#balieryna

vincent tended to ignore the regular continental patrons, his interest in making friends subatomic. he found most of them dull, and if not, he found that they were pompous without reason, as though this were anything to have much pride in. no, he had his sights set far higher than whatever this was. but he'd seen darya a handful of times around the bar, heard her name passed through the looser lips of his dreaded company. he can't say he'd paid her much mind. vincent continued to stick to himself through his frequenting visits, allowing the booze nurse the broken skin of his knuckles with gentle throbs, like an ocean wave breaking against the shore, until the very moment he was numb enough to shut his eyes. his demeanour was meant to be a deterrent, since he really was just as haughty and uptight as the other patrons made him out to be. so he cannot deny that he is surprised that he had garnered her own attention, though he supposed she isn't the first. perhaps there was a certain intrigue that accompanied his anonymity, the man at the bar who no one knew a thing about. but darya certainly was the most interesting facilitator of his uncommon conversations, he would admit. if a gun was insisting that he answer. the prettiest by far, exponentially above anyone else in the room. a ballerina. and for a moment, his world centers on her. vincent cannot help but smirk at the vagueness of her introduction, though the briefness of his expression is quickly lost into the glass that houses his drink. he takes another swig as though to conceal it, unwilling to part with his entertainment just yet. he was supposed to be somewhere without distraction, his mind focused on the next achievement. nonetheless, she intrudes, simply unable to be ignored.

the buds of her full lips lay a kiss gently down upon the rotten promise of not forgetting: the harsh reminder that darya had so generously left behind in their last encounter. it was a svelte little division cast against his right cheek, the shape of which becoming completely obscured by the press of her heart-shaped mouth. it was a cut out of love, out of longing: what else is loving someone but a different shade of violence? vincent had heard people say that a thin line separates love and hate, but they'd neglected to tell him that sometimes that line blurs. like a mirage in the desert, it ripples. her lips feel like an apology whispered into his skin, of a sudden feeling of empathy and regret for a demi-decade's blunder. the gloss of her painted mouth leaves behind a layer of syrupy residue that slowly sinks into his scowl. it feels somewhat like glue, as though his very skin is reaching out for her as she embarks on her retreat. he is intemperate, a man half-starved, demanding more and more of her affections as though they were dosed in quarter-measures. it was though the temporary taste of her managed only to make him feel more empty inside, as though he held a hunger for her that was never completely satisfied.

❛ no one saw me.. ❜ vincent responds in a gravelly tone, as though that is the point. his green eyes seem troubled, and are stark against the unusual pallor of his bone-white skin. it was strange to capture her off-guard, and himself in return. the ballerina was a person of poise, of unbreakable stoicism, and she embodied that completely. whether within her pointe shoes, or out. it was something the assassin had admired about darya, since their propriety was one of their very few traits that actually aligned. vincent can barely look at her in this rare moment of inattentiveness and its ensuing mortification. his apprehensive gaze penetrated the empty space at her side, avoiding her inquisitive face at all costs to his detriment. vincent felt in that moment as though he needed to not see her, needed to elude the sheer intimacy of it and reserve her company as the sometimes useful stranger, as opposed to a reliable friend.

the marquis feels the coolness of a blade press against his skin before it even manages to enter his peripheries, and the mere feeling shoots ice through his arteries. it reminds vincent how truly defective the human body can be, of how all that separates insides from being out depends on one smooth movement on his assailant's behalf. a combination of momentum and that familiar, combined scent of vanilla and cigarettes strikes an almost instant recognition, and he cannot help but twist his mouth sourly. this picture was not how he had envisioned they would one day reunite, though he can't say this behaviour was out of character for darya. in fact, he'd begun to know intricately all manners of violence committed by her hands. it was not the first time they'd gone through these familiar motions and he would put money on that it wouldn't be the last.