#pierrexseven

Pierre: Okay my bad

Pierre: I went overboard and didn't appreciate as much as I should have

Pierre: You helped me get leads and you the bomb dot com bro.

Esmeralda had left early in the day to get ready, doing her last minute running around. Leaving the instructions for Agnes and Pierre and what they would have to do, would have to contribute. The twins dressed differently, but still in celebratory clothes, a little knitted purse with a sapphire necklace around Agnes’s side. She would pick up Seven and Zero around sunset, just those two because she was bringing no date. Unless Dallas was her date for the night, something she didn’t mind. The puppy was family enough that it had a little bowtie around his neck. She thought briefly about asking someone but couldn’t think of anyone who would understand the weirdness of this wedding ceremony. It wasn’t in a church. It wasn’t in a park or a beach or anywhere that people would typically think of a wedding.

The abandoned plantation. It was lit up with candles of all sorts, guiding people to where they were supposed to go. Two large men, both of them with missing teeth, colorful bandanas covering their heads, one with just a beard and the other with a head full of facial hair, were standing around, directing the few vehicles that came. Mostly, people got there by foot. It was a wedding among the homeless of New Orleans after all. One of them would come in close to Agnes’s window, peer his face against it. Knock on it. She’d roll it down.

“Evening Agnes,” The hairier one with the purple bandana grinned. “Go ‘n park over there.”

Agnes had no idea who this man was. She didn’t think that she had ever seen him before. But then again, apparently she had been working with her mother on the shelters for the last two months. This looked like someone who needed them. “Thanks,” She’d smile, feigning familiarity and then would go and park the car off to the side, among the bushes. There were a few others, but they could be counted on one hand.

Pierre would take both Zero and Seven’s hands and would rush on past the house to get to the less creepy and more well lit back area. Much less creepy back here, leaving Agnes to carry the dog behind.

Indeed, it was well set up. Carpets spread on the ground, with a few being daring enough to advertise their wares there in case the rich showed up - i.e. these four. Plenty of places to sit. Bright bonfires. There was one here who knew fire magic, could help to turn the flames different colors, making it not only bright but beautiful as well. Food was already laid out. A band had been formed of panhandlers, guitars and fiddles and a saxophone and a clarinet, all coming up with rhythms together. Pierre would stick with his two while Agnes would find the woman who read her palm and the little girl to give the necklace. As the night grew darker, she’d be looking for Bastien among the faces though. She missed him. So much.

The bearded man would be shocked at who came up next in the obnoxious dune buggy. The former king. The one that most people assumed had been dead. Some of them had been interviewed and targeted by Peru’s people after the big disappearance of Clopin and Kuzco, accusing them of hiding them, though they had been doing no such thing. But seeing that face, was a great relief. Even if it was hidden under a large purple hat with a golden feather sticking out. “Le roi!”

“Hush, hush, hush,” Clopin would wave off. “No need for that. I’m here in secret, can’t you tell by the hat?”

The man would stumble over his words, showing Piper exactly what power that he had on the streets back in the day, to where people still revered him like this. It brought his mood up a little. A smirk. He’d pull in behind what had become the familiar SUV of the Renault family. Dressed in dark purples with golden trim to match his little lady, he’d take her arm proudly, and Kuzco’s if he came, and would escort them to where his own wedding with Kuzco had been. And he’d explain it to her as well. “Ours had better music. The musicians must have died off, how sad,” He’d note.

He had his mane tied back. That was one of the few things that he knew to do before getting into a fight since some fuckers would resort to hair pulling like some kind girl. And he had seen Declan’s arms in two of the photos that he had posted on his social media. This guy was pretty built. Maybe not the kind of built that lifting weights gets you but the kind that comes from hard work. Plenty of it. He was more than a bit intimidated  but then he remembered what he had seen when he had lifted his sister’s shirt. The cuts. The bruises. The way that Esmeralda had gently closed her daughter’s bedroom door after washing her, put her hand to her mouth and sobbed in horror.

He was going to get some answers, no matter how many loops it took.

He texted Lena once he saw Seven to let her know that he was on his way to the locker area before classes began. There was a small window of time, but he could still use it to his advantage. Following the signs, he’d see him. Declan Ratcliffe. Shoving off a beanie to reveal messy, dark hair, shoving it into his locker. Running his gloved hand against a tiny bit of stubble that he had on his face. Everything about him was covered. Sweater. Jeans. A hint of a bruise or maybe it was a hickey or something on his neck. Pierre had never concentrated so hard on someone before. Never tried to take in as many details. He was looking for any mark which might have meant that his sister had tried to defend herself. No scratches. Nothing other than that tiny little thing on his neck, creeping up from under his shirt.

“This is the moment we’ll go back to if anything goes wrong,” He’d say to Seven.

And then he’d start to move forward. He’d see Lena talking to a cute little blonde thing. For once, he didn’t allow himself to get distracted by physical beauty. He watched as Declan pulled a beaten up textbook out of the locker, and then, right before Pierre would get there, he’d remove his gloves, and tossed them in too. His hands were immaculate, jesus fuck. Like watch commercial hands. Like they’ve never washed a dish in his goddamn life. They looked more like rich people hands than even Pierre’s did.

“Ye done staring at me?” A voice broke him out of looking at those hands. Pierre stopped, realizing that he had almost walked right into the fucker. Declan was barely taller, maybe an inch or two, but not much. But he had the arms that Pierre didn’t. But Pierre - he felt like he had the anger.

He’d reverse. Go back to the second that he said wrong. “Damn distracting hands,” He’d mutter, having brought Seven with him into the loop, and then he’d move forward again, brushing past the two girls, right up to Declan. The boy was just throwing his gloves into the locker when Pierre got there. “Who the fuck are you?” Pierre asked, his anger getting the better of him. As Declan slowly turned his head to get a glimpse of who it was that was yelling at him, hand on his locker, reading what was all going to be happening, Pierre got impatient. “What the fuck are you?”

“You should know,” Declan said, nice and slow. “You’re at my fuckin’ locker. What you want?”

Pierre’s dark eyes looked right into Declan’s hazel ones. There was nothing there. No guilt. No amusement. Only - only the slightest bit of recognition. But that could have been for many reasons. Pierre knew he and his family were well known. And there was Seven, who had just been at the trailer park, talking to this guy. He was expecting something. “I want to know what you did to my sister.”

Blank look. “Didn’t find her yet?” He’d ask, more so to Seven. “That’s a shame.”

“No, we found her,” Pierre said. That part was at least true. But he was going to bluff to try to get some kind of admission in front of all of these people. “And she said your fucking name.”

But alas, no reaction. Declan had seen this the moment he had taken his gloves off and touched his locker. He kept his hand on it still, as if he was adding to what could be seen. “That’s interesting considering we’ve never been introduced.”

Which wasn’t a lie. They hadn’t been. He never said his name. If anyone did, it was Bastien. Or maybe Taryn, but he didn’t think that gal was the sort to go ratting on him. Not when he had the fact that they had stolen dope from Beast’s castle.

The bell rang. They were out of time. “Fuck,” Pierre said, going back to the moment he had said ‘wrong’ again. Declan taking off his gloves. Putting them into the locker. Hand on the side of it. Touching it. This time Pierre just went right in for the punch - only to find that he had a hand around his wrist as Declan stopped him from doing it while that fist was just a couple of inches away from his face. He’d force it down then give Pierre a shove. Which totally blew Pierre away because how the fuck did he know? How did he know that’s what he was going to do? Back again.

“Wrong,” Would be out of his mouth before he could stop himself. This time he approached and tried to tug down on the hood of the sweater so he’d be able to see the mark on Declan’s neck, see if it was some sort of defensive wound. Something that he could use as proof. But before he could so much as get a hand on it, Declan had put his hood up, something that he hadn’t done in the past three times Pierre approached.

Back again. “-goes wrong.” Gloves off. Into the locker. Approach again. This time - “What the fuck did you do to my sister?”

He was expecting the same question back that he had said before. The whole ‘didn’t find her yet’ but that’s not what he got back.He had a better follow up question to his reply.

“Sorry bub, can’t help ya. Don’t know her.” And then the locker door closed and Declan walked away, leaving Pierre confused. He turned to face Seven, that confusion all over his face.

“Something’s not right,” He said. “He’s not supposed to say anything different. And he wasn’t supposed to put his hood up the last time.”

Pierre: You know that part in the Eminem song where he says

Pierre: I'm going to hell who's coming with me?

Pierre: Well turns out Frank and Delta are coming with me because I'm supposed to prison break hot-damn Wentworth Miller Maleficent's way out of hell.

Pierre: WE'RE FINALLY GETTING ANOTHER HOUSE

Pierre: I mean chances are it might get destroyed too but

Pierre: FINALLY back