secular saint

when? | october 31, 05:45 where? | dark lady  who? | my biggest REGRET ( @rafaellacapulet )

Now was not the time for poetry, yet lines continued to flutter through his head. Maybe it was a coping mechanism, as if slotting emotion into verse could make everything seem less real. Maybe it was a way to remember what he felt each hour so he could dissect it later. Maybe it was just a part of him he couldn’t shake. 

Whatever the case, his mind churned over the definition of frantic until it mingled with panic and worry and unease and blunted fingernails digging into his palm and breath entrapped within lungs that felt far too small to supply a heart so large. He’d been skulking through Capulet territory most of the night, using his relatively neutral stance to move between acts of violence. He’d only recognized a few faces so far tonight, and he’d stepped in where he could. Now he’d taken to checking buildings, ensuring that he wasn’t needed before moving on. 

He slipped into the Dark Lady fully intent of giving the establishment nothing more than a cursory glance. As soon as he stepped over the threshold, his plans shattered. There was something in the air that struck him, and as his feet carried him forward, he figured out why. Rafaella and Alexander were a nearly perfect image of conquerors. His lips had brushed her cheek while she stood like a queen, focused on anything other than him. Bellamy didn’t let himself think along the lines his heart lead him which resulted in him rapidly being unable to think at all. It was a strange thing to be frozen in the face of something he’d rather not witness (though he couldn’t piece it all together, try as he might; old misconceptions bungled current imagery, and he couldn’t fully land on a theory regarding the exchange). 

when? | october 31, 14:05  where? | streets of verona, capulet territory who? | the TRUSTED ( @matthiaswarren )

This was nothing short of chaos. He’d written of Verona afire, flooding with blood, bursting with screams of its inhabitants, but he never expected to see the vilification spring to life before his very eyes. This was the stuff of nightmares, and he was running ragged after spending the entire night and resulting morning on the streets, trying to save those he could and stop others from making mistakes that may not have consequences tonight but would bring hell in the upcoming months. He wanted to go home, shut out the world, pretend that this wasn’t happening -- but he was through with running. He owed it to everyone to press on. 

So he did. One step at a time, he carried himself into Capulet territory, seeking out those of his companions stubborn enough to believe that legal immunity translated to eternal freedom. He expected to see Marcelo, maybe Val, maybe Alexander. He didn’t expect to see Matthias, and so Bellamy froze in the street. Was this another hallucination? Was the lack of sleep finally getting to him? 

He shook his head, jogged to catch up with Matthias, called out his name. He fell into stride beside him, careful to drink in the emotions rolling off the man’s shoulders. Something was amiss, and without conjecture, Bellamy’s heart began to sink into his chest. Either something had already happened, or something would be happening. 

There’s something serenely contemplative about sitting in a stationary car with someone. The rain on the roof and the light metallic sound of her father’s dog disturbing the identification discs hanging from his collar somehow add to the quiet. Had it not been for the storms raging both inside her head and outside in the starless, tension-thick sky, she may have thought the moment peaceful. Instead, she slides her hood down, closes her eyes and rests the back of her skull against the headrest, flinching slightly when Bellamy shuts his door behind him but not at all when the crack of lightning and rumbling thunder churn through wet, static air.

“Verona is going to swallow us all up, Bell.” A smile slides across her mouth, seemingly out of place as if prompted by the wrong cue. She turns to look at him, heavy-hearted and struck by a blue mood. “I used to love this city. I still do, I suppose, but I don’t think that’s enough. I don’t know if we can stay here without ending up with blood on our hands eventually.” She’s thought a lot about killing lately. About other people doing it. About her doing it. There’s a certain irony that the violence Alvise had tried to keep her away from is precisely what stole him from her. The thought of holding a gun and squeezing the trigger is horrifying, but perhaps Rafaella was right. Maybe the only true way to get revenge for her father’s murder was by committing one herself. A certain selfishness lies in the fact that she wants to be the person to do it; not Lawrence, not another Montague, and certainly not a Capulet. Her brother no doubt felt the same but that was the point, really–

He had always been the boy with ambition held between his teeth. She wants a small piece of it. Just a little bit. Just enough to get the job done.

Odessa rubs at a bruise just below her knee that she doesn’t know the cause of, a dull ache beneath the skin. It feels a lot like the pain beneath her ribs. “Do you ever wonder what your life would have been like had you been born elsewhere? If you hadn’t ended up here, doing what we do.” She studies the side of his face, uncertain of what she’s searching for. Agreement, maybe. Or disagreement, even. “What if we’re only pretending to be good people because we don’t want to consider that we’re actually the alternative.”

There was a current rushing through Odessa that rivaled the downpour of the gods, and it unsettled something deep in Bellamy, like a shipwreck lurching from the sea floor in the face of a strong enough riptide. He words draw him in deeper, crashing him against the streets he was so desperate to drift away from. It was a far cry from the stability Odessa usually offered with a heart of logic and a mind bursting with philosophy. Perhaps this was just a different shade of the same torment. 

“Your love for the city has nothing to do with whether or not there’s blood on your hands, Dess.” He looked over at her, and a streetlight outside the car cast strange shadows over her face. “I’ve always hated this city, but my record’s as clean as yours. We can keep it that way.” He reached over and took her hand in his, squeezing gently to affirm that he was here, not floating away, not courting the darkness all around them. 

He looked out the window, wondering how many people were around them or if they were as alone as they felt. He could feel his chest beginning to hollow out, ache forcing it to cave beneath guilt and mourning. He had tasted life away from Verona, and it had been far sweeter than any reality within it. There were lonely nights, times where he longed for a love he’d abandoned, but it would be a lie to say that leaving Verona was a mistake. There was so much light in the rest of the world, sunsets that are pink and gold instead of running the color of blood. Streets filled with celebratory laughter and vendors spinning love rather than addiction and war. Of any city Bellamy had ever visited, Verona had weighed the most (and it was only getting heavier). 

“If we were born under different circumstances, we wouldn’t really be us, would we? This city built us regardless of our relationship with it, and we haven’t turned out half bad.” He smiled at her, tried to lift some of the darkness from her shoulders. “And good people are born of those bred pretending to be good. You have to visualize it before you achieve it, and we’ve all made mistakes. But we only stop being good when we cease our pursuit of the ideal.” The philosophy was key to how he would forgive Roman, Marcelo, Rafaella, and countless others. As long as there was still a part of a person that longed for something lighter, something good, there remained a soul to save. 

Cel: that's fair

Cel: who said anything about dicks? pervert

Cel: you'd have more fun without it

Cel: the real reason you have gray hairs is because you insist on acting like an 80 year old man

Cel: why don't you come out instead?

bell: can't, sorry

bell: i'm too busy acting like an 80 year old man

bell: maybe if i try really hard, i can hit 90 by the end of the night

bell: but out of a sense of morbid curiosity

       Brielle wasn’t actually paying attention to where she was going. She was just walking in an attempt to get rid of the phantoms plaguing her, tears tracking their way down her face. It was lucky that there was enough rain for no one to notice, but even if they could, she wouldn’t be able to care. She was stuck in some sort of panic, trying to claw her way out of her own skin rather than listen to any more horrible words from people she loved.

       She heard the voice, but it was in a distant sort of way, like she was really underwater rather than just being in the rain. It wasn’t until she barreled directly into him that she slowed to a stop, gasping for air, awful pinpricks in the shoulder that had hit his. She realized, then, that her arms felt very numb, and that her teeth had begun chattering

       Despite the storm, she’d ran for escape from her home, wearing only a flimsy blouse and the jeans she’d shrugged on when waking up. They were water logged and did nothing to protect her, now, which likely explained the chattering. The heat that had once bolstered her, that floating sensation, it was all starting to fade, leaving only the cold behind. She turned blearily back toward the man she’d bumped in her haste. 

       ❝ Mi dispiace, ❞ she tried to say, but it came out more as m-m-mi dis-s-s-sp-p-piace thanks to her trembling lower lip. Hers was a look of wide-eyed paranoia, her face darting from side to side quickly as she looked for any further sign of what she’d been running from. She did not yet understand it was a vision, though she’d begun to suspect that something was very wrong with her, now that her head started to clear. 

By now, he should know that trouble had quite the knack for finding him. Even when he was the one the streets, looking for problems abound, trouble had somehow managed to surprise him, knocking into his shoulder so roughly he staggered back a step. Instinct led him to placing both hands on her shoulders, stabilizing them both, and concern peaked when he heard the quiver of her voice. 

“Brielle?” Her name spilled from his lips like a question, though there was no doubt in his mind. He knew this girl, and she was more shaken than he’d ever seen her. He guided her under the nearest overhang, letting them both escape the storm for a brief moment. 

“You’re freezing -- we need to get you inside. Shit, Brielle, how long have you been out here?” He glanced around them, trying to find any shops that were open despite the downpour and flooding. No store lights were illuminated, no signs placed out on the street. He glanced to his left, eyeing the darkened sandwich shop beside them. With a complete disregard for the rules, he tried the door handle, cursed when it didn’t budge. Pledging to return to this very spot tomorrow, he jammed his elbow against the storm door, hissing as the glass fractured beneath the jab. He reached through the new opening, unlocked the door, and ushered Brielle inside. 

Cel: bet you've dreamed of more than that

Cel: correct: the best part of my body cannot speak and lacks fists

Cel: incorrect: it is my torso

Cel: elaborate on....'in for the night'

bell: how can i not when you're so effortlessly charming

bell: dick jokes have always been the way to my heart

Regina and Bellamy could not be more opposite, it seemed. On the surface, Capulet and Montague, the names different as night and day. Beneath it, there was not much to Regina, and that begun her differences with the man who stood before him. She was empty, devoid of anything substantial, of emotion completely, darkness making itself at home in the hollow spaces, while he was alight with emotion, heart sewn to his sleeve, blood practically dripping from it to the earth beneath his feet. Some might say, however, that he lived in the clouds for dreaming of peace in a city that could not pronounce such a word, while Regina lived among the shadows, doing her part to cut away any chance of Verona achieving the peace Bellamy dreamed of. Death was her specialty, and he sat beside her, watching Bellamy as Regina spoke to him.

“I would imagine it’s easier to navigate,” mused Regina. “After all, half the roads are blocked, meaning there is less chance of wandering in a direction you did not want to go, no?” Regina certainly didn’t have a problem finding the hotel, luck clearing her path, as if she were meant to meet Death on this night, yet she would not meet her end. She wondered why he met with her on this night, but did not question the authenticity of the being sitting near her.

Looking to Death once more, he was now turned back toward Regina, faceless gaze no longer upon Bellamy. She wondered what he thought, and as if he knew her mind, he spoke, a voice only she could hear. “Demons show their faces tonight; they come after the angels, they come after him. Tell me, Regina, which side do you belong to?” After all, while she made a home of the darkness as much as the darkness made a home of her, she was apathetic, not completely giving herself to chaos, not when her own brand was so subtle, though she was drawn to that darkness nonetheless. Yours, she thought in answer before turning back to Bellamy.

“No. Everyone who is meant to be here is here,” she states, looking between Bellamy and her other companion, an almost ominous tone to her voice before she took another sip of her wine, allowing the glass to settle back against the table with barely a sound. “Do you wait for anyone?”

It was unnerving the way her eyes lazed between him and the empty side beside her. He was on edge because of it, his fingers clenching his glass just tight enough for the whites of his knuckles to show. A deep, measured breath relaxed him physically, but there was the sense that something was amiss -- as if something were coming. Meeting with Regina was always unsettling to a degree, but tonight her emptiness felt more like a void. Tonight, her apathy felt dangerous. 

“I’m not convinced that I wanted to end up here,” he countered, glancing over his shoulder towards the door. He couldn’t tell if he had interrupted a meeting or shown up to its prologue. “Sometimes you never know where you want your journey to end until you’ve been lost a few times.” He forced himself to sound hopeful, optimistic even. Taking a sip of wine helped. 

He’d thought taking solace inside, with light and alcohol and other humans, would help erase the ghosts that had been haunting him through the streets. Instead he was forced to wonder if perhaps he had just encountered another husk, this one strikingly real. He tossed back the rest of his wine, signaled for another, froze when he saw the shadows warp on the other side of the bar. Verona had always been a certain hell, but tonight it was as if someone had wrenched open the gate. 

date: monday, october 15th

location: the montague estate

status: @thesecularsaint

“I wish you’d stop trying to convince me that wine is better than tequila,” Roman groaned as he finished off his cup of wine, and then proceeding to fill it to the brim with tequila instead. “For one, you have to drink an excessive amount to get a buzz. And two, you have to drink an excessive amount to get a buzz.” Although he’d always tease Bellamy about his wine consumption, Roman couldn’t pretend like he didn’t enjoying the taste. “When they make an 80 proof wine, then I might actually admit that it’s better. But until then, you can keep your weak 24 proof.” He drank the tequila with such ease, that if any random person had witnessed him drinking it, they would’ve assumed that he was just some peculiar fellow drinking water out of a wine glass. Roman was aware that his drinking habits were far from regular. For one, tequila was something most people consumed in shots, and Roman had grown accustomed to drinking full glasses. He was no longer phased by the stinging of his throat, and he was currently intoxicated to the point that it didn’t burn whatsoever. He gawked at Bellamy, a crooked grin forming on his face. 

“I’m just happy to have you back.” Being without his best friend had been a kind of unbearable that he’d been unable to express to Bellamy in words. Not that he’d ever tell him, because Roman knew it would only make him feel worse. No matter how many times Roman reassured him that he understood his reasons for leaving, there always seemed to be this perpetual air of guilt surrounding him.  But that simply who Bellamy was— completely unselfish to the point that he faulted himself for factors beyond his control. Roman knew it hadn’t been easy— returning to the last place you wanted to be, and finding that there was change all around you. Finding one of your best friends a shell of his former self. The differences in Roman were far more obvious than he’d liked, and there was a point in time he’d convinced himself Bellamy wouldn’t like what he found. But Bellamy reminded him once again, what Roman knew deep down all along, that their bond was as unbreakable as ever.

 “Remember that time Marcelo, you, and I rode the carousel  drunk?” he slurred reminiscently, the amusement at himself growing and growing which each spoken word. “And I fell off the horse and threw up, and the conductor tried to kick us off of it.” He reached for the wine glass, repositioning himself on the couch so his back was on the armrest, his legs crossed in front of him, in order for him to face Bellamy. “And Marcelo tried to fight the conductor, so we all just ended up leaving anyway.” Roman then erupted into laughter, nearly forgetting the entire purpose of him telling Bellamy the story. “But how I feel right now? I feel like I’m spinning on a carousel. I almost feel like everything might just end up being okay. Papa and Rafaella and all.” He smiled at Bellamy in drunken admiration. “You reassure me that things will be okay, and they always end up being okay. Are you sure you’re not a wizard, Bells? You’ve definitely got the hair for it.” Whatever that fucking meant. 

Bellamy was wonderful at many things. Traveling had necessitated a conversational aptitude for six-and-a-half different languages (he’d never quite gotten the hang of Russian) while he’d always been adept at brewing tea and coffee. He was passable at sailing a boat, and he was actually quite good at picking out constellations scattered across the night sky. One thing Bellamy was not particularly wonderful at was drinking. 

He loved wine, of course. He’d sampled wines from across the world, finding favorites from many different regions. But liquor had never been so kind as him. More often than not, he’d been called a lightweight, though he far preferred suggesting that he had a divine affinity to any drink that burned the back of his throat. It affected him like nothing else, and he could already feel himself swooning just looking at the full glass of tequila Roman had poured for himself. 

“Just seeing you with that much liquor in one glass gives me a hangover.” Especially because his head was already aslosh with drunk monologues and lines from Burns. There were nights when being drunk only brought about regret and remorse, but with Roman, he was able to let go of some of his burdens long enough to enjoy himself. It was a blessing, and it shone through as a smile now. Even when Roman brought up the too-long absence, Bellamy was able to hold onto the warmth of his return, of walking into arms that felt like home no matter how long it had been since they’d last met. “You’re never shaking me now, you know that. From tonight until the ends of the earth, I’ll be dogging your every step and cleaning up your messes.” He clinked his glass against Roman’s and took another long drink of his wine. Once the glass was empty, he forsook formality and took the bottle in hand. 

He laughed effortlessly with Roman at the tale of their former drunken antics, the night flooding his memory as if it had just happened. Bellamy felt as invincible tonight as he had then, warmth coursing in his veins thanks to present company and vintage vineyards. Nothing could touch him -- except her name. He knew that Rafaella had broken Roman’s heart. Worse, he knew that it was all his fault. If he hadn’t left her, she would have never had the chance to use Roman. (Worst, Bellamy was still thinking of her constantly, another sin to add to a list growing longer each day). 

His mood shifted tremendously with Roman’s blind faith in everything being alright, but Bellamy tried to avoid making it obvious. “Don’t you dare ever compare my hair to that of a wizard’s ever again, Roman Montague. Not until I’m old and sitting on the front porch with a beard to match. And even then, I might just curse you.” The jokes are light, but Bellamy’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He doesn’t comment on how Roman is so convinced the he holds the keys to happiness in his palms, simply tries to maintain a mood that had ebbed. 

Aware that Roman knew him far too well not to pick up on the minor changes in his demeanor, Bellamy set about to redirect their conversation. “And whose skirt are you currently chasing, Ro? It’s been a while since I’ve heard about your thralls.” A segue back to neutral territory, though one that brought about its own pains. He’d always support Roman in his conquest of Verona’s heart and virginity, though he’d always sacrificed a part of himself to do so. It was some latent part of him, deep and bright and still burning. It was the same part of him that produced jealousy. 

  Home, he had said, brow knitted together faintly – he did so while gazing at her, and she could see the searching there, in those light hues, now darkened with determination. Not your home, he had said. Mine, he had said. The lights danced before her eyes, winking like the stars above, despite the fact that they were here, wrapped around her fingertips, alighting in his hair. When one looked at him – or at least when she looked at him – she saw the son of Apollo, the beloved of Artemis, the favored of Aphrodite. In this man, this beautiful, breaking boy, she had once seen her home. There had been no need for a ‘yours’ or ‘mine’. There had only been the understanding of theirs. For she had been his. And he had been her home.

   Her hand was still on him, pressing every so slightly into the muscle there, the singular touch wreaking havoc in the being of a warmonger. Remember once, her ghosts whispered into her ear, their voices as faint as autumn leaves in the wind, when this touch had given you nothing but peace? But their murmurs of malcontent were nothing in the face of the voice of Bellamy, bidding her to come home.

   Clouded blue hues flickered towards the east, towards what she had made her home, away from the home that had been destroyed in the fire of a lighter, in the smoke of opiates and ambrosia. Then his pinky had slipped into hers, cautious and hesitant, tender and nostalgic. Logic was forgone when the singular motion of his pinky hooking into hers calmed the havoc that was wreaked in equal parts by the demons and dead ones scouring in the corners of her gaze, and by the man who had kissed her once-tender heart, then forsaken it in one fell motion. The war raging within her was decimated. The war within her was quieted.

   “I think I must forsake the very notion of safety when I’m with you, Bellamy.”

   To believe that one is safe with him was to kiss the Angel of Death and be surprised when she stole your soul away. But if the Angel of Death were to come in the form of a golden-skinned boy with such curly hair, the sun hanging from the corner of his lip, then she should beg him to steal her soul away. She shook her head, the fevered haze making the motions feel oh so slow as she began to pull away. Her tongue felt so terribly thick but she could taste the faint sweetness of ambrosia, tainted with fae’s blood. Before she could try to pull away any more, before she could try to let her feet carry her to reason, his arm was pulling her close and she was helpless to resist, for it was so easy to tuck herself into his side.

   The lights settled like a blanket above their heads, winking and shining, alighting on their hands, cheeks, hair. The shadows followed them doggedly, nipping at the edges of her vision, biting at the heels of their feet. But then, before she knew it, he was whispering the last murmur of poetry into her ear, and the door of the place he had called home ( she looked at him and could TASTE the word, she looked at him and could FEEL the word settling on the tip of her tongue ). “I think I would much rather have a cup of tea and i biscotti, per favore.” She replied, head turning this way and that, resting on the few items that marked this place as Bellamy’s, that shown how he had claimed this place as his. But again and again, she found herself lingering on him.

  She sat on the arm of the couch, manifestations of the tainted ambrosia making her stir – a tremble in her bottom lip, a tremor of her head, a fluttering of lashes. Made all the worse by the memories painting themselves before her, made all the worse by staying in the apartment with him. The birthday notes she had sent to him with a bouquet of forget-me-nots and baby’s breaths, quiet moments where he had brushed her hair back or murmured to her when he believed her to be asleep. ( I love you too, she had thought to herself, more than anything, more than anything ).

   The kettle screamed and she felt herself start, eyes turning away from the window to watch him busy himself with readying the tea. Pushing herself off the couch, she made her way to the kitchen, tying her hair up as she did so, movements slow and deliberate. “I can get i biscottimyself,” she assured him, squeezing between his frame and the cabinet where she felt like she knew they would be. Likely in the same sort of cabinet where they had been kept in the Santo Domingo household. Closest cabinet to the fridgerator. Second shelf so the younger children couldn’t reach them. Her hands clasped around the prize and she turned to put them down, only to found herself gazing at the cup in his hands. The consigliere felt her lips part, his name escaping them like a soft ache, “Bellamy.”

   She turned away from him, back towards the counter, hands resting against the cold surfacfe as she shoved the box away. Even then, she could feel him behind her. Like a star is aware of the star closest to it. Celestial planets inevitably pulled by one another. Inescapably so. Shadows and lights danced before her eyes. She squeezed them shut and leaned more heavily against the counter, limbs slow to respond to the jack-rabbit thoughts in her head. Pull him closer. Run away. “Bellamy, we haven’t spoken to one another in years. There is a reason for it.” She paused, then corrected herself softly, voice tainted with a quiet pain, “Rea-sons.”

He had left Verona in the pursuit if brighter futures and eternal sunrises. While there had been parts of his life he had loved (people he had loved), the past was to remain firmly in the past. He was to let go, move on, find himself in new countries and forgotten trails. Nearly fifty poems were written with such themes, and they had shimmered like gold within his journals. But a day, a week, a month away from them, he had noticed the gold beginning to peel away like foil. Such notions were gilded at best, covering up a history that felt more like drug than tome. 

That’s what this was, wasn’t it? What she was? An addiction? The thought suffocated him, made it difficult to swallow (as if he hadn’t had these thoughts before at two in the morning, staring at old pictures and saved messages). There was a certain high that came with being around Rafaella, and it was somehow more intense since his return. She was laced with something new and dangerous, something more tempting and terrifying than ever. Without needing to lift a finger, she could beckon him, and he would come every time. He would try to fight her, fight this intense need to eradicate all the years they’d spent apart, but he would always fail. She was the addiction he could never surrender, the high that only escalated with each encounter. 

“And those reasons are nothing short of idiocy,” he responds, watching her every move as she drew nearer to him. Surely he had to be hallucinating now, to have Rafaella Capulet in his kitchen, dropping his name so gently despite the crushing effect it had on all common sense left within him. “Idiocy on my part. I should have never stopped calling, and I should have returned sooner.” For you. His own sanity had kept him abroad, and he had found semblances of happiness outside of Verona. It was better than the inherent misery of being within the city walls, his only hope for joy in people that have long since forgotten how it felt to be whole. She was the key to his survival now, or at least to the survival of his heart. “It was my fault, but you already know that. You’ve blamed me for it ever since I returned. I saw it in your eyes at the bar, and I can see it in you now. Hearing it from me absolves nothing.” 

He realized he was still holding the kettle in one hand. It felt strange, forcing himself out of confessional to do something as inconsequential as placing the kettle back atop the stove. It made him feel more human, less holy. 

“There are more obvious reasons for us to be apart now, I suppose. By name, you’re the enemy. You have a reputation to uphold. I’m sure you’ve moved on, and courting old flames is an easy way to burn yourself.” He was speaking indirectly, eyes fixated on the floor as he leaned against the counter. “But those don’t feel visceral enough to demand silence. They make good excuses, naturally, but is that enough?”

He didn’t know why he was still speaking. He knew that he should stop, settle for pouring tea and making the bed for her so she could sleep off whatever hallucinations had driven her to him tonight. There was a way to emerge from this evening relatively unscathed, yet he insisted upon driving the knife deep into his own back. What would Roman think, if he knew they were stealing a moment like this? She’d broken his heart, and here Bellamy stood, trying to piece her back into the masterpiece he’d always known her to be. 

“There is no reason other than my own mistake, and I’ve punished myself for it far more severely and frequently than you’ll ever manage.” Every step through Verona was a painful memory of the times they’d spent together when the world was still light enough to carry. Every night he couldn’t stop himself from thinking of her. Every time he heard of another dispute between the Montagues and Capulets, he couldn’t help but worry for her safety. Despite spending four years building a version of himself that he could love, he found self-loathing often outweighed self-love whenever he thought of her. 

He picked up a mug of tea, so full it spilled over onto his fingers. It burned for just a moment before cooling, an angry red splotch all that was left to speak of the mistake. Carefully, he straightened, and closed the distance between them. His fingers brushed hers as he pressed the mug into her hands, reveling in how she sent sparks coursing through him. He never felt more alive than he did at her side, as if she held the key to unlocking the entirety of him. 

Odessa considers the state of the street around them with a certain tired nonchalance, as though she hadn’t given much thought to the tug of rising water beneath the soles of her rubber boots, decidedly less concerned by the rain in comparison to everything else currently flooding through her life. Maybe this was what the city needed: something to wash away the lies and violence, leaving behind bare-boned truth. Her attention flits back to Bellamy, attempting to soothe the worry on his face with another gentle smile before offering a response. “I just– I really needed to get out.” The temptation to leave it at that hovers in the hollow of her mouth but she knows better than to keep the truth from him. His talent at picking apart the ever-shifting kaleidoscope shapes that haunt her until they’re merely unthreatening colourful pieces makes for a reassuring safety net. “My apartment feels suffocating and I can’t sleep and I think, maybe, that it’s better to just keep myself busy instead. Which, I guess, is why you’re out here too.”

She follows him silently and studies his face from beneath her hood, the shop sign casting delicate features in a faint glow that catches the shine of his eyes and the damp curls of hair stuck to his forehead. Angelic. Benevolent. Gentle. Bellamy’s question swims through her head despite the roaring of the rain and she has to bite her tongue to stop herself from answering with a fierce-hearted, grief-prompted, you and your colleagues can find my father’s murderer rather than stand around in puddles. Wet fingers grip a little tighter around the leash in her hand. “I don’t know,” she says instead, voice only just louder than a whisper. Odessa watches the way the water dripping from the overhang catches in the low light. There was beauty in storms, despite their destruction. “Did you drive here, Bell? If you have time, can we sit in the car for a little while?” Her father’s dog, as obedient as she supposes she had been if not slightly less aware of context, picks up on the command and lowers his back legs to the ground. She isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “I want to do something that doesn’t involve staring at my bedroom ceiling.”

Of everyone in this godforsaken city, Bellamy was the most apt to understand the need to escape for a little while. He had left against the warnings that he may not be able to return, that things would not be the same. After eighteen years, he needed to breathe foreign air. Despite the tempest plaguing Verona today, he could imagine the entrapment of an apartment warranting a walk. 

“Better to try helping people than stay up all night worrying about them anyway,” he relented. They were both here against common sense, after all. 

A comfortable silence fell between them briefly, and for the first time since this storm began, Bellamy could appreciate the sound of raindrops striking the pavement, cars sloshing through puddles, and thunder clapping overhead. It sent a certain electricity through the streets, forcing Verona to be alive with something other than the ghosts clinging to darkened alleys and faulty shop signs. 

Cel: don't kid yourself

Cel: you'd be nothing without your hair

Cel: i would make a fine torso

Cel: but alas, you have foiled my long-term plot to gray your hairs prematurely

bell: i've often dreamed of your torso, in fact

bell: it's quite possibly the best part of your body, considering it can't speak and lacks fists

Cel: always so punctual with your booty calls

Cel: alive

Cel: missing 3 limbs but who needs em

bell: yet you're always so horrible at responding to them

bell: it's like you're trying to give me gray hairs

bell: you know how unattractive that'd be

bell: it's that time of night yet again

bell: you still alive?

Then we go.

   She couldn’t help but wonder if those words felt dead in his mouth, having been left there to decay between his lips. But had they been birthed in the first place? Had he ever thought to say them to her when she had hugged him much the same way in an airport years ago, when her heart was whole and hope was something tangible and held within her hands ( in her arms ) instead of a bitter sentiment? There were many ghosts she had confronted tonight, but the ghost of these dead syllables were ones that she loathed most viscerally. Her tongue felt heavy, her throat felt dry. She ached all over. But when he took her hand, coaxing her towards an exit that her fevered eyes didn’t quite see, all she could think of were the days when he used to do this freely. Then all she could think of were the days when they lived on the same side of the Castelvecchio and the sun set on them both. Now it only rises on her, alone.  

   “We shouldn’t –“ she began, the words nothing more than a frustrated murmur dying away as the shadows darted in and out of the edges of her vision, leering at the sight of their hands joined together. This was the utmost of the sins she has committed. This would, undoubtedly, be the thing to damn her to hell, the singular touch of a peacemaker and a warmonger.

   Rafaella Capulet, so proud and haughty, had to turn her fevered eyes away from the sight in shame. Instead, she focused on the soured taste of alcohol on her tongue, on the way her body ached and bruised from scars and wounds fading. Even that was far more preferable than the pain of looking at something she had once considered treasured and true.

   In the quiet of their footsteps in the stairwell, he began to speak, the vowels and consonants echoing in the space making no sense to her until she forced herself to pause and listen. Even the howling demons and ghosts that trailed behind them fell silent. But then the melancholy of it all made them shriek with laughter, the ghosts murmuring in their spidery whispers about how this special form of agony was reserved for her. She did nothing to stop him though, for there was a weakness in her that was unique to him, to them, and she had no choice but to listen and endure as what remained of her heart began to fracture more. What he had meant as a thing of comfort was causing her far more pain than he could have hoped to save her from. The demons and ghosts began to vanish, their work finished. Now there was only this fevered reality of moving lights and quiet sounds.

   He used to murmur these poems into her ear as forms of comfort, she remembered, hand trembling in his. What a nuanced way to inflict pain.

   “Where are you taking me, soldato?” She asked, voice quiet as the words danced in her head in a melancholy waltz, turning and turning, offering her no escape. The night is shattered…I kissed her again and again under the endless sky…I loved her too…I loved her too… Lies and half-truths, a spidery whisper murmured into her ear, fading in tandem with the drugged visions.She loved me too. A singular, lonely truth.

   The moon shown above and the dim rays that it granted them danced before her eyes, blue hues searching this way and that for something constant, something that wasn’t shifting. Their feet were moving, Bellamy never ceasing in his attempt to make her safe – when the reality was this: she was the only dangerous thing there was. Safety had been a false promise found in the circle of his arms. Rafaella slowed their pace, legs weary and worn. But the pain of his poems was still palpable, digging its vice-like grip into her chest. She tugged on his hand, hand on his shoulder and turning him about, forcing him to face her. “Where are you taking me, Montague?”

Soldato. Montague. Once upon a time, sweeter words had fallen from her lips, ones that didn’t evoke war and the bitter necessity of tying your name to one side of the Castelvecchio. She had always known how to slip beneath his skin and seep into his veins. Once, she had filled him with love. Now, it felt more like poison. It bogged him down, making each step heavy with regret, remorse, guilt, longing. It nearly grounded him when she pulled on his shoulder, but it was hope and latent love that turned him to face her. He hated that she still stole his breath, half-crazed and standing amongst streets that had only ever haunted him. 

“Home.” He locked eyes with her, and he swore he could see a piece of their past shimmering within. “Not your home -- mine. It’s safe there, I promise.” He turned the hand still resting in hers so that his little finger hooked around hers. Promise. Such a motion should have felt juvenile, but it calmed him, and he could only hope that it would have the same effect on her. 

Not wanting her to have an opportunity to set the stage for a scene on the streets, he pulled her in, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and began walking briskly towards his apartment. He’d bought it when he agreed to come back, though his mother had fought against it. She’d sworn that his place was within the walls of the Santo Domingo Estate where he could best learn the lessons his father had left to teach. Thinking about it, even now, left him with a hollowness typically reserved for those facing a lifetime in jail. Luckily, he’d been able to negotiate probation, and he’d moved into a flat in the center of Verona. It was smaller than most, but it had a balcony and rooftop garden. Sometimes that was escape enough. 

Tonight was the first night he could view home as a sanctuary. It wasn’t far, and it was a place that, until this evening, had been vacant of memories. He whispered her poetry for the rest of the walk, drawing her close to him whenever he felt her shoulders tense. He loathed letting her go, standing at his doorstep, and his fingers fumbled with the keys until he forced himself to breathe in, to taste oxygen rather than perfumed intoxication. The door swung open, and he ushered Rafaella inside, immediately directing her to the couch as he stepped towards the adjoining kitchen. 

“Burnt eggs or burnt toast?” he offered, never one to overestimate his cooking ability. He was already brewing tea, not caring so much for flavor but for producing something warm that Rafaella could hold between her hands without fear of heartbreak. His own heart was pounding against his ribcage, threatening to tear apart the stitches he’d haphazardly sewn into it after leaving her side. it urged him to look for his constantly, to ensure that she was alright, to try to fix whatever had moved her to this point tonight. He refused to believe that he didn’t have the proper tools, that his shortcomings were no longer charming but disappointing, that Rafaella may need something much, much greater than himself. 

He envied her, briefly. All of her neuroticism stemmed from hallucinations. His grew from painful real memories and regrets. He was grounded firmly in a world where he knew he had no right to touch her, comfort her, try to heal her. It was sacrilege, bringing her here, trying to lock out the demons chasing her through walking nightmares. How he ached, wanting to give her the world while combating the knowledge that he had been the one to abandon their future. 

The kettle sung, and he jolted. It was as he had been on the edge of something tragic only to be jarred from the siren song by a reality so visceral it stung. He felt somewhat dazed, pouring hot water into a mug he’d picked up from Barcelona. He’d selected it randomly, but he couldn’t help wandering back towards the edge. Barcelona was the last time he’d heard from her. They’d talked, his face a blur over their phones thanks to a connection that was barely holding the stream. He’d wanted to show her the beach, but he was sure she’d only seen the hazy colors of a setting sun behind him. I miss you, he’d told her, but I’ll be back soon. 

“I can take care of myself”, she promised. Maeve scrunched her nose at the thought of sainthood, reminded of the way so many used the word far less kindly than Bellamy had. Some people simply thought that she was stupid, self-righteous, painfully naïve. “I really can, you know? Cross my heart! Which is why I couldn’t just stay home. I wanted to help – like you do.”

Bellamy helped - she was reminded of it even by something as small as being steered away from the water. Maeve knew that she was not as strong as he was, not as experienced or capable. What she did have was the ability to see things less bleakly than most people did, with a little more empathy – and what use would there have been to that if she stopped acting on it? There were certain risks that she was willing to take.

“But I don’t need to put myself first – I’m doing great.” She gave him a bright smile, unfaltering even as the sound of thunder echoed through the streets. “Especially now that I have the finest police officer in all of Verona accompanying me.”

As much as Bellamy wanted to believe her, he knew better than to take Maeve’s belief in her own safety seriously. She was too bright a light to shine in Verona, and there were far too many demons lurking in the shadows waiting for just the right moment to slink out and steal that glimmer. Maeve was Verona’s best hope, so long as her naivety didn’t prove her undoing. 

He kept his concern to himself, perhaps because she so easily turned his own concerns against him. The whispers of Verona were often more heard as shouts, and he knew how others felt about him. He was asking for trouble with every breath devoted to peace, and while he could hold his own in a fight, his disdain for bloodshed would likely leave him at a disadvantage. They were cut of the same cloth then, he and Maeve. 

“You have me strictly because you aren’t putting yourself first. If you won’t do it, someone must.” He guided her gently around a particularly large puddle. How easy life would be if they could simply side step every obstacle glaringly appearing before them.