loosen up, quit being so serious all the time. / from rosanna 2 tony <3
his empty office. stale, nicotine infused with something of a sweeter note hanging in the air. he would have the blinds shut because sunlight flooding his room felt alike the spilling of a drink on his carpet. an inconvenience, a disturbance. most of all, simply not needed. his legitimate employees know, oh they know --- strange man with strange habits. difficult to work with but most of the time, rarely even seen or spoken to. not that such words could leave their lips, if they were clever and grateful enough. busy with illegitimate work. busy with getting his hands dirty, still, because he simply cannot resist it. mr. alexander would prefer not to be disturbed. mr. alexander is currently not available. mr. alexander requested his brother to represent him today. which --- all translated to the same thing. hate and love lied so close to this man, their separation seems unthinkable. he's learned, yes. between being the devil and a saint, every day, his hatred for himself outgrows the hatred for violence. so he neither speaks nor sings of it. this is what he chose. hypocrite, that's what you are.
seated behind his desk, smoke rising from the half finished cigarette resting against surface of his crystalline ashtray. she. with eternal spring in her veins. a curious force of life inhabits her. in his darkest days, he would have wished for more rain, rather than sunshine. it's just who he is. why be blinded by the rays, he is not used to? why endure, what felt like his soul catching on fire? spring tries to be gentle, he knows. by the way a faint breeze ghosts alongside his jagged features. how the wind welcomes itself through the charm of a bell. but tony refuses to let it reach him. he holds himself together, these fragments bound together by their read thread, shoulders pushing themselves into the leather. like a bow's string. like a cocked gun. she asks him to surrender his weapons. put down his defenses. to freeze the rush of blood, keeping his exhausted bones from uniting with their grave. ' loosen up, quit being so serious all the time. ' tony hears her voice, graceful plea and whine alike, two strings of a violin played at once, to slip into his ear. but you can't tell a fire to extinguish itself. you can't tell the tide to stop approaching. and the man halts his movement, low-lidded, glance lost on the paper. bitter smoke, dry whiskey. the pen is still in his hand. but he stops writing with lips agape and a silent inhale as his pause. he puts it down, letting the half burned cigarette slip between lithe fingers instead, before leaning back into his seat. accompanied by an exhale held too long. through stoic features, an intensifying gaze rising to meet hers. outside of his windows, the sun peaks through the cloudy day, crawls through the gaps of the blinds shielding, drawing ribbons across the carpet and his desk alike. and for once, he does not pull away in protest. he does not disappear.
