𝒑𝒂𝒙 𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒂 .

          ╰   *   BIOGRAPHY  ━━  APPLICATION  ━━  TIMELINE                                 ━━  WANTED CONNECTIONS .

BASIC INFORMATION

FULL NAME. Bellamy Santo Domingo.

MEANING. Fine friend, handsome companion.

REASONING. The name was hand-picked by his grandfather, before his passing. He gave no explanations, but a small poem was written in his notebooks regarding this particular name.

NICKNAME(S). Bell, Bee, Bella, Santissimo (with teasing undertones).

ALIAS. Benvolio.

BIRTH DATE. 8th of October, 1994.

BLOOD TYPE. AB-.

AGE. Twenty four.

ZODIAC. Libra sun, Scorpio moon, Pisces rising.

GENDER. Agender. He doesn’t speak much about this, however, as he was raised in a very traditional and conservative family.

PRONOUNS. He/him. Bellamy has a feeling he’d be more comfortable using “they/them,” however, since he fears possible reprimands, especially from his father, he only ever attends to these pronouns when around people he considers safe.

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION. Panromantic.

SEXUAL ORIENTATION. Demisexual.

NATIONALITY. Italian.

ETHNICITY. Spanish, Japanese, Indigenous Brazilian.

RELIGION. Roman Catholic, with some Zen Buddhist influences.

CURRENT LOCATION. Verona, Italy.

LIVING CONDITIONS. Bellamy lives in a comfortable but rather small apartment in the San Zeno neighborhood, close to the Basilica di San Zeno Maggiore.

AFFILIATION. The Montagues.

THREAT LEVEL. Moderate to high. Proceed with caution.

Bellamy sinks nails into flesh, and pulls until truth spills from the cavity in his ribcage — I was the one to make you wait. Marcelo had once liked the sound of it on his tongue. The pieces of himself that he offered, rather than displayed in the dark of his room, so quick if they blinked it would be lost to the night, and so, too, would that who bore them. Now, Bellamy’s words are a hollow reminder — words etched upon the insides of Marcelo’s eyelids as curls splay against the dark sweep of their lashes. He’d needed only to return to relieve them of it; this ceaseless wait, sewn onto the face of hurt, squeezing to the beat of anger in their breast. Is this how he’d felt at their side? Waiting for the day he might break free of Verona, and scrub until the scarlet bled from his hands?

If he’d asked how long Marcelo had waited they could recite the days. They could tell him of the moment, exactly, when they had first suspected Bellamy would never return. They could tell him of the ache in their bones, and how lifting each had felt somehow heavier in his absence. But he doesn’t, and so they sigh instead as a strand brushes, ticklish, against their lips. “Y’know, I can be very deceptive that way,” Marcelo teases, as if Bellamy has ever looked upon them and not peered upon the very blood flowing from their heart. Could he see now? Feel, in the squeeze of bone against bone, the way they might suffer the wait again if it lifted the scythe from Bellamy’s throat? 

His fingers card through their hair, and they suppress the grinding of their teeth. It was still fresh, that diluted red scrubbed from the scalp until it trickled down the nape of their neck and swirled at their feet — their own, and only their own. Shall my life be spared? Bellamy asks, pulling their thoughts from that day, weeks ago, and back to the ivory crescent of his smile. “If you ask me nicely — mercy is earned in this house, Santo Domingo,” Marcelo tsks, a frail lift of their lips acknowledging the absurd. Bellamy had scratched his name onto every inch of flesh cinching their body together. No part of Marcelo dared to strike down the hand that had stitched it back into something they could recognize in the mirror — into something so very nearly human.

Cielo, who —

It, too, sears into the lining of their gut, beside those seven letters, beside the burn of Orion, still pecking at their insides. The breath from Marcelo’s lungs punch loose, their chin swiveling at the concern clinging to Bellamy’s words. “It’s taken care of,” they hiss lowly, as if Vivianne and her accomplice have not walked from the mangled wreckage of their autonomy unbothered, entirely unscathed. Soon, Marcelo reminds themself, it won’t be a lie for long. They’ll make certain it will be taken care of, and in a fashion far more brutal than anything Massetti’s cruel imagination can yearn for. “Capulet bastardi,” Marcelo growls, flames beat back at the sight of Bellamy igniting again at the gentle prodding of fingers uncovering red and purple tinged kindle. 

His step echoes between the four walls of their apartment, Marcelo’s jaw shifting at the sudden distance forced between them. Is this what he’d run from? Marcelo won’t cower — they’d been forced to their knees with enough savagery to shatter the bone and it had not broken them; this too, they would find a way to survive. Bellamy was strong, wings crafted from steel and a spine from stone, but even he was human, even he should surely recoil from what they’d become. 

Inky brows jump then at his sudden command, unexpected, and yet entirely familiar. Marcelo’s expression twitches under the surface, as if deciding whether to bare their teeth and make him regret it, or free the relieved laugh clawing up the column of their throat. Their shoulders tensed, braced for his rejection, prepared for his blame. It thuds against the center of Marcelo’s sternum now, their concerns and fears, felled by Bellamy’s teeth and tossed limp in their face, as if to say “you have lost enough, don’t you know?” Their chest heaves. 

“Bellamy — no dinner first?” they try lamely, the words in Marcelo’s mouth jagged and hoarse, ghosts of ones they might have pressed to the slope of the man’s shoulder as teenagers. They wet their lips, and dare a step forward, displaying to him the ugly welts and scabs caressing their body up close. “I’m not broken,” they warn, hazel hues at once raking across Bellamy’s concern, “I don’t need you to fix me.” It doesn’t matter what it is they want, what’s familiar, or what’s convenient. He hadn’t come home to mend the shards of a broken weapon, useless until pieced back together. Marcelo needs him to know — this isn’t his fault, and I won’t make it your burden. 

There are numerous particularities of Marcelo that could never be replicated. The world offered much to Bellamy, but it could never come through when it came to the buzzing memories and fiery experiences Marcelo was responsible for creating. He supposed that was the charm of people — never being quite the same. And yet, it was frustrating, somehow. To be always alone, for not a soul could grasp his own like Marcelo’s. But, then again, Bellamy also supposed that was a blame himself should take. 

There were merely seconds to account for their reunion — it was all the Santo Domingo needed, however, as the comfort of being surrounded by them had always been his only need. —— Not quite deceptive, I’m afraid. —— he doesn’t hesitate, cheeks aching with the intensity of his smile. —— You are just an awful tease. —— and, although mischievous, Bellamy makes no move to tear himself apart from Marcelo. He holds them for as long as he desires too — because he had missed them, and their bones, and their breath, and their warmth. They are just two celestial figures floating through the waves of their own hearts. It is genuine, and it is deserved. Bellamy is almost terrified of seeing his sun and stars fading and so, instinctively, he holds Marcelo with a bit more force. —— Oh, please. You could have me with this tough act only if I had not known how weak you get for my masterful performance of puppy eyes. 

Questioning the origins of such wounds, both apparent and invisible, was a foolish choice. There was no other option to be logically deduced from this horror show before him. The Capulets were involved, and nothing had changed — this was the final rupture of the idealism in his mind; the silly, juvenile dream he had that his absence would turn into a garden, and peace would grow from it at a steady pace. One can never learn when surrounded by whimsical fantasy, where every fall births a larger, brighter illusion.  —— You are not taken care of, clearly. —— he can’t help but fire back, preoccupation showing itself on the crease of his brows, tender valleys on the skin of his forehead as he speaks.

Bellamy tries not to be angered by the attempt at a joke in such dire situation — what else could he expect from Marcelo? They are not changed, no matter what the state of their soul might say. The Santo Domingo still stares at their flame, and it burns all the same. He smiles at the thought, even as sadness drips like candle wax from the tip of his fingers as he tries to approach Marcelo. —— I get what I want when I want it. —— he tries to provide a decent follow-up, the mischief in his tone falling terribly short. He can’t laugh while his friend stands before him, a sculpture cracked and torn and abused. It is revolting to look. It is revolting to be powerless before pain. When will I be capable of more?, Bellamy rages from the depths of his being, lights flickering as darkness crawls inside his marrow.

—— I have no interest in fixing you. —— his voice does not tremble as he speaks into the quiet universe of Marcelo’s apartment. Bellamy has a talent for disturbing the natural order of all with the quietest of breaths, an unshakable resolve brimming from his eyes with the subtle power of the guiding hand of a mother. —— It hasn’t been that long for you to forget who I am in such way. —— the words escape him without sharpness, the conclusion thrown to the floor with little care as Bellamy’s hands dare to invade their shirt, lifting it up with a gentleness unearthly. The Santo Domingo can’t be sure of his own humanity whenever he becomes this ghost, murmuring soothing tales over the wounded as if his voice could heal. 

A quiet comfort seemed to encompass both of them when they were together. Santino had listened to too many condolences from figures that barely entered the twins lives. He listened to too many speeches about how good of a person his twin was from people that did nothing to save her when she needed it the most. He appreciated the support that extended without words. Perhaps that was why he allowed these meetings to continue on. He tried to shut the world away, to lock himself in Ronan’s apartment, but little by little he found people breaking through his defenses. Whether it be a lunch with Harriet, walk with Ramona, or a silent meal with Bellamy, it was a quiet light to save him from the dark. The sad part was— what would happen if the light went out? What would happen if these visits stop? Would he create his own light, or would he succumb to the darkness for good?

It was a question he already knew the answer to. It was a question he asked himself every time he was forced to endure someone’s blood on his hands. It was an answer he received that fateful night in the cathedral. A part of him dreaded it, but another part of him accepted it long ago. 

He quietly listened as Bellamy spoke about Rome. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment as he allowed himself to imagine a life in Rome. He could picture himself sketching the old buildings, wandering around the city until it was too dark to see in front of him, and listening to the quiet peace that was sure to blanket any city that wasn’t Verona. The thought of leaving the city behind had been in his grasp back in January. Memories of that nights floated through his mind— him begging Valentina to leave the war behind, her saying she couldn’t do that, both just realizing how different their views of the war were. Maybe it would’ve been better had he known the real reason why she wanted to stay. Maybe it would’ve been worse. All he could do now was focus on the present.

Bellamy paused, and Santino forced himself to look up. The silence had been broken, and he realized he didn’t want it back. Most of his days were filled with silence. Perhaps he could use some conversation. He found himself fiddling with the holes in his jeans  before he quietly whispered, “Where did you go next?”

Bellamy could not put into words what he truly felt as he observed Santino. The man left him uneasy ━ not because of fear or of worry, but because Bellamy saw in his eyes a sentiment he had become so accustomed to. The struggle to hold on to life itself: it shone through Santino’s irises like the last dying flame of a hearth, before the wood succumbed to darkness and ash. It is hypocritical to feed his fire when Bellamy himself is drowned out by the continuous drizzle of Verona ━ and yet, he still tries, maintaining the same hope of everyday as he visits the Gallo brother, tender smile in his lips, starry sky in his eyes. Bellamy was no more than a beaten up pawn, speaking of the brightness of the sun as if he were a poet, as if there had ever been true gentleness handled by calloused hands. 

It was beautiful, however, to see the tired man in front of him hypnotized by the wonders of his own imagination. Bellamy adored this like he could love no other ━ the power to use one’s mind to see a different world, enraptured by whimsical colors and the most childlike of magics. Was it not worthy, to pretend for a few seconds? Was it not fulfilling, to draw the perfect existence for one’s self, and dwell in the exquisiteness of it? It was not a lie to be guilty of, no. It was no more than a dream most tended to forget, once adulthood reached their shoulders far too early on. Bellamy refused to, no matter how stomped the daisies of his juvenile years were. Masochistic as it was, the Santo Domingo looked towards the light. Blinded or not, whole or in halves, he wasn’t one to give up in the utopia of his mind.

Roberts is a weaselly-looking man with hair too light to look good slicked back and a sneer that could be described as sour sitting on his face. When Boris enters the room, he cannot help but feel that their business here is already done. One look at Roberts tells him enough: the man knows. He is practically shaking from the fervor of his own rage, hands balled up into fists, feet spread apart to his knees so he has the strange silhouette of a triangle. Another thing: he is very short. He hardly makes it to Boris’ chin.

Boris smiles. It’s pleasant. Amicable. He does not offer a hand to shake or general pleasantries. It’d be better, he thinks, to do this quickly and then get the fuck out. Roberts dying would be an inconvenience, more than anything else, but an inconvenience Boris would prefer to avoid. “Signore,” he starts to say, but Roberts looks at him with eyes that are like ice and snaps his fingers. The two men with guns – who Boris had taken note of as soon as he stepped through the conference room door, woefully aware of being outnumbered – slide their eyes towards Boris.

Fuck.

It’s great! It’ll be fine.

“I understand you’re upset, but I can assure you that this is almost certainly the best path for both parties to take moving forward.”

Roberts speaks Italian very badly. The words are fine, but the accent makes Boris want to gag a little bit. He sounds worse in person than over the phone. “Fuck off, you limbdick sack of shit. You knew exactly how this was going to go from the start and I still invested money here when I could’ve gone over the river and been handed something better from the start. But I didn’t. You want to know why? Because I–” what follows is, at best, a two-minute long rant equivalent to a temper tantrum Boris had witnessed the other day when he’d gone grocery shopping. It all becomes pleasant, mutable white noise, but he does take note of Roberts’ body language. He’s trembling like a live wire, shaking a little bit, hand moving behind him as if to draw out a gun and then pulling away as if he’s thinking better of it. If this is how he dies, Boris will be sorely disappointed. He’d always wanted it to be more dramatic than in a conference room, the walls all multicolored beige-and-tan. He looks over his shoulder and gives Bellamy a small, nigh-unnoticeable nod. Just in case.

Roberts does, at the very least, seem to talk himself down from his moment of upset. He’s red in the face by the end of it, all puffed up with nowhere to go, the realization that Boris will not be making him a kinder counter-offer sinking in. His shoulders drop. His brow pinches at the middle. His sneer returns. It will very much not be fine. Boris raises both hands slowly, as if to placate, keeps one hovering near the breast pocket on his left side. “We could all sit down, and have a pleasant afternoon, and all leave perfectly well and healthy. It doesn’t have to be like this.”

Except it does, apparently, because Roberts gives a little laugh. “I’ve already spoken with the Capulets. They’re willing to make up for your family’s mistakes.” His sentence slopes down in tone with every word. In the movies, whenever there’s a high-tension action scene, it seems that time slows down for the protagonist. Boris has always found that reality holds the opposite: his heart leaps up into his throat, and things tend to move very, very quickly. They reach for their guns at the same time.

There is nothing to hide behind: this will be a matter of time and good luck. “—Bellamy!”

Bellamy does not take a liking to this man ━ but, then again, hardly has he ever adored anyone knees-deep into the business of italian mafias. Even after years removed from this grim reality, the Santo Domingo still recognizes a person of the likes of Roberts with ease. Irritable, egocentric, vain, and with just enough money to back up such insufferable characteristics. Bellamy no longer expects for a quiet afternoon, and he is only proved correct as Roberts’ guards position themselves, heavily armed and showing little openness to conversation. They are all ready and willing for a fight. The soldier holds in a sigh. Exquisite. He wishes he could laugh at this ━ because, dear God, he fucking hates it, all of it. But Bellamy stays still, as neutral as one could be, as he thinks of an escape route. Roberts is angry, but not threatening. Hold him hostage, why not?

Besides his terrible temper, the man is not smart, either ━ he keeps on talking, and talking, and talking. Bellamy is almost thankful for such foolishness. The villainous monologue gives him time to prepare, and he is hopeful no deaths shall occur, if things just go well enough. Boris looks over at him with discretion, and his only response is a shift of the eyes. He doesn’t think anyone is quite attentive to pick up on their non-verbal communication, but Bellamy would rather handle it all with excessive care than sin by neglect. They are outnumbered, but the power of strategy might be by their side, even when in enemy territory. The conference room is far too cold, and Bellamy wants to move and get it over with, but Roberts isn’t done speaking yet.

Before he can really protest, Lamprius is being guided to sit in his own home. Whoever says there isn’t a sort of violence to kindness doesn’t know true kindness. The sort of kindness that erodes mountains requires its own kind of force, something that slips between the cracks and cripples it from within. Bellamy is determined to slip between the cracks of Lamrpius’ stone exterior now, don’t think he misses it. Bellamy’s words are far too compliant; it’s clear they don’t give any power to the law Lamprius has laid down. Bellamy better come to terms with the fact that Lamprius will hold him to it. But….Lamprius allows this all to happen to him - being guided to the chair, having tea made for him - because he misses him. It’s a sun peeking out from behind a cloud cover, It’s strange for him to be a cold one, usually cold hands sought out Lamprius for warmth, and he wants nothing more to bask in that sun, regain that warmth. For twelve days he thought it impossible - and now there is a kiss to his forehead. 

“Left cupboard above the stove.” He finally says, can’t help but frown a little at the comment about caring for him. There were plenty of people for Bellamy to care for in this city, Lamprius shouldn’t have to be one of them. “Your father needs your attention more than I do.” While he is not pleased for the young man’s return to the city, his own mother’s sickness haunts him. He would never wish such ghosts on Bellamy. ‘I’m going to move to Sicily for a few months, to be with my mother’ Lamprius tells his husband — doesn’t know how to say ‘she’s dying, I know it.’ He doesn’t have to in the end. His mother passes before he can make it to the south of Italy and it damn near breaks Lucien. Lamprius wants justice, he just doesn’t want to pull it from Bellamy’s father in this manner. “Is there anything I can do for him? ”

Secure Bellamy’s father’s health and get Bellamy far away from all of this as quickly as possible. Perhaps that is the best course of action. It’s been twelve days without the Witches, Verona stands to descend into madness without its usual system of checks and balances before long if it hasn’t already. And Lamprius really doesn’t know if it has already. He hasn’t looked out the window in the last hour, he half expects to pull back the curtain and see a plume of smoke, spiraling from the center of the city.  

From the window, there’s soft meow, peeping out from the corner of the room that makes Lamprius turn. A silvery grey cat slips into the house, leaping from windowsill to table to bookshelf with ease, as if he’s lived here his entire life. Of course even Free Cat returns for Bellamy. Lamprius gives the cat a look as it slinks up to him across the table top and rubs a face against his shoulder. Free Cat gets a reluctant pet and a scratch behind the ears. 

“You have an admirer.” Lamprius says, looking down at the plucky cat. Animals had always loved Bellamy, even his horses had grown more restless in his absence. Lamprius wonders if they’ve settled now that the young man has returned. A few more pets and he finds he can sit no more. Lamprius stands up, ignores the slight sway to the room his heavy head brings on, and moves to grab the cups from the cupboards. “If your father were to get better, would your business in this city be finished?” He knows the answer and yet it is the Witches task, now his task, to ask. 

There is much Bellamy doesn’t know about — to return had been an exercise in guilt. Not that he had not felt it while he traveled above the ocean, not that he had ignored its claws while he rented yet another hotel room: the feeling merely opted to swallow him whole once the air of Verona reached his lungs, and Bellamy was dizzy with it. There was a quiet but eerie voice throbbing on the inside of his head, like a clock with a set of judgemental eyes instead of hands. Perhaps he thought too highly of himself, but he couldn’t help but think it all had crumbled once he stepped out of the city. He should’ve done something, but he was the creature who instead fled once the sun settled over the valley, as if he was no more than a bird blessed with freedom. Now, there was nothing to do but endure the reality of his shackles, and to bear the burning friction of them against tender skin.

His father, Marcelo, Lucien. They were changed, they were aged. Bellamy was terrified of the look on their faces, fearful of taking their hands and discovering only dust and sand. Bellamy hummed away his thoughts, conjuring the memory of Lucien’s smile as he searched for herbs in the cupboard. The soldier can’t help but snort, a quiet laugh torn in halves. —— There is nothing Celestino detests more than attention, unless it is acquired by some heinous doing of his. —— he looks over his shoulder, offering a warm and complicit smile to the older man. His father had always been grumpy, eager only for solitude or a good fight. Even in sickness, he desired to be visited by none. I despise pity and gossip, and that’s all people have to offer once you’re ill, he grumbled under his breath as Bellamy brought him breakfast just the other day. —— I can assure you I pester him enough... But he tends to disregard even what the doctor tells him to do, so I’m not as useful as I’d like to be.

Bellamy places a few leaves inside the steaming water, gentle while he closes the kettle. While he waits, the Santo Domingo lets his back lean against the kitchen counter, a tired grin shining through his lips. —— I would hate to waste your time with such a headstrong creature. But, pray tell, do you know of any medicine to heal stubbornness? Maybe that would do my old man some good. —— albeit a difficult man (to say the least), Bellamy loved his father by the same measure he was scared of him. Being in the house of his childhood was both a nightmare and a relief — it was still standing, just like those he held dear. It was all a question of keeping all up-right. Once he heard a soft meow, however, the glow on Bellamy’s features grew more honest. His cheeks almost turn golden as the cat approaches, rubbing its head against his shoulder as a greeting. —— You adopted a pet? —— he questions, eyes shimmering as he looks over to Lucien. —— This is the best news I’ve heard since I came back.

Alva snickers at Bellamy’s reaction. He’s not truly aghast. In fact, Alva detects interest and perhaps even a desire to at least try. They can work with that. It’s no fun when a man takes himself too seriously; a man that can’t bend for a breeze will snap for a gale, or however the saying goes. Despite his surname, it seems that Bellamy isn’t such a rigid thinker, after all, he wasn’t immediately repulsed by Alva. Perhaps here, at Sognare, Alva can show Bellamy what he’s missing out there on the streets of Verona with a reputation and name to protect. In Sognare, nothing exists but the music, the lights and your partner of the night. 

“Sensual fashion icon,” they parrot, amused and delighted. “You think highly of my abilities. I’m a gay singer, not a designer.” Alva does not, however, mention not wanting to participate in a shopping spree to update Bellamy’s wardrobe. On the contrary, they would be honored to liven up his closet. Though Alva’s taste in clothes varies to the occasion, they do, in fact, have a good sense of fashion. Perhaps it comes with the territory of being a low-key sensation in Verona’s night scenes. 

You seem quite confident I have some gorgeous thighs to show off, my dear.

“Tell me I’m wrong and I will revise my assessment.” They turn to lean an elbow on the table and stretch their own legs. “One has to know where their strengths are. If you’ve got legs that go on forever or, god bless, thunder thighs, it’s your duty to show them off to the mortals.” 

They laugh immediately after the absurdity of their statement, and lean up to accept their milkshake from the server with shouted thanks. 

As thy sip, they cock their head at Bellamy. 

“I have a professional twitter you can follow, it’s very accurate when it comes to when I’m performing and where…” They doubt Bellamy has a twitter. He seems like the kind to use a phone only for calls, and maybe Grindr. The thought makes Alva nearly snort milkshake out of their nose, but they get themselves composed before they choke. “No no, I’m not laughing at you, never mind that– I can teach you, you know. It’s a lot like ice skating actually. You need to use the same kind of balance and movements.” A sly smile turns up the corners of their mouth. “And no one in Sognare would bear for you to fall on your ass.” 

—— I merely trust your potential. —— Bellamy shrugs it off as if it were an obvious assumption, half a smile perched upon his lips. —— Are you trying to sell yourself short? —— he raises one of his eyebrows, unable to help his soft teasing in this particular afternoon. It’s easier to be malleable in a setting like this — there are no eyes following his every mood, and it’s almost as if the air itself is entirely different. Bellamy makes sure to remember the feeling down to a poetic description, just so he could recall it to perfection in the times of need. Wasn’t it pitiful, to cherish a commonplace with such intensity? Bellamy didn’t care to scorn his own happiness — not for now, at least. —— Designer or not... I do not feel I’d be at much despair in your hands. —— his eyes traveled from Alva’s torso up to their eyes, trying hard not to wink at the singer.

Bellamy has no room for vanity inside his body, as tall as he might be. Self-esteem is a quality he doesn’t possess, and even his own image is a topic for distortion and bothersome thoughts. He is not used to compliments of the kind (or any at all, for that matter), but in the particular subject of thighs... He is well aware of their power. Not by any common way, as one might suspect — Bellamy just has quite the experience with choking down sparring partners with them. Once Alva brings his point up, laughter inevitably finds its way out of his mouth. They aren’t wrong, after all. —— Thunder thighs, eh? —— he questions, finding more fun in this than he ought to. —— I suppose I am committing a felony by keeping mine hidden, then. It’s in your power to change that, or the locals might forever suffer with such penitence. Just don’t put me in tights, and all else is fair game. 

She’s tasted fear before. Chemical yet metallic in the back of her throat, lodged there to fester. The last time she swallowed it, it had been in the wake of staring down the barrel of a Montague gun aimed at her skull. This, however – this is different. This was supposed to be the sort of fear felt by those who didn’t take risks unless pushed to do so. A deer in the headlight fear. A rabbit-hearted fear. She forces her breathing to stutter, mimicking the terror she’s watched overcome others in the past – her knife usually pressed to the soft skin of their necks. “I’m not afraid,” she responds, attempting to raise her chin with dignity as though determined to convince Bellamy otherwise. A lie disguising a lie; although that did not always equate to a truth. No Capulet worth their salt would ever confess to fear before a foe, regardless of whether they were playing a game of cat and mouse. Lucrezia holds her breath as warm hands skim her clothing, forcing herself to flinch occasionally. His gaze averted, she studies the quiet male from the corner of her eye and wonders idly what it must be like to hold trust between his teeth like a bit, actions determined by faith in others. But perhaps she was underestimating him. For all she knew, he was preparing a perceived-lamb for slaughter. 

The weight of the switchblade being taken from her pocket is replaced by his grip on her shoulder. For a moment she does not need to play a part, body tensing at the unwelcome touch as he prompts her to walk. She stays alert as they pass through narrow streets, Montague territory indiscernible from Capulet territory unless you knew where the boundaries lay, watching cautiously for a shifting shadow or a gunmetal glint. Instead, it is the piercing heat of his gaze that proves her only obstacle. “Does asking someone to harm you count as a favour?” she questions, a little bolder than she maybe ought to be, a slight return to self. Bellamy was right, though, and his following point murmured hushed between the yellow paint walls bordering the alleyway tells her more about him than she could have gathered from fractured fragments of intel. 

This. A moment of mercy. Lucrezia raises her hand slowly until her fingertips brush the knuckles curled around her shoulder, silent thanks tenderly stroked into the spaces between each bone. “Do you think these moments add up to help outweigh the terrible ones? The violence?” She keeps her voice quiet, recoiling inwardly at the delicate notions that spill from her mouth like sweet wine, sickly. Creatures like her don’t know how to navigate peacetime; they are made for war. Taking a slow breath, she averts her attention to the cobbles beneath their feet and turns his question over in her mind. “Do you wear a chain around your neck? Or have a watch on you?” Her line of sight returns to meet his. “If I use something to show him as proof, I’ll find a way to return it safely. I promise.” 

Bellamy can’t be certain if her insistence comes from pride, or from the danger she hides underneath layers of shivering and doe eyes. She is uncomfortable with his clinical touches, but does nothing to run away ━ there in no attempt to hit him over the head, to trick him into a trap. The Santo Domingo still isn’t sure of what to think of this one Lucrezia Falco: she seems out of place, and not because of her presence in Montague territory. Her behavior isn’t one he’d expect out of a trained Capulet, and a backbone of silver is still there. He can catch glimpses of it, of her strength, and yet she is theatric of her weaknesses. It is the strangest thing he has witnessed in the past couple of months. Bellamy proceeds, avoiding any signs of surprise as he rises up to meet her, their eyes encountering one another once more. ━━ If you say so. ━━ he isn’t bothered by her words, although he is most certainly puzzled by her actions. It is a balance he had come to perfect, nearly perfected stoicism pooling at his cheekbones. Bellamy does recognize some of her self preservation skills: she at least tenses up when under his grip. Good. There is, once again, a paradox to occur. She questions him, even without a weapon to honor her safety. ━━ If you are asking for it, it is a favor. ━━ it’s his curt reply, and he tries not to wonder about the cards the woman is playing. Everything has a reason in Verona ━ but Bellamy is not sure he desires to discover what is hers.

Unspoken words tangle on her tongue like bruised vines, intertwined with a heap of inquisitiveness as he takes a step closer. Let me give it a look? Heloise nods in agreement, wide eyes brighter than the rays of the sun. She takes in his own and realizes that he looks worn out, exhausted, crushed violets bruising the hollow of his eye sockets, like sleep has evaded him for a multitude of days and nights. “You look tired.” Perhaps her statement is too forward, perhaps the inner workings of his life is none of her concern, but she’s curious, and it gives those around her a chance to gush about themselves. People love that, don’t they? “It’s nice to meet you, Bellamy.” She gifts him a faint smile, “I’m Heloise.”

Two strangers in the dark, bathed in the radiant glow of the moon, walking along a narrow path of hopelessness. Heloise wonders what sorrows have plagued his heart, but this time she does not pry. His eyes say more than his lips ever could. “I don’t feel wanted at home, so I’d rather roam the streets until I’m tired enough to drift off to sleep.” The wind wafts through the trees, hair tickling her cheeks as she looks up at the night sky, stars littered throughout. “I hear Verona’s full of danger regardless of the time.” Bellamy sees her as fragile, delicate, a red rose to be trampled upon, and Heloise cannot fault him for it. He sees her the way the rest of Verona does. The way Brielle sees her.

She’s too trusting, incredibly so. She’s full of compassion, so much so that it eats away at the tenderness of her heart. She’s naive, she’s foolish, and if Heloise knew what was good for her, she would offer her thanks and be on her way, but there appears to be nothing dangerous about this Bellamy, so she stays. “No hospitals,” she whispers in a hurried tone, an overwhelming amount of fear fizzing through her veins. “It’s..I’m fine, thank you.” Perhaps there’s a lesson to be learned here. She thinks of Lucien’s outrage during her little escapade with Tomas Sabello, and understands that Bellamy might quite literally lose his head if she returns home in worse condition than he found her in.

But she also understands that if Bellamy wished to do her harm, he would’ve done so already. “Would you mind walking with me?” Heloise gathers at the basin once more, a gentle sense of tranquility enveloping her. “What would you wish for, Bellamy?” She chimes, her voice more delicate than the strings of a harp. “If you could have anything in the entire world, what would it be?” Her eyes find his as she asks herself the same question. She wishes to be enamored by an all-consuming love, to live an endless life full of bliss, to have so much money that she can hardly pronounce the number. Heloise believes that life would be far easier to understand if she could simply toss a coin into a fountain, whisper a sea of wants, and receive all of her heart’s desires.

“Anything at all,” she repeats.

Heloise reminds him of a time long gone ━ peace had never existed upon this fissured land but Bellamy had once been unaware of the dried bloodstains on the noble wood of the Santo Domingo’s manor. Bellamy recalls having her eyes ━ what a curse it was for his family, how dreaded was this kindness on the hands of a murderer. Standing in front of her, the soldier questions if this is no more than a dream: a man, desperate in his solitude, clinging to the remnants of hope, falling into a state of delusion as he swears he can see another gentle creature rise from the ashes. As she speaks, a tender smile blooms in the corners of his lips ━ exhaustion never truly faded away from Bellamy once it had settled in the cornerstone of his bones. He doesn’t reply, not for long seconds. 

He encounters Heloise’s eyes, their soft warmth spreading through his chest, and lies. How could he explain his nightmares to this being of lightness? How could he force such weight upon her shoulders? He won’t. ━━ No more than you are, I suppose. ━━ he shrugs it off with trained ease. ━━ Heloise. Powerful name ━ did you know? It means “ famous warrior ”. ━━ it feels natural, to shift away from attention, guiding the conversation towards the girl as he melts into the background. ━━ It was the name of a very intriguing scholar as well. ━━ and he can’t help but look at her and wonder what will she become. Is the path of the mafia trailed for her taking? Will she turn her back on them all, as Bellamy wished he could have done? He wants to ask, wants to discover more of her to quiet his own mind. 

Matthias has spent too much time in this place at almost every stage of his life to exclusively associate it with nostalgia. As a child, he would take his mother’s hand and follow her to the storybooks, his head craned upwards in the hopes of getting a glimpse of his father or the work being conducted outside of the regular patron’s gaze. He remembered the times in his teenage years where he would find any excuse to wander up there, to pass along a message to his father or another Montague, only to be reprimanded for interrupted or given a silent look that sent him back to the world of the mundane. The moments he could finally walk behind those firmly-shut doors, freshly eighteen and nearly running head-first towards them, were moments he once reveled in. Now, those moments were routine. There were years he did not see those doors or any book in that library, and it was during those years he felt something missing from any similar library he found himself in whilst in Paris. They did not hold the power or the secrets that Verona’s did.

Now, he had returned, and everything felt almost the same as when he’d left it. Matthias had become much more familiar with the history section of the library, now, and he was walking through the aisles to find some books that could be useful for an upcoming lesson, he found a familiar friend upon the floor. “It’s not a good idea to sit down there,” Matthias said, almost on instinct, as if he were still watching over the younger man. It also didn’t help when he thought that, were he a less observant man, he may have interrupted Bellamy’s reading in a more violent way than just stopping in front of him. “I was looking for some material for class. Maybe we should take this to a space where there are actually places to sit.” 

🎬Troilus & Benvolio, Scene II

Date: May 20th, 2019. Time: Early evening. Place: Bar in Montague territory. Availability: closed to @santodomingos·····

“What the heck, Bells?? I’m the one who goes through the tear-gas bombing of a café, through virtual hellfire and you’re the one that gets hotter in the aftermath??” He yanks the other man into his arms without hesitation, grinning into his shoulder. “Life’s unfair, that’s what I’m discovering.” 

He needs this brief levity, this connection with someone who understands him— perhaps the only Montague who seems to really understand what goes on in both his head and his heart. The events he survived five days ago within the city still weigh heavy on Tomas’ mind, and although he makes light of it now, it’s the sort of humor that fades fast once he’s alone with himself again. But for now, Bellamy’s company promises to keep all of that at bay; a ray of sorely-needed sunlight. 

“Come, let me buy you a drink. I still owe you for last time. And while I’m doing that, think of something new to tell me about your life since we last caught up. Something good.” The actor insists with feigned sternness, grateful to know they’ve both survived the harrowing violence of the last few days, but needing more than that to anchor himself to the Hope that’s been eluding him as of late. 

But for months now, Bellamy’s always been one to help him find it. 

Unabashed affection isn’t uncommon in the Santo Domingo household ━ if only you manage to do what’s expected of you. Bellamy has never been a favorite of his parents, his intellectual charm not quite fit for the warrior-like spirits of his uncles and aunts. It comes as no surprise that such all-consuming hugs tend to catch him off guard, requiring long seconds before he can try and reciprocate them. He stands like a fool, arms limp by his sides, only able to mimic Tomas’ warm embrace once his voice becomes close enough to Bellamy’s ears. He can’t help but laugh, albeit briefly ━ a spark of joy, is all his heart can muster. ━━ I’m not too sure about that. You’re the coveted movie star around here, Mr. Sabello, not me. ━━ he replies, not without a teasing lull to his tone, smile growing wider as the other man speaks.

Tomas is a presence that provides Bellamy with forgetfulness. They are both suffering the aftermath of a war that is not near finished, and the Santo Domingo has yet to placate his worry: Verona is but a thick, smothering fog. It hangs around their lungs, their necks. It will end them ━ but when? Bellamy bites down on his lip as he takes on Tomas’ appearance. The lines that weren’t there before, the wounds still tender. How is this fair? He tries to smile, tries to offer a reassurance bigger than life could allow. ━━ Charming me with beverages so soon, are you? Such a Casanova. ━━ Bellamy rolls his eyes, always willing to use a dramatic flair when near Sabello ━ if not for the possible compliments on his acting, then just to see him laugh in response to his absurdities. 

date: may 1st location: an apartment in montague territory closed to: @santodomingos

He picked apart the dessert that sat in front of him. Normally he found himself eating it without a thought, like a machine doing the task it was programmed for, but today was different. He had gotten about halfway through his tiramisu when he just stopped. The dessert laid scattered on his paper plate, a staple of the Gallo way of life, and he waited a beat before pushing the item away from him altogether.

Hazel eyes glanced over at the boy on the couch. How someone could bring him dessert every week without the expectation of thanks or conversation was strange to him. He was used to having to do things himself. He was used to surviving off of the streets, a soft kid forced to rob and beg for scraps of food, and was told that handouts were seen as giving up. Perhaps he accepted the dessert because he appreciated the quiet comfort of Bellamy’s presence. Perhaps he was merely hungry. All the boy knew was that a gift became routine.

A question raced through his mind as he examined the soldier. Memories of brief conversation took hold as he questioned whether or not to break the silence that often cloaked their meetings. He hesitated, but he found himself slipping away from the dining table as if his body had decided on its answer far earlier than his mind. He hovered near the couch, like a shadow tucked away from view, before he finally spoke.

“Tell me about your travels.”

Grief washes over them like the desire to burn a cathedral to the ground ━ with the itching of fingers, tempted to shatter every sacred sculpture  &  tear apart every holy image, and the ice cold chill of one’s spine. It holds an inescapable grip over their bodies, their souls. Bellamy does not hear a word from Santino, but he does not need to ━ sometimes, their eyes find each other, a coincidence, a raindrop falling atop of one’s cheekbone before a storm can erupt. There could be a vast variety of mangled phrases, haphazardly put together amidst the desperation to be seen, to be heard. But they both wear sanctitude near the crown of their heads, and whatever prayer needs to be spoken must find a way out, flickering like the tender flame of a candle. The soldier does not mind the silence that embraces every afternoon he visits, as it repeats itself time and time again ━ Santino eats sometimes, and the room is often warm, and Bellamy brings gifts, although he can not offer a comfort bigger than this. 

You would be quite impressed with what people on the same team can do to one another. Leona’s lips quirk at that, ever so slightly — yes, they’re familiar with the concept of betrayal, the way that a knife from someone you once trusted can sting even worse than one from an enemy ( the image of their father flashes through their mind briefly, before being shoved haphazardly aside, leaving only a lingering taste of bitterness on their tongue ). Their gaze has slipped away from their new companion again, once more trailing over the party, observing the ( now, rather drunken ) interactions of their new colleagues ( not new to Leona, but they supposed, Leona was new to them ). They were of the firm belief that you could tell far more about a person when they were under the influence than could be understood when they were sober. Sober people lied, they hid truths — drunk people didn’t bother to do such things.

Sure, it wasn’t perfect, but it had served Leona well enough thus far — perhaps one day they’d create a truth serum ( the idea had crossed their mind a couple of times, each time dismissed with a laugh and a shake of their head ).

They bring their eyes slowly back to their new companion, looking him up and down once again. They don’t recognise him — leading Leona to conclude they mustn’t be particularly high in the Montague ranks ( Alvise had described many of the key players of the organisation to them when they’d first joined the ranks themselves, insisting that one day the information would be of critical importance — Leona had found it all rather boring, always itching to get back to work on why they’d really been there, though they had to admit, at least some of the information was coming in handy now, though it was all outrageously outdated ), but their interest is piqued nonetheless. 

They chuckle listlessly, “Trust me when I say, I could most certainly do worse, and you wouldn’t even see it coming.” They raise their glass back up to their lips, looking at him over the rim of it. They pause for a moment, letting the silence drag on for perhaps a second too long to be comfortable, “I’m Leona.” They say finally, extending a hand, the newcomer doesn’t look — if pressed to guess, Leona would say no older than twenty-five. Unlikely anything more than a soldier, then ( not everyone could be as successful as Leona at such a young age ), and yet — “You’re not drinking.” They note, the telltale lack of a drink occupying the other’s hands. “And here I was thinking this was a party.” They say, attention momentarily captured by a young man tripping over himself and knocking something over with a crash, “Your peers have certainly gotten the message.”

Their voice rings different, and it soothes Bellamy’s mind. This encounter is a headache settling inside of his skull, throbbing as every shout becomes stronger, as every showcase of bliss becomes more sickening. Leona isn’t lost in this high ━ they keep afloat, unbothered, and the Santo Domingo can relate to this best. They are both quiet, filled with some sort of unknown calmness, and he isn’t sure there are many more Montague’s with such inclinations, especially not when alcohol is available. His lips find an honest curve upwards, for the first time in the night. At least, Leona is straightforward in their threats ━ Bellamy can respect that. ━━ You intrigue me, I admit. Although, I should warn you, it’s quite difficult to get me surprised. I’d like to see you try, however. ━━ his teasing is never heavy-handed, tone muddled with a softness that bubbles like champagne. He is the one that can often count on the element of confusion and disbelief, after all, for very little people seem to dig beyond the surface in the search for an omen. ━━ Bellamy, glad to be at your service. ━━ he responds, clear and polite, his smile a diplomatic act. He takes their hand with habitual delicacy, his grip carrying an aftertaste of iron. Maybe they will pick up on it. Maybe they won’t. It is a game, either way, and Bellamy doesn’t regret an ounce of fun. ━━ I am not, indeed. Should I do a toast in your honor? ━━ the question isn’t venomous in its essence, and the soldier makes a point to stop one waiter in order to serve himself with a glass, clinking it up against theirs. ━━Beviamo alla tua salute.

She is such an ugly, vile thing: an angel born fallen, a woman born angry with vitriolic shards of glass in her heart. Vengeful, clever, but flawed by that still-beating heart that exists in her chest, a heart still yearns for kindness to soothe her, for acceptance to envelope her, for love to bring her peace no matter how certain she is that for her sanity she needs to bury that bleeding, beating heart of hers. So, what does it matter when the one person who could soften her blows lies rotting beneath the ground? What does her life, what does hope matter when the most brutal truth of the world is that the suffering will never end, and survival is the only thing that matters? Katarina’s disillusionment in regards to honour and justice shrieks with agonized discontent through her actions, through her ruin in the most recent years of her life. It’s too much, whispers the heart that’s been ruined by love. Nothing matters, says her mind. And then there is her soul, battered and bruised, stubborn still that unbendingly says: Keep going. Move away from what hurts you, move away from what does not serve you because you do not know how to die. What good are dreams of peace and security, of warmth and light when Verona is steeped in blood— the blood of those she’s loved and trusted, the blood of those she’s lost? She’d promised herself once that she’d work to destroy one as there’s no way to eliminate both mobs, and perhaps a part of her even then knew that an end to this chaos could never be reached. A part of her wishes it had been her instead of Lillian gone from this world. Lillian, at least, had hope and shone bright with her love. Whatever the cause, whatever the matter, she rots within Verona the way the dead do, and with the living she’ll fight no matter how much blood she tastes in her own mouth. There is no deliverance when one is born with so much rage as she. 

He doesn’t flinch at the sight of her gun, nor does he make any attempt to defend himself in the seconds after she’s drawn her weapon or the heartbeats after she’s taken a half-step backwards away from him. For just a moment, her quick assessment of him finds it strange that he does neither. But, when it comes to Montagues, Katarina’s long-since learned to never let her gun out of her hand— especially when she clearly has the advantage. But, does she? There is a reason why she’s considered dependable when it comes to missions: when it comes to maintaining an objective, the blonde will do whatever it takes and prioritise the success of the assignment above all. When it comes to clear cut orders: extract information, find and execute this target, make sure this transaction goes smoothly; there is no hesitation, no other thoughts in her head other than strategising the most efficient way to go about things. Except, recently, when her sentimentality had nearly cost the woman her life. It’s a misstep she will not make again, however, and she is sure of it. There are no rings that adorn her fingers any longer, no golden or silver necklaces that adorn her throat that once served as a tether, a reminder, a symbolic gesture of her own that tied her to the pillars that kept her beliefs alive. No more distractions. “Wh—” She stops from asking her question and glares all the more as he taps at the barrel of her gun. In return, she pushes it more solidly against his sternum before she speaks again. No, she will not put her gun down. She’s no fool. “I could say the same to you,” Katarina retorts icily. But the ice is thin, and no matter how cold the colour of her eyes are that stare back at him, the reality is that exhaustion bleeds from her, warm as the blood that runs through her veins. Yet, that hardly matters.. “But I’m not so tired that I’d lower my weapon to a Montague.” A heartbeat of hesitation. “Even if shooting you now hardly feels like a fair fight.” He didn’t even try. Fight back.

Bellamy smiles, far too peaceful to be human. His lips curl up in a particular way, an endearing sharpness to it, as if he’d been born by the blade, crafted out of steel, out of ice. Death lingers at his chest, slithering up to his neck like a serpent ━ it hisses, but it loves him far too much to bite down, to spread its venom further. Bellamy’s presence could be an apparition, and he knows Katarina considers it ━ she presses the muzzle of her gun against his sternum with a trembling force, as if he could disappear before her eyes at any given  moment. The Santo Domingo does feel unreal, fading in and out of existence as the seconds waste away, as the time drips from a clepsydra, merciless. His eyes do not move away from hers, unearthly and tender. ━━ That won’t provide you any of the peace you seek, will it? ━━ he leans against the wall, his lungs unflinching in the face of danger. You do not scare me, fool ━ the words echo on the inside of his rib cage, and his smile is still there, an eerie reminder of an unshakable ghost. Shoot, shoot and you will see I will remain standing. The months have proven him undeserving of passing ━ there is no good left in Verona, and Bellamy can only ever taste the gates of hell on his tongue. The Earth is where all beasts remain, or so he thinks. What else could he do, if not allow his skin to be clawed out, piece by piece, in the vain effort of embracing every monster? ━━ There is no fairness to be sought. ━━ he points out, voice candid as the sun kisses the crown of his head. He is offering her a reason to pull the trigger: it won’t get any better than this, his body confesses, but it is also a mortifying promise of an autopsy with no defense wounds. ━━ But is this really the best you can do? ━━ is a thought he expresses aloud, mind far too exhausted to filter it down to silence. The desire to be heard thrums along his veins as if it were adrenaline, and Katarina might mutilate his flesh, his life ━ but first, she must listen.

You shouldn’t be here. It’s an interesting choice of words to say to someone who ought to be considered a foe, teetering somewhere between warning and polite reminder. Having full run of the city is a luxury very few can afford, even civilians were cautious about where they ventured, but Lucrezia has always been one to test boundaries. To see how far she can push until something snaps. “I know,” she responds softly, adrenaline pacing through her chest like a restless caged animal who’s tasted freedom. She wonders how many Capulets have been ensnared like this only to be released by Bellamy’s benevolence. Whether he knows that acts of kindness are only valuable to those who think of love as a blessing rather than a strategic tool. A means to an end. “But he wants me to prove myself. Show that I’m unafraid to step foot in Montague territory. I couldn’t say no.” 

The blade glints as he claims it, bright in the shaded cul-de-sac. The very same knife has shed blood from his friends. She hopes he keeps it, a poetic reminder of her. Lucrezia stays still, motionless as she allows the other to orchestrate the situation. He’s careful, the air between them tense. Were she not playing a part, she may have laughed at his manner. Instead, she swallows and lifts her arms slowly. “You can check me for other weapons if you’d like.” A heartbeat passes, attempting to conjure up a semblance of trust. “There’s another switchblade in my pocket. That’s it.” 

When dark eyes meet her own as if seeking something, she holds his gaze. Ensures she is the first to glance away. It’s a slow, delicate dance.

His offer to escort her out is graciously accepted, a silent nod punctuated with hesitation that sits in her mouth as she counts an acceptable number of seconds. Pretends to be cautious in what she says next. “You’ll need to hurt me.” A thin, wavering smile hides the simmering amusement at giving a Montague a free shot when she’s worked so hard to evade them of late. “I can’t go back empty handed and unharmed. He’ll only think I’m lying.” Uncharacteristically, she fidgets with the metal band of her wedding ring and continues to spin her web of deceit. “My husband is not an easy man to please.” The irony in the sentence is not lost on her, this fabrication further from the truth than the sun and moon. Mikael would sooner stomach it himself than send his wife into danger but Lucrezia courted the latter with far more careful precision and adversity than she ever had her spouse. 

Bellamy is trained enough not to believe in first impressions ━ beauty is often a sign of poison, just as warm stares mean no more than the crackling of a raging fire inside one’s guts. Most of his peers are foolish enough to consider the Santo Domingo a liability, and he wouldn’t doubt their inability to see the blood stains already set on the skin of his hands. Lucrezia is all but tender, trembling as she speaks. A fool, or the representation of one? ━ it is the same question he poses against himself, whenever he encounters a mirror. Bellamy cannot fault her, for her lies, if they do exist, are no more evil than the ones he spills to all that cross his path. ━━ You seem very afraid, however. ━━ he lifts one eyebrow up, his face devoid of any other emotion. Neutrality is just another facade Bellamy is quite used to ━ slip out of his feelings as if they were rags, rise above them like a ghost. Your eyes still shine, they used to say, and it often meant heavier punishment was to ensue. He hopes Lucrezia can’t see it.

It is strange ━ a Capulet with no plan, no escape routes. Were you counting on a saving grace?, he wants to ask, but opts to look at her, head to toe, as if his irises could shed her skin, piece by piece. There are no noises around them, no hurried steps indicating an attack, no screams to be heard as the birds keep on chirping. Bellamy steps closer, hands dragging through her clothes with care ━ Lucrezia’s every move is registered in the back of his head, every single breath a sign Bellamy keeps himself aware of. He takes the switchblade and, as she said, no more weapons are to be found. The soldier almost wished she was lying. It was far easier to handle the crooked youths that crossed their borders, who’d succumb after one display of brute strength. Lucrezia shows fear. There is nothing quite as unsettling as being on the receiving end of pleading eyes, to hold the distinction of life and death on his hands. He hates it.

Boris doesn’t know much about Bellamy. The man skirts his way around the reality of his work by masquerading as a hired bodyguard, in the way he is now for Boris. He has the eerie glaze of a sorrowful expression, which Boris absolutely will not be reading into, and he’s well-built enough to be intimidating in situations that require small rooms and men with guns. He’s sure he’s qualified, and that’s good enough for Boris. Bellamy asks questions as soon as they get in the car, but Boris waits until they finish the quick drive. The building they find themselves standing outside of is a few stories high, men and women floating in and out, looking at their phones or fumbling with their wallets or smoothing down their clothing to look professional.

None of them pay Boris any mind as he starts the climb to the stairs to the gilded entrance, but when Boris reaches for the door handle, he pauses. Turns. Gives Bellamy a full once over, and draws his hand back. “You should know that Julian Roberts is a man with proclivities towards anger and violence if things don’t go his way, and we are about to give him the unfortunate news that we’re no longer interested in working with his field in America. Your job is to make sure that he doesn’t try to murder us for playing the sorry role of messengers.” A pause. “Please.” He opens the door and holds it open for Bellamy to follow.

Roberts is on the fifth floor in conference room 4A, and Boris gives the secretaries at the front desk a nod as they enter. They make no move to stop them, because they are on Montague payroll. As they ride their way up in the elevator, he checks the time – fashionably late, as intended, which to Rogers will probably mean intolerably late. Fantastic. Boris cannot wait to see the man blow his fuse. The floor is entirely silent when they step off, save for enraged shouting coming from the end of the hall in English. The door opens, the shouting gets louder, and a man stumbles out looking flustered as he scuttles away towards Boris and Bellamy.

He doesn’t stop to greet them, just guns it for the elevator and presses the button to go down with the fervor of a creature possessed by terror. Something turns in Boris’ stomach. He looks back at Bellamy. “Ready?”

He is no warrior, but at least he has nerves made out of steel. The quiet ride to their destination requires no self-soothing, and Bellamy takes the opportunity to load his gun and position his throwing knives in a more accessible location ━ Boris isn’t at ease, that he is sure of, and, when meddling with these unstable creatures that inhabit every crime syndicate around the world, it is always best to be safe than sorry, as sorry would often mean dead. The building the meeting will take place is bustling with people, and Bellamy can only hope this Roberts gentleman hasn’t brought an army with him. To fool impulsive individuals into their own downfall isn’t troublesome, by principle, but when such people team together like a pack of reckless wolves... It can only be described as a hell-raising. Bellamy would know, considering the Montagues fit into this mold themselves quite well. Boris’ voice shakes him away from such thoughts, but his words do nothing to change them. In truth, Bellamy almost wants to let out a sardonic laugh at the irony of it all ━ a proclivity towards violence. Very original. Not like half the people they know in Verona at all. He can’t promise their safety, but he does nod, a thousand possibilities running through him as he enters the building. His gun starts weighing heavily, and each heartbeat feels like the ticking of a time bomb. 

Alva makes a show of looking over the obstacle the table presents to assess the full damage of Bellamy’s attire– discordant with his current surroundings –and leans back in their seat to then make a show of considering what would look best on Bellamy. Observing the planes and curves of his current clothing, Alva judges there is a fantastic physique beneath– sadly hidden. There’s no shortage of length of limb. No one here is bothered by hair, and if they are, they keep quiet. This all leads Alva to their final conclusion.

“A sheer black croptop, fitted. A pair of denim shorts, that extend no further than your thighs, and in a color you’re comfortable with, we can’t expose you to too much ogling.”

They grin. They’re quite sure that Bellamy is used to all sorts of attention. If not for his name and position, than for his looks. Even in the conservative dress, its obvious there is something to look at. They wonder if Bellamy has the sheer magnetism and confidence to pull off an ensemble fit for Sognare. Many pretty people are only pretty when they’re confident, when the level of exposure of their skin means as little to them as the opinions of others. Then again, many pretty people are even prettier when discomfited.

“But, if you’re adventurous, I’d suggest white short shorts. It would look great in the lights, and if you wore accessories that glowed in UV light, that would look even better… but it’s a shame you don’t skate.” An occupational hazard, perhaps. One’s bodyguard doesn’t need to be out for a broken ankle from a skating incident. Get good, is what Alva would think, after the concern, of course.

A server nearly glides past, but Alva stops her to order water and a milkshake– Bellamy’s choice in refreshment affecting their desires –monkey see monkey do, as they say. Order placed, Alva returns their focus to Bellamy, eating his ice cream and apparently enjoying the upbeat nature of Sognare and its denizens.

“Well, when one has fun, it’s usually in spite of one’s day. You know, a relaxing reprieve from the mundane… so I suppose you’re in the right place.” I could be your guide, their tone suggests, but that’s a little forward, even for them. “Sometimes trying new things, sometimes being in a place where few, if any, people know you.” All these conditions apply to Sognare. The lighting is low enough, and the music loud enough to engender a desire to dance, to skate, and to mingle with strangers.

“Too bad you weren’t here a few days ago. I sang a set of Donna Summer hits. She’s one of my favorites.” They wiggle their fingers down at the table, presumably under which Bellamy’s feet are. “Are you looking to learn? To skate, that is.”

Bellamy can’t help but laugh at Alva’s assessment. —— A crop top? —— he asks, a pleasant mix of surprise  &  bewilderment at the thought. It’s not like he hasn’t considered it, once or twice — he is somewhat interested in fashion, and androgynous pieces pique his interest. He has never gotten close to buying one for a particular reason, however: the somewhat hilarious but terrifying image of his father’s frowning face. He has done one or two questionable things in the absence of the judgement from Lo Sciacallo di Verona (perhaps there is one buried photography of himself in revealing clothes, and that shall remain a wild memory from Spain), but freedom has returned to its state of unattainability under his family’s reigns. —— Not too much ogling. Just the right amount, then? —— he teases, an eyebrow quirked up. —— Maybe I should let you be my guest in a shopping spree. I’m quite interested in how much of my reputation you can ruin by turning me into a... sensual fashion icon. —— there is a soft snicker leaving his lips as he speaks, unable to contain the humorous wave that rides his lungs. It would be the topic of discussion of the Santo Domingo’s during Sunday’s lunch, Bellamy is sure of it, and he can even picture the scandalized faces of each and every single one of his relatives in intrinsic detail. It would be funnier, if he didn’t know it would lead to an awful discussion about what makes one manly or not. —— You seem quite confident I have some gorgeous thighs to show off, my dear. —— he can’t help but comment, his smile growing flirtatious. He hadn’t had fun ever since his return, in any shape or form. Can he be blamed for blowing off some steam while he can?