#remuswarden

It was a reality too few people could understand. Credit where credit was due -- his cousins made every effort. Ikki, himself, was privy to the realities of Rafael Junior’s position. Yet for all that they witnessed, they could not know. And that, was where Remus Warden came in. On paper, the overachieving warmonger and the mercurial energy titan did not seem well-matched. Remus was all discipline, especially in their early years as children. And Rafael? Well, his was a pendulum that constantly swung back and forth. A constant pull between a desire to achieve, and a rebellion against it all. But Remus understood. That, in and of itself, was enough to solidify a friendship. Never mind that the War’s ranks were fastidious, compared to the fun-loving Famine. Or that the tension between their parents, in that moment, could be cut by a knife. Even the realities of their sins, still so fresh in their psyche, meant nothing. Because they understood. And Rafael had begun to realize that to understand, was a powerful thing indeed.

“How much longer before one of them hits the other?” He slurs, his voice just above a mutter as he observes the horsemen. At the opposite end of the table, seated alongside one another. The tension was thick in the air of the ballroom, leaving Rafael almost disenchanted. After all that hard work. Or rather, Ravi’s. But he had his hand on the assortment of liquor, and the logistics of it all. Certainly enough to be disappointed in it all. Of course, he was not petulant enough to think only of the party itself. There was an anger and paranoia dancing in his father’s eyes. But the Seraphim did not like to imagine his father’s own spite, and he turned pointedly to Remus instead. “I should have them clear out the steak knives. Wouldn’t you say?” He taunts Remus, nudging him with his elbow. The Seraphim was already loose, three glasses of scotch in, and the assortment of pills in his pocket practically burned. Still, he can’t resist raising a coy brow at Remus. “Bud, are you listening to me? Should I be holding a gun to get your attention?”

Compared to how it’d looked yesterday, Elite is practically a ghost town today. There are still stragglers, of course, men and women looking to get their cut of the day in before heading off to work, but when it’s like this Thomas enjoys it the most. Just he, himself, and his own thoughts, accompanied by the rote motion of fists against a punching bag. Or, he thinks wryly, a person.

Leon’s a good kid. He’d done a good job -- just not good enough, fixed or not. He’s still feeling the aches that follow along right after victory, mostly in his ribs and his left shoulder where some stronger blows had landed, but in Thomas’ eyes, it’d all been in good fun. Famine won either way, didn’t it? And that’s all that mattered.

He’s packing up to leave for the day, has things to do, when he notices Remus Warden from the corner of his eye. And usually that wouldn’t be an issue. Most are aware of the claim War’s staked on Elite by the prodigal Warden family, even if Thomas wishes it were in Famine’s hands, himself included. It goes without saying that he doesn’t think too much of it, not at first. He fucking owns the place, doesn’t he? And then he notices that Remus is heading his direction, looking more than a little like he’s had his feathers ruffled. He wracks his brain, trying to think of what the fuck he could’ve done, and then thinks oh. Rita.

Of course.