PLAY THE DEVIL

“Perfume and beauty are only half of the battle, councilman,” Calina says, a dainty finger curling around her hair thoughtfully. “They come for the sights and smells, but stay for the words and the mind.” They have no choice. How many nights had Calina spent straddling the laps of prominent Russians, lips pressed knowingly against the pulse of their neck as she coaxed them into a sense of security, suggestibility, and most importantly, generosity? They always came back for her—her, that terribly beautiful woman with a wicked intellect that could always get a rise from both the body and the mind. How many deals had she struck for Damiano under the relatively new title of emissary, her whip-quick wit spinning webs around clients who were left defenseless and so susceptible to Montague-favoring terms? 

She likens herself to a coiled cobra with scales glinting underneath the harsh sunlight. So alluring, so seemingly innocuous, so looked down upon–that is, until it’s too late. When Faron found her, she was merely beautiful; her mind a pleasant surprise. The likes of Faron and the Montagues molded her into something beautiful and dangerous, something that not only knew how to strike but where to strike. Ronan would be remiss to forget such things, but the unspoken challenge that hangs from the arch of his brow attests that he’s pointedly aware of with whom he’s dealing.

And she, too, recognizes Ronan for who he is: an opportunist, lying in wait for his moment to strike. He intrigues her, what with his loyalty to both Verona and the Montagues; she can’t help but wonder to which he’s more loyal–his job as councilman or his job as a soldier? She sips her drink, head canting as she asks, “And what of you? Do you find yourself more easily led when your mind is obscured or do you find that you’re immune to those parlor tricks?” Do you see yourself as a man, Richard III, or do you perceive yourself as more? Her attention wanders as she awaits a response, eyes landing on a face familiarized by his occupation.

“Ah–your coworker seems to be fond of that pretty little bird over there,” she remarks, head nodding in the direction of another council member who was too busy being entranced by a silver-tongued, auburn-haired Sparrow to notice Calina’s attentive gaze. “Is he a friend of yours?” 

“the beautiful are rarely skilled at the wielding of words,” he says, without meeting her gaze. instead he lets it rest on the dark liquid in his glass, ring of condensation it leaves as he lifts it from the table to his lips. “as they find little use or need for them, more often than not. you know the saying signora, a picture is worth a thousand words.” was it not the snake, who knew better than beautiful eve the power of speech? did not frankenstein’s monster wound his creator more with the power of words, than with physical strength? language is a thing for beasts like ronan ivarsson, who have felt the full capacity of its sting and learned to throw it back like daggers--and mona’s sparrows are little more than pleasing decoration, beautiful marionettes dangling from their patron’s velvet strings.

and what of you? she asks. what are you, if not a man like the rest of them, a sheep easily led to slaughter?

he smirks around the lip of his glass. he has never been like other men--the divine gifted him with a scythe where the bones of his spine should have been, something curved and sharp, constant in the way it cut into the skin of his shoulders. for in pain, there is clarity of mind. and from clarity of mind, comes power. raw and holy, scalding to the touch.

“isn’t politics just an elaborate game of seduction, in and of itself?” he chuckles, an eyebrow raised. “i am immune to parlor tricks because i know how to play them. and a thing pinned to the table and dissected tends to lose its charm fairly rapidly.”

he follows her gaze across the room, where his eyes come to rest on the familiar form of renzo, draped across a pathetic excuse for a council member. he feels heat pooling in the pit of his stomach--not jealousy, as he is an adult man who has actual priorities--but the kind of heat that indicates a need. the hot irritation of unsatiated hunger. what are you, ronan ivarsson, if not weak in the exact same ways that your father was?

he taps his fingers against the table idly, forces his face into a facsimile of a warm smile. it spreads across his face slowly, a slick thing like oil spreading over the surface of water. “your eyes are unmatched, signora. a handsome bird indeed.” he purrs, before shrugging one shoulder. “i’m sure my husband would be furious if he found out i was hiding such a friend, which is why i’m glad that i haven’t yet made an introduction. the only thing that matters to me is that his client walks back over to me, ready to give me what i want.”

he looks over at her, and raises an eyebrow in challenge. “are you familiar with him, then? or did you simply light on a beauty in the middle of a crowd?”

001. .   .   .   kills the spider | trinity, ronan lets her bc its usually comically over the top as far as methodology goes. he’s had to order a new coffee table more than once because trin stabbed a spider with a hunting knife. 

002. .   .   .   proposed | they’ve both been married before, so if they agree to get married its after a mutual discussion and agreement to elope somewhere remote, without anyone else being present. and there’s also a mutual agreement that if it goes south, there are no hard feelings. 

003.  .   .   .   kissed the other first | ronan, who was probably so turned on by trinity’s work that he couldn’t help himself. he absolutely wants to play muse to someone so skilled in the arts of inflicting pain. 

004.  .   .   .   initiates things | they both probably do an equal amount, since they’re partners and a big fan of each other’s methodology....battista can’t stand it because he knows exactly what’s going to happen the minute he leaves the two of them alone. 

005.  .   .   .   would leave the other | trinity, probably? i feel like she would have a harder time adjusting to being in a committed relationship again. 

006.  .   .   .   is more jealous | ronan, who is by nature jealous and greedy. he thinks trinity is amazing, and talented, and he knows that they can do incredible things together, so he’d be constantly on the watch for anyone that could possibly take that away from him. 

007.  .   .   .   is lazier | neither of them are really lazy by nature? but i think probably trinity, just because she’s not as much into planning things as ronan is--he’s constantly thinking and moving pieces around the board in his mind, and she has to remind him to stop for air every so often, to treat his war-won body with caution. 

008.  .   .   .   sends weird texts at 3 AM | trinity, who texts like she’s in some sort of gothic novel, which ronan both loathes and appreciates. 

009.   .   .   .  is more experienced | ronan, just because he’s more outgoing, thrives off being the center of attention. they’re both experienced as far as committed relationships go, and they’ve both been burned by them in big ways. 

001. .   .   .   kills the spider | definitely santi, because ronan is a born and bred rich bitch and would be like...how am i even supposed to go about doing that. 

002. .   .   .   proposed | ronan, and you bet your ASS it was extravagant and elaborate, and an attempt to make up for everything santino has never had or has lost to verona’s cruelty-- but in a way that santi would appreciate. he probably surprised him with a week in paris, or his own art studio space...also you better believe that ring is amazing and custom made. 

003.  .   .   .   kissed the other first | santi kissed ronan out of the blue, after he got tired of ronan’s longing stares. ronan would have been content to go the rest of his life just...looking, trying to figure out his own feelings and if love is really something that he can keep alive, that he can nurture within himself, or if he’ll just be repeating the same mistakes. santi tells him to stop thinking so much. 

004.  .   .   .   initiates things | ronan--once he knows that its something santi wants, he’s ready to go!! santino is beautiful and wants to be with him, and ronan is nothing if not a glutton on a fundamental level. 

005.  .   .   .   would leave the other | ronan...you_know_im_no_good.mp3 seriously though, ronan will always believe in some level that santino deserves better than him, even though he does his best to be someone that santi would actually like / want to keep around. 

006.  .   .   .   is more jealous | ronan ronan ronan !!!! ronan who’s always gotten what he wanted, would not be able to cope if santi were somehow taken away. 

007.  .   .   .   is lazier | ronan, in an odd twist of fate. if he could spend the rest of his life doing absolutely nothing with santino, he would be content. 

008.  .   .   .   sends weird texts at 3 AM | santino probably? because ronan doesn’t text unless he has to? and ronan just parrots his words back to him, tells him that he’s loved and he doesn’t need to think so much. 

009.   .   .   .  is more experienced | ronan probably, just by virtue of age? but he has very little...practical experience, because he spent a lot of years being really insecure and blustering by people. i imagine it would be a lot of them figuring things out together. 

001. .   .   .   kills the spider | lu kills it bc ronan doesn’t care enough and mik won’t--plus they let her, because they know she probably enjoys it. 

002. .   .   .   proposed | mik to lu, then subsequently lu to ronan, who would have never brought up the idea of being a part of their relationship on his own. they’re married and ronan is fine with that, it makes things less messy in his public life to not be tied to anyone by the word of law anyway. 

003.  .   .   .   kissed the other first | lu kissed ronan just to prove she wasn’t screwing with him when she said they both wanted him, and then mik came in to seal the deal. they were somehow everything he’d ever wanted--rough and biting, and then followed by something softer, something sweeter. he was a goner after that. 

004.  .   .   .   initiates things | lu and ronan team up to make mik flustered, because they’re both menaces. 

005.  .   .   .   would leave the other | ronan, if he saw a chance for himself somewhere else. he knows he’s not the most vital part of the relationship, that the two of them would survive, even thrive, without him. 

006.  .   .   .   is more jealous | lu? probably? maybe ronan because he thinks they’re both beautiful as hell and he won’t do better? 

007.  .   .   .   is lazier | probably mik? lu and ronan seem like determined people with shit to do on the daily. he probably has to convince them to take time off, to just be together, because they both have a very active love language. 

008.  .   .   .   sends weird texts at 3 AM | lucrezia, ronan doesn’t believe in texting and mik doesn’t seem like the type to be out at three am. she fully expects the two of them to understand what she’s saying, and they always do, inexplicably to anyone outside of them. 

009.   .   .   .  is more experienced | lu, ronan spent most of his childhood having a crush on mik and being insecure, but what he lacks in experience he makes up for in confidence and a willingness to try. then the two of them coax the wild out of mikael. 

it is a strange thing, ronan thinks to himself, as he watches his husband approach their table a cool twenty minutes later than they’d agreed upon, how time changes perceptions. once, he had been drawn to even the smallest movement of the man’s musculature, as if he could divine something about him from the way his skin shifted--the rooms full of nameless faces seemed to still for a fraction of a second, light seemed to focus itself in a kind of hazy halo, like something out of an old hollywood film. now, ronan sees his husband in the reflection of his knife, where it sits on the table near his right hand, before he looks up--he sets aside the clouded judgement of a lover, and instead watches each subtle movement with the eyes of a predator, searching the object of his obsession for weakness, for an access point to a vulnerable underside.

it is a less troubling development than he had thought it would be, once. after valentina’s murder but a few days ago, he’s beginning to think he hadn’t come to the decision to shift his paradigm soon enough.

he smiles, something between a smirk and all the false warmth he keeps for public appearances, taps his fingers idly against the tabletop. “keep up all these late nights, darling and a man will begin to get false impressions.” he drawls, before drawing the man close enough to press a kiss to the top of his hand.

he watches, his gaze unflinching, as his husband takes his seat across the table, and sips idly at the glass of wine ronan had already ordered for the two of them. his expression is inscrutable, as it always is--the labyrinth, standing before theseus, unyielding and promising of all sorts of beasts at the heart. once, ronan would have given anything to move those walls, wrapped any length of red string around his own neck for the cause--now, they seem to shift in front of his eyes, to taunt him.

Power was an art; not only in the mastering of it, but in its presentation. The first time Hunter saw Ronan Ivarsson, he recognized a masterpiece. He’d been trained for years on how to properly appraise such pieces, and that was why he had made it a point to introduce himself the moment an opportunity arose. The occasion hadn’t precisely been thrilling (he’d had more fulfilling chatter on dance floors), but it had served its purpose: he was no longer a stranger. 

Hunter hadn’t fooled himself with misconception. He knew that Ronan wouldn’t bother taking  interest in him without intervention. After all, Hunter had heard several cautionary tales this week about initiates that never came to know the title of soldato. No one ever spoke of what ending became them, but it was easy enough to imagine the clinical demise following the union of spark with powder, or the rush of water flooding parched lungs, or even the sweetest of last meals prepared with a lethal dose of ambrosia. Regardless of their fairytale conclusion, initiates weren’t worth investing in unless they were either yours or strikingly exceptional. Considering his life and soul were already indebted to Henry, Hunter aspired to become the latter in Ronan’s eyes. 

He’d started the night they met by standing before him, proof that he could be every bit as golden as the rumors suggest. He’d planned to continue in the future by proving that blood only made golden hues shine brighter, but tonight he would settle for simply proving that the malleability of twenty-four karats was an asset ready to be exploited. 

“You’re still here, aren’t you?” he asks. He knows better than to ask why, even as curiosity nestled deep in his chest. Three months from now, he doubts that such a mundane occurrence would spike even the faintest interest, but tonight everything still felt fresh, opportunity blowing across him like fresh air. “Waiting for someone?” 

marchesi stands beside him as casually as possible, in the way that all young men forged in the fires of verona learn to hold themselves--tall, eyes unflinching and never focused entirely on the true object of their desires, with a confidence that seems to come so easily that it couldn’t possibly be anything put practiced, manufactured. it’s a posture that ronan had spent his younger years studying with all the obsession brought about by a forced ascetic existence--until he came to the conclusion that it was a thing better broken down, better forced apart at the joint until it became a broken thing, impossible to uphold.

he doesn’t answer the younger man’s question immediately--instead he thinks of his own mentor for a long moment. enzo had been a weak man, tyrannical and tempestuous without purpose, so convinced of his own divinity that his purpose and his method had become in equal turns convoluted and useless. ronan was already better than enzo had ever been, by the time he had approached the man outside the library--in a manner not dissimilar to how marchesi stands before him now--he had played the fool then. begged the man for guidance and tutelage in the arts of cruelty--which had rendered him so self satisfied, so bloated with his own self importance, that he’d hardly seen the killing blow when ronan delivered it.

he looks out of the corner of his eye at the newest initiate--but he doesn’t see cruelty in the handsome lines of his face. he sees a man barely out of boyhood, gilded to the point of ostentation.

“didn’t your father ever tell you? its good business practice to be the first one into the office and the last one out. it shows dedication to the craft.” he drawls, with a shrug of one shoulder. he turns to meet marchesi’s eyes, raises an eyebrow. “it’s also good practice to never feed the stray dog that curls up on your doorstep--they have a way of always coming back.”

She prefers armor to silk and steel to porcelain. She doesn’t want to be seen. She doesn’t want to be known. Girls like her weren’t made for bright lights and false smiles. Girls like her were made for shadows and gunpowder. She wanted to be the puppet master, not the marionette.

Castora sees something similar in Ronan. The man was made of steel and ice, like he was created for intrigue. She wonders if he was born a politician, born for that crude intersection of refined cruelty and pearly-toothed lies, or if he was bent into that mold. With most people, she wouldn’t care about such things. The past is gone, and all that’s left is the people it made. But with Ronan, she could confess to some curiosity, if only because knowing the man became of some importance to her. 

Perhaps not knowing would work in her favor. She knows nothing about him other than the fact that he doesn’t quite fit into these ivory circles, and vice versa. “Oh, Cinderella already knows,” Castora replies. Gold digger, conniving slut, sugar baby, wretched woman who doesn’t know her place. And those are just the titles, not the details. She doesn’t really want to know, but at the same time has a perverse curiosity to know what tales her name is a part of. 

She smirks. Ah, we’re both wolves, then? 

“I believe, Signor Ivarsson, that we could be useful to one another.” It’s as simple as that – a quid pro quo. “I am new to this world. As much as certain vipers try to turn me into the false bride, I’m still something of a Cinderella in most circles. Some parts of the press are more interested with me and than politics at the moment. And when the novelty wears off, I still intend to be…useful.” 

A politician could use a poison-coated jewel. And a she-wolf could use another wolf to show her how to efficiently wear sheep’s clothing. 

“well then, it’s to cinderella’s credit that she does not flinch at such words. weaker people have done worse, under the light of such scrutiny.” he drawls, and matches the smirk that pulls at the corner of her mouth with one of his own. let her draw whatever inference she wants to from that sentiment--she wouldn’t be the first to assume that the man who stands before her was formed in response to the pity and misplaced sympathy of others, that he was forged in some kind of noble response to hardship. if she forms a kind of misplaced kinship in her mind, who is he to stop her? it will save him the time and effort of having to do the work himself, later on.

besides, its not entirely untrue. he was made in response to the gazes of people such as these that mill about the two of them now--he simply took the hammer to the anvil himself, didn’t allow them the satisfaction of having been responsible for his creation. he simply created a monster they would fear worse than anything, instead of re-making himself in the more noble image of the knight, impervious to the same cruelty and sin that were inflicted upon him by others in equal measure.

i believe we could be useful to one another, she says. a simple statement of fact that hits like a blunt object in the face of all the dark deals that get done at events like this in shady areas where dim lights don’t quite reach, in abandoned hallways with glances continually cast over shoulders. there is no artifice to her proposition, none of the seduction or threat that normally gets ronan to chase, thrills him to the depths of his decrepit heart--and he is wary of anything that puts him in a position of not holding all of the cards, especially where one such as castora aguilar is concerned.

because everyone is born with teeth, but only people like ronan ivarsson, like castora aguilar, ever possess the courage to use them.

he doesn’t let his face betray any discernible emotion, rather he takes a long sip from his drink, comes to meet her gaze. “there is no denying that one of your--newfound stature, could be useful to me at this moment in time. the girl from humble beginnings using her wealth to do right by the city that raised her is the kind of positive public relations that could hardly be bought.” he drawls, tapping his fingers against the bartop. “but tell me, how do you intend to be useful after the spotlight has moved? what’s to stop me from finding the next one just like you?”

All of Brielle’s worst days in la mafia are because people are so caught up paying attention to themselves they can’t see the world is turning around them, with or without their input. She barely has time to pay attention to the spitting contest between Ronan and Vivianne, too busy fighting off the stragglers of the fight going on around them. In the time it takes them to rib each other, Brielle doles out an elbow to the throat and dislocates someone’s arm. Marcelo’s training has paid off for her; despite their talk of being all violence all the time, they know how to pull their punches, and now, Brielle does, too. This opportunity, this time full of healthy days rather than healing from some grievous injury, have allowed her to grow. While she may never be a fighter, she can protect, and she watches Ronan’s back until she can’t take it anymore.

❝ Stop ! Both of you, this is not helping. ❞ Brielle shoves herself between them, her body forcing Vivianne’s gun to point sideways. She swallows hard when she looks up and meets Vivianne’s eyes. I won’t tell, she tries to say with her this alone, I haven’t told anyone that you were kind to me. Especially not Ronan, who for all that he is human, is also deeply flawed. ❝ Tomas is not with us, ❞ she says simply to Vivianne, one hand reaching behind her to wrap around Ronan’s wrist and squeeze, once, before dropping it again and crossing her arms over her chest. She can take this. She can take this on, she can be a good partner to him. He doesn’t have to protect her all the time.

From what she overheard, there’s something to do with Juliana Capulet brewing, something with Tomas and Juliana that confuses her. Still, she knows Tomas, or she hopes she does. He’s a good person, and he may be tied to the Montagues, but he wants no piece of the war. He loves, fiercely, like her. How can she protect him, too, even though he’s already escaped both their clutches?

Ronan might be playing a game with Vivianne, but what will protect Tomas is the truth. She knows Vivianne must care about Juliana Capulet dearly, to approach without rationality, to be drawn from the shell of reason she so desperately clings to. Brielle must weaponize that logic against her, remind her of its’ siren call, if she is to get them out of this. ❝ Tomas… he will always help. He hates this. ❞ She gestures around the room, anger on her features as a rare thing to behold. ❝ People dying in our war right now. Focus there. Or not, find Tomas, he is somewhere, but not close. Do you see him ? ❞ she asks, turning so she can look at both of them with consternation. ❝ Anywhere ? He’s already away. If he is important, start looking. ❞ She hopes like hell Tomas is already long gone, having pulled Celeste with him, but she can’t shield him entirely. She can only do her best to make sure Ronan doesn’t die right in front of her.

Facing both of them, she doesn’t notice someone coming up behind her until they’ve wrapped their hands around her braid and pulled, hard enough to make her gasp with pain. She instinctively grabs the wrist of whatever Capulet has her, kicking a moment before she can get her feet planted again and stomp. They wince as she steps hard on their foot, loosening their grip, and Brielle shoves them back into the maelstrom, letting them be swallowed in other people’s fights. ❝ Ouch, ❞ she says, turning back to Ronan and Vivianne to check that one of them isn’t dead.      

@ronanivarsson​

ronan wants to tell king not to be stupid, that her nobility will not save her in the eyes of vivianne sloane, and that he of all people, is in no need of a hero--but it appears that marcelo’s teachings have had a positive effect on the younger woman. if she flinches as she addresses the capobastone, ronan does not see it--he only feels her wrap her fingers around his wrist and squeeze gently. its the first thing to draw his focus away from vivianne since the fight broke out, an unexpected gesture of something like kindness, a reassurance that he does not fight alone. he does not know what to make of it--he wants to trail his own fingers over the spot when she lets go a moment later, but knows that he can’t. instead he keeps his weapon trained on vivianne’s shooting shoulder, widens his gaze to consider more than just the woman in front of them.

vivianne sloane deserves death, and she will find it at ronan’s hand one day. but brielle king does not--her display of bravery proves as much. ronan has been so concerned with dealing out verbal blows, creating obfuscations, that he’s lost sight of the fact that this is a battle that will not have a winner or a loser--not tonight, at any rate. there’s too much going on around them, and as much as vivianne wants his blood, he is not her true target. if they continue like this, she will get bored and kill the both of them, so the time has come to end it.

perhaps vivianne is right when she asks him when the hell he became so soft, but that’s a question for another time.

“beatrice is telling the truth,” he says simply, resting a hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently. she’s done well, but he’ll take it from there. “sabello isn’t with us. and i think you want to kill him far more than you want to kill us. you won’t get another chance like this, old friend.” she knows he’s right, anyone as well versed in the arts of cruelty as the two of them could see it. it would be easy to write off the actor’s corpse as felled by a stray bullet, to drag him away for torture without being seen--the chaos around them provides the perfect cover. “and i think we both know that you want far worse than a bullet between the eyes for me.” he smirks, shrugs one shoulder. “you want my death to be as bloody and as public as possible, and i would expect nothing less. this doesn’t fit that bill and you know it.” 

Brielle is crying. No one can say how long she has been, though she knows it’s been quite a while; she remembers watching one tear drip down onto Santino’s arm, avoiding looking at the stage even as he raged desperately closer toward it. She scrubs at her face and coughs, dust and ash staining her cheeks now in her eyes, as well as in her lungs. It’s not as bad as the fire at the Trial, nor the dust at the Castelvecchio bombing, but having experienced both in less than a year as well as a month of pnemonia and a punctured lung, she’s immediately feeling the effects.

She halfway turns to go and help others when she realizes what a bad idea that would be. The Capulets might kill her in the panic, like Regina stabbing her just because she was in front of them. No, it’s best not to, and she whirls again, taking a step forward and putting a hand out for Ronan. Ronan, who said Santino’s name so quietly just now, who breathes with the slightest rattle. Has she ever seen him so shaken? Likely not, but the proof before her of the humanity she was so sure resided in him almost makes her want to smile.

She was right about him, that’s what she thinks. There’s more to Ronan than anyone’s bothered to tell her about, even and especially the man himself. Now, he covers her hand with his own, causing her mouth to drop open in surprise. He doesn’t see it, of course. He can’t turn to face her and touch her with such emotion, or he might explode. A moment later he’s frustrating her again. She steps around so she can look at him, but her hand slides down around his own, holding it in both of hers a moment before she places it carefully at his side. It didn’t feel right to let it drop, after the kindness he’d done in grounding her back, when she’d been too focused on him to note her own shaking frame.

❝ No, ❞ she answers, then fumbles to come up with some reason that isn’t you shouldn’t go home on your own, which she knows wouldn’t go over well. It takes her a moment, and she knows he’ll catch her at it, but it doesn’t matter. They both know her instinct is one of caring, even if she’s lying right now about what motivates her. ❝ I left, uh, my bike. By you, first, coming to tell you. I need it for work tomorrow. ❞ All the words are mostly right, but she’s still crying, scrubbing a hand down her cheeks this time so as not to rub soot into her eyes once again. I don’t want to be alone, she pleads silently with him, and neither should you be. Brielle certainly has options, though most are already driving away with the new initiates. It’s Ronan who doesn’t have anyone waiting on him. She knows, based on spending time with Lucien, that he has a separate place, though she can only guess how often he stays there. ❝ And I want to go see him, ❞ she says, her lower lip trembling. ❝ I can’t — not their house, Ronan. He can’t sleep in there. ❞ It’s hard enough for Brielle to live in a flat full of her memories of Faron. She can’t imagine what Santino will feel.        

had it been any other night, had it been any other point on the calendar year at all, ronan would have snapped that he didn’t need the kindness that brielle has always offered to him so readily--he was not some diamond in the rough, someone with light hidden under a bushel, just waiting for the chance to reveal it. he was both frankenstein and monster because he had made the choice to be so, and he didn’t need a snivelling, whining pup eager for any scrap of good faith to follow him around, nipping at his ankles. he’s still tempted, in some part of himself that feels distant at that particular moment, to tell her as much--but he finds that he can’t force the words over the stumbling blocks of his teeth. she has borne each of their burdens with him tonight in equal measure, she was not afraid to face death at the end of vivianne’s rifle side by side with him--and more importantly, they now share a wound. it was they who had kept santino from his sister, and now it is they who ache for him--who feel his pain as if it were their own. 

she fumbles an excuse about leaving her bike at his place, and he nods his head before tilting it in the direction leading away from the ruins of the cathedral, leading away from what remains of their friend’s blood and flesh. “come on, then. we’ve done a good job of protecting each other thus far.” he smiles, a weak gesture, but an attempt nonetheless. “might as well see it through to the very end.” he can’t imagine that the capulets will be eager to enact revenge tonight--most of them had looked just as sickened as their montague counterparts at their leader’s display--but there’s bound to be one or two eager dogs looking to get satiated immediately. or so he tells himself. maybe her softness is rubbing off on him, rendering him weak enough to admit, to himself alone, that he wouldn’t mind the company. 

he wraps an arm around her shoulders, in an effort to render them more casual to any passing onlookers. he gently dusts some of the ash from her shoulders as they walk, gently squeezes as she begins to speak about santino, about what will be waiting for him in the days to come. “i want to see him too.” he admits, quietly enough that only she will be able to hear it. “but i’m afraid i have little to offer in the way of comfort.” what could he possibly say? i’m sorry? you’re not alone? is that even true, at this point? he has no idea the weight that the grief of losing someone who was literally your mirror image must carry. “if you can convince him of it, he’s welcome to stay with me. but i think he’ll want to be with her--at least for tonight.”

    It was a tedious thing, learning to get back on one’s feet. 

    It’s an arduous process that became worse each day – from the moment sunlight pierced through her pale, gauzy curtains to the moment exhaustion overcame her. The hours in between, a never-ending battle with her cravings. But there were small wins here and there that made it worth it. The sound of Orion’s breath when she awakes, the side-long glance that Vivianne casts her before nodding and turning away, Juliana’s hesitant, slow-blooming smiles that paint across her face, the nudge of Bunny’s hip against hers before handing over her morning espresso…it gave her a sense of assurance that not even ambrosia could hope to emulate. An organic sort-of warmth that bled through her and ate at the emptiness that smothered her before her eyes peered open each day. 

    She pulls her suit’s coat tighter around herself as she steps through the doors of the city council building, making her way to Ronan’s office – the staccato of her heels echoing against the marble floors. There’s no briefcase tucked into her hand, no papers or folders to speak of. Only Rafaella, with her gloved hands and her near-healed bruises hidden beneath a carefully (and tenderly), applied layer of cover-up. She tucked her hair behind her ear, twisting the ring on her finger nervously as she rounded the corner. Would he look at her with that same, pitiable gaze that she had come to expect? Would his lips slant in that condescending frown –

    He was smiling the moment he saw her.

    Not a typical Ronan smile, mind you. Not the political smile that often grazed the TV screen – a carefully cultured smile that never quite meets his eyes. Neither is it that bastard smile that curls the edge of his lips, hiking one corner of his mouth higher than the other, giving him a rather wicked grin. Nor is it the smile that precedes his snort of derision before he verbally eviscerates whoever has the misfortune of being his victim. No, this smile was for her and her alone. She wondered if he had a smile saved for each person he cared about – though he likely didn’t know it if he did. He could be so endearingly blind to the love that he received, to the love that he was capable of giving. And he had ruined it all for the sake of his bid to power – as numerous others have before him. 

    There was no helping the way that she smiled at him in turn; warm and adoring, as though no time had passed and they were still entitled to basking in each glorious day as though they were young gods. “Signor grande lupo cattivo,” she greeted, the formal, stern tone somewhat marred by the illuminative smile that painted her features.

     A month ago it might have seemed less melancholy, but it was the most sincere grin she has worn – untainted by spite or the serrated edge of pain. She looked up at him, lashes fluttering as her smile dimmed. With most, she didn’t mind playing the long, drawn-out game of whose intellect was better – holding hour-long conversations where the words drew as much blood as broadswords. One might have thought that her foremost opponent would be Ronan, after all, his intellect was quicker and more cutting than a rapier. But they had done away with such games a long time ago. “Did you know where I was? When I was held captive and being tortured by your comrades?”

ronan does not flinch at her question--he wants to tell her that she need not bear her teeth at him, that she need not drag the blade across his throat in an effort to see if she can finally make him cry out in pain--he had taken each wound gladly, back then, and after he had lost her, he had learned to caress every scar as tenderly as she had once touched the deformed bones of his shoulders. there is nothing she could say to him now that he wouldn’t swallow with the loving eagerness of a man long deprived of something essential. 

“surely you don’t think so little of me, rafaella.” he says with a raised eyebrow. “i made a promise to you, and i have never broken it. if i had known what was being done to you--” he shakes his head and meets her gaze--even now it seems to look past every facade he has carefully constructed for himself, seems to incinerate every gilded mask he hides behind. “if i had known what was being done to you, there would have been nothing that could have dissuaded me from putting an end to it, putting an end to those whose hands had been laid on you. that information was kept from me.” 

is that why she stands before him now? for a needed reassurance of devotion, in the wake of her torment? a need to take the inflicted pain and weaponize it, turn it against someone else? he could have told her it would be a fool’s errand--the pain of having lost her is something that he feels constantly, that pools just underneath the surface of his skin like a bruise that refuses to heal, inflicting pain that hurts worse than what he already lives with is an impossibility. she would be better served turning her divine fury against her tormentors, instead of one long since determined to suffer every lash. 

“ — I.” Tomas amends, squeezing his eyes shut for a split-second. He can feel panic welling and tries to swallow it back. “I have to, I have to - please, she’s my wife!” He’s not sure it means much at all to the one the Montagues call ‘Richard III’, like some sort of ancestral King of Kings. Obediently he follows his lead and ducks behind a church pew, trying not to look as Ronan shoots down another target. “I’ve got-” But then the man yanks him forward by the collar and his eyes snap open, pupils dilating as they settle on him. “Don’t, don’t.” He pleads, uninjured hand rising up reflexively to trap Ronan’s unforgiving fingers. He tries to pry them off of his collar as the politician continues; flaying him with harsh words.

‘… And if you cared so damn much, you should have thought about that before you decided to play white knight to la principessa.’

“Are you kidding me?? It wouldn’t make a difference!” Tomas fires back incredulously. “They’re always throwing Celeste into these damn missions, it has nothing to do with me!” The accusation galls him, prickling at his defenses as his eyes search for his spouse. “Even before we were mar- She’s there!! She’s right there!” He points across the room where his wife’s backing away from a girl with dark hair who has her back turned to them. Celeste’s not holding a gun, and for the life of him he can’t remember if she had one on her when they left the house earlier that evening. His eyes flicker back to Ronan’s weapon, stomach twisting sickly. “Can you-….” His voice dies on him abruptly and he looks at Brielle a few feet away, wishing she didn’t have to see any of this. Wishing she didn’t have to hear him now.

… He  can’t even bring himself to say it. 

“ — We have to distract that woman. If you fired your gun-….”

“it truly is a miracle that someone hasn’t broken those rose colored glasses yet, sabello,” ronan says through clenched teeth. “and shoved the pieces down your throat to get you to shut up.” if it comes down to getting out of here alive, with sabello intact, he could give a damn about what happens to cressida--she’s just one in a number of useless emissaries, for every one of her there are thirteen more whining and snivelling kits waiting for their chance for fame. clearly the montagues as a whole could do better, if the woman’s taste in mate is any indication. 

he follows sabello’s line of sight to a shock of red hair, being backed up slowly by a darker haired woman with a pistol trained on her. “you let your wife leave for a mission without making sure she was armed?” he drawls, with a roll of his eyes. the actor shares a meaningful glance with king, as though she’ll somehow be disappointed when he inevitably asks ronan to take a shot at his wife’s momentary captor. he’s even more insipid than ronan had previously considered, if he doesn’t think king’s experience would put her in favor of taking a life to save another. “i think my husband would sleep with a gun underneath my pillow if i allowed him to.” 

he spares a glance at the nearby doorway, that will, if ronan’s albeit scant knowledge of chapel construction is to be relied upon, lead them to some kind of back exit--its a clear shot at the moment, and he’s not sure how long it can be relied upon to stay that way. sabello’s wife will have to fight her way out of this one without divine intervention. “i don’t take orders from you, actor.” he spits. “and if if i fire at that woman and miss, the next one might as well have your name, my name, and beatrice’s name written on it, because it's coming right for us. three lives aren’t worth the one, no matter how starry eyed you may be.”