shadows to feel afraid. 

Nana clears her throat, looks past him to the open door. She steps forward, closes it with her knuckles before veering around him. 

“There isn’t an excuse, I don’t- I don’t have any excuses.” Nana maintains eye contact. Wouldn’t looking away just prove her guilty of all the things Rafael wants to accuse her of? "I’m on my way to question my staff again. If you would like to join me, you’re more than welcome.” Nana tries to keep her tone level, straight to the point. “Ikki and I were out all afternoon– I left you a voicemail.” The tracks had gone cold, she wants to say. 

-

He knows, with flagrant certainty, that there would be no true answer of importance. Neither Ikki nor Nana indicated as much, and he’s certain that the remaining facts would be parsed through with a fine tooth comb. This logic is known, and perhaps if Rafael were clearer of mind, he would cling to reason instead of temperament. Yet there is nothing he can see, than red in the white’s of his eyes and a tunnel vision for the woman in front of him. Few people had what Nana had; the Femenias’ unequivocal trust. It was one thing to entrust their money or their business interests in the many Power’s and Angels... Quite another, to trust the beating souls of those closest to him.

This trust took years to build, yet Rafael feels it breaking in as little as a few hours. If he could not believe in Nana, who could he believe in?

“You lost him.” He maintain flatly. “You, with all of your protocols and security meetings, just lost the most powerful man in London?” He questions, an air of cruel sarcasm that fails to be mature. “Just like that? Christ - there wasn’t even a gun shot, or any evidence of a fucking fight. Whoever it was, they just took him. And you... You just let them.” Did he prefer brutality to cold absence? Perhaps. Something to be said for evidence that proves violence, or a struggle. Because such things left pieces or hope. Now, Rafael had none. Not even his father’s blood on the fine leather of his sedan, to cling onto for hope.

“I want to know what the fuck you were doing, while all this was happening. Where was the extra security? Who was making certain the car was secure?” Rafael punctures on, each beat louder than the last. “We spend millions on security, and they just take him without a fight? How does that make sense?”

Power means nothing if you cannot protect the people you love.

It is a known entity, written into the journals of Horseman’s of Famine’ past. As golden a truth as Familia Sobre Todo. Many times over, that power is questioned and contested. Yet time and time again, they break through it. They survive. And who was built of heartier stuff than Rafael Senior himself? Never mind the strength required in ruling over Famine, or surviving a near-fatal stab wound, or the loss of his tight-knit family... Rafael Senior would undoubtedly outlive them all. Or so Rafael believed. And yet, the disappearance lands differently this time around. At least before, there was Rafael Senior’s warmth. The pool of his blood on Rafael’s hands, the well-loved silk shirt throw onto the hamper basket.

This time, there is nothing but the deafening silence of absence.

Leave it to Rafael, then, to fill a noise. An emboldened stance as his own vehicle lands outside of Nana’s apartment. The updates from Ikki, burning a hole in his pocket. All that technology, all of that investment - for nothing? Heart about his head as he catches Nana on her way out. A purposeful stride of a security head, alerted by the red of Rafael Senior’s loss. “What the fuck?” Rafael exasperates, the heavy beat of his heart in his chest nearly deafening. It’s the only sound he hears. There is nothing of his father. Not anymore. “Get in now. Now.” He holds Nana’s wrist, firm and decisive, and pushes back into her flat.

“How the fuck did your security team let this happen? How did you let this happen?”

The towers of pastel-hued wedding cakes surround the pair, entrenched at the center of the all-too familiar mahogany table. Every color and flavor imaginable, delivered by the coveted French pastry chef of Rafael Senior’s choosing. Fatherzilla of the Groom, Rafael would often lament. The Horseman’s over-involvement in the upcoming nuptials is a running joke at this point. One that is brushed away by the patriarch, who insisted weeks ago that he be involved in the wedding cake tasting. At the time, Rafael met the insistence with an eye roll and a begrudging yes. Now, as he and Kitty sit listlessly at the table, with the head vacant? Oh, how he condemns himself for thinking so out of turn. What would he give, to have Rafael Senior dissecting the wedding cakes and insisting on a proper church for the wedding?

“Sorry - did you say something?” He blinks, peering up from the lavender and vanilla slice that remains untouched on his plate. Only his fork moves, dragging along the porcelain plate and crumbling the finely made cake. Most of the sample slices remain untouched, save for a few begrudging bites. Really - they ought to have cancelled altogether. Yet Rafael keeps the appointment - for his father’s sake. He would return, and he would expect a full report. He peers up at Kitty, that same wan uncertainty coloring her face. He asks her to come - I can’t do this alone. But few words are exchanged between them, near lifeless as they move about slices of cake. “Which one do you think he’d like?” He questions quietly, scratching the back of his ear. “The lemon raspberry is too tart, right?”

ikki: It's in the expanded reading list. Have you not gotten to the part yet? About building anticipation, and finishing work before you go home? I won't spoil anything for you, if that is the case.

ikki: It's not difficult to make. You could probably do it if you wanted to try, you've seen me do it enough.

ikki: But I will never be too tired to make ramen for you. Unless I am.

rafael: I skimmed it. Ngl, I thought it was a sex thing.

rafael: BUT i did score 10/10 in that compatibility test. Might have been one of Jessica's Cosmo Magazine's though...

rafael: you sure you want to let me loose in our kitchen?

ikki: I'm just building anticipation.

ikki: I can get us some ramen. I could also make ramen for you myself, but if that's what you want.

rafael: did you read about 'building anticipation' in our pre-marital counseling reading? because that seems to contradict 'happy husband, happy life'