BEAST HEART

x

“I did.” That in conjunction with recognising the latent potential for more, drawn toward it like a moth to an open flame; prepared to burn to be close to something greater than her. Burn she had, though more than that, she had scorched him in the process. The idea of unfinished business fresh on her mind during her first Truce anniversary, she had tried to apologise for it, but all Alicia could remember was how he had started at her like he’d seen a ghost. A pointed look is given toward the hand holding his cigarette, as though to offset the compliment, dappled with evidence of violence in the form of scrapes and cuts. “Closely followed by a penchant for trouble, but that’s three.” And makes her something of a hypocrite.

It was different now, having once told her stories via whispers of truth earned over weeks (or even months), experiences were mapped on her body. Each bruise, scar, and modification was accompanied by its own tale; prompting her to remember how much she endured when her fingers traced them while alone. Validation that she had worked to earn her place - yet, she still wasn’t satisfied.

Alicia nods. “I’ve volunteered myself as designated driver, so I’ll be there.” Now wishing she hadn’t, able to utilise the free bar to procure an expensive whiskey that could be used to wash down the question of why it mattered whether or not she made an appearance. “You going?” Or why it mattered to her if he did too. “I might steal you for a dance if you are.” Neither threat nor promise (most likely residing somewhere between the two had there been any seriousness to it), the playful thought alone enough for a widened smile to grace her lips in the immediate aftermath of it.

He can remember a time, several years ago, with his head pressed between the gap of Alicia’s shoulder-blades, half alive and half dead, holding himself together with string. Maybe he’s being a little dramatic -- it’s always been a possibility, a natural part of who he is, really -- but he’d never felt more at peace, then, next to her, waiting for the morning to come and fiddling with cards of fate in the meantime. Now, they are strangers, and this is a reoccurring theme in his life that Thomas is becoming more comfortable with by the minute. Maybe it is meant to be this way. Maybe it always was. He’d told her stories, then, good ones and bad ones, but never enough to get her into trouble, and when the time came, she cast him off, and moved on.

Here’s the thing: he’s bull-headed, stubborn, arrogant, a little bit of a prick on good days and an absolute prick on the worse ones. He knows this about himself, hasn’t ever really grappled with it. Here, and now, smoking a cigarette with Alicia and wondering about what the fuck could have been, he wish he would’ve. Maybe not desperately, but enough that the thought will settle in the back of his head and stay there the rest of the night. He hums, shifting his weight from right to left foot.

-

There were days when the Femenias lineage escaped his psyche. He could simply be himself, a singular and individual entity. On those days (and there were many of them), he could relate to Thomas on an intimate level. He could reveal the simultaneous glee and terror, the day following his first kill. Just as he could express his frustrations at the hum-drum, corporate responsibilities that came with the mantle. And in turn, he evoked his own charismatic approach to Thomas. A lighthearted, younger man that could evoke some life into the man. It was a magnificent arrangement, one that went swimmingly. He even entertained the idea of Thomas, by his side, the dutiful Dominion that advised the newly-anointed Horseman. Yes, it was easy to forget who he was, and what he was born to be. That is, until he reached the end of his excruciatingly long name; Rafael Femenias Junior. A cog on a wheel, a namesake of his father, and the usurper to his deceased brother. He inherited privilege and shameless debauchery – and ultimately, it’s the prevalence of his helplessness that destroys what they once had.

But Rafael, so accustomed to leaving chaos in his wake, approaches it with calm. He didn’t have to fix it (he was neither perfectionist, nor heavily motivated to do so). He simply had to build something better, substantiated by their lots in life. It was a thought of the privileged, but what was he if not that? He offers a mindless hum, deferring to the silence that accompanied his words. Only to look up at Thomas, reignited by the talk of work. That always kept things on the straight and narrow. “Then the street is off to a slow start. We just had a meeting, and the Warden’s weren’t shy about who they thought it was.” He scoffs. “Acting like the fireworks was some kind of purposeful distraction.” It would be a smart one, right in line with the flash of Famine’s ranks. But it was not them, with a reputation for violence.

“What would be the reason? This Truce helps us.” He defers to speak on the burgeoning alliance with Remus Warden. And, by default, War itself. “Unless it’s someone deflecting, it’s unlikely.” Rafael twists the leash in his hand, taking a slight pause as Alex took a roll along the grass. His curious, brown eyes gazing back-and-forth. Finally, a mischievous smirk lingered on his face, as he peered closer at Thomas. “So,” he pops his lips. “I heard you got Remus Warden good.”

Ambition’s a fickle beast, and Thomas knows it intimately. He’s spent years running on the fuel siphoned from wanting to climb higher, accompanied by the willingness to do whatever it takes to get there. He would’ve dreamed, once, of helping Rafael vault as high as possible, of guiding him and keeping him on the right path in his position as Horseman. He still wants it, sometimes, if he allows himself to go far enough down that path of thought. There’s just the question, now, of whether or not it’s still in reach, something he can attain.

They demoted him. Didn’t kill him. It has to show for something. And if he can get back into Rafael’s good graces, maybe he’ll be presented with the opportunity to climb again. Or maybe he belongs near the lowest rung of the ladder. Maybe it’s where he was meant to be the entire time, and he didn’t know it.

“Hm,” he replies, because that’s the only decent way he can say fuck the Wardens without explicitly saying fuck the Wardens. “I’m not surprised. I’m sure we’ll hear more about it, soon. Can’t really let this one live and let live, if everyone’s got their hackles up.” They come to a stop, and Thomas watches as Alex rips grass up and rolls around, just happy to be alive. He puts his hands in the pockets of his coat. He’s still not sure about the whole death thing, but Rafael brings up Remus, and he can’t help but laugh a little, low and quiet. “Rocked his shit, if I’m being honest.”

She’s never been particularly ambitious. There’s been no need, really; not when she was born a couple of rungs above average up the ladder. The truth of that matter is this: a lot of the time, she doesn’t realise she wants things until she gets them. Which seems silly, really, and she thinks it’s probably a good thing that she’s self-aware about it. But for her, it’s never been so much about wanting something as it is about having it. 

If you had asked Kitty yesterday what she thought about becoming a Virtue, she’d have shrugged it off with a laugh and claimed that it sounded like far too much hard work for someone who would rather let others bear the weight of responsibility while she basks in the perks of being of Femenias blood. Today, though– now– it’s different. Being promoted to Virtue feels like a chance to have something of her own to hold close to her chest and tend to; a home for hungry teeth to sink in. 

Kitty stays silent and alert as she watches defeat find a perch on Thomas’ shoulders, talons sinking in to tenderflesh. Her pity from before has shifted shape in light of recent ( and wholly unexpected ) developments, sympathy towards his misfortune eclipsed by the giddy feeling of recognition and reward. Her pulse is still racing with excitement, pleased with herself and the newfound direction her life was taking. Yet, as her gaze traces over the other, uncertainty rolls in like a sea mist. These were unnavigable waters. Continue with caution. “It’s me,” she confirms, tongue wetting her bottom lip as if to help the following question slip out a little better. “That’s not going to be a problem for you, is it?” It must sting, she understands that, but progress is progress and Thomas, well, he’d fucked up hadn’t he? Kitty turns her guilt over until it’s sharpened to a point. 

“You’ve been a good teacher,” she tells him, boots crunching broken glass against the floorboards as she moves tentatively closer. It feels final. An acknowledgement that the dynamic they’ve grown so used to over the past few years can no longer exist if she is to do this properly. The thought of leaning on Thomas now that she’s a Virtue fills her with an uncomfortable unease, far from fond of asking people for help and increasingly aware of the shoes she has to fill. He’d been good at the job, there was no denying that, and she’s grateful to him for teaching her all that he has. Whether she’ll succeed at achieving the same remained to be seen, insecurities flashing enamel white grins through the dark pit of her stomach. “I know how much you hate to lose.” Each word is weighted. “I need to know you won’t try and take this from me, Thomas.” 

How many times, he thinks, has he had to watch her do this? It’s terrifying, frankly, the way she takes a blade turned in toward her ribcage and spins it right around, going right for the jugular. He’s awed by it, each and every time he’s seen it, and has never really considered the possibility of having it turn on himself. The anger comes raging right back, but it’s Kitty, and anything he does here would effectively sign his name at the bottom of a page titled guaranteed death. He breathes in once, twice, and is glad that she doesn’t try anything, doesn’t try to comfort or constrain. Just uses her words, sharp as any hunting knife. He’d done this. This was his own fault.

All of his life he has hungered for something. For no small time, he’d been fed. Come tomorrow, he will be back to slavering.

Thomas keeps his distance. This is for the best. I need to know, she commands, and what choice does he have beyond obedience? “I’ve taught you most of what you need,” he acquiesces, and chews on the gristle of what to say before continuing, “and you’ll do well.” He swallows, brings his hand up to rub at the palm, and then looks down at the ground, brow furrowed. Glass is everywhere, alongside splintered wood and dripping drinks. He feels a little like he should lay down and bask in it, just to remember exactly what this feels like. He knows himself, knows that this conversation will be what carries him through all the way up until he meets some sort of end, either--

He doesn’t let himself finish that thought. That’s borderline treasonous, and he hasn’t been brought that low yet. “I won’t take it from you, Kitty. You’ll have it as long as you can keep it.” It’s a fragmented promise, but a promise regardless, and he’s thankful his voice doesn’t waver. “But I can’t help you with this, not how I used to.” It’s not meant to cut, or dig caltrops into her skin, intended to flash pain: it’s just the truth. When she needs help, when she needs to know if she’s made the right call or not, Thomas can no longer provide that space. He cannot serve as a port in a storm for anyone above him, he tells himself, even if he has before in the past and will still likely do so. This is a necessary line in the sand, whether it gets crossed in the weeks, months, years that come.

He’d come the minute she called, no matter what he says now, and maybe that’s the real problem that comes with loyalty. Thomas crosses the room to grab his coat and put it on, slung across the back of his chair, discarded at some point during the overlaying chaos.

Wren wants to ask it all. About Thomas’ demotion and how he’d felt, about who he’d been before Famine and how he’d ended up here. How he slept at night. What he feared, what pushed him, what drained him. There was time, though, to get to know him fully. Moments like these when they spoke not only of recent mistakes and current events, but of the past. Wren wished to tell him, too, in return — of the years with their dad and those after, of the hopelessness that had settled in their core at twenty one years old and seemed to be shrinking now. They wanted to ask him if they were a rotten person, for having found what they’d been looking for in a place like this.

In stead, they listened. Sometimes Thomas reminded them of a fortress, something solid and strong and hard to enter, but protective once you’d found your way in. Wren liked to think, tentatively still, that they had. To have him open up was not something they took lightly. Besides, Wren was a solemn listener in nature, all wide eyes and sharp ears. 

“Rita Zhang?” Wren thinks for a moment, then chuckles. “Don’t tell me she had something to do with why you punched Remus in the face the other day.” They look at him, somewhat amused. All these people were such accomplished people in their eyes, whole and rounded, having outgrown the messiness that Wren seemed to permanently live in. Maybe there was never an end to it. 

They shrug, then. “I don’t think I know her. By name, that is. Face, maybe. Still figuring out who’s who, and all.” Their eyes are on the road again, and they’re lost in thought for a moment. “Odd, isn’t it? When people you knew from before end up in this world, too. I met Mitzi Zhang at a house party once, years ago. And now here we are. Makes you think, or something.” Wren hums a little. “I mean, there’s plenty of people from my past that aren’t tangled up in this, so it’s not like I think it a conspiracy. Still.”

They want to ask, and Thomas would answer, if he could only figure out the right way to do it. It’s a trepidatious matter, to him, unprying himself apart from the pieces he’s wound himself into and giving that to someone else, as if saying here, take care. Trepidatious, anxiety-inducing, terrifying. It’s easier to take violence up instead, against others and in some ways against himself. They’ll get the answers to the questions they have some day, but if they were to spring it on him now, he wouldn’t have the words -- might not, ever.

He speaks tentatively, as if toeing the line of the matter. It feels weird to dance around things, when he is usually brash, bold, unfaltering. He’s just wary about how much to give away, whether they trust him and he trusts them or not. Information can kill, depending on whose hands it rests in. “Yeah, that’s the one.” He shrugs. “We were friends, as kids, and then sort of just... I don’t know, fell off? I didn’t really speak to her again until I found out she was marrying Remus, to ask what the fuck she was doing, and that was maybe ten years down the line. And, the thing with Remus -- yeah. He was off his ass the other day. I just set some boundaries.”

Still figuring out who’s who. They’re lucky, still, to have the distance to do so. He wants to say try not to make friends, knowing it would be hypocritical. It’s the entire point of the truce, isn’t it, to shake hands and call wars off? That entails, to some degree, friendship. Or -- the mutual agreement to live and let live. He still has this bizarre feeling that the way the wind blows is going to change. They asked for this life, yes, but it’s still cruel to know in some ways that they will bleed for it, to know that he won’t be able to do anything about it. Might even be the one to pull the trigger, if he’s asked to.

The paying someone off was perhaps more of something Ikki did on a regular basis. As Dominion he was the one who would … deal with things with more decorum. More subtlety. In a more business like manner. In a way he did not usually have to get his hands dirty. There was not much different between his job in the board room, and his job in the criminal empire, and Ikki wore it well. And there was a reason Thomas had been Virtue in the past otherwise. So, if he was in charge Ikki could possibly see which side of the road this would be headed down.

“We could sit down with him,”  Ikki suggested. They could head up and corner him in the seats. Though that idea lasted about five seconds until the man stood up and started leaving the stands.  “Or not…”  he sighed.

So, it looked like they were doing this.

Ikki nodded to Thomas. Heading a different way through the crowed, sliding off to the side, keeping both him, and their query within his eye line. In a direction they could funnel the man off into the direction they wanted him to go, without seeming like they were directing him to go a specific way. He watched as the man looked over his shoulder, and once he was completely sure he was being followed picked up the pace. 

At least he wasn’t full running yet, not until he got to the stairs of the stands and away from the majority of the crowd that was getting ready to enjoy a nice brisk winters race. An advantageous decision for both him and Thomas, and a poor decision for the man in fuchsia, when they’re able to corner him away from the large group of people.

We could sit down with him, Ikki is starting to say, and Thomas is almost inclined to agree all the way up until the man moves a little more quickly than is usually intended for people wanting to watch a horse race. Ikki gives him a nod and he slides off the opposite direction, swinging wide around the width of the crowd and keeping an eye on the fuschia-hued outfit. Things are picking up -- he looks to ensure he can still see his partner close by, picks him out of the crowd, and keeps moving.

As the number of people surrounding them lessens and their target is obviously hustling to be anywhere else, Thomas goes to cut him off at the pass: as soon as it won’t be entirely obvious he’s running after someone, he moves in. For a minute, that’s all he can focus on -- catching up, ensuring he doesn’t go anywhere that he doesn’t need to be. They luck out, and Thomas is grateful for it.

Fuschia, thankfully, hits a dead-end fairly quickly, a hallway blocked off by large dividers that indicate both areas are under construction. He tries climbing over an orange-and-white divider that reads “CAUTION” in big black lettering, but Thomas manages to snag him by the back of his coat and drag him back down. They struggle, and Thomas even gets a knee to the stomach for his trouble. It knocks the wind out of him, but he doesn’t let go, and instead comes to wrap an arm around his throat, squeezing tight enough with the crook of his elbow to constrict, not suffocate.

“Now,” Thomas says, sounding a little too cheerful, “we wait.”

“Please don’t kill me,” the target wheezes, legs kicking out in front of him rather dramatically.

PEST is filled with bodies. Absolutely full of them. Thomas is starting to feel something like overcrowded, whether this is natural progression of the evening or not.

He is struck by a very brief flash of paranoia. If anyone wanted to take over for themselves, truce be damned, it wouldn’t take much. Just the right opportunity and a whole lot of willpower. He shoves that particular train of thought all the way back where it came from and focuses on getting a drink. He’d lost sight of Wren a while ago, but knows they’re able to take care of themself well enough that he doesn’t have to worry. He thought he’d spotted Jessica, too, and a handful of others. He’s yet to spot Remus Warden, and Thomas can’t help but feel a little relief at the fact. He doesn’t think he could deal with another fight right now and come out on the other side looking good, although a club admittedly provides exceptional cover. Hasn’t seen either of his siblings, either, so he knows he’s covered there.

He’s an absolute asshole at the bar when he pushes his way through the clusters of partygoers and asks for whatever’s good, which means he ends up with something he would usually never drink that tastes mostly like clementine. It’s neon orange, but it isn’t half bad, so he settles in against his open spot and decides to people-watch. The clock’s not yet struck midnight, but when it does, he’ll be eager to take the excuse to go home. No one really needs him here. He can practically hear the siren call of his bed in his ears.

He gets all the way up to this point only to notice Rita out of the corner of his eye, a little further down, and that’s cause enough for him to lift up from where he’d been standing and come join her. It’s only been a handful of days since their talk at Elite, and it’s not that he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it, necessarily -- it just occupies a lot of space in his head, something he’s not comfortable admitting. It’s been years since they really spoke in any capacity deeper than the minimum greetings and nods across the room, and now that he knows she’s still there, he wants to at least be sure she’s doing alright. He puts his drink down on the bartop and gets in close enough to be heard over the music and cheers from strangers on the dancefloor. “Should I buy you a drink? That’s usually how this goes, right?”

Thomas’ comment, whether it was intended to or not, makes Ophelia laugh. It’s a small exhale through her nose accompanied by a smile as she shakes her head, but it’s a laugh nonetheless. “Are you just saying that to make me feel better?” She shouldn’t feel embarrassed to have cried in front of Thomas considering by this point half of Famine must have seen Ophelia cry over one thing or another. Hell, it probably extended to the other gangs too. But nevertheless, she does. She doesn’t want to be remembered as the damsel in distress but she may need time to change that perception.

Realistically she should heed his advice. She should take herself to bed or go home to run a warm bath and decompress, let her body and mind process the absolute insanity of the day she’s just had. Frankly, if it were anyone other than Thomas that would have suggested it, she may have been more inclined to agree. Perhaps it’s the fact that she doesn’t really know him that encourages her to keep a façade up, or perhaps she fears his judgement given his reputation. She doesn’t know why, but it’s enough to keep herself running on fumes.

She nods in agreement, happy to escape journalists if need be. She’s been in the newspapers a few times in her life, and the only times that weren’t features on her family’s horses were stupid  ‘scandals’ so it’s enough to put her off the press for life. “We’ll go to the member’s only bar. It should be quiet enough, and if not then… yeah. On to elsewhere.” Less people around to see her knock back an entire bottle of whatever she can get her hands on by the way she’s feeling right now. 

Ophelia wonders how often Thomas extends his services to be on the other end of the phone should someone need help with trouble. I’ll take care of it. They’re practised words, confident, he’s no stranger to intimidation and a bit of trouble himself, that much is obvious. A man like Thomas surely could rule the world with his two iron fists, she wonders what it is that drives him to use them to help people instead. Perhaps one day she’ll find out. But for today, she’ll nod and smile and offer her gratitude. “Thank you.”

As they reach the member’s area, the bar is quiet enough to be considered tolerable. Ophelia does her best to shoo off the people that try and talk to her to marvel about the events of the day, but actually being present in Thomas’ company seems to be enough of a deterrent. He’s not the type to usually be seen in there and it’s a relief that having someone a little rough around the edges keeps nosey people out of her way. Perhaps she ought to have him stick around. She leads them to a quiet table, privacy offered by a booth, and sits down. Her face is well known enough for someone to immediately offer them a drink and lets Thomas take the reins on whatever they’re going to dabble in. She’s made enough decisions for one day. After they’re alone again, Ophelia seeks to change the subject. Talking about herself is far too indulgent. “Wren was great today.” She smiles, understanding that Thomas has an affiliation with Wren that Ophelia understands the more time she spends with them. “They’ve got a good head on their shoulders.”

To Thomas, it seems like she’s looking for an out, so he gives it to her. Lifts one shoulder as they walk in an attempt at a shrug: “Sure, if it does actually make you feel better.” She’s got a nice laugh, regardless of whether or not she’s emerging from her previously shaken state. Almost sounds musical, he thinks. “But if it didn’t work, forget I said anything.” He’s seen plenty of people react to trauma in entirely different ways, especially when he’s the one inflicting it. It sounds awful, but it’s true. People do insane things when they think they’re at the end of their lives: they shut down, they get angry, they weep. Sometimes they laugh. It’s all human, either way, human all the way until they don’t breathe anymore.

Then they’re just dead.

The walk to the member’s-only bar is quick, quiet, and no one tries to bother them, which he’s grateful for. Doesn’t think he could be personable beyond the bare minimum unless he really made an effort, and he isn’t up for an effort. They find their seats, and anyone up with the desire to ask questions is shooed away. He orders himself a scotch, and one for Ophelia too, because she doesn’t seem too inclined to order for herself, and then they sit, and drink, and Thomas lets Ophelia fill the silence however she pleases. He listens to her talk and wonders why she decided to join Famine. He’s almost certain he knows how she came around, but the why is the most important part.

Then again, if anyone had asked him why, back when he’d first joined up, he probably wouldn’t have been able to answer.

The mention of Wren brings him up and out of it. “Oh, yeah.” He smiles. “They’re a good kid.” He doesn’t really know what to say beyond that, because the rest might make him sound insane. “Smart. Capable. I’ve been proud of their progress so far.” Not that she asked, of course, but it’s true. “I think they’ve got a lot of potential -- the both of you -- and they just have to wait for the right chances to prove themself.” Chances, not chance. He cannot think of the innumerable occasions in which difficult choices had to be made in the name of Famine. Even now, everything he does is a choice, one that weighs the scales a certain direction. So long as the scales don’t fall out of Famine’s favor, he figures that things will work themselves out. He clears his throat. “Are you two close?”

x

Thomas’ mockery of her induces a gentle peal of laughter that she attempts to hide with her hand. Seconds pass before she concedes it as a losing battle, instead reaching out to grab his wrist in an attempt to prevent him from engaging in further mimicry. “Stop,” she tries to ask, but finds she can’t say it with any sort of severity (however faux) she’d intended, amid her blatant amusement. The subsequent compliment is surprising enough for her to drop her grasp shortly after, ever gentle, though she’s still smiling when she speaks. “Charming as ever,” a pause, and then, “Thank you.” 

Moving up in the world soon? “Not officially,” the answer is vague, but a moment of consideration reaps the conclusion that she would be honest; as honest as she would allow herself to be. After all, he had already seen the parts of herself she had compartmentalised in the time since they had become strangers. “But a girl can dream, right?” Wasn’t it that simple in the end? It could have been, a long time ago, but the complication that had found a niche within her life had ensured simplicity was far from the realms of possibility now.

There would have normally been a disdainful frown adorning her mouth at the thought of violence for violence sake, of someone she cared for being hurt, but Alicia could hear the distinct note of pride interwoven within his tone; familiar enough for her to indulge the thought. “Send me a text next time.” As soon as she offers, an uncharacteristic feeling of self doubt washes over her that prompts her to continue, “If you’d like. I’m not promising I won’t be an utter embarrassment and watch half of it through my fingers.” Or that, somehow, she wouldn’t find a way to blame her presence on whatever happened, “But I’d come to see you.”

She laughs, and it brings no small amount of joy for him to hear. In the times they’ve met again, scarce opportunities stolen away ( and, admittedly, still a little awkward ) at the Truce celebration every year, they’ve half-danced through conversations and poked and prodded at light subjects rather than investing, really, in dissecting what the fuck had happened between the two of them. She’d tried, once, to apologize to him. All he really remembers from that evening is his subsequent running away and trying to find the closest drink available. “That’s the first word people use to describe me when we meet, y’know. Charming.”

Not officially, she replies, and he nods, considering. She’s capable enough to claw her way up into the world if she wants to. In fact, it’s almost a marvel she hasn’t done it yet, even kept under the close watch of Pestilence. These things take time, and no small amount of work. “Well, I try.” He tries now. Not so much then, when extending his reach outside of Famine seemed impossible, swallowed up by a starving beast that demanded everything from him.

It begins with the satisfying sound of glass breaking. She is little more than a spectator as Thomas unleashes his anger on the room, shedding the sombre defeat he’d worn like a mourning veil for something bolder and sharper. Fate had played its cruel game on him and for that he would tear through anything in his path, satiating the rage that she knows lurks inside him. Lurks inside her, too. But this is not a place for her fury; this is his and it is a thing of beauty and horror all rolled into one, seemingly unstoppable once he gets going. Wood splinters. Bottles smash. Thomas barely stops for a breath. She takes note of the various harrowed glances and hushed gasps of the staff. At one point she thinks she sees the pub door open a fraction, only for whoever’s stood behind it to witness the chaos unfolding and promptly decide to choose literally anywhere else to get a lunchtime beer. 

Kitty watches on, legs stretched out in front of her, crossed at the ankle, unphased by it all. She’s faired far worse storms– and trusts this one in particular, a gentle smile offered in his direction as Thomas begins to lose momentum and slowly but surely finds his way back to her at their table. The proffered bowl of peanuts is taken with gratitude, never one to turn down food, chewing thoughtfully as he returns to the morbid task of righting wrongs. Blood and pain as atonement: it’s the sort of justice she’s been fed since she was young, knowing better than to let those who act against her get off lightly. “That’s fine,” she responds, matching his quiet with her own. “But you’re the one playing doctor with him. I hope he fucking likes soup because he’s waving goodbye to solids.” 

Silence returns, filled with the scent of spilled liquor. She breaks it, never one to find comfort in the quiet. “It was one mistake. Yeah, this situation is shit. But just you wait, in a few months time and Rafael will be begging you to step back up. You’ve just got to fight for it and–” It’s the violent buzz of her phone in a pocket that stops the sentence in its tracks. Kitty pulls the device free, brow raising at the name on screen. “Speak of the devil. I’d better take this.”

She takes the call outside in the cold crisp December air, breath misting as the Horsemen’s familiar voice utters firm but warm words over the speaker. Let me give you this, mija. You’re ready. I know you won’t disappoint.

Kitty hesitates as the news sinks in, emotions rolling through her too swiftly to take note of each one. She doesn’t realise she’s smiling until she steps back inside the pub, her grin snagging as her gaze lands on Thomas and realisation closes snapping jaws around her blind delight. The excitement fluttering through her chest dies out and guilt settles in its place. She does her best to swallow it down but, instead of joining Thomas beside the fire, she wanders towards the bar and salvages what she can of a now-nameless bottle of appropriately strong-smelling alcohol. Siphoning the liquid into a shot glass, she knocks it back and winces at the burn before confronting the matter head on. 

“So. Slight change of plans, Thomas. Looks like your replacement Virtue has been chosen.”

Kitty cuts herself off before she can finish speaking, and just like that, she’s gone. Thomas is left alone with his own thoughts and what’s practically an open wound. In the silence, punctuated only by the dripping from broken bottles and the occasional rush of wind from outside, he allows himself to feel hope for the first time in the last twenty-four hours. It’s a disaster, but the situation isn’t unsalvageable. He can fix this, if he puts his head down and gets to work. He can move his way right back up, and this time, he’s not going to be so nice about keeping others out of his way. He’ll mow them right down, if he has to, if that’s the kind of ambition it takes.

He is lost in the revelry, the open and self-indulgent desire to get right back to where he’d been so quickly after losing it. He can fix this. He can fucking fix this. It will start with Harry, and it will continue with however many other bodies it takes: he is not afraid of a little bit of bloodshed if it gets him a little bit of kingdom. He will carve himself another fucking mountain out of rubble, if he has to. And Thomas has to.

Kitty is not gone long, but she goes to the bar instead of rejoining him, continuing their conversation. Change of plans, she announces, and it--

it’s dread. Because he’s not stupid, and he knows Kitty, and he knows what she looks like in the aftermath of victory, a big win. He can recognize the lessons he taught her in self-restraint from across the fucking Thames. He sits forward, folds his hands, lets his head bow. If you’d have asked him, months ago, to choose a replacement, it would’ve been Kitty. Without a moment of hesitation, second thought, self-doubt, it would’ve been her. Even now, he still feels little licks of egotism, trying to relax his jaw. He has already destroyed the pub. There’s nothing here he can tear apart. Just himself.

Sound, voices, and excuses are drowned out by the incessant ringing in his ears. The past twenty-four hours have been marked by that shrill sound, Remus driven mad with his jealous rage and the effects of pills. It was all too easy to become lost in that heavy, green emotion once intoxicated — sober, he would have never marched himself into the gym, would have never sought out Thomas for what he knows is an unequal match. He is reminded of that unfortunate fact as they finally meet eyes, and what Remus decides is amusement, almost satisfaction, graces Thomas’ face, making vision go red.

Ever the prodigal son, even with this radiating anger, Remus waits until Thomas has said his piece, though it’s closer to a taunt waved eagerly in front of the Warden’s face. A chat. Remus almost laughs in disbelief. He’d seen them together last night, how close they were, the way Rita looked up at him with those eyes of hers — though, the longer he squints at the hazy memory, trying to pick apart the details, the less clear things were. Where he once remembered hands touching and coy laughter shared, he struggles to discern whether or not these ideations are fears or memories. “I don’t give a shit what you did or didn’t do, or what you said to her, or what fucking plans you’ve made. I’m telling you now,” Remus’ finger presses into Thomas’ chest as he speaks, “Truce or not, if I hear about the two of you together again, I’ll kill you myself. Wouldn’t be my first time throwing a body into the Thames.”

Very unusual considering his knack for plans, but Remus went into this ill-fated encounter without one. He’d only intended on making the threat known — Rita was off limits, to Thomas, and to the world. It didn’t matter that it had been the Famine Power who made polite conversation with his ex-wife, anyone who tried would answer to the same threats, the same promise of certain death for attempting anything with Rita Zhang. Remus found it hard to care how selfish and asinine it was, this pissing contest over a woman who wanted nothing to do with him. 

But of course, Thomas retorts, It’d be a shame if anything were to happen to it. Ah, he was so close to leaving, if it weren’t for that remark. In fact, Remus was about to turn on his heels, mind set on letting the anger cool down before he made a fool of himself — but there it was, another loose little comment about sleeping it off, and he snaps. He lunges the short distance to Thomas, now busied with his things and certainly pleased with the words he spits at Remus. In a fury of impulsive, intoxicated movement, Remus grabs at the still damp fabric of Thomas shirt and slams him back against the locker. Between the impact and the drugs, Remus feels fucking invincible. He throws a fist towards Thomas’ jaw, resulting in a satisfying crack and a rush of adrenaline. If he was any shade of sober, Remus would know that it would have been smarter to turn around — or he would do it now, but logic and impulse are separate beings, and never the twain shall meet.

Over the course of twenty-five years spent working for people who can piss their money away without a second thought or even entertaining the notion of consequence, Thomas has come to one conclusion: much like plants, rich people need decent taking-care-of. They require routine to come and interrupt their day-to-day lives in order to thrive, and a big part of that routine, in his opinion, should be having their fucking ego checked. Remus is high on something. Remus is the heir to something bigger than him, and he’s focused on having someone that does not fucking want him back, if the divorce rumors are true. Remus is built a less like the powerhouses Thomas usually has to go over and more like a string bean. Remus gets in close, and puts a hand on Thomas’ chest, fucking poking him like a scene from some cheap comedy, and Thomas has a decision to make. He can be the better person, or--

Who the fuck is he kidding? He’s not going to be the bigger person. He’s never gotten the chance to begin with.

Several things happen as soon as Remus decides that hitting Thomas must be the optimal choice, and they happen fairly quickly. First: the crack of a fist against his jaw, not the strongest punch he’s taken but certainly not the weakest, either, something that will absolutely be purpling his jaw in two days and then fade into the familiar grey-yellow hue that bruises always take. Second: his head, smacking against the back of the metal of the lockers, which makes his ears ring for an unpleasant period of time. Third: the impulse, something that Thomas snatches, and he feels a little sorry for Remus, because the man must be feeling fairly good about himself right now and that’s going to be snuffed out like a light. He takes a beat to recover, get his head on his shoulders again. Sniffs, clears his throat, raises a hand to his jaw, feeling at the pulse-point, already throbbing. “Really?”

It takes no thought. It’s practically automatic. His fist meets Remus’ face, just below the eye, and the sound is satisfying, sure, but even more appeasing is the way Remus immediately crumples to the ground. He’s grateful for the bandages wrapped around the knuckles of his left fist, even if his pointer and middle fingers have split again. He can feel it, and he mourns for the amount of ointment he’s going to have to put on the fuckers later to just try and keep them together for any longer than a week.

After the untimely death of their father, there’d been many people who’d attempted to fill the parental gap in Wren’s life. Overbearing foster parents, English teachers with concern-filled eyes, their old hometown neighbour — all of them had tried, and all of them had left when things got hard. Being an orphan had not fit Wren immediately: it was like a pair of shoes they still had to grow into. They had thrown themselves at every adult that showed kindness for a while, before building solid walls of wariness and distrust. 

Thomas had broken them down, piece by piece, bit by bit, whether he had meant to or not. It’s often that Wren thinks of their father when they’re with him. Sometimes with guilt when the awareness hits that Thomas does not feel like a friend, but like a father in stead. Sometimes just with a feeling of warmth that they can’t necessarily describe. A comfort they haven’t known in quite some time. The gap hasn’t been filled – Wren knows that there’s never any replacing their father, learned that quite some time ago – but it feels less overwhelming at times.

They wonder if he knows, how much it means to them. There are moments where Wren thinks that they don’t even know themselves — hardly allowing themselves to think of it to its full extent. Part of them feels a hint of shame with the way they’ve latched onto Thomas, think themselves desperate and small. A nuisance, something Thomas will rid himself of when he’s sick of them. They’re easy thoughts to get lost in, but despite all their doubt, all their fears and insecurities, there’s that overwhelming feeling of trust. Every time so far, it has won from the dark clouds.

They nod at his advice. “You’re right.” They know of their tendencies to blow things out of proportion, to overthink so long and hard that everything seemed like the end of the world. They don’t know how to stop it, though. It’s why they walk, the simplicity of putting one foot in front of the other an old coping mechanism. In this car, though, they just have to keep themselves from being swallowed whole. Wren looks sideways as Thomas admits to that, an eyebrow raised. “You did?” Curious as always, they sit up a little straighter. “We still have an hour to go. Tell me some.” 

When he had met Wren that first time, six months ago, he’d been infuriated down to his very bones. Anger has run wild and deep in Thomas, always has, and it’s taken years of careful effort and patience to make it worth anything, to hone it into a weapon. It used to be a hammer, wielded at every presentation of a nail. Now, he has exposed it to the heat of flames and forged it into something else entirely. He’d been different, though, when they’d shaken hands, when they’d introduced themselves to each other. Less a wildfire and more dying embers, struggling for oxygen, looking for the closest piece of dry wood.

He’d only needed a spark to come back to himself. Wren had been that spark.

It’s worth noting that Thomas does not fully realize this. He hasn’t even come close, really, has danced around the topic. He’s stuck his neck out for Angels before ( Harry, the fucking bastard, comes to mind ), and in theory, Wren shouldn’t be different. But he’s done more for them than he has for anyone: his door is open to them, he’s offered himself and his resources to them, and when the time comes where they have to prove themselves and pull the trigger, he’s intent on being there to see it happen, even if it’s only to comfort them in the shocking aftermath of blood.

It’s just a matter of getting them there, of ensuring they’re capable of doing it. His hopes are high. He’s been proven wrong before.

-

There was a poignant absence of an elder brother in Rafael’s life. Even his name, so obnoxiously engraved on every diamond-encrusted watch and license plate, pointed to the absence. A name that felt both his, and entirely ill-fitting. For it was not meant to be his name, but the name of his older brother. But when the events transpired, he was left with nothing but a name and a foreboding legacy. And still, he could not claim such tragedy. His father filled their home with cousins to silence the ache of the evenings. Marcus as a companionable brother, of sorts, that provided Rafael dutiful guidance. Yet still, nary an older brother in sight. Until Rafael Senior had entrusted his heir to the Dominion himself.

Famine’s Seraphim kept his friendship and brotherhood as an ace in his back pocket. For all of Marcus’ well-intentions and Ikki’s brotherly love, they were his peers. But Thomas was wholly his father’s, acting as a wise word in the back of his head. Even by his briefest of consoling hands on Rafael’s shoulders, the burden of his first kill did not linger. The years; however, proved that much could change. The absence of his mother, the growing pressures of his father, and this life… A life that, to that very moment, Rafael was uncertain he wanted. It had deranged him, drawing him to hedonism like a moth to a flame. What did it say, that when the bullet struck, Rafael felt like he was living? Had the medley of drugs, women, and vice turn him unflappable? He had attempted to quell his father’s silent yet foreboding concern. The loss of his betting ring was one thing, the potential harm to his heir was another.

The plight between him and Thomas had yet to recover. And Rafael could not help but lament at how gruesome the distance had become. “Yeah. Really.” He answers pathetically, but there’s a nuance of concern embedded in it. A mixture of inherent protectiveness over his own, and a special affection for Ophelia. “Not too well. But it’s a problem, that’s for sure.” The outcome of the horsemen’s meeting, all but confirming it to be true. “Did you hear anything on the street?” The tight-lipped monarchs of their respective kindgoms dare not slip. But the lower levels on the field could be tempted, or simply boastful in their actions. “Mhm…” He agrees hesitantly, uncertain of what else could be said. They both knew the reason for it. “It’s good you came out. I missed this.” Rafael offers with shameless authenticity, loosening his grip on Alex’s leash.

This is something he knows, something he can run his hands over like the raised lettering on the spine of a book. He walks with the man he’d considered his brother and feels an uncomfortable medley of distance and familiarity. He’d do this every day, if given the opportunity, if Rafael would allow it, for the mere comfort of knowing that he is not entirely unreachable. Because Rafael, is, to some degree or another, out of reach, as Seraphim and heir and as a man who does not seem to always have the strength to make the right choices when the time comes calling. He’s tried, time and time again, to convince Rafael to change, but if the past year has been proof of anything, it’s that Rafael may not want to. And Thomas has only been able to watch from afar, and despair, and hate, and that does no one any good. He says I missed this and Thomas gives a little nod, unable to voice aloud that he feels the same. 

Famine, without a doubt, gave him something. Has given him something. Purpose, in whatever ugly form it takes, is still a necessary component of life, and bloodshed has become his, intermingled with a loyalty that has grown all the way down to the root and cannot be upheaved. He’s had his moments of doubt, in the last year, but they are smothered with anger: if he cannot prevail over his fall from grace, Thomas will simply go through. That’s how he’s always been.

Maybe he’s more similar to Rafael than he’d like to admit. Maybe they’re both stubborn. He’d like to think he’d know better by now. He hums. “I haven’t heard anything of significance, just the usual bullshit. Everyone’s pointing fingers in some vague direction with no actual accusation. Well, not yet. We’ll see what happens.” The house of War is, in accordance with its name, war-fucking-mongering, so that’s the obvious choice. Pestilence, however, is sly, and he wouldn’t put it past them to off one of their own if they thought it gave them some kind of advantage. “Could’ve been a one off,” he suggests, tone light, like they’re not discussing the brutal death of an otherwise capable man. If it were a one-off, they all would’ve known by now. “You think it was one of ours? Seems strange to keep it quiet, if that’s the case.”

The day has reached its dwindling hours, and Thomas finds himself dwindling with them. The past week has possessed an intense weight he wasn’t expecting to have to carry with him, a slew of events lined up one after the other. He’s not exhausted, exactly, but the prospect of a new day sounds more appealing than it usually would. His flat is quiet. There’s no noise, beyond the sound of the late-night shift of Witches’ Brew downstairs closing up for the evening. Thomas finds himself lulling in and out of a daze, making no small attempt to thumb through the pages of a recently-bought book, some bullshit murder-mystery filled with inaccuracies that he loves to pick apart. It’s just not doing anything for him tonight, but he’s making a valiant attempt anyways.

The knock at the door is unexpected, and worse, unwanted. It cuts through the atmosphere of the evening, and panic is quickly overtaken by a laser-sharp focus of a new task at hand. The book is tossed aside, and reaching into the side table, he draws out a small pistol. Not his usual flavor, but it packs a punch well enough. He waits. A beat passes, and then another. The knocking comes again. If it were anyone who really needed to reach him, they’d have called. Wren would let themselves in -- he’d given them a key without so much as a second thought within two months of meeting them. Whoever this is either comes bearing good omens, or bad. He stands and crosses the floor to the front door, prepared for a vengeful Warden sibling, or a literal pest, something, anything--

Instead, he looks through the peephole and finds Rita Zhang. Thomas, shocked, doesn’t know what the fuck to do and cannot figure out how she got here. They haven’t spoken in several years beyond that one-off at Elite, and then the incident at Pest ( something he is still turning over, trying to digest in spite of himself ), so how she would’ve gotten his address... Oh. Oh. They’d swapped numbers. He’d given her his address, for whatever reason, at some point or another.

Things start to make more sense. His heart rate slows, evening itself out after a minute. He unlocks the door, opens it a quarter of the way, and when he sees that there’s no one else there, no vengeful Remus, just her, it swings back. He is still holding the gun in his left hand and ensures that she sees it.