E D M U N D

date: september 13 time: 10 p.m. location: cathedral status: closed to @regicidios and @sonoilbastardo

OUTGOING MESSAGE to MIKEAL and EASTON: Would the two of you lovely men like to accompany me to mass this Sunday?

Her soldiers knew the meaning of the question by now: meet me at the cathedral tonight.

Usually, they met at 10 p.m. – and usually, Halcyon could be found in the cathedral an hour early, painstakingly running over every decision and detail. Trust had once been a pure, simple thing. But Mikael and Easton loved to remind her that trust was a bomb in her hands, an explosive tied and locked against her chest.

They could ruin the simplest of plans, and the one Halcyon would give them tonight was more than just simple – it required full faith in her soldiers, which was the biggest risk she’d taken as captain yet. If you want something done right, you must do it yourself. But even Halcyon was not arrogant to think she could dismantle a throne on her own.

With her eyes closed and her hands clasped tightly in her lap (a sign of stress that most mistook for mere restraint), Halcyon was the perfect image of an angel in prayer. Beautiful and devout, but not to the Lord. To the Capulets. To Cosimo. To the pedestal she’d built for herself and would not abandon – not even for the damned wild cards she’d been assigned as her soldiers.

UNSENT MESSAGE TO EASTON CRAVEN AND HALCYON SANTOS: yo im muslim.

Mikael hadn’t been particularly religious. His Punjabi mother was Sikh, but stopped practicing. He supposed his father might have been a Muslim at one point, but the man never really talked about it, because it was nevertheless apparent that the god both Mikael’s parents so fervently devoted their souls to was money. It was a creed that they’d passed on to him, but — like a sizable population of today’s Christians — Mikael only exercised his inherited faith halfheartedly, diligently but soullessly praying stock market novenas and speed-reading the gospel of Business Insider while a quiet seed of doubt in his head said I don’t really think this is going to save you. 

And if Catholicism was a denomination of Christianity, Capulet-ism was a denomination of Money-ity. Same god, far more specific practices. Ironically, the Capulets seemed to very much like Catholic God, yet Capulet sacraments urged every believer to make Him very, very unhappy. Baptism demanded blood, Confirmation demanded bodies, and there might have been no such thing as reconciliation. ( Matrimony, however, was still pretty much the same: the damning of two newly unified souls into eternal dissatisfaction. )

Some foreboding aura loomed over him as he walked into the cathedral in search of his captain. He never liked being here. Had circumstances been different, Mikael could have lived his life the same way for the past decade and a half: quote-unquote celebrating the violent Capulet Eucharist week after week while also defaulting to the words eh, I think I’m agnostic, when asked about his faith. But things were different now. The death of Alvise Vernon hung over like a bad omen, saying: Armageddon’s coming. Repent, you piece of shit.

So yeah, maybe he should have been Sikh.

When he found Halcyon — hands clasped together in a prayerlike sort of pose — he leaned against the wall closest to her and raised a hand right above his brow in a casual mock salute, just like he’d usually done. “Ciao.” Arms crossed, one over the other. “Is Craven Junior here yet?” 

There was, of course, a reason why Easton Craven is considered a wildcard. More often than not, he exercised complete disregard for what he called “silly rules” that all the rest of them had to abide by. And he certainly has a reputation of recklessness that precedes him — what with everyone treating him as if he was a ticking time bomb that’s ready to explode at any given minute. 

They can’t always be sure what methods he’d use, and they can’t always predict what actions he would take, but they could depend on Edmund to always get the job done. And lately, what with the Sundays he’d spent in the confessionals with none other than Celeste Duval, they have been one step ahead of the sad, sorry Montagues. Amazing what a few whispered words could do: whispered names and locations and deals. The gods have finally been seeing the light, and have begun to stand up for il bastardo di Verona. The gods, or the Fates, or the fucking universe have all been smiling down on him, and he makes sure to take advantage of every single opportunity he’s being presented with. 

I have the gods on my side, he silently declares.  

MESSAGE FROM CAPITANA:  Would the two of you lovely men like to accompany me to mass this Sunday?

[UNSENT] MESSAGE TO CAPITANA: I don’t want to [UNSENT] MESSAGE TO CAPITANA: Mass can suck my ass

MESSAGE TO CAPITANA: Okay

Some things just never change. And so he strolls into the cathedral 10 minutes late, dragging his feet along the marble floors of the cathedral, eyes trained on the two figures ahead of him. Halcyon had only recently confronted him about Celeste, and Easton is not exactly happy to see her. And then there’s Mikael. Dear god, that man is a fucking bummer, he mused, staring at Macbeth as he leaned against a wall. Why can’t the man be more like his younger self? Easton blames Lucrezia for turning the once fun Mikael that Easton knew and enjoyed, into... this. 

He finally reaches the pair and he pulls his hands our from his pockets, opens his arms wide and says, “Capitana,” he addresses Halcyon, “So, who are we killin’?” He asks, expectant, carelessly seating himself next to their captain, one arm resting along the uncomfortable church seat’s backrest. As he waits for an answer, he turns his head to Mikael and nods his head as a greeting. Casually, he adds, “Macbeth. You look dead inside, as usual. Nice to see out of your coffin.” 

He turns back again to Halcyon, and adds another question: “Is this a new mission? Smells like one,” he says, internally rubbing his hands together.  

There truly is no rest for the wicked. 

When he hit her, the world fell on its side. 

She saw stars, constellations, gods — the earth cascading down a sheet of black ice too dark to discern if it had an end. Her eyes are closed when she hears voices in the darkness. They are mocking her. They say she is not worth it, that no one will come for her, that nobody cares if she falls off the axis of the world. They have no love for her, that she knows. It makes her painfully ready to let go and drift away like smoke but a familiar voice echoes in the void, bouncing off nothingness and yet, it becomes everything in that singular moment.

Her left temple throbs with pain and her body is ready to convulse, bones ready to decay but she holds on to that impossible pealing of bells in the vacuum of space. “Hally?” her throat is sore from being nearly choked to death but she manages to rasp the name which has for too long become something foreign, something other. “Hal…” this time more certain than before with a glimpse of Halcyon through the cracks of her blurred vision.

Celeste tries to move but her arms but they are too weak to fight against the net of thick fabric around her whole body. At first she thinks it was Halcyon trying to keep her warm but another figure enters her line of sight. “You.” The one syllable is laced with venom ( and fear ) and all that Celeste can think about is ending Easton right there and then. But she’s no fool. Two against one? She’d just be knocked over the head again. That thought pulls her gaze back to Halcyon. Even though still unfocused, trust that she could pick out the woman anywhere. 

Mon ami. Mon ennemi. She tries to hold back the burning in her eyes, but nevertheless the traitorous silver forms and threatens to brim as she asks her friend one question she knew would be answered with nothing more than lies. “Why are you doing this?”

( @halcyon-santos​ )

Men are easy; she’s known this since the beginning. A man’s worst enemy is only himself, and so Halcyon has let them look upon her with hunger and lust her whole life – as if she is some rare delicacy, served on a crystal patter in lace and silk. And so Halcyon let them hate her, for all that she is and for all that they will never be: worthy of pride, entitled to the entire world and the hearts in it. Men are easy, and angry men are easier still. Easton, with his edges blackened and burnt from age-old rage, will surely destroy himself. She has no doubt.

Her mistake is only that she forgot to consider the people he would take down with him.

Her wings unfold, and her talons sharpen to rip into his chest and leave a scar to remember her by, but when Celeste speaks, Halcyon turns to ashes once more. Let Easton see her naked and bare: let him see that a Capulet can be recognized by heart, as overflowing as it is vicious. “You,” she responds, eyes soft and voice empty.

For once, words fail her. There is no song to rebuild trust; there is no melody to cross the chasms between them. There is no single sentence that can bring Capulet and Montague together again.

When she addresses Easton (pretending she isn’t avoiding Celeste, pretend she is captain before she is friend, Capulet before human), she speaks without the venom that bubbled on her tongue moments earlier. No, when she speaks, she is all hard stone and gravel. “You are a fool to act so rashly. If we make anything good of this, know that it is not because of you but because of me. Because of Cosimo and Vivianne and the rest of us who are cleverer and stronger and better than you.”

“You will be responsible if this fails,” Halcyon reminds him. Even as she speaks, she is warming up to him and his impulsive mistake – for it is a mistake. The night began with diplomacy and ended in flames, literal and now metaphorical… but Halcyon is already beginning to run her hands over the ashes in search of diamonds.

A deep breath – and as she lets the breath out, she invites mercy in.

“And if it succeeds, I will help you climb the ranks.”

Feeling kind, feeling brave, Halcyon turns to Celeste and puts a hand to her cheek with all of her old tenderness, from when they were girls and thought love was the only answer. We were fools. “Mia ennemi,” she whispers, “I do this because I have to – and even then, I would have done it anyways.”

Her hand drops for a second before it rises again to strike Celeste across the cheek. Let her blows say what Halcyon cannot: you are nothing to me. “And you will never question me again.”

Hally, the Montague stray calls to his captain in her groggy state, beckoning. Hal, she calls again, and Easton immediately narrows his eyes, gaze flitting from one woman to the other. He finally focuses his attention on his captain alone, and tilts his head questioningly. “Ah, your dear old friend is calling out to you. Does she think you would help her, capitana?” Easton smirks again, like he often does, and spares the sad lump of human that is Celeste Duval, splayed carelessly on the floor, a small glance. “Of course you won’t, right? You must be thinking I shouldn’t be questioning you. Of course you know that you’re a Capulet first before anything else..” and his eyes glint with malice again, barely trying to conceal what he was trying to imply. 

Easton finishes yet another cigarette, and pulls out another stick. He was not smoking because he was stressed out, no. These were celebratory sticks. Which meant he would have as many as he liked ( though he’s always really had as many as he wanted on normal days, anyway, he’s just telling himself these were special ). He watches Halcyon berate him, and frankly, it bores him. She prattles on about how all of them are better and stronger and some other bullshit, but the fact of the matter was, and as he’d tell her, “In the end, it’s still my idea,” though it really was just spur of the moment, “...and my execution.” Easton thought not having killed Celeste was his the biggest accomplishment of the night. “But go off, I guess. Hierarchy dictates I have to listen to you.” Though honestly, he rarely does.

“Sure, I’ll be responsible,” he promises, words coming from the loose tongue of a liar. He was fully set on throwing Halcyon under the bus as soon as it all goes south, but her next few words make him listen, attentively, steers all of his focus on his captain alone. I will help you climb the ranks. Easton then, thinks-- perhaps he ought to be kinder to her, be a better soldier. Perhaps. 

Another drag, as Easton contemplates. Another drag as he watches Halcyon whisper words to her old friend, and then strike Celeste square on the face. A bark of laughter bubbles up from his chest, ringing viciously in the secluded space. “Fuck, that was amazing.” He turns to Celeste, and says, “Dio mio, Madame Duval, your old friend just fucking bitch-slapped you! How does it feel, huh?” Easton was practically glowing with malevolent happiness, his usual smirk in place. What a wonderful, wonderful night. 

Juliana: [lying on her back staring up at the ceiling, her phone lies face up a few feet away from her, the ringing playing through the speakers. papers crinkle every time she moves, the reporter's file under her right heel and another on a couple of the capulet's lower rank soldiers mushed under her left shoulder]

Juliana: C'mon, East... pick up. Pick up, pick up, pick up.

Easton: [a book propped open using one hand, the other holding a half-finished cigarette, ashes falling into the floor of the rectory. his phone rings and he closes his book with a snap, sees it's juliana, taking his time to answer]

september 7th / 1:00am easton’s residence @sonoilbastardo

it could almost be his own home here, what with how comfortable he makes himself on the other’s couch, flipping through the channels on the television and lounging lazily across the pillows, limbs splayed and eyes still fixed to the screen even as the door opens.

“drinks in the fridge. got you your favourite - didn’t even start drinking it without you, imagine that. you proud yet?” eyes flicker lazily towards his friend, though the sharpness in them betrays the careful nonchalance he’s laid himself in. he shuffles to sit up slightly, just enough so to see the figure of his friend clearer as he comes closer.

he doesn’t miss the drag of feet, how heads hang and the slump of shoulders - ask him if he cares of the kidnappings, or the fire, of anything - and boy will deny it, will merely shrug at the question, half-grinning. still knows what it means to others, still doesn’t find it in him to care, to make it matter.

still doesn’t, he tells himself. this is different. not an exception, no - just a constant.

“c’mere, grab a drink and sit down. if you aren’t gonna talk about it, then we’ll take a shot for every repressed issue we’ve got ‘till we can’t remember them anymore.”

At this point, Easton’s not even surprised to find Pav just lounging around at his couch at fucking 1 am. Honestly, he wouldn’t even mind if Pavel just packed up his shit and decided to just... move in with him. In fact, he’d even celebrate that. Living with his oldest, and best friend sounds like a spectacular idea. The thought of it -- imagining all the havoc they could wreak together, and then coming home to watch some mundane shit on the TV and grabbing a beer, made Easton smile despite the exhaustion he felt.

He shrugs off his jacket and headed straight for the fridge to get the drinks, and was surprised to find them actually there. “Oh shit, Pav, you did get them,” he calls out across the room. “You’re just full of surprises, man.” He pulls out the drinks and heads back to the living room. He stood over Pavel and handed him the cold glass bottle. “I am truly proud of you for holding out this long.” 

Easton slumped on the couch, in the spot next to him, his eyes glued to the screen, though he doesn’t really see anything. He could barely register the faces in whatever the hell it was that Pavel was watching, let alone understand what was going on in it. “Hey, what the fuck are you watching? Is this some reality show shit?” Easton was frowning, head turned to face his friend. And though he wasn’t saying it, at this moment, he was just grateful to have Pav around, because he always knew what to say, always knew when to badger him with questions about shitty things that happen in his life, and always knew when it was best not to ask. 

“A shot for every repressed issue we’ve got? Man, I hope you’re ready to take me to the hospital for alcohol poisoning.” 

  “On my way.” He was already moving like an estranged pied piper through the streets. No one dared follow him — he led only himself on a march to whatever casualty await him in the cathedral. The particular evening had changed, but it was a familiar story all the same. His legs were accustomed to carrying him toward his brother’s mess. They no longer tensed in anticipation, knowing there would be strife ahead. They simply performed their duty. Point A, meet Point B. He was firm and preemptively scolding, “Restare fermo.”

  It was the absence of chagrin from Easton’s tone that had alarm bells tolling in his head. The exhilaration in his voice was unsettling, as if Everett had just seen a mortician smile or heard a mime ordering un caffè. It indicated a success for Easton — which often meant a loss for himself. A precarious test of his patience and sanity. He could run a thousand scenarios in his mind, wading through potential fates, but they rarely compared to the real thing. After all these years, his mind could not mimic the process of his brother’s, even if only to prepare himself.

  He was met just before reaching his destination. Standing there, facing Easton, it was almost as if they played their roles too well. He could sense the vibrations that had coursed through his brother when they spoke on the phone — but now, seeing him, Everett felt his own anticipation amplified. Through his exhaustion, it was like being doused with cold water. There was no rest around the wicked.

  The division between them was clear, but he saw the possibility. In another lifetime, he approaches his brother, they feel open comfort from the aliveness of the other. You’re safe, he would breathe out with such relief. And finally, the two brothers would embrace with the satisfying knowledge that they would be able to do it again. He wanted that moment, all of the moments born of the same connection, more than he would ever admit. And perhaps he would do such a thing in this lifetime — if he didn’t know intrinsically that his touch would only be met with vehement resistance.

  And so the story continued. As it always did.

  “What are you doing?” He scrutinized his brother’s position blocking the doorway. It felt like a cosmic joke, that he would nearly escape fire just to go running right into another — metaphorical, but a fire nonetheless. The realities of the never ending evening stirred something within and he felt his insides suddenly flare with unbridled frustration. “People got hurt,” I got hurt, “and you thought it was the right time to go shopping? What could possibly seem more important to you than people’s lives?”

  “lo giuro—“ A sharp pain in his arm reminded him to contain. He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment before straightening, eyes meeting his personal foil. “Just show me.”

“What are you doing?” 

Once again, Easton is confronted by another of Verona’s saints. Everett Craven  — Saint Edgar, a part of their dirty, dirty world of crime, and yet had the gall to act all high and mighty and so above all of it. You think choosing to use your brains instead of getting blood in those ivory hands absolves you? A scoff escapes his mouth as he watches his brother march towards him, this thought running through his mind when he sees his brother’s righteous (and, as always, restrained) anger, the frustration so clear in the older man’s face.

You have caused these people’s deaths as much as the rest of us.

You don’t get to act like you’re better. 

This was what Easton has always told himself any time his brother scolds him, anytime his brother thinks he could restrain the fire that raged inside of him, to get him to do what he thinks is right. For the family, for our name. Fuck their name. And fuck their family.

Easton did not answer his brother’s questions. Naturally. “Aww, here he is, Everett the Benevolent, caring so much about other people’s lives. What a fucking good person!” He openly mocked his own brother, finding some sort of entertainment from it, a sense of satisfaction coming from this playful cruelty. “Did you also want to know if I’m okay? I bet you did, and it’s why you called, no?” He tilts his head, grinning, pushing his hands deep in his pockets, refusing to check on his own brother’s health, though from where he was standing, he could already see he was injured. 

“As you can see, I’m unscathed.” He pushes himself off the door that he was leaning on, and turned to open the door. “Because I care more about myself than other people’s lives,” he spoke the last phrase in a mocking voice, rolling his eyes, and making a ridiculous face. “So instead of worrying about all that nonsense, I got myself this...” and Easton opened the door wider, revealing a still unconscious Celeste, bound and motionless. He stepped to the side and gestured, even posing, like a showman, a huge grin on his face. “I picked up a stray Montague!” And because he could not contain his happiness, he began laughing, loud -- echoing throughout the walls and the corridors beyond the door. 

“It’s so fucking fun,” he marvels. “You should do more fun things, Everett. You’ve always got something stuck up your ass. It’s not even something kinky like... a butt plug.” Easton started to walk around the room, hands in his pockets, throwing his feet around carelessly. “Ooh, look at that. Maybe I’m finally gonna give you a gift for your birthday.” He finally faces his elder brother again, tilting his head. “When is it again?” 

It begins with a mere whisper in her ear, a promise of temptation and a release from the strings that had tied her to a man who no longer wanted her. Who had already let her go. Who could no longer handle her. At twenty-one years old, Grace attaches herself to Easton Craven like a shadow in the afternoon, never more than a few feet behind him if she can help it. She turns her crush on him over in her mind until it begins to gain momentum, morphing into something more like obsession, one that starts to fester like an open wound. By the age of twenty-six, it is impossible to say whether it is Easton himself that she longs for or, alternatively, that she simply adores the fact that she is indulged and entertained by someone.

He looks out of place in the back of the ambulance; her two worlds, both similarly dripping in blood and death, blurring together. “A kiss?” she echoes with a laugh, low and throaty, moving to stand before him. Grace drags her tongue over her bottom lip, bracing herself with a hand on each of his thighs, far too close to him for her own good. Her thumbs press into his trouser seams and she wants him, hungrily, primally, but she likes to savour this. Always enjoys toying with a pretty thing. “Whoever told you that was certainly not a medical professional.”

The unexpected change in his voice turns the atmosphere to something dreadful and delicious, Grace’s spine curving in response as Easton’s breath licks against her skin. “You mean it wasn’t to see your favourite Montague?” she half-whines, her mouth catching into a sharp smirk at the name of her once-rivals. Without warning, she takes hold of his jaw and examines him carefully. Methodically. Did he miss her? Did he question why she left? Did he think about her as she did him; a hand between her legs beneath twisted bedsheets. Had she ever been capable of rational thought, she may have realised by now that the answer to her questions was likely no.

Grace releases her grip and pushes his face away with a short shove, but her interest in him does not waver. “Yes,” she responds, keen to hear more. “But I hope for your sake that whatever you’re about to tell me is going to please me, otherwise–” a shrug dances across her shoulders, her mock innocence as fake as her loyalty to the Capulets had been. “I can’t be held responsible for what happens when I get bored. You know that.”

“You know what? I bet she wasn’t. I knew the neckline of her nurse uniform was way too low,” he jokes again, the image of the typical slutty nurse outfit worn by a voluptuous, dark-haired, faceless woman filling his mind until he is jarred back into reality by the touch of her thumbs. Easton mimics her low laughter, eyes flitting down for a second at the hands that took purchase in his thighs, eyebrows raising automatically. They’ve been playing this game with Grace for as long as he could remember, and he didn’t think he’d ever get tired of it. “Plus the fishnet stockings were dead giveaway,” he added, “...but I told her I had bruises on my dick and I wasn’t about to question their treatment choices.”

Easton felt the shift in her posture, the anticipation. He tilts his head a little and fakes a pout, “Aww, don’t be mad, baby, I still think it’s a happy coincidence to bump into you.” And for once, he was not lying, or exaggerating.”Always great to see my favorite little traitor,” he says, fingers brushing briefly, almost fondly, against her jawline. “But this time it feels like the stars aligned or some shit like that, to make this happen.” If anyone could give him the supplies he wanted, it would be Grace. It was truly the greatest fucking coincidence. 

Grace took hold of his jaw, and he felt her fingers digging into his flesh, and not for the first time, he wondered what it would be like to push her down, shove her face into the floor, and hold her down just to see how much she would fight back. Easton gulps and takes in a sharp breath, shaking off the usual lazy fantasy he has about fucking Grace Daly. 

Instead of letting his mind venture far away yet again, stared directly into her eyes, hyper-aware of how close they were that they were practically breathing the same air. “Well you see, honey, I brought something home from that afterparty,” his tongue wrapped around the word, releasing it with relish. In his mind he called the chaos and the burning of the dome the ‘afterparty’, because it was where the actual fun started. “And my new golden toy needs some sedatives, to calm it down. It’s a very feisty toy.” He shakes his head as he tells his story, as if reciting a children’s book, voice feigning plesantry. “I was hoping you could help me get that, Gracey. Could you?”

Has he become so pathetic? His wings so tattered and torn they’re deemed useless, broken things incapable of their only purpose? And like a bird with broken wings, has he really resorted to this mess of hobbling? Is he such a feeble thing now, tied to the ground when he belongs to the sky?

Of course not. He isn’t broken. Not yet. And thinking he is, well that’s far too dangerous a thing to consider. 

He still has scars on his skin, jagged marks collected only at the base of his spine, reminding him the blank canvas of his skin can be filled. Those marks can travel, up and up until the width of his back is covered with more flaw than flesh. He can’t deem himself fragile, can’t dare suffer the consequences of such thoughts. He has bones that have not cracked, veins that have not burst. 

He will carry on. But he will not fly in this cage. 

What he will do is seek something to dull this pain. He finds it in the burning amber that fills his glass. Not in the first, but the third. That burn fades into a smoky warmth, the glow of heat emanating from a bonfire. And when it’s enough to satiate him, to pull at his limbs like their elastic things, he allows himself a glass of wine. It clings to his mouth, swirls in his stomach. No, in his chest. No, in his legs. 

It’s not quite that he doesn’t know where the drink settles inside of him. The trouble is how it expands, like an ever-growing universe. It isn’t long before he’s filled with stars. And those stars become constellations. And he is lost in himself. 

Bellamy doesn’t notice the knocked over glass until it’s thoroughly soaked the knee of his pants, staining the fabric like it has his tongue. His eyes fall back into orbit, pulled by gravity as he steadies them in their sockets. And then he raises them up to meet his company, cracks a lazy smile as a whisper of laughter pours from his lips.

“Not to worry,” he assures, raising a hand as if to stop the momentum of the catastrophe lying in the other man’s wake. “It’s the cheap shit, anyway.” He sits back, hands resting on his thighs as a glimmer of mischief sets in his gaze. “Though if you’re offering to pay for another, maybe I shouldn’t have told you that.”

Immediately catching that glimmer in the other man’s eyes (because how could Easton ever miss any sign of mischief?), he lets out an amused scoff, and takes back his seat. Perhaps it was not time to leave yet. Settling back into his earlier spot, he twisted his body to face the man, elbow propped up on the counter, jaw resting on knuckles. Attention solely focused on him, and him alone. 

The man looked incredibly drunk. He must be, because the entire time Easton had been flirting with the bartender, he had been quietly intoxicating himself, drowning in the amber and the deep red -- something Easton noted in his periphery. He would be lying if he said he had not been trying to catch a glimpse of the man, and noting that he is, indeed handsome - with thick eyebrow and, doe eyes and with waves of dark hair that looked so soft, Easton wondered what it would be like to pull on them. This time, he did not have to sneak glances. He stared, unabashedly, regarded the man with freedom, eyes roaming. They stopped by the man’s face, and he is reminded of an angel with broken wings, hurt and injured and unable to fly. It was truly a sad sight -- seeing a creature pure and divine looking so downtrodden.  And yet he managed to crack that small smile, managed to let out weak laughter. Easton had to admire some people’s resilience. 

“You shouldn’t have. But lucky for you, I’m generous,” he told the man, smiling, his vision hazy and blurred, tongue even more loose than usual, which for Easton Craven, was saying a lot. “And I’m so benevolent,” Easton continues, “I’m willing to pay for something more expensive.” 

Easton’s eyes move to the stain in the man’s pants, pulls some napkins and pats at the soaked spots. He knew it could hardly help, but it was an excuse to touch him, so naturally, Easton did it. “Tsk.” Easton shook his head, though there was the ghost of a smirk on his mouth. “Besides, I ruined your pants,” Not really, I want to ruin them a different way, “So you really have to let me buy you something.” He stops patting the wet stains, but his hand lingers just a few seconds longer. 

“Pick anything. I don’t mind. I’m a top shelf guy, anyway.” 

The crack in his voice causes her heart to tear in two; a soft gasp escapes her lips in response–in shock and in pain. Catherine tightens her hold on him without a thought and buries her face into the crook of his neck, lips pressing fervently against his pulse again and again and again as if her kisses would be enough to crack the stone cage of his chest and tend to the battered and bloodied heart inside. “Il mio tesoro,” she breathes against his skin, “you are the most deserving of love, more so than anyone I’ve met.” More so than her sisters, more so than Maeve and Edgar, more so than Juliana or Roman. Easton Craven, the little bastard boy, has been told countless times that his is a ruin, a mistake; he’s had no choice but to believe the words forced into his ears and down his throat. “Who has told you that you’re underserving, that you’re defective? They lied. They lied.” Catherine yearns to change his perspective towards himself, even if only for just this stolen moment of theirs together. “Just because you think you’re incapable doesn’t mean that you truly are.”

Were she a brave enough woman, she would tell him that she could see herself loving him with time–if he’d let her, if they’d be lucky enough to take that chance. Were she a brave enough woman, she would ask him to open his heart, to let her try to bring it back to life. As the youngest of three, she’s never known anything but how to fiercely love those who have earned a special place in her heart; creating space for Easton Craven wouldn’t be difficult in the slightest of ways. But, in this moment, the blonde is vulnerable and so is he–far too vulnerable for such power proclamations. She settles for something milder, safer, “Everyone has their own unique experiences. Love manifests itself differently depending on the person, it feels differently depending on the person, but there’s one thing I know: you’ll know how to return love in your own way when you find someone who makes you weak, who you can let your guard down and be honest with… Someone who you can just be with.” The ferver in her words is unmissable; there’s nothing she wants more than for the man to realize that he is capable.

Silence descends upon the pair. Here, with Easton’s arm wrapped around her bare hip to keep her close to him, she feels safe and whole–a sharp and startling contrast to what he claims he forces others to feel about him. Catherine focuses on the beating of his heart beneath her skin and the rise and fall of his chest. I am here, they say, I am alive. I am strong. She finally finds the right words to break the sorrowful silence between them: “‘I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul.’” She’s become quite familiar with the words etched against his ribcage in their night together. “You believe that, don’t you, caro? You are strong and more than capable, even though you doubt yourself in the judgement of others–of Everett.” Catherine’s voice softens around her captain’s name; she’s afraid that if she says it too loudly, the beast that is jealousy will rear its ugly head in the safe haven she shares with Easton. 

“You’re the master of your fate and the captain of your soul. You are more than enough… Don’t let the likes of him convince you otherwise.”

The darkness of the room wraps around him, and as if that was not enough, he lets it swallow him whole, closing his eyes: as if losing his sense of sight for a moment would help intensify what his other senses perceived – so he could just listen to her breathing, could feel every single kiss she pressed upon his veins – magnified tenfold. He wanted to savour it all, because some part of his brain knew that after this night was over, this conversation, the gentle caress and the softness of their whispers could be likened to a dream: something that felt very real but they would both, without words, decide did not happen. He is likely never going to let her forget that they slept together, but Easton would never again mention any of the things he would confess to her this night, and would pretend he has never said any of it at all. 

Right now, he will savor all of it. Right now, he is carefree. How could he not be? When he could feel the warmth of her body next to his? The tenderness of her touch? How could he not succumb when she calls him her treasure? 

She tells him he deserves love more than anyone. She tells him anyone who said otherwise had lied. She tells him he is capable. And he desperately wanted to believe her. 

But he can’t, and he doesn’t. She tells him all of these things, and has no answer to them, except for the slow and gentle brushing of his fingers through her hair when he pushes them aside, and pulls her face up to plant a kiss on her forehead. It was all he could give her, his way of saying he heard, and he might consider. He does not interrupt her, fingers rubbing slow circles in her skin and listening to the sound of her voice. The saint of Verona and her beautiful litany, telling him everything about love and what it could be, and what he could be when he has it. It was evident how much she wanted to change his mind, the saint who wants to save the damned. 

“I know you’re trying to change my mind, cara mio, but you won’t be able to. No one would be able to save me. No one can. I’ve been chosen for the damned,” he tells her, voice just as gentle as hers. Low and pained, but resigned, as if he had accepted this fate long ago. Because he has. “What you say might be true for others, but there are people like me. We can’t be fixed.” 

Don’t try, don’t ask me to let you. I will ruin you, I will destroy you.

Silence falls. 

And then she speaks again, reciting the lines of poetry he had inked upon his skin. I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul. The silence that has descended upon him never lifted, and he listened to her persistence, to her attempts of reassurance that he is not less than his brother, that he is more than enough. To his family, he shall never be. He will always be the embarrassment, and he has finally learned to be what was expected of him. He has stopped swimming against the tide and trying to prove his worth. And once he accepted it, he was left with himself alone, learning only to care about himself and no one else. 

“I am never enough. Never. For anyone.” He says finally. “You’re saying all of this-- And you sound like you truly believe all of it -- well, do you think I would be enough for someone like you? Can you honestly tell me I would be deserving of a saint’s love?” He expects no for an answer, expects this and nothing else as he shakes his head. “I am best left alone. Anyone who gives me their heart would only be left with it battered and torn.” 

27 AUGUST 2018. 8 pm.

Cat: a terribly horrible hell of a fight to watch

Cat: dio, a week for what i went through sounds pretty decent

Cat: it’s just me, myself, and i. i should be alright once i figure how to manage. i’ll probably go check on regina, but not vice versa. her debt’s been paid

Cat: of course, how could i forget, il mio diavolo? you put the angels and gods to shame

East: You sure? You won't need help? Get Everett to help you. Or you know what, I'll get him to. Shouldn't be hard, he cares about you a lot.

27 AUGUST 2018. 8 pm.

Cat: i’m just glad she’d already spent most of her energy on il tigre and regina. she’s okay—physically banged up, but she’s perfectly fine mentally and emotionally

Cat: i’m glad to hear that you’re alright and unscathed. hephaestus and apollo would be jealous

Cat: just a few cuts and bruises (especially the massive one blooming across my face—ugh) and a probably broken rib or two but i’m not too sure

East: Tiberius and Regina against Grace. A hell of a fight. I heard you saved them, St. Catherine, and now you 'probably' have a broken rib. It could take a week to heal properly, are you gonna be okay? Who's taking care of you?

27 AUGUST 2018. 8 pm.

Cat: what a shitty situation, right?

Cat: sorry, i’m just now getting home—it’s been a long day. or night. or whatever. i went to regina’s directly after the ordeal

Cat: i’m alive, east. but enough about me. what about you? i take it you’re alive, too, considering you’re texting me

Cat: but are you hurt? are you okay?

East: Yeah, can't have been fun dealing with Grace, she's crazy. How's Regina?

East: I'm fine. Managed to get out of the burning dome unscathed. Fire is my friend, I guess

27 AUGUST 2018. 8 pm.

East: I just heard what happened with Grace

East: Where are you?

[...]

setting: 7th september 2018 at the capulet headquarters, late afternoon sun filtering through the stain-glass windows. with: @violentgallows​

A week has passed since the dome burned into the ground, and a week has also passed since Easton captured and brought home a toy he stole from the Montagues. Roman had been asking about their emissary, and Easton’s initial attempts at lying about her whereabouts should have worked, he told himself, except maybe one of those idiots had seen him carting her unconscious body off and driving away before anyone could stop him. It has been a week, and Easton believed everything was running smoothly. He couldn’t say it was going according to plan, because well, there was no plan in the first place. Everything is going well, he believes. But what Easton doesn’t know, is the Montagues have learned about their Sunday confessionals, have learned their little secret. Had he known, he might have questioned Celeste’s value to the Montagues. However small she though her infraction was, it was still betrayal. Sure, there was blackmail involved. But ultimately – betrayal. But he does not know, and for now he still believes the woman is in good standing with the other side. As for another thing he doesn’t know: Valentina Gallo and her true allegiance. She may be working under a different captain among their ranks, but Easton could honestly say he has found a kindred spirit in her, has found someone who simply understood. Their mutual disdain for uncultured people, a mutual affinity for violence and mayhem, and simply – their general shared demeanor of being smug assholes. Easton liked talking shit about other people with Valentina. It has always been a favorite past time for the both, a shared activity that has strengthened their bond. And god knows with all the long hours having to tend to his prisoner, he needed her company now. He pulled out his phone, the tapping sound of the keys audible throughout the quiet halls below the cathedral, echoing throughout the stone walls.

MESSAGE TO ➸ VOILA (intentional misspelling, don’t @ me) 

↪ [Sent at 5:21 pm]: Voila, get to the hq right now ↪ [Sent at 5:21 pm]: Need you here [...] [Unsent, 5:30 pm]: It’s been 9 mins you fucking turtle [...] ↪ [Sent at 5:41 pm]: Are you dead? ↪ [Sent at 5:42 pm]: Fuck. You’re dead ↪ [Sent at 5:43 pm]: Who do I have to kill?

   He pulled his hand away and, in this moment, she realized how familiar this sting was. Like a bee stinging her heart, its poison causing it to ache and swell. All she felt when she looked up into those piercing eyes was a swollen longing, longing for something she wasn’t entirely sure she would find in him. It filled up her chest so much so that she couldn’t breathe, rendering her speechless as his words cut into her. A barrage of memories tangled in her head – Easton digging the knife deeper and deeper with every smile, every kiss, every night that wasn’t spent on her. Yet he had spent nights with her, hadn’t he? He had smiled at her and made her feel warm and wanted. But if she ever strayed too close, he made sure to evade her; a shadow barely out of the reach of a burning flame. 

    Tell her why, then, she persisted still, eyes pleading, hands unwilling to leave the skin that she had purchased against him. Gently, coaxingly, she trailed her fingers along his jaw before resting there, wishing to prove to him that her words could be pushed aside, forgotten on this night. Pressing her lips upon his exposed collarbone, ignoring the pinpricks of her heart, she murmured, “What I was expecting,” a path led her lips along his neck, skin warm under her tongue, “was a man unafraid of the challenge of honesty,” she rose onto her toes, kissing his pink, sangue dusted lips once, twice, thrice – each one more lingering than the last until she dared to taste the sweetness of his mouth. “But I suppose I should be used to this by now – to not being the apple of your eye.”

    A rueful smile curved the corner of her mouth, not quite matching the torn look reflected in cyan hues. 

    She should be used to this by now; having her heart broken, having the edges of its curves chipped and jagged. “I was hoping to lose myself tonight, Easton.” Her words were careful, breathlessly delivered as she met his gaze and forced him to meet hers. For years, she had refrained because it felt as though the moment she lost herself in someone else she lost another memory with him. Her eyelashes brushed against her cheekbones as her lips parted, an open-mouthed kiss placed there, at the corner of his mouth, then there, just under his eye, pleading with him for some sort of kindness to be bestowed upon her. “Forgive me…per favore, cuore  mio?”

He was silent, stoic, as her hands trailed along his jaw. It was a familiar motion, something he suspected she used to distract him from his anger, from his annoyance. The way her lithe fingers moved, the gentleness in her motions – reflecting the kindness the world doesn’t oft see, and yet she always afforded him. Now more than ever, he’s certain he does not deserve any of it. For here was a woman deserving of getting her love returned, and she had the misfortune of loving him of all people.  Maybe he will learn to love her. Maybe he has to try. Or maybe they were all simply cursed to be unhappy, to suffer in their own personal hells. The universe has always loved to play its vicious jokes, like an author with an inky bloodlust and a special brand of intricate cruelty. And maybe that author has deemed she love him too much for her own good, too much for both of theirs, and the same author has cursed him to never be able to return it at all. No one gets to be happy. It’s just the way it is.  But Easton Craven is nothing if not a rebel.  So maybe he will learn to love her. Maybe he has to try. But how do you even begin to love someone? What is it like to properly love anyone? Is there a right way? His musings were interrupted by the kisses she pressed against his skin, as if reminding him of what he has to do, what he has vowed to do. What I was expecting, was a man unafraid of the challenge of honesty, he tells her, and he watches as she closes the distance between their lips, and finally closing his eyes when they meet, losing himself in the darkness and the warmth of her kiss. They break apart, and he says nothing. He looks into her eyes, and he says nothing, because he feared the only things that would come out are more lies. I was hoping to lose myself tonight, Easton. And again, he says nothing. She apologizes. Asks for his forgiveness, and this time he does speak, voice laced with anguish.“No. Don’t apologize. I--” he trails off, looking away, as if he couldn’t bear to actually speak the truth this once, could feel his bones grinding against each other in protest. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes, vaguely. He wasn’t sure what he was apologizing about, which part of this evening, or all the other evenings they have spent when he has broken her heart. Perhaps he was just apologizing for all of it. Easton apologizing wasn’t something the world oft sees now, either, but he supposed they both brought out these special things in each other. For a moment, he ceases to say anything more. But the blue of his eyes no longer crash violently like the waves of a hostile ocean. They have turned a shade softer, kinder, less… malevolent. And he raises a hand again, to tuck a golden lock of hair behind her ear, reverently, his eyes roaming around her face as if committing her silver features to memory, gaze pausing on her lips and on that rueful smile. It makes his chest tighten, because whether he loved her back the way she did, or not, she is an important part of his life. And it kills him that he only ever realized all the pain he’s caused her until he stole a kiss from her. His eyes shift back to meet hers once again, and he whispers, “I’m sorry, mio angelo. Please. Please forgive me.” And his hand moves to the back of her head, placed there kindly. And his lips move to place a soft kiss on her forehead, placed there gently.  “Stay by my side. Still. I beg of you.” And eventually they will go their separate ways on this night, would find other companions and would dance about with other unfortunate souls – all prisoners of the mighty universe. But at this moment, all he could do was wrap her around an embrace, and selfishly hope that her heart does stay by his side still, even when he knew he did not deserve it.