Realistic or Modern 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔟𝔲𝔯𝔫

[Uxie]

heart
burn

uxie + oxicodone

oxicodone

 

[oxicodone]

dante

the hitman

───── ᴘʀᴏʟᴏɢᴜᴇ ─────​

The veil that separates man from sin; devil from men, it poises a rotting feeling alongside guilt. A buzz-like thrill, not short of cold, hard stone that possesses the heart in the most demanding of times. Here's how you craft this feeling:

a dark, six-button wool and silk suit, a cotton shirt in-between a dark vest and said suit, foreign, white cuffs by some designer bozo, a silk tie by another, and rich, tar-painted shoes that the guy at the store had stressed as "very expensive leather wing tips". Whatever the fuck that meant. And, behind it all, stashed within the vest: a single colt m1911 with a fitted silencer. In one pocket: a burner phone. For the cleaners.

The veil is both the wardrobe and the act. Pretense donned in face and body, all of it just to be allowed into a space Dante has never set foot inside before. And, maybe it's the months of training, years of conning experience, or maybe it's just the clothes, but he easily slips into role. Carries a flute glass in one hand, a smile on his face, and an air about him that could trick the Gods, themselves.

"Mr. Graham."

"Mr. Caron."

Behold: he even reacts to the name of the identity he's borrowed for the night.

"Please, I've told you many times to call me by my name," the man laughs, the sound reverberating from his throat in a rich symphony.

"One day I'll remember,"

Dante laughs back. Perhaps the one thing he hadn't been provided with: details about the role he was playing + the partygoers. Hadn't earned himself a real spot at the agency just yet, and, in a way, this was all still a test. Needed to prove himself; up his reputation before the boss offered him any true form of security.

"How are the children?"

"Oh, you know. School's got them busy."

"School? In summertime?"

"Would you look at the time,"

Dante shoots his (watchless) wrist a glance before searching the crowd.

"I've gotta greet the man of the party. Nice seeing you Mr. Caron."

A twitch of a smile, a quick tap on the old man's shoulder, and Dante's off. Venturing into the crowd with a target in mind.

Right. The target. Louis Müller. Son of an upcoming salesman, said to have amassed his wealth through hardly legal means, rumored to own an island. Y'know, all that high-end shit that is only passed around within the rich man's world. He's the target of many, really. Dante's client just happened to offer the highest price.

And, right now, he's off hands. Safe on a platformed stage; a balcony open towards the first floor where all the guests await his appearance.

Dante's counted the security, bathrooms, staircases, and possible routes. He chooses a lone spot at a wall, one which allows him to react for when Louis moves on to his next destination. After he's finished his little speech — (which, what was it. Something about charity?). Once the speech starts, he (Dante) steps into one of the numerous hallways of the estate. Doesn't need big-shots coming up to him, badmouthing the guy they pretend to revere while the speech takes place.

 

[Uxie]

lilliana

the songbird

Tonight, Lilliana is not quite the picture of elegance.

She rarely is, to be fair, but it is a little bit more damning not to be in a setting like this. It was truly an honest mistake, getting lost in a sprawling house like this that seems closer to a palace than anything close to a manor like they'd called it. They'd left her to her own devices, after she'd greeted Mr. Müller — Please, call me Louis, the old man had said, and she'd nearly cringed visibly — dismissed her with not so much as a maid to guide her back. It is wholly expected for a girl of her age and stature and situation to wander off in search of what treasures and secrets lay in such hallowed halls, no?

She is beginning to understand why they never bring her out to functions like this.

Nevertheless, time had escaped her while she'd futilely tried to make meaning of the paintings that hung in Mr. Müller's dimly lit gallery, and her only cue had been the chime of a distant grandfather's clock. Now, Lilliana sprints through the maze of hallways, heels in her hand and gown hiked up to her knees and formerly pristine braid rapidly coming loose with every step. What would Mother say, if she sees her now?

Maybe a few dismissive words here and there — it isn't like she'd been the one to make the braid for her, anyway. Lilliana would have to do her best to replicate Annie's work when in the privacy of her dressing room. For now, finding the dressing room is of more import.

It felt like a left over here—

"Oh!"

She veers sharply to the side to avoid the man who suddenly appears as she rounds the corner, stumbling and twirling in a clumsy dance.

"I'm so, terribly sor—"

Her voice falters as she rights herself, her gaze lifting to take in features that are surprisingly familiar. A moment of silence hangs, before realisation dawns on her all at once. Her currently very bare feet, suddenly feeling every lick of the carpet beneath her; Afternoons spent peering out at him from a window of the orphanage building; When she'd coaxed his name out of her roommate with a hundred cookies and a thousand chocolates.

"Dante,"

she murmurs, and she can only hope the flush that had found its way onto her cheeks is no more noticeable beneath the layers of blush she has on. The embarrassment of coming face-to-face with him is less related to her past infatuation, and more about him being a memory of a time she'd sooner forgotten, in a place she'd been least expecting it to surface.

Should she just pretend not to know him? It is what Father would've demanded her to do, surely, but she has never been very good at listening to instructions. A quick conversation couldn't hurt.

Her hesitation lasts only a second longer before she seems to split into reality again, her gown dropping to the floor once more in an unceremonious move. A sheepish smile slips onto her lips.

"My apologies! I was not expecting, um,"

She fumbles for the right words, her voice coming out in an ashamed squeak as she continued,

"I wasn't looking where I was going."

 

[oxicodone]

dante

the hitman

They're all decorated the same. Walls painted in wheat and earthy tones, chandeliers dangling from every new ceiling. Upon wood; mis-matched berber carpets leading from one hallway to another. If Dante's to memorize his way back, there's frankly nothing to go off of. Statues and paintings and plants are not enough. Not when they fail to differ so. Rich man's taste 'n all. So, instead, Dante counts. In his head, he goes

A left, a right, another left. Count one, count two, count three hallways crossed. A third left —

and — pause! Suddenly.

He's quick.

Quick when he yanks his head down from the clouds, even quicker when he tears through a-many names and details, hoping to acknowledge her before she does him — (counts it a loss when he doesn't. He really hasn't studied enough. Never been much for a student) — so, then, who is she?

Circling around him is feathers of gold; a crown that would've crashed right into his shoulder if not for her slippery little dance. Quick on her feet, recognizable from her gait, recognizable by the way she speaks. The way she sounds her words. Even when she cuts her sentence short. Then, recognizable and familiar from the scent of spring; dual-kunzites searching something in him — him in her. They both look to the other, him for clues, her for realization. It comes to her first. And the very way she sings his name; unlike a bark, closer to a flower — not like the boys from the street, not like his faceless employer, but like —

"Lily."

On his tongue, her name is a question. He means to add "shit, it's really you?" but what comes out instead is:

"you're..."

"you've really changed."

('Cause god forbid he pays mind to anything more important right now.)

Dante can't remember if they'd ever spoken before. Two lone kids among too many a dozen. Robbed of a typical childhood; barred to a house of other unwanted children. And, was she anything more than that? Dante decides he can't remember.

 

[Uxie]

lilliana

the songbird

Her nickname, said so gently like he was thinking of white petals and not white-blonde hair. Despite it all, her heart does a meagre flip in her chest, and Lily wonders if she's a little more sentimental than she'd thought.

It's far more logical, though, to just presume that she's no more resilient to a handsome face than she had been at nine years old.

She had not expected him to know her name. The conversation would've ended with an apology, and she'd think of him for the night and no longer. It is a natural assumption, after all, considering they'd never spoken — she would remember if they had, just as she remembers signing her name, all cute and pretty, on her parting gift to him. As if he'd been anything more than a name and a face to her.

The thought mortifies her. She tries not to let it show.

"You've really changed."

Her eyes widen as surprise flits across her features.

"I didn't expect you to— remember me,"

she begins, words coming haltingly. What had she been like back then? She didn't think she was very much different, only that she was packaged like the young princess of a wealthy family now.

"I suppose I have."

An uncomfortable silence befalls them, and Lily allows it only a moment before she interjects, snatching at the first phrase that comes to mind with desperate fingers.

"How have you been? You look, ah—"

She finally gives his appearance a once-over, taking in the smart suit and the tussle of stark-white hair that has always painted an intimidating visage — it is the faintest sense of weariness in his gaze, accented by the hint of darkness beneath his eyes, that gives her pause. She knows nothing of where life had taken him after she'd left, and she had not thought to write back to the orphanage in the least; what little longing she'd carried with her to the Romanos had been swept away by the first spring breeze.

She's curious, of course, but it almost feels somewhat rude to ask. Then again, his mere presence before her is an answer to her question, and she grabs the thought and runs with it.

"Well."

she finishes simply, mauve lips curling into a smile,

"I've heard Mr. Müller's quite picky with his guestlists, so you must have been taken in by someone quite outstanding."

 

[oxicodone]

dante

the hitman

Truth's this: Dante hadn't expected himself to remember her just as much as he'd expected to run into her in the chokingly lavish corridor of a seven digit manor. He'd known just about enough (or so he'd like to believe). Lily was her name — had been her name for the better part of his childhood, and from the few peeks and guesses exchanged in the past, Dante knew her as nothing more than a kid next door. One of bundles of gold, eyes large enough to collect stars. A foggy memory of the hint of her smile, another of a present with her name scribbled on it —

— How have you been?

Dante blinks. Reality had never been prettier than the memories from the orphanage. And yet, here she stands. A tempest against his own logic.

He spares her a wordless moment; allows her to find whatever she's searching for. Then, his eyes dance across the hall. Over her shoulder.

"'Guess so."

"We graduated together,"

he lies. Here, his gaze returns to her own. He adds:

"I've got business with him."

Runs a quick scan down her person and settles on a long stare at her shoeless feet.

"You?"

 

[Uxie]

lilliana

the songbird

His answers are disappointingly curt, and take her by surprise. Graduated? From what, she thinks to ask, for the lord of the estate was surely far too old to be in the same cohort as—

His gaze shifts downwards, and what suspicion had roused in her mind is immediately overwhelmed by embarrassment. She chides her past self as her feet move to hide, stepping over one another, toes trying — and failing — to catch on the edge of her gown as if it could make for a shelter from piercing dark eyes. Her hands move, too, to hide the shoes dangling from her fingers behind her dress.

"You?"

The single-worded question pulls her back to the reality of her situation, the very reason she'd been fleeing down this hallway; if her expression does not betray her alarm, her words surely do:

"Oh, my goodness."

In a few quick, clumsy steps, she flounders past his form to trade positions with him in the hallway.

"I'm a guest, and a performer,"

Her glee is all-too-evident, even as she tries to continue with some semblance of sophistication,

"Mr. Müller and my father are business partners, and he, well, he said he'd like to hear me sing."

It sounds right spoken aloud, but Lily would sooner admit she knows little of what her family's real connection to the wealthy man is. All the same to her, really.

Her posture straightens, and a gloved hand comes to rest proudly against her chest.

"I'm a good singer, they tell me I remind them of a nightinggale! You really must—"

She hesitates, as if suddenly aware of her insolence, and her cheeks turn rosy.

Is it silly to want to impress him? Perhaps she is eager to show off just how much she has changed — blossomed into a bright young lady in the seven summers since they'd seen one another.

A finger toys with her necklace, feeling ridges of gold through thin silk, and her voice drops softer, in a bashful lilt.

"You would see me perform?"

 

[oxicodone]

dante

the hitman

Eyes are forced up and away; she slips past him and Dante blinks up, finds her crown again. Her words travel over his own, he belatedly turns his shoulder to half-face her, and...

sing?

(Feels a-something prick his neck, almost goes to scratch at it.)

"Sing?"

he echoes, like he needs to taste the word before he registers it. Then, twenty things dawn at him all at once. Her presence, the manner of her speech, her necklace, the time, the target, her role, his role —

A crack; a curl. Only one corner before the other fills in, and his lips are drawn in a weak, upward tilt before he knows it. Before he can find it in him to control it. He means to say 'course I'll see it, and he means for it to be truth. But he lies, again, this time while looking her in the eye.

"I'll see it,"

and this time, his attention fails to wander.

 

[Uxie]

lilliana

the songbird

The corners of her lips lift as her heart does, some solace that she might see a welcome familiar face in the crowd later. The smile is a dashing look on his mien, and she thinks to joke that she is about to fall for him all over again — she swipes away the thought quickly.

"Good,"

Her eyes flash glee as she begins to step away, never breaking away from his gaze.

"You promised!"

She turns, takes two steps, and then turns back and drops into as elegant a curtsy as she can manage; when she rises, it is with a bounce to her movement and a tender smile in her gaze.

"It is nice to see you again, Dante."

she says, and she means it wholeheartedly for a man dressed up in a suit and looking flawlessly at home within a world she's come to know better than the dusty walls of the orphanage. She does not wait for a reply before she trots off, mind milling about the next time they might speak. After her performance? At another function?

It feels, almost, as if she has finally gained an ally. A fragment of affinity she didn't even know she needed, a piece of validation that she was not as out of place as she felt beneath her mother's disparaging gaze.

Her performance later might be the best she has ever done, even as her eyes search partygoers for smiling dark eyes or a flash of white hair. He is not there after, either, when her father brings her around to his associates once more, or when her mother tugs her toward the heavy doors of the estate exasperatedly.

"Stop dawdling. It's time to go, Lilliana."

Pulling, harder, and she stumbles along, even as she remains unable to tear her gaze away.

"Lilliana," She spits her name like a curse.

"Lilliana!"

Her body is still being shaken like a ragdoll when she opens her eyes, greeted by the sight of knit brows and a narrowed green gaze. Her brain is still sluggish from the fog of sleep and a mess of upturned memories, and it is two blinks after that she finally registers her roommate — she can only murmur a question.

Slender hands release her arms, and Felicity steps back. "You looked like you were losing it in your sleep, doll. Whining and all."

She pulls her legs close, pale hair hanging over blanketed knees. The sigh that slips from her lips could have sunken a ship with its weight. Lilliana can feel Felicity's gaze on her, still, no doubt itching to press further, but she is thankful, this time, that history is a touchy subject within Madame's halls.

Why that one? It had been years since it'd last crossed her mind, so why now? She's almost sure she'd have been on the verge of forgetting it.

Her heart refuses to settle, and the deep breaths do not help.

Lilliana raises her head, offering a weak smile.

"Bad dream,"

she says, haltingly,

"Thanks for waking me up."

"Well," Felicity runs a hand through dark ringlets. "The mind can be a real bitch."

"A bitch, indeed."

The word still feels foreign on her tongue.

Rose-coloured eyes follow the other woman as she moves towards her own bed, and then the expert motions of her fingers as she clicks the lighter on. The acrid smell of cigarette smoke hits her without warning, but it is not unwelcome.

Eyes squeeze shut; another deep breath.

"You want a hit, doll? I know you're not a smoker, but you look like you need it."

They flutter open again, and she stares at the cigarette extended to her, traces the faint white lines from its smouldering tip.

"You have a show tonight, after all."

She is thirteen, and it is morning. Her father is bringing guests over today. "Lily," Anna's voice is as gentle as her hands against her hair, "Promise me you won't ever start smoking. Such a waste; it'll ruin that pretty voice of yours."

She looks away, presses her head to her knees again. Her fist tightens around the fabric of her blanket.

"I'll be fine."

 

[oxicodone]

dante

the hitman

You promised!

(His name on her tongue; unlike a bourdon's heavy toll, like a chime. Easy, sweet, and distracting.)

You promised!

(It rings and rings. Even as he climbs one staircase after another, hears the symphony and the start of her melody somewhere down one corridor and another.)

You promised!

(Dante rules it as the thing he knows best: guilt. Minute through minute, a back turned, a blade thrust. They'd told him to aim for the nape. He does, and in the thirty seconds of the target's adrenaline-fueled protests, he learns it isn't the same flavor of guilt he'd tasted from an hour prior.)

You promised!

What's a promise to a liar?



The crashing of rain doesn't stab his skin nearly as much the wheel that refuses to spark. His thumb works the thing once, twice, another five times before Dante gives up; slips the faulty lighter inside his coat and removes the cigarette from his lips. A breath escapes him but its ire goes unheard under the weather.

Across from him, on the other side of the road, is a tune. Veering his thoughts in its direction. Whisking several patrons of the same profile as his newest target. Dante waits. Had decided, some hours ago, to do nothing but. But the storm begins to feel like pellets from a firearm, and that damned tune... a bell: a calling. Nicotine would've helped bury it. (How he'd wish it could bury her voice, with it).

His tongue clicks. Decides this: no harm in waiting inside. And, before he can object to his own rule, he takes out a silver cigarette holder, returns the soggy stick to its place. Shuts the case, crosses the road.

James Tarner. 58. On the taller side. Impatient, unpredictable, and — like many from his hit pool — a father. He's Dante's 49th. One kill away from the promised celebratory sum of his 50th mark. He'll make it quick. He'll make it easy. He'll —

"Welcome, sir. Seat number?"

A gold-plated coin flicks his way.

"Seat 4F is available."

Dante thanklessly moves past him. Onward, to the main hall.

 

[Uxie]

act 1

oxicodone

 

[Uxie]

lilliana

the songbird

When she was younger, she thought purity was something priceless, a proclamation of the deepest love for only her most beloved; some years older when she gathered purity was something precious, another bargaining chip on her father's elm wood desk—

Two weeks under Madame's care is when she understood purity was a privilege she was no longer entitled to; worth just about three good bottles of Perrier-Jouët and a parterre seat at a showing of Osud at the fancy opera house downtown.

It is what runs through her mind when she looks at herself in the mirror, silver dress and braided crown. Two fingers pull the fabric tight against her waist. Ten dollars. She needed a pin. Did she see a rip in her stockings? Shuffle it about 'til it's out of sight, even as it chafes against bare skin. She needs to look pretty enough for them to undress her with their gazes.

The girls tell her the gentlemen like her because she reminds them of an angel, something a bit out of reach, something they should worship.

Maybe she should curl that lock of hair to sit on her collarbone, all pretty-like — would that be five more dollars?

The spotlight is her halo, the mask her wings, the song her gospel. She wonders if they revere deities with the same leers they set upon her. It felt blasphemous, but she was no less innocent. An angel might cast divine judgment from above, but there is no doubt she's spent more time laying beneath them.

She blows a kiss to a shaded man seated in a private box; smiles sweetly when he waves over a boy with a wad of cash in hand.

Each note delivered from cherry lips rings dulcet and saccharine, and her gaze glides smoothly back to the main audience, washed in dark anonymity by the dimness of the theatre. She can feel her heartbeat, an unflinching rhythm against the cheerful tiptap of the percussion, so very calculated.

A glint of white flashes in a passing spotlight, and she feels her heart skip a beat. Her note falters subtly, and for just a second, she must turn away; force that glimmering smile back onto her lips, steady a racing heart, and convince herself she can ignore lingering ghosts.

It doesn't stop her from avoiding that corner of the theatre for the rest of the performance.

Had she been stood up?

She's certain the cash had been for her — why else would she have been asked to the Lavender room with a whiskey bottle and two glasses waiting for her? — but it's been far too long. She's nearly halfway through the bottle, and she can feel the warmth of drunkenness begin to settle in her cheeks.

It's not like she's desperate to be bedded, but she needs to make certain she's getting her due. This wouldn't do!

Lilliana pushes herself to her feet, pulls that uselessly thin shawl over bare shoulders. The heavy wood of the door muffles most sounds, but as she reaches for the doorknob, she thinks she hears a crack, like a distant clap of thunder. It gives her pause, and she casts a glance over her shoulder to the window. It's a clear night. What was that, then?

And then, the shuffle of hurried footsteps, a clamourous mix of rapid clicks and thumps, and then her door flings open and she jumps away just as a man barrels into her room. The scream that follows comes not from her mouth — a gloved hand had found its way over lips before she could react — but from the room a few doors down towards the stairs.

It echoes down the hallway for only a moment before the shut of her door silences it, and she is left staring wide-eyed into a dark, weary gaze. The familiarity sobers her in an instant, but the clarity is not in the least bit welcome.

He's in a suit again; it's a damning sight.

She scrambles back as soon as he releases her, hands hurriedly tugging at her shawl like it might serve as a layer of protection, except she is less scared of him than she is of an unseemly past.

His name sits like a stone in her throat, feeling like nothing other than a suffocating, cursed burden.

A shaky breath before the words eke from her lips, brittle and faint,

"You. What are you— why are you here?"

 

[oxicodone]

dante

the hitman

He'd never been one for sweets. Hadn't gone for candy or cakes as a child. Hadn't grown up around them; hadn't grown to like them, even when he'd learnt to stop feeling guilt with every needless purchase. So, when he sees pearls and dimly-lit stars caked into a person, he doesn't lean forward like the man to his left. Doesn't drool at his chin like the man four seats to his right. He sinks back, tastes a metallic bitterness on the tip of his tongue. Learns that caramel can also be bitter.

She's there. It's her, he knows it is. But even under the spotlight, Dante doesn't see her. A sun gone cold.

Half-lidded eyes blink away. Like he's witnessing something he shouldn't. When her attention momentarily flickers his way, Dante is looking over his shoulder. His target makes an exchange; Lily's song doesn't stop just yet.

Cash in a theatre. How subtle.



Maybe it's the years of experience — the trained purpose in his gait — but Dante is down a hallway, past a smile, up a set of stairs with alarming ease. Maybe it's his tie; his watch. Maybe they can smell how heavy it is, and maybe in a place like this, the heavier the wrist, the more they pretend not to see you. And this thought spews forward a new one: why is she in a place like this? Why is —

James Tarner an easy man to follow? Protocol has him flagged as unpredictable. Ah, there. His door.

The knock comes from below. A tired glance goes over his shoulder, a quick scan of his narrow surroundings before the door opens and Dante turns his attention back towards his target — with it, a smile. The years haven't been kind to him; much less this man.

"Mr. Tarner,"

he starts, voice hoarse and heavy from lack of use.

"Yes? Who the hell are you?"

Tick, tick goes his watch. Tarner's an impatient man. He'll spare him the chatter, gives him instead the heel of dark suede shoes. It poises in the air, and by the time Tarner's blinked down and found it, it's buried deep in his stomach; point center lumbar vertebrae. Sends him flying back, crashing against the carpet flooring.

"Ggh, what the fuck — "

An unpredictable man and an unpredictable man killer. The gun whisks out like a dart, points steady, finger on the trigger — BANG!

How many seconds was that? Two? Should've done better. Dante uses the third to turn to his left, then, just as quickly, makes a 180-turn, mutters a

"fuck,"

under his breath and breaks into a stride in the opposite direction of the dinging elevator. But the hallway doesn't end for another six or seven doors, so he picks the fourth one and invites (slams) himself in, shoulder first.


And it seems that God decides time, not Dante's shitty, expensive watch.


Sickly sweet; a scent familiar, and one un-. The thick one comes from the room, signals it as something much more than what it looks. And the bottle, dual-flutes — Dante pretends to not spot them. Eyes her and parts his lips but fails to choose his words. He'd only just said his first word for the day to James.

Then, Lily chooses to scream (good) but his gloved hand promises that she doesn't. And when their eyes meet again, and he knows she sees he's no killer (how funny) looking to shoot her, he lets her slip free. Remembers to shut the door behind him and takes her accusatory you like a knife.

"Shh,"

he tries, holding a finger to his mouth, a palm to the air. When none of the panicked steps make their way to her room, he lowers his hands. Makes sure the gun isn't poking out of his belt; readjusts his suit jacket and... breathes.

Fuck.

His voice stays low, not out of fear that he might get caught, but from a string of other somethings. And it isn't an accusation, it isn't an attempt to redirect the topic, but a futile prayer:

"Why are you here, Lily."

 

[Uxie]

lilliana

the songbird

Her gaze all but flees from his face, darts around the room with the distress of a trapped bird. Another step back, and then it returns, apprehensively, to his face as he speaks, and it must be impossible for him not to see the colour drain from her features when he utters it.

Her voice comes in a murmur before she can catch herself, whispered beneath a quivering breath.

"Don't call me that."

Lily feels like a taunt in the husk of his voice, like she is still a clumsy child wandering around the orphanage or a young girl barefoot in a ballroom. It's funny, if she thinks about it hard enough, that he would use that moniker when they were never close enough to be quite so affectionate. He calls her like she is an old friend.

A scowl itches to slip onto her lips. They were certainly not.

It would take a fool not to guess the meaning of his question, but the answer is a tale she'd rather not tell — to anyone, especially him — and so, she is content to play the part.

"It's my room,"

Lilliana snaps back in a hiss, and the silk of her shawl twists against tense fingers,

"You're the one intruding. The last time I saw you—"

She falls silent, and her gaze drifts again. To the gold that glints on his wrist, to the slightest fold of an otherwise straight-cut collar. He is older, looks wearier, but his expression is unreadable. She thinks she might prefer the predictability of the other men she's seen in such a setting.

"You shouldn't be here,"

she finishes finally, the slightest waver in her voice.

Here, in the room; here, in the opera house; here, outside of her nightmares and forgotten memories. He should not be standing before her.

Lilliana would try pushing him out, but her legs are frozen to the spot, and her body seems more interested in curling into a ball than moving anywhere near him or the door. She would try shrieking, but her voice seems intent on being as small as possible.

He would make a fine target to take those years of resentment out upon, if the frustration had not abandoned her when she needed it most. She is left, merely, watch him warily, back tucked into a corner like he's drawn a ring of salt around her.

 

[oxicodone]

dante

the hitman

It's soft; a song delivered over one sip of air but Dante thinks it snappy. Another knife that she twists well. His brows fall in a wordless response. An unfamiliar feeling pokes at him.

Then she actually snaps, and he blinks it away.

The last time I saw you—

Half-lidded eyes follow hers, partly to gauge a real answer and partly to see if she notices his gun. He wants to ask her again why she's here, who she's waiting for. But he hasn't acted on that part of himself for years. Little devil on his shoulder tells him it's no longer a part of him. And yet one look at dual-camellias has that same nameless feeling spilling back into Dante's gut, churning and barking at him.

The answer —

"You sing well — "

he thinks he can guess by now. It flashes in his mind like a set-ready motion picture: her current state, nestled in the room's crevices, and a man — a James — looming where he stands. An old Dante would've thought it nauseating. This one swallows it down like medicine.

(What happened back then?)


Muffled sounds continue from outside the room. Again, Dante's attention searches the room for a-something.

"Sorry."

He avoids her gaze. The assumption is present in his finger tips as they wander over his chest, poke around the inside of his jacket, and drop to the table several bills.

"Just a while longer."

Continues to block the door because he can't afford not to.

 

[Uxie]

lilliana

the songbird

The compliment sounds empty, his apology feels perfunctory, and the flutter of bills onto the table is too indifferent. It leaves a bitter taste, a little more than fleeting.

"I don't want your money. I want you gone."

The mention of her patron sits readily on her tongue, but it's a different thing to utter aloud. Indecent. Lilliana favours pretence in the end — pretending he has not already surmised it by now, even as he offers remuneration for a service she has yet to offer him; pretending the appearance she holds is anything close to worthy of maintaining, and not a cheap, fraying facade that might rip at the lightest tug.

Call it the last of her dignity, for that young girl who was always so conscious of him, despite shame colouring a constant in every one of their brief interactions. Even at her best, she had always shown him her worst.

Perhaps she would embrace this life one day. Perhaps, also, she might have a fairytale romance with an extremely wealthy patron who happens to be very handsome and very smitten with her. That one is certainly a nicer dream to entertain.

Her words do little to move him, and he continues to guard the door like a stubborn dog. She lets out a defeated sigh, so subdued it is mustered closer to an exhale.

"A while longer what? Why are you in here?"

she asks, her tone irritable. Each thought spills from her lips the moment it forms, so rapidly she doesn't even stop to wonder when she'd found her voice.

"In this room. Get lost?"

She scoffs dispassionately.

"Or did you get kicked out by one of the other girls?"

A pause, and then she adds, a little too meaningfully,

"For being a prick?"

 

[oxicodone]

dante

the hitman

If both were playing their respective roles in a charade, Dante's is not born of dignity. Something else, something unspoken of. To him, refraining from pulling her hair back and slitting the throat of this witness is an act almost instinctive. It's as though he can't bring himself to treat her as he would any other woman who found him where she shouldn't have.

His gaze lowers, with it, any hints of a retort.

But she doesn't know to shut her dolled up face, and whatever ignites in her (that he'd mistaken to be gone when she was on stage) pulls on a cord in his own expression. One corner of his mouth; it stretches, slowly. Forms a dull line.

Dante doesn't look to her.

"A prick?"

"And, what,"

here, he does.

"I look like 'a type to visit girls in pillow houses?"

The more refined speech he'd installed in his system over the years is put on pause.

Again, his attention flits away, over her shoulder and towards the dark bird and branch motifs. The line at his lip cracks forth some shallow smile, and he stresses his words in a poorly acted attempt of realization:

"oh. 'Guess I do."

Dante's voice falls.

(There's a long game to play here.)

"What makes me a prick, though?"

 

[Uxie]

lilliana

the songbird

Her gaze narrows as his accent turns rough, a tear across the facade his suit lends him. Her head tilts, cautiously, but a question is thrown back at her before she can consider it further.

"A lot of things,"

There is indignance there, or a weird form of vigour rediscovered in a supine spirit. What she lacks, on the other hand, is an answer — a good retort, more appropriately. A little pathetic to bring up something, what, a decade ago?

Eight years, actually, though she would like to pretend she did not know. As if the memory had not been burned into her mind, but she would no sooner admit that.

A smile, small and tepid as it is, is still worn handsomely on a face like his. Oh, she is always playing a losing hand with men like him! Lilliana thought she'd ripped enough out of her heart, but it seems she always has more to lose.

After too pregnant of a pause, Lilliana continues, perhaps a bit less confidently,

"You should know what kind of person you are. You look it, too.

"Men like you don't come to places like this, unless they've something egregious to hide. You should know..."

The longer she looks at him, the wider that gash grows — it is the ruffle of his hair and the peek of a dress shirt under the edge of his sleeve and the glove with bared seams from overuse. He is not the picture of a perfect noble, and she wonders why that impression has lasted the years. Were the signs always there? Or had she just ignored the possibility his luck had been no better than hers?

She stiffens again, brows furrowing at her own naivety. Once more, looking for similarities where there were none, and giving him the upper hand unwittingly. She had been through enough to know better.

"So what do you have to hide?"

she begins slowly, and her gaze remains intently on his face,

"Tell me, honestly, or I'll scream."

 

[oxicodone]

dante

the hitman

She moves, he tries not to mirror, and her words — another vague collection of somethings (which he suddenly now prefers) — are delivered with the color of corroded gold. Thinks he understands why she'd been hired here, bitter a thought as it is.

She slips into a quiet, and a moment later he wishes she'd stayed just that.

You look it, too.

God.

If Dante hadn't moved an inch, he now moves two. Stiffens from the shoulders down, and he isn't sure in response to what. He should look it; her words should translate to a job done well.

But under her lurid gaze, he wants to shrink. Feels the lick of a shame he hadn't felt since that one time he got his jaw smashed into concrete.

It's sung like an accusation — (and oh, does she sing well) — and before he knows it, his index finger trails over his thumb. Rubs nail against unfeeling, calloused skin.

"Please don't."

Said quietly, like an afterthought. Noise continues in the hallway behind him.

Dante brings his head up, his chest with — a long, tired breath is drawn. He flickers his attention to the wall behind her, where a window might sit.

"Well,"

he breathes out. Weighs words on a scale and decides he needs a smoke.

"I had a job 'n it got done. A... meeting... with that client of yours."

 

[Uxie]

lilliana

the songbird

His tone is quiet, feels somewhat resigned, and she stifles a twinge of guilt at having added to his weariness. Guilt? For a man intruding in her space? And yet, she can't wipe the feeling from her conscience. Her mouth presses into a thin line, and she waits, patiently — restlessly, to be honest — for a response.

"Well, I had a job 'n it got done. A... meeting... with that client of yours." Should she call it a slick tongue, or a remarkable talent for providing the most unfulfilling interactions? It's the furthest thing from a gratifying answer, and it is met in kind — with a narrowed gaze and the twitch of her cheek.

"What are you—"

Her question is cut short by two sharp raps against the door, the sound echoing through the room grimly. Her gaze flits urgently between the door and Dante, and then she forces her shoulders down from where they'd stiffened, lips forming a silent excuse for her intruder like he'd been the one alarmed:

A maid.

Of course, it was very likely so! The little girls that were butterflies-in-training served as errand runners before they came of age, ferrying drinks and guests alike to and fro. They were small, mostly unassuming, and would be sent off with but a few words. Perhaps Lilliana would find out what happened to her golden ticket for the night—

The knock sounds again, louder. She makes to move.

"Hello? Is anyone in there?"

The voice is gruff-sounding, impatient, and certainly not a sweet little girl with an apathetic demeanour. She falters mid-step, and then her gaze goes to her intruder, and she can only be certain that panic is written all over her features. Her mind runs through each possible excuse she might muster, each one solid until she holds it up towards the light of reason. A client is certainly the easiest way out, but it would be of no use if it is a face she recognised behind that door. Would she be able to talk her way through that?

The doorknob rattles — so aggressively she might think whoever was outside might know a strange man is standing across from her — and the sound snaps her line of concentration. Whatever poor attempt at a script dragged away into the recesses of her subconscious by dread.

More knocks. He might as well be banging on the door now, and she's suddenly thankful for the thick, hardy wood that was keeping more than the sounds out.

She needed to do something — fast.

 

[oxicodone]

dante

the hitman

Something in her canvas stiffens; something in him? The end of each weighted shoulder feels —

a snap of a thread.

His body recognizes it. Sniffs it out like a dog that's been trained to listen for the little cues. He does. He feels his nerves light up, feels his heart trip over wire, hears an alarm ringing for him to budge. If he hadn't looked to the window again, he would've missed the way she shoots him an unheard whisper. He half-does. A what? Fuck. Where's that wiring gone off to?

"Hello? Is anyone in there?"

Fuck.

Alarm begets action. The break of his first step happens on the very rear of his heel, and from there, slowly rolls forth on the rest — a painful attempt at silence. He moves towards her in two big steps, mirrors her for the umpteenth time that night, and says without saying:

play along

.

(Had he ever rested his life in another's hand before?)

Here, he runs — not quietly, not any longer. It's purposeful, each slam of his step screaming for the attention of whoever waits outside the room. He storms past her and practically punches the windows open. Needs to make it look like he'd been in a hurry.

The knocks knowingly pause, and the man goes: "fucker's in here. Open the door!" No longer waiting to be invited, the door shakes.

(Any second now.)

Dante whips his head back.

"I jumped out the window, got it?"

is said and done before she can answer & right before he dives behind the heavy velvet curtains typical of a room that's meant to be hidden from the outside world.

There's a prayer to be had but Dante's never grown to learn any. Instead, he bridles his emotions, bites on his tongue.

Belatedly wonders: what the fuck is he doing.

 

[Uxie]

lilliana

the songbird

If there were a bit more alcohol coursing through her veins, Lilliana might venture to compare the situation to a dance. A temporary partnership in a nicely decorated room, where she is once more made the fool by a partner twirling her around like a mere puppet. At least, back then, she'd gotten the chance to step all over their feet as they tried twirling her about — Dante has broken open her window and ducked behind her curtains before she even has a chance to react.

Thump.

They're breaking down her door. She bites back a swear.

Thump.

If she asked nicely, perhaps he'd let her crush his toes later.

She collapses onto the ground just as her door gives way with a tremendous crash, two men bursting into the room with. Her head is lolled forward and her appearance unkempt, the strap of her dress tugged carelessly down her shoulder. Gold-blonde hair cascades around her like a tarnished halo, tears rolling down her cheeks with too-much ease.

In every regard, she is the perfect visage of an angel with her virtue accosted. She will play her part perfectly.

"He..."

Between sobs, her form heaving.

"Ran out... He jumped..."

Is it too much? She finally lifts her head, gaze searching for a face to take measure of her performance. There is belief in their eyes, as is there a glint of something else; a look she knows a little too well. One hand points a shaking finger behind her, towards the window, the other grasps at her shawl like a lifeline to shield her body from their gaze.

One man races past her, and her eyes follow him before returning to the man who has remained. A guard, she recognises, someone she has seen with the Madame on occasion. He regards her, and she shrinks instinctively beneath his gaze.

It is after a moment he speaks, his voice like nails against gravel, "Your dignity—"

"—is intact,"

she interjects, perhaps a little too defiantly, and she subdues her tone carefully as she adds,

"He merely threatened me, he..."

"Pulled his gun on you?" She just manages to keep her expression in check, her head tipping unsteadily in a half-hearted nod. He had a gun? "Then you should count your lucky stars you survived your encounter, girl."

It does not take a genius to guess what the meeting consisted of.

She looks away just as the guard does, to his companion by the window. He was leaning out, eyes cast towards the streets below in search of a man holding his breath behind the curtains just an arm's length away.

For a moment, she hesitates.

She could ruin him in a matter of words, if she wanted to, right now. He'd been nothing but graceless to her — before, and now — and it is sheer insanity to charge someone like that with your life. He is a fool for placing his trust in her. She is not as naive as she once was.

The accusation sits readily on the tip of her tongue, with that bitter taste of resentment she could never quite stand.

And then, she swallows.

 

[oxicodone]

dante

the hitman

The first sob is a slap to the face. Sings a dissonant note, a chord too broken to have been working just moments prior. He's frozen still with nothing to do but listen; let it cripple and tug at a string inside of him. Thinks it's adrenaline, thinks it's nerves — he just wants to jump out, put a bullet dead centre between their eyes — but it isn't that. He doesn't, and that's another wiring plucked & gone.

Turns out, she's not just a singer — and, well, he already knew what else she's been made to do here. But the A-tier grade performance? Never would've guessed it. Not from how she was acting before.

He'd like so much for the rest of the conversation to fade away to the back of his mind, but —

Your dignity—

— is intact —

it won't.

Pulled his gun on you? —

can't. Only thing he can do is school his breathing, fix himself flat against the wall, and wait for the figure hovering inches to his left to turn and walk away. So he waits, and waits, and when the man shifts his weight, turns his body and — pauses — Dante instinctively reaches over his side, for his gun. This is it. He'll curl a digit over the trigger, flip from behind the curtain, shoot once, twice and bail, and he'll be out before —

"Jackson! C'mere, will you! We've a guy that says he spotted the bastard," sings the miracle. A third man, much too far away to be outside the room. Somewhere down the hallway, maybe.

The men jerk like alerted hounds. One of them shifts on his feet, unsure, and Dante's fingers are practically kissing the trigger.

"What about the girl?" one of them says, and that's when Dante realizes the man's left his side. He's instead at her side, and — Dante can't see this, but he's — looking to her with knit brows.

"Sorry, we'll need to ask you a question or two, later. Won't be a minute, so just stay here.. if you could."

And with that (or with her response), they're out the door.

The gun slips back behind fabric, and Dante is quiet when he comes out.

...

It lingers, as a burn would, on the tip of his tongue. A I'm sorry, or a thank you, that he doesn't know to pronounce. Not when it's his first time, not when she's like this. A painting undone; splintered in its edges, shredded and hanging forward in its center.

Dante makes a deliberate gesture of turning away, and he still wants to say it, but he doesn't know how much time he has left before she changes her mind, sees the rot and sin idling before her, and screams for help. She should, and he —

"... should leave."

That's all he manages. A pathetic half-mumble. And he makes for the door, not as urgent, not as adrenaline pumped as seconds prior. But still with a-something dragging at his gait.

 

[Uxie]

lilliana

the songbird

"Sorry, we'll need to ask you a question or two, later. Won't be a minute, so just stay here.. if you could."

"Y-yes. Of course."

As if she had anywhere else to be. To go.

Her eyes remain fixed on their backs as they retreat beyond the threshold of the room; it is only when they disappear from view that she heaves a weighted, shaking breath, and when her gaze chances upon her reflection in the mirror across the room, she can see only a miserable wretch. She feels like throwing up — from guilt or fear, she knows not. Perhaps both.

Fabric rustles quietly behind her, and she turns, her eyes bleeding acidity; the lump in her throat reads like regret and feels like self-loathing. Nonetheless, she pushes herself to her feet, re-adjusts her dress like she was not a crumpled mess upon the ground a moment ago.

She looks at him, expectantly. What now, she asks with her eyes.

He looks away.

The scoff slips from her lips reflexively.

"... should leave." Only the silence of the room lends his voice any weight, but it hides none of what she can only guess must be shame.

She interjects without pause, her voice a murmur,

"Please do."

It's funny — he announces it as if he were a guest, and her, his host. Good manners, no doubt, but this is far from a situation that called for it. She doesn't know what to think of him anymore; a broken puzzle, where nothing she knows of him seems to fit right.

Maybe she does not want to know. No, she definitely does not.

There is an awkwardness to his amble towards the door, and as she sits herself onto the bed, where she expects to feel relief at the sight of him leaving, she finds only unease. Had she secretly sought a more thrilling sort of ending? Something to match the rapid trills of her heartbeat that have yet to settle?

The back of his coat offers no closure, only a sense of foreboding; like she's welcomed something into her space that she'll come to regret.

"And you shouldn't—"

She pauses, gaze darting away as paranoia slips through her mind like a passing cloud.

Why does it feel like saying it aloud would only be a jinx?

She stares at him, weighs her imaginary consequences — any sane person would know better than to return, surely— and tries to measure his sanity from the slant of his eyes. She wants to believe he is sane — enough. Surely.

Or is she better off asking God to twist his fate in the other direction? The divine might sooner heed her measly request that she never sees him again, not even in her dreams.

Her expression sours at the recollection. Perhaps he will not disappoint her a third time.

"No, nevermind. Go."

 

[Uxie]

act 2

oxicodone