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Realistic or Modern 𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐘𝐍𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐀 : ̗̀ in character

Lore
Here









scroll








the magician ✧･ﾟ:



evangeline













mood

called it











outfit

sad day, not ugly day











location

Keypark Hall











interactions

marzi, hannibal, mr. kim, casimir
baroque, hugo, auguste (mentioned)











tags

@.moonchild. ravensunset ravensunset arthur morgan. arthur morgan. miyabi miyabi















"A pleasure."

There was no need for introductions, not even for the purposes of keeping up their little, table-contained act. Evangeline simpy nodded in response before taking her seat, practically mirroring Marzi not just in action but in sentiment. Moments like these, where they could simply be in one another's presence, were few and far between nowadays. Time had, like it does with all things, drifted the two apart. They were no longer a pair of little girls who stuck to one another's side against a band of brothers—against the world and all its expectations, good or bad. No, they had grown up, and their roles had diverged, irreconcilably. The heiress. The spy. Perhaps the only thing still tying them together was their dedication to their roles—how the facades only came off, at the very least wavered slightly—when they were alone together.

That, and the fact that this awkwardness was not fake. Far from it.

As Marzanna turned away from her, eyes scanning the room for the remaining two members of their party, Evangeline watched in interest as the other tables filled up. Beside them was Casimir, in the thick of it at a table with all Avancinis—more specifically, two lovebirds and an outspoken, blunt third wheel. The brief glimpse of a flask being retrieved from and disheartenedly returned to his inner pocket tugged lightly at the corners of her lips. She reveled in his disappointment a little more than she should have at her age, but pettiness was the nature of their relationship. On the other side of her table was Baroque, very clearly and very blatantly flirting with Hugo. Evangeline looked away from this one in an instant, less disappointed and more embarrassed for the youngest of the family—Marzanna and Matezh could be the disappointed ones. But he was just a bit too close to someone who should be considered a stranger, and she felt even Baroque wouldn't be stupid enough to do such a thing without reason, so the sight stayed tucked in her mind as she redirected her attention somewhere else. It would be even more embarassing to be caught staring.

Out of the corner of her eye, a dog—one she recognized—and its owner made their way straight towards the table—towards her specifically, it seemed. Hannibal. The family's lawyer. Evangeline's occasional mistake cleaner, but one she hasn't contacted in a long time. It had been difficult to crack the walls Hannibal had built around himself when she was child, but her efforts, most notably running had paid off in due time, and he made his affection known in small ways—a small advance allowance to screw over Casimir as a child, his number available at any hour to help her nowadays. And right now, he was offering to pour a glass of champagne.

"Yes. That would be-"
A pause. Something slightly wet, but not cold—it was almost unpleasantly warm—nudged against the hem of her dress before landing on her ankle. Evangeline lifted the tablecloth a little before leaning back to examine, only to be met with large—puppy-like almost if they didn't belong to a beast that could easily tear her apart—eyes. Ah. She looked back up, making eye contact with Hannibal before holding out her glass.

"-nice."
Evangeline forced a light smile as another nudge, almost veering on a lick, met her ankle. It would be best to get a glass in before Hannibal drank it all. She needed something to cleanse her palette after the earlier wine, and god knew Hannibal would not hesitate to finish the drink himself. He even said so. Champagne flowed slowly into her cup in response.

"So, this is your dog? I'm surprised they let animals in here."

Why did you bring Petunia?

"She's very friendly with strangers, though."

Get her away from me before she breaks my cover.

"I'm afraid I'm not much of a dog person however."

Don't bring them around me again.

How pitiful it is to have to speak in tongues with members of your own family, but the message was clear enough; not much was done, however. Hannibal seemed only to delight in his dog's affinity for her, so Evangeline smiles and moves her seat back a bit, putting more distance between her and the dog if he isn't. Reclaiming the champagne flute, now filled with the light honey-colored and bubbly drink, she glanced over at the last member of their party joining them. With Mr. Kim's arrival, the table was complete, just in time for the four of them to forego shallow words and fake conversations and turn their attentions completely towards the front of the room instead—Evangeline lagged a few seconds behind the others on purpose, fighting against every unnatural and wretched sensation that arose from not being in sync with the other Adamskis in the process.

Silence seemed to overtake what had been a slightly bustling room very, very suddenly. Everyone listened with bated breath as the sister of the deceased mother spoke. Evangeline had heard her name during water cooler conversations and periods of doing nothing during missions after the death of Saint's Heights' last visible hope. Emotionally distraught. Mentally destroyed. A whole barrage of insults and criticisms about her wellbeing had been flung around, but this was the first time Evangeline had ever seen the woman herself. And although rumors usually had some truth to them, Melissa was composed. Frighteningly so, to be honest. She spoke as if it had been ten years since Louisa's passing, not one. As if the happy family had truly died in some freak accident instead of being

"Murdered."

She had said it. Vocalized what no one else would. The word that was on everyone's minds. The word that lingered in the air, even now, between the two families. The word that lay behind every glimpse and glance people gave today. Maybe Melissa was more than the distraught sister everyone portrayed her as.

Melissa was sane.

Melissa was brave.

Melissa was truthful.

And for that, Melissa died.

Another sign that being good in this line of business did no favors, and as her body collapsed on the ground, all Evangeline could do was stare. At her dead eyes. Ones that just minutes before had burned with indignant rage—with a desire to do unto her sister's murderers, and the acquaintances that had led her to this fate, what they had done to her. Destroy their family.

The rage that had been growing in Melissa just moments before seemed to diffuse throughout the room, only this time as pandamonium. Chairs scraped the ground, tables flipped over, glass—window and chalice alike—shattered in the chaos of it all. Screams replaced silence, and people took to the floor for cover. Others sprinted as fast as their inebriated legs could carry them, running into others with the same idea, opposite direction.

And just a little ways away, she watches as Auguste falls. Where he was struck, she couldn't tell—everyone had chosen to wear accursed black making the stains so incredibly difficult to see—but the way he collapsed... it cracks her composure and any sense of calm being amongst other Adamskis gives. As she stands up, looking for a way out, her legs waver, but she manages to catch the edge of the table and Marzanna's eyes, directing her attention to the fallen giant.

Her voice is rushed now. It would be pleading if she actually cared for Auguste, but right now, avoiding outright war is as close as she'll come to caring.
"A doctor. He needs a doctor. If he dies, it'll be ou-"
No. Not ours. Not right now.

"-your faults."
She forces the words out, drawing a clear line for the first time today between herself and the Adamskis. And as much as she hates asking him for help, much less interacting with him at all, Evangeline turns and scans the room for Casimir, and when she finds that annoying face of his, she mouths one thing:

Get. Over. Here.



♡coded by uxie♡
 









scroll








armoury



cyril.













mood

annoying











outfit

black suit + black coat











location

keypark hall











interactions

hannibal; auguste











tags

arthur morgan. arthur morgan. ; qunqun qunqun















Matezh had told Cyril the wrong fucking time. It was pure luck that Cyril had decided to show up early, wanting to be respectful, only for the memorial to be in full swing. Clearly, Matezh had hoped that Cyril would miss it. Bastard. Cyril wasn't surprised, nor was he very hurt. He was... an acquired taste, and he was sure that Matezh didn't think he'd bring anything particularly good to the occasion. Ah, well. Now, Cyril was here just to spite his friend.

Just as he walked through the front doors, the rest of the quests made their way to the tables. Cyril could hardly remember where he was supposed to be sitting. He followed the crowds and scanned over the tables, grinning at the sight of one familiar man. Cyril wandered over, unbuttoning his coat. As he came to stand behind Hannibal, he placed his hands on the other man's shoulders.
"My dearest Hannibal, I think you've got the right idea,"
He sighed, reaching for the bottle on the table and taking a quick swig.

Cyril glanced at Evangeline, but didn't greet her. She was more than likely undercover, and as meddling as Cyril was, he wouldn't mess that up for her. He looked around the table, but didn't expect to find a spare seat.
"What a shame. I'm seated somewhere else,"
He informed Hannibal.
"I suppose I'll take this with me. See you later."
He grabbed the bottle and quickly made his leave, shooting Hannibal a wink as he wandered to his own table.

The table he sat at lacked Adamskis, he noticed, but he didn't really mind. He gave the others a brief smile, drinking from the champagne bottle as he sat down before placing it on the table, crossing his arms, and leaning back in his chair. The speech began just as he started to relax, and although Cyril was a fool at the best of times, he wasn't so disrespectful to not listen to Melissa. She was emotional, rightfully so, and it changed the atmosphere of the entire room.

Her body falling to the floor changed the atmosphere even more.

Cyril stood quickly as chaos surrounded him, about to make his way to the stage when a gunshot sounded next to him. He jumped and turned, only to watch as one of the Avancini members at his table also crumpled to the ground, blood oozing from his chest. Cyril dropped to his knees next to the victim, swearing under his breath.
"Jesus fucking- God, fuck."
He ripped his coat off of himself and pressed it to the wound on the Avancini's chest, using his hands and one knee to apply as much pressure as possible.


♡coded by uxie♡
 
baroque adamski
❝ dear god, ❞
mood
terrified.
outfit
x.
location
Keypark Hall
interactions
hugo boo. boo. , marzanna ravensunset ravensunset

Baroque had barely a mind for the speech of a mourning woman, the atmosphere of death a deeply unsettling environment for him. He thought of blonde hair and roses too white to convey the color of life; an awful choice, really. Feet tapped in a hidden show of affection and unspoken empathy as screamed words fell on his deaf ears.

It all seemed so terribly dull. And then glass shattered.

The crack of his head against the floor and arms wrapping protectively around him shook the youngest Adamski from his thoughts, a reaction strangled sound leaving his throat. The wind exited his body as a result of the sudden tackling, a breathy sound of pain existing past the initial shock as fingers dug with a trembling ferocity into clothed skin. Hugo?

One shot, two shot.

A body that twitched in rhythm with the ringing cry of weaponry. He felt his heart still, ice that seized at his nerves. No, don't shake like that. There was dark hair in place of blonde, flowers that meant nothing to the love he felt when next to him. The heavens wept down on the Earth and mocked him once more, a dove left alone.

His mask was gone.

"Hugo." The name was choked out of a breathless body, a sting of tears warming the corners of his eyes as diluted sobs began to heave his chest. One of the pinned hands wormed itself free from the protective grip, a placement on wet fabric that only seemed the send the man into hysterics as faint red pulled back on the fingers. "Please I can't lose you too, please, Hugo —" Before this he could count the times he had cried before the other on one hand, a circular motion of fingers that signaled the lack of cracks he had shown.

It was Hugo who was the strong one, eyes that spoke when he wanted words, a heart that hid when he wanted love. But god damn if Baroque hadn't tried to keep up, tried to prove to someone that he wasn't the pathetic mess they all found him to be.

Oh Baroque, you're being so dramatic. Old words that found themselves vibrating through his body, an unwelcome racketeering that gave way to a plot of dirt he crumbled before in solitude too many times. He couldn't add another another to that count, a patch of dirt an impossibly poor way of remembering the sunlight that captured his heart.  He had every right to be dramatic.

Hugo had to live. He couldn't accept a reality without that, refused to imagine a day where the world would dare to turn without his life.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

A beating heart caught itself in his throat, fingers that had gone under the fabric of a shirt pressing themselves into skin, wonderfully dry skin. There was no bullet hole, a relief he found did little to paint back on any sense of decorum. Hugo was right, a pressing of cold metal into his skin a reminder of the situation around them.

They had to leave.

Eyes searched frantically, a hand that reached out and grabbed at before in return delicate frames were pushed into a free hand.

"Go, I'll see you soon."

Lips pressed the words to an ear, trembling in each breath before an attempt to escape started. His body moved, a wriggling underneath the other before a lithe form slipped out, only remnants of his touch left behind.

There was another person he had to find; a face he couldn't admit it to but someone he dearly loved. She was of golden strands and irreplaceable, a reminder of what was lost and keeper of what couldn't be.

But she was his sister.

Eyes searched in the rushing crowds, legs that moved with fear before the visionary of she appeared and he reached out desperately. Silver rings were replaced by paint stains, the slender digits of his hand smaller and shrunken as Baroque stood there before her, a child that had never aged. He was a little brother, a toddling boy that looked towards golden hair like it was a treasure he had missed out on, laughter and inside jokes carrying throughout the halls of their youth.

For a second he remembered how deeply he loved her, hands grasping at her with an urgent fear flooding tear-filled umber eyes. He sees her and imagines not the heiress she is, the power she holds. Only familiarity fills his mind, a desperate need to protect what little he valued as fingers tighten, threaten to pull.

"Marzipan we need to go now."

A pleading voice, a desperate voice. It is all he can offer as someone with no power, all he can hope will be enough.

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */
© weldherwings.
 






alyona
















mood.


get me out






outfit.


x






location.


Keypark Hall






tags.


Casimir (mention); Vincenzo (mention); Baroque cavitea cavitea ; Hugo boo. boo.














“No need to sound so morose, Alyona. If there’s any chance to salvage what Andrej and Louisa built, it’ll be found here. After all, today’s excitement has already come and gone.”

There was a dullness to Hugo’s tone that never went unnoticed to Alyona whenever they were out in public together. Nights laughing, crying or yelling because of an old, subjectively bad movie never felt real because of it. Quite frankly, nothing about their relationship felt real. The rope between them was both a nimble and taut tango, Hugo the lead and Alyona sometimes submissive and other times not.

He was the first to offer his hand, a duty she supposed he felt obligated to fulfill like a guard dog to its master. Of course, she’d bit back in her usual, defensive way—icy flirting that lingered on the border of promised threats. They’d felt each other out for months; walking in circles like two boxers in a fighting ring; trying to pick up bits of information they could use against each other to no avail. It was a challenge to keep him away, but for some reason he was set on getting to know her, and she was tired. She could only tease him about being in love with her so much before it made her sick to even joke about.

The first time they watched a movie together, Alyona had gotten back from a job with Auguste. Her face was ghastly white, eyes not fully focused as if she’d seen the aftermath of a World War in person. Hugo was… Hugo was doing something at the main house then. She wasn’t entirely sure what—her memories from that night were murky, perhaps her brain’s attempt at protecting her mind from what the job made her see or maybe it was the wine she’d found in the Avancini family’s cellar—but whatever he was doing led him to the kitchen where she was slumped against the marble counters.

The dynamic between them changed after that first movie, and it changed even more after the next; and the next; and the next. Their movie nights had become a safe escape for her, and maybe for him too. Masks of steel and nonchalance were replaced by whispers of vulnerability and new beginnings. Sometimes she wondered if it really was okay for her to open up to Hugo. That thought alone scared her shitless because she knew getting close to anyone in the world of crime—let alone an Avancini—would be the death of her.

Yet here she was, sitting next to someone who could’ve been her brother in a different life; watching him like she had all these months; making mental notes of all the minute details about him that most people wouldn’t care about. It was through her hawk eye observations that she could confidently claim she probably perceived Hugo more than some of the actual members of the Avancinis, and it was with that confidence that she knew red wine was never his first choice.

Nor was it hers.

Hazel eyes flickered across the small table, landing on the other dark-haired figure she’d come to know over the last couple months. Effortless waves, a face meant for models, eyes that showed he was present but not entirely.

High. She realized as she averted her gaze back to Hugo. She squinted, an action hidden behind her dark glasses as thoughts that didn’t make sense at all started forming. The unbuttoned shirt; the slight tense of his jaw; any movement from his fingers or body.

No… you’re crazy Alyona thought to herself. There was no way. Her intuition was a reliable tool, but reliable didn’t mean perfect. No matter how skillful she was at reading people and situations, the likelihood of what her brain was trying to scream at her had to be at zero percent.

Hugo wouldn’t. Hugo, you’re so stupid. He was too loyal to the Avancini family. You’re going to get yourself killed. How did this even happen? I can’t help you.

A memory washed up to shore. A night together that happened only a couple weeks ago, both of them curled up on opposite ends of the couch. The aroma of popcorn and butter filled the living room. It was Alyona’s turn to pick a movie that night, so of course she opted for something a little more romantic. Pride and Prejudice: one of her comfort films. Hugo had smiled a certain way throughout and there was a gleam in his eyes only those who’d been in love could recognize. She had looked at someone that way once before.

”There’s someone, isn’t there?” Alyona had asked him softly.

”Yes.” He had smiled so widely that night. An expression she had never seen before was painted on his normally collected face, pulling at heartstrings Alyona didn’t think could move ever again. The happiness and warmth he felt towards that person had radiated to her, wrapping around her like a secure blanket.

It was envy she felt that there was someone blessed enough to be cared for by a good man, yet she could only smile back at him as she whispered. ”They’re really lucky to have someone like you.”

Hugo, don’t- Shut up, Fatemah. It’s not your business. A different voice rang in her head, one she should have listened to from the very beginning. He can do what he wants. Stop caring. But-

“No, thanks.” Alyona found herself saying as Hugo offered to pour her a glass of wine. She waved her glass of gin in front of him as a sly grin surpassed the worried frown that fought to emerge. A simple shrug as she took a sip, her dark lipstick coating the clear rim. “I’m more of a sparkly champagne woman for these types of events. You never know when another Hero will appear and a Hugo will have to save the day, am I right?”

She let out a small, quiet laugh before returning to her shell. Thoughts swirled violently in her head, pounding against walls for recognition. Alyona ignored them.

“And you, Alyona, I feel I so rarely hear about the kinds of work you fall into in your… family.”

Baroque addressed her while she was mid-sip. There was a silent pause between the three as she let the liquid burn away her useless worries.

“Intel.” Alyona responded simply. Yes, intel was the easiest way to describe the kind of work she did. Her ability to get people to confess things hadn’t gone unnoticed to the Avancini leader, nor had her connections to some of the more powerful individuals of Saint’s Height. Her time as an escort had proved useful in that regard, even if she sometimes wanted to bash her head into the nearest table corner whenever too much was shared.

Full lips parted to say something more, but Melissa Zhao’s voice filled her ears. Like everyone else, her head turned to face the woman and she listened carefully. Alyona hadn’t known Andrej, Louisa, or Juni like everyone else had. She’d joined the Avancinis a couple months after their deaths, when most of the gossip had simmered down. It felt entirely taboo to even ask anyone about the incident.

Melissa’s tone changed. Her words were like gasoline being poured onto a raging fire. Wait a minute-

A bullet whizzed past her head, the buzz a light tickle against her ear. She heard the screams before she processed what was happening, body instinctively falling to the floor and her glasses falling from her face. One after another shots were fired, making the woman flinch in her spot. Her hands moved to cover her ears to block out the sounds—all of it too much too soon.

From the corner of her eyes she saw Hugo hovering over Baroque, a man protecting his lover. He said something she chose to ignore as her mind and body were too preoccupied by the chaos erupting around them. They could talk about what she witnessed later if he wanted. If.

At least they were okay.

The screaming had ended but she knew the yelling and questioning would come soon. Iron filled her nose beside her as she noted an injured man whose name she didn’t know. A bullet to his shoulder kept him on his back, growls of pain and anger seeping through his teeth. She crawled to help him, but paused.

There were other people more qualified to play doctor, not someone like her who couldn’t stand the sight of her own blood. Her eyes flickered across the room to search for a familiar head of soft hair. A sigh of relief she knew she’d regret later escaped, heart thumping loudly in her ears as she tried to blink away visions of red the tears that threatened to fall.

“I’m going…” Alyona breathed, slowly standing on trembling legs she hoped no one noticed. Her hand reached for her stomach where a phantom pain bloomed. “I’m going to cover the windows. Just in case.” She muttered to Hugo, avoiding eye contact as she nodded towards the long curtains that hung from the ceiling.

Away. She needed to get away. Everything around her was crumbling. She was crumbling.

I didn’t fucking sign up for this.





”help.”


♡coded by uxie♡
 









scroll








the hierophant



Marzanna
Adamski.













mood

panicking!











outfit

black pants, a buttoned up formal black shirt, and black boots on small heels.











location

Keypark Hall











interactions

Evangeline, Casimir, Baroque, Alyona











tags

xayah. xayah. miyabi miyabi cavitea cavitea koala koala















Not much after she had taken her own seat, sure to be poised and careful and not look much at Evangeline, their other table member approached. Hannibal’s presence was comforting, if that wasn’t too strong of a word. One of the only family members who wasn’t expecting something of her, wouldn’t be watching for flaws.

It hardly helped. The room was full of watchful eyes.

He’d brought his dog.

Marzanna had never cared for dogs, fur covered creatures that did nothing yet asked for attention she didn’t have to give. Petunia must have understood her dislike by now, as she snuck under the table and muzzled up to Evangeline.

Thankfully the tablecloth covered her quite well, and it was unlikely most would attribute the behavior to much other than an unbehaved mutt.

Just as the word unbehaved crossed through her thoughts, Cyril made his way through the crowd, dropping his hands on Hannibal’s shoulders. Marzanna raised an eyebrow at him. Her father had told him the wrong time, hadn’t he? Was he onto them already? He left quickly, thankfully, Marzanna wasn’t quite at the energy level for all that, and took their bottle along with him. Marzanna almost met Evangeline’s eyes to share a shake of the head, but caught herself before it.

Hannibal continued the conversation with Evangeline, the two of them pouring drinks, Marzanna needed her head clear, Evangeline questioning Petunia’s presence. Their speech was laced with hidden meanings, stunted, so far from their behavior back home.

Well, Hannibal wanting a drink was extremely constant. Marzanna poked at the plate in front of her.

Before she could contribute much more to the careful small talk, the room was interrupted by the sound of a microphone, and a woman taking the stage.

Melissa Zhao.

“...honor and share in Louisa, Andrej, and Juni’s memory.” The words would have made Marzanna cringe, if she wasn’t concentrating so fully on keeping everything about herself, her expression still. She wondered how many were here for Louisa and Andrej. Melissa was. Marzanna knew the memorial, in organization and for her, was about the peace treaty. Signaling that neither family wants to go back to years of bloodshed. This anniversary was a show.

Despite everything, Marzanna had heard little of Melissa over the years. She didn’t know what she was expecting. A grieving woman, dressed in black, reading a far too scripted speech?

She didn’t expect fire. As Melissa’s voice spiked, Marzanna’s head tilted upwards, her eyes scanning the room. Someone needed to put a stop to it, but, dragging her off of the stage might look worse than even these words were. Could the Avancini truly not keep any of their own in line?

She need not have worried, not about that.

A window, lining the end of the room, floor to ceiling, shattered into pieces. The bullet found home.

The hall exploded. Screams, the thud of a dead body hitting a stage, the echo reverberating. Every instinct in her told her to duck, hide under the table. Instead, Marzanna shot upwards, her palms slamming down on the table as she stood.

She couldn’t hear the other two shots, and the suddenly flowing sea of black made everything impossible to decipher, but she saw another body crumple. The Avancini, Cortes , fell down underneath her sight. Most attendees were fleeing, yet, she caught sight of a few on their phones, sending out calls for help. Vincenzo’s body snapped backwards, and she could see a red bloom on his shoulder.

“A doctor. He needs a doctor. If he dies, it'll be ou- your faults.” Evangeline meant the Avancini. Their eyes meet.

Marzanna couldn’t think. This couldn’t be happening, not this, straight out of her own nightmares.

Marzanna breaks the hold of Evangeline’s gaze. She looks around, at the tables, mirroring Evangeline’s own view.

“Casimir!”
Her voice is a yell, it has to be, to not disappear away entirely,
“Get to Vincenzo!”


It wasn’t what she wanted. She didn’t want the Avancini to die, it would destroy the hope for peace even more than it already was, and maybe if Vincenzo had a permanently bad shoulder she’d have to worry about him less. It didn’t matter what Marzanna wanted. All that mattered was how her action looked, and her job was taking care of her family first.

As her eyes continued around the room, they caught sight of her brother, and, Young tackling him to the floor. Was this an attack? Had they staged everything, the shooting, to get a head start on taking them out? Marzanna’s muscles tightened, even more than they already were, and she started towards them.

Within barely a second, Baroque slipped out, and was standing again. Just like that, he was beside her.

“Are you hurt, did he hurt-”


“Marzipan we need to go now.”

A bullet breaking glass was one thing. His voice, strained and pleading, was another entirely. He’d outgrown her, years ago, just like he used to say he would, but in that moment, they were children again. He was only a kid, five years younger, using a word that was not her name because he’d seen it somewhere and liked it, a word she hadn’t been referred to in many years now. A word of quiet evenings, of sharing snacks and watching movies at the lowest volume to not wake their parents. Back when they had two of those, when Marzanna herself had been too young to know what her role in the world was, to understand and so lock in the weight on her shoulders.

His eyes have tears in them. Teenage years and arguments and ruining each others’ possessions, movie nights ended and one head placed responsibility on and the other showered in gifts, suddenly becoming unrecognizable and him leaving to Paris and her breaking and not fitting back together right. None of it was enough, could be enough to change that he was still her younger brother first.

She wanted to go. Take him with her and escape. Give in, the way she once used to to his childish requests.

It didn’t matter what Marzanna wanted.

“I can’t.”
Staying was a risk of an immediate death sentence. Leaving was signing a death warrant, it was showing weakness, cowardice. Her position couldn’t afford it. She needed to be unafraid, in control. Everything she wasn’t.

He was holding a knife.

Good.

“Go, get out, get somewhere safe.”
You’re allowed to. You need to stay alive. Her hand reached out, a motion to ruffle dark curls that she’d forgotten she had the instinct for. It didn’t reach, just dropped back down to her side before she could allow it to complete its movement.

The world was still spinning, much as she wished she could make it stop.

A woman she didn’t recognize was pulling the curtains closed. A good move, if there was still someone outside watching–

Marzanna turned to Baroque, looked right into amber eyes. She didn’t speak, just formed a question, a plea, he was on her side, wasn’t he? And then turned away.

Every step took care, thought. To keep her body as straight as possible, her steps as steady and purposeful. To not show even a drop of the panic that was spreading through her. It took almost more force than any of her true actions, and to her, meant every bit as much.

She found the next hanging curtain, a glance and nod at the other woman– An Avancini, no less, that would be something to think about if they survived this– and then pulled, helping close the scene from view of where the shots had come.


♡coded by uxie♡
 
Last edited:
artificer
location
keypark hall
mood
it’s about drive, it’s about power —
outfit
let a woman keep her flowers.
mentions
augustus qunqun qunqun
hero (mention) demonology demonology
vincenzo koala koala
dakota idiot idiot
marnie edwards
death surrounds her. it smells a lot like smoke, tastes a lot like betrayal, and the image of a woman with still words burning her tongue collapsing triggers an odd deja vu even marnie, fantasies abound, can not explain. the faint feeling of watching a scene unfold of a movie you do not recognize but feel like you know, it seeps through skin and bone, right from a source so soul-deep, it can only be true. but what is truth? her father always said this life will only give you a trinity of truths; one, you are born with — the divine essence of one destined for something even grander than eternity; the second, you will be bestowed by those of the same kin — the teachings that sing inspirations to who hears and empowers who listens; the third, it shall arrive hand in hand with death, right before this body will breathe their last breath — the legacy woven from deific minds, one who will last past this lifetime and many more.

what marnie feels is something that strikes right and wrong at the same time, a conflict between the knows and feels. she wishes to dive deeper, uncover what seems lost and found, but there are many other things going on — many inexplicable things; panicked glass shatterings, explosions that are not of her doing for once, a twisted harmony of screams and shouting, death who does not leave but lingers. the world around her spins and runs, shadows creep and figures dash. chaos thrives as much as it roars, the lunch regrettably spoiled before it could be eaten.

in this hysteria, only marnie could feel frightingly at home. a small prayer flows without words, right up to the heavens; it’s for the departed she only caught rumours of, the whispers connoting a being unstable and crazy now hanging heavier in the air. it matters not if they were true now, marnie just wishes melissa more kindness in the next life. her gaze then lands on death, the reaper’s lingering presence a curiosity as much as a concern.

“who are you going for now” she murmurs softly, as if death could speak and ghosts could talk. there is, of course, a silence.

but there is also an answer.

one that briefly expires the pulse in her heart. death moves, stalks right towards a table — the table. there is not much that marnie fears, her beliefs in the eternity between past and future, as well as long beyond this body’s existence, erasing most of life’s dauntings. and yet, for one moment, marnie is not a god in a godless body, world at her fingertips and galaxy in her mind. for one moment, she is utterly human, fears riddling her body and death rattling her heart. marnie knows all things here on earth end: lives, stories, even ages but god— not him. please not him.. call her a hypocrite, a cherry picking philosopher who embraces death until it reaches the one she doesn’t want to lose. she doesn’t care —does not even think about the temporary abandoning of faith.

not when he, who she considers as utterly holy, has an ending so close near.

luckily, it’s not hero who falls. an intense relief washes over her, but this feeling fleets away as quickly as it arrived. augustus’s body crashes to the ground, and her heart drops. “auggie!” she yells, immediately rising from her seat. but augustus isn’t the only one; there is blood blossoming, darkening the dark suit of vincenzo, too. something marnie only now just realizes, as her eyes looks around for help.

“oh shoot!” she exclaims, before clasping her hand over her mouth. oops, wrong wording..“—i mean, oh god. that does not look very hunky-dory. I- uh— here, let me just—“ her hand dives into her purse, the clinking sound of different bits and bops colliding following. victory punctures her smile at finally pulling out the fancy silk napkins that she totally didn’t intend on stealing from here.

“quickly, press this against the hole!” she shoves the napkins into vincenzo’s hands. it is not enough, that marnie knows, and she does want to help save augustus and vincenzo — but what can someone like her do? her works are not saving halos, their intent a damning hell instead. she protects those close to the heart by destroying whatever threatens it. marnie is no hero, not even with one so deeply nestled in her heart. still, to do nothing is to give up, and that outcome is too ruinous to accept. she had to do something else, quick before the coffin nail claimed its intended target. quick, before death cradled a soul cruel and kind.

her eyes search, desperately for a solution, a plan. the figure of a waiter almost knocks into her, his panicked figure dashing closely by. a meaningless occurence in a sea of meaningful ones, or is it? marnie gasps as a new path unveils itself; of course. kitchen. first aid kit. kitchen. “i’ll be right back!!” the shouted words can barely cling to air between her and the adamskis at the table, her figure sprinting away with a speed like lightning.

now it is her who nearly knocks people aside (albeit not without apology). still, she pursues, runs, mission in her mind and purpose in her fast steps.

runs, right towards a kitchen where dark smoke billows and fire spreads.
coded by natasha.
 
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scroll








the fool



azalea.













mood

furious and fearful











outfit

something blooming











location

keypark hall











interactions

damn near everyone











tags

qunqun qunqun LowkeyLovingLoki LowkeyLovingLoki ravensunset ravensunset miyabi miyabi mxlly mxlly koala koala















“Where are my manners? These flowers are beautiful, I’m assuming you arranged them?” Azalea only nodded politely, a stark contrast to the warm reaction she gave when the same compliment came from Victor. She watched as Casimir turned to Carmen. “Aren’t they nice? You can’t deny she has an eye for these things.”

Azalea’s head tilted almost imperceptibly. She wondered: Was Casimir picking up on their tension? Sure—him knowing that they weren’t exactly best friends wouldn’t be a big deal to most, but Azalea would rather have even the little things out of reach of potential enemies. If he detected a crack in their ranks, he could take advantage of it. Was he really just making small talk or was he trying to pick at a sore spot?

She turned to Carmen expectantly. "Yeah, she does.” Azalea could see her almost choke on the words, and she felt more pleasure from it than she’d ever admit. Her thoughts of suspicion drifted away for now so she could relish the petty satisfaction.

"Does anyone want to join me or will I be drinking this one alone?"

Carmen’s glass was filling perhaps a little too quickly for memorial-appropriate drinking. Azalea almost scoffed. How typical, she thought. “I’ll have a little—but only a little.” Victor reached across the table for the bottle and filled her glass. She took it from him with a smile and a quick whisper of gratitude (“Thank you, my love.”) before turning back to the others at the table. “If that powderkeg goes off, we’ll need at least a few sober minds to keep things afloat.” She took a slow sip with closed eyes, savoring the rich and sweet taste as well as the tart undertones. Finishing the sip, her eyes opened and she added with a sharp look at Carmen, “Lest we all get lost in the wreckage.”

Then, the voice of Melissa Zhao sounded out and the room went quiet. Azalea set her glass down and turned to the platform, eyes resting intently on the woman. Although many in the room probably wouldn’t pay much attention to the speech, Azalea was all ears. She was of the opinion that listening to the words of grieving women could do the world some good. There had been a time when she nurtured herself on such words. Even if this was just going to be cliche memorial dribble, it had to be worth something. Cliches became cliches for a reason after all.

And that was how it started: cliche memorial dribble. “She believed in a better world, and she was able to help bring it to life. Louisa was–.” But then: “Murdered.”

Murder. Murder. Murder. Of course, the word had been on Azalea’s mind lately, but the way Melissa said it pierced through her. Was this her pathos—an arrow in the form of a word? There was a little hole in Azalea's heart now, and a voice rang out from the inside: “Who was murdered?”

She felt compelled to answer: Louisa, Andrej, and Juni.

The voice was youthful, sweet. “No. Who did we murder?”

-

A force pulled Azalea away from the memorial and she was on the Lorenzo estate: a memory. She was Daphne again. She was in the courtyard, and it was so green. The grass below her feet bowed in the light wind. Bushes stood around her on all sides, lush and colorful. She sat on a bench with a rose in her hand, picking petals—how cliche, right?

“He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me...”

Daphne was consulting the rose for guidance: if she landed on “He loves me not,” she would kill Marco Lorenzo, steal his money, and leave that family forever. Sofia and Carlo, his children, would never forgive her. If she landed on “He loves me,” she would simply stay. She would wither away at last and perhaps leave the world better for it.

“He loves me not.” Lorenzo was cruel. He was manipulative. He acted as if he was saving her when he was just taking advantage of how desperate she was for a purpose.

“He loves me.” Maybe he really did believe that he saved her, though? He gave her a place to go. Things to do. Resources she’d never even dreamed of having before. Enough books to last her a lifetime.

“He loves me not.” But he still hurt her so much. He had preyed on her at her weakest. He claimed to love her, but it only hurt. She couldn't understand it. She couldn't tolerate it.

“He loves me.” But love always hurt, didn’t it? Like with mother. With father. That was how you knew it was real.

“He—.” There were no more petals. Daphne paused, scrutinizing the bare stem as if it was withholding a secret or some wisdom that would make everything clear. It remained silent. It gave away nothing. Hmph.

Daphne plunged her thumbnail into the petalless core and ripped it from the rest of the stem—a decapitation. She tossed the severed core to the side and the stem with it. “He loves me not.” It was decided.

She never told anyone what she used: oleander. Beautiful and completely poisonous. After making her decision, she ordered some sprouts and cultivated them in the Lorenzo greenhouse. Like laurel trees, they were accustomed to the Mediterranean climate, so she did her best to simulate the proper conditions. After months of spraying, pruning, and meticulous care, they were ready. One leaf was enough to kill a grown man—she made a tea bag using two leaves and a petal for good measure. She put the tea bag in a mug, poured in the boiling water, let it steep, and then sweetened it with oleander nectar. Every part of the plant was so toxic that she had to handle it with gloves. She added azalea nectar too—to make it personal.

Lorenzo started dying only a few hours after drinking the tea. He had a horrible headache. He was vomiting, but it was too late for that to do any good. His heartbeat was erratic. He knew that it was her. She expected him to say that he hated her—to curse her. But he only said, “Daphne… I was right about you,” and fell to the ground with a—.

-

Thud.

She was Azalea again. She was in Keypark Hall. Melissa Zhao had just been shot and had fallen to the ground. Absolute chaos broke out. People were screaming and running. Another shot. Chairs and tables were flipped over. Bouquets went flying, and the flowers were scattered across the floor. And another shot. Everyone stepped on them in their panic, crushing them under their feet. Red carnation petals drifted about with a vengeance.

Without even thinking, Azalea was on Victor almost instantly, her hands grasping at his face. “Were you shot?! Are you hurt?!” She didn’t wait for an answer. She frantically checked his head, his chest, his shoulders, his arms, and so on, constantly pulling away her hands to check for blood before resuming her inspection. By the time she was done, she had thoroughly disheveled his hair and suit and there were thick tear streams on her cheeks, but Vic was fine. She released a shaky sigh of relief. “Oh… Oh… I was so…”

She touched her forehead with his briefly before standing and turning, eyes scanning over the rest of the room to check the status of the rest of the family. Her heart was beating out of her chest, her eyes fuzzy with tears but not too fuzzy to spot her allies through the fleeing crowd. Carmen—okay. Yona—okay. (“Okay” was simply a way of saying “not shot.” Azalea was pretty fucking sure that none of them were okay.) Hugo—okay. Hero—okay. Auguste—.

Her heart dropped. He was hurt. He was hurt badly. What could she do?

Her eyes turned toward the window where the bullets had come through. She stormed over to the window just as Alyona and a blonde woman she figured was Marzanna Adamski had closed the curtains. Wrenching herself between them, she tore open the curtains wide enough for her to look out and scream through the shattered window: “Where the hell are you?!” She searched, but the adjacent rooftop was empty. Tears burned in her eyes again. “We will find you!” she screamed. “I swear!”

Azalea backed away from the window. Her ears were ringing now. She was hyperventilating. Love. Revenge. Love. Revenge. Revenge was only an extension of love, wasn’t it? Too embarrassed to look at Marzanna, whom she may have bumped in her rush, or Alyona, the only person who had ever seen her like this before, Azalea turned from the window and her eyes rested on Auguste again. Her blood ran cold for a second. This heavy feeling like she had done the wrong thing settled over her.

But there was still time. She grabbed a random fleeing man by the collar. In the moment, she couldn’t tell if he was Adamski or Avancini and she didn’t care. “Give me your jacket.” The man looked bewildered. “Give me your fucking jacket!” As soon as the man relented his suit jacket, Azalea ran over to where Auguste lay and kneeled down by his side.

“Can we use this?!” she asked out loud, both to the man that was currently putting pressure on Auguste’s wound and to everyone around. Anyone. Without waiting for an answer, she held the jacket out over Auguste to see the true length of it and gauge its ability to tie over the wound. “It’s big enough! Will it help?!”

Auguste’s face. Oh god... his face. There was a tear. Azalea had never seen a tear come from his eyes before and had never thought she would. She spoke with her usual warm smile, but her face was red and tears were gushing from her eyes: “Hey! Stay with us, big guy! Come on! Stay—stay with us! Listen!” She sobbed out a chuckle. “You gotta feed those cats, remember? The ones by the gas station? They’ll starve without you. Come on!” She was a mess.

Azalea had already lost two families. Watched them fall apart right before her eyes—one of them by her own hand. This family was supposed to be different. It had to be.


♡coded by uxie♡
 
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mood :
deathly sober, sick to his stomach

location :
keypark hall
outfit :
mentions :
Cyril, probably some others that I forgot

interactions :
Auguste — qunqun qunqun
Marnie — neon reverie neon reverie
Azalea — blue-jay blue-jay
Dakota — idiot idiot [texting; yelling]
Bechtel
• • • hero

He had been stammering through some sort of response. A strain, an awkward pause. Auguste had started asking him about how he was, swapping a faux-familiarity, until Melissa Zhao interrupted with her speech.

Will his last words really be 'How have you... ya know... been?'

Eddie had laughed when Matezh had answered the door. His own face was bloodied with burns dripping in lymph. There was a parallel micro-second where he considered a sharp giggle, a coping mechanism. His hands didn't craft the bullet, didn't pull the trigger, but good lord, he was praying he didn't allow Auggie to have the displeasure of interacting with him as his final moments. To make matters worse, Hero had been answering Kota's text as the assassin was shot, sending a quick 'dear god, that sounds lovely. i want to shoot myself.' Another reason to laugh. God, is this your divine comedy?

Except, it was a privacy screen for the way his hands shook, the way his eyes turned to frazzled ends of live wires, sparking and swirling. He had shriveled at the sharp ping of the bullet, it zipping past his nose into Auguste's chest. There was a mirrored sound, thudding into someone across the room. His vision followed the object's wake, singing gunsmoke. He spotted Marnie's blonde tendrils, swishing with movement. Falling to death or searching for life? He had stood when Auggie fell back, napkin now crumbled into his palm, but the dying creature was ignored. His eyes searched for life, as he hoped Marnie's were, as he hoped Kota's were, squinting through the smudged glass.

A spyglass that covered all other matters, important or insubstantial, it didn't matter. Blinders on a horse, that's what it all amounted to, as a man lay dying in front of Hero, and all he could think of was the souls that would hurt the most to lose grip on.

"Marnie?" he yelled, attempting to step forward before bumping into the destroyed tower below. "Marina?" Eddie tried yelling louder, hands cupped over his mouth, still unable to see past the tumultuous sea of bodies. "Kota?" he kept searching, even as he left others to tend to Auguste, yet he was frozen. All thoughts of survival spiraled out and spilled onto his hands the way Auguste's chest spurted and gave life-force to the carpet.

Instead of shooting forward, in search of his friends and their lives, he made eye contact with the hole in his fellow Avancini's chest. His eyes widened, and it finally occurred to him the emergency breaths he sucked in and out. Up and down. Yet, Auguste's didn't mirror his own. He watched Cyril apply pressure to the wound, he watched Azalea assist. His phone lay lifeless on the table. Right, he thought, as though finally his brain pieced the patchwork scene together.

As he scooped up the cell, he spotted Marnie, streaking past in a flurry of blackened flowers. "I'm gonna call the paramedics," he told Az, lightly touching her shoulder before dialing the number and following Marnie.

"911. What's your emergency?"

"There's been a shooting at Keypark Hall. One is dead, two are shot. I don't know what the other person's status is, but the other—" he stumbled, cringing at such a degree of separation between his words and a dying man. "Auguste was shot in the chest. Please hurry."

He was struggling against countless black suits, attempting to follow a sprite running to the rescue. For a moment, he pondered that this was perhaps what made him so terrified of Marnie's affections. She was quick to act, always, and he stood by watching the kaleidoscope of ends play. She ran forward, an effervescent knight. He, a eunich. She ran into smoke and flame, bloodshed nothing to stop her from saving all who suffered.

Flames.

He'd slowed to a stop, watching as Marnie entered, brazen. People ran in opposite to him, away. A rock to a rushing river.

"There's a kitchen fire, too." An ice formed over the moist dew of his tone.

Before the operator could respond, he pressed to end the call. He let the phone slip through his fingers to the floor, brow twitching, before his mind shifted gears and sprung to action. Quickly, as he ran forward, he threw the tweed jacket to the side, not really wanting the acrylic-based fibers to melt into his skin.

Then, he was being consumed, cloaked in ash. "Marnie?" He spotted her attempting to grab the first-aid kit from the wall. Rushing behind her, Eddie helped her pull it, asking simultaneously, "You're not shot?"

His eyes wide, trying to see past the orange and black, devouring her vision.
coded by reveriee.
 






hugo.




filler



filler



filler



filler



filler



filler






  • home (filler tab)



































chopin



nocturne 20 in c-sharp minor









“Go, I'll see you soon.”

Hugo fought the urge to reach out and pull Baroque close one last time, instead rolling aside so the other man could escape his hold and get out of this fuckery. If only they hadn’t seen each other today—perhaps Hugo would have been able to react faster, make his feet get beneath him a moment sooner, press his glasses to his face before Alyona said something about windows and scurried away. What? Windows? Sniper? Cover broken glass, keep bodies from sprouting holes, scrub away blood—Where had the other two shots landed? Whose bodies? Hugo brushed tousled hair from his eyes and found his hand sticky with… wine? Not thick enough to be blood, although his heart still jumped into his throat at the thought.

Like a gangster animorph, Hugo shook off thoughts of Baroque like dust from his shoes; his face visibly shifted into one of sheer concentration, eyes razing through crowds of heads, becoming the man that everyone else saw him as—a flying buttress, the moat encircling Castle Avancini, strong and stable and thinking of his own before anyone else. He was their high priest, leading the worship at an altar made of bullets and broken bones. If there was only one person here who had to be strong, it was him.

He so often felt like a beast of burden, laden with secrets and lies, plodding forward because he had nowhere else to go.

Shoes crunched on broken glass and the discarded remains of whatever it was he felt for Baroque, left to be gathered later. He didn’t have to go far to discover one of the other victims of the attack—dark eyes went sharp and seemed to clear a way on their own, pushing through a small gathering of figures to leer over Auguste’s bleeding body. There was a man crouched over him, pressing everything he had against his chest, a dark jacket already dripping with blood. Hugo didn’t know who he was—his hand almost flashed out to rip him away but instead grabbed at the jacket Azalea was holding, ripping it from her grasp and edging it beneath the man’s hands.

“Keep steady,”
he urged redundantly, fingers pressing atop Cyril’s for a moment before pulling back to shove against Auguste’s neck, checking for a pulse. The man’s eyes were closed; a heartbeat, but as quiet as a dancer’s plié.
“Auguste—fight, you need to—”
It wasn’t any use to say these things, but what else could he do? He felt so useless, watching the man’s dark, sticky life force seep out ounce by ounce.
“Turn him on his side,”
he addressed Cyril again. Auguste was a fighter, someone that put his mind to something and got it done. His life was one not chosen but one he lived anyway, and it would not be lost like this. Hugo refused.

I refuse? What about him? He needs to wake up, fight on his own—

“Azalea, clear a way for the paramedics. Tell Victor he should get out of here.”
Hugo’s eyes blazed as he stood and gripped her shoulder, anchoring himself in the moment, only realizing too late that he’d left a smear of blood on her dress. Sorry.
“I’ll be right back.”


And then he was off again, weaving between tables and over toppled chairs, skidding to the ground and wrenching Baroque’s forgotten bag out from beneath where he’d been sitting. With one arm he swiped everything off the table and turned the bag upside-down onto the newly-cleared surface.

Knick-knacks scattered everywhere. Hugo inwardly groaned. My little hoarder.

An eyeshadow palette, dusty from the blush that had burst open on clattering to the table. A Flintstone pez dispenser. A crumbled packet of tissues, a green packet of gum, three hair ties, an empty almond baggie. Hugo felt sweat break out across his brow. A hopelessly tangled silver chain and a stud earring shaped like Yoda. A folded piece of paper with the corner singed. Some old, yellow petals, fallen from a dried sunflower that was by now thoroughly crushed. Hugo decided to search through the interior pocket. A polaroid of—he zipped the pocket closed. A daily planner. Some credit cards rubber-banded together. A business card—no, it was a punch ticket from that coffee shop. His heart lurched. A bottle of nail polish. Two Q-tips. A Hello Kitty bandaid. Used. Gross.

Finally—on the very bottom of the stack, a plastic bag filled with three white pills, a handful of orange gummies, and a little bottle of smelling salts.

A sick feeling festered in his stomach. Was I really so baited by those fluttering lashes that I didn’t see the glassiness beneath?

Another time, another time.

The pungent smell erupted from the bottle as Hugo unscrewed the cap and thrust it beneath Auguste’s nose. Maybe this wasn’t what he should have been doing, but he knew Auguste, and the man was strong enough to will himself to stay alive, only if he was awake to do so. Wake up, brush this off, stay.

“I’m not giving you permission to leave yet. You have work to do,”
he murmured, mostly to himself, his free hand cradling Auguste’s head, fingers curling into dark locks of sweat-caked hair as if his touch had the authority to command Auguste’s life to stay within his body.





♡coded by uxie♡
 
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Hannibal DIMITRESCU







the sound of porcelain dishes hitting marble flooring, dead silence from the bubbling laughter of children— only for one to start snickering once again, the eerie silence completely drowned away by said laughter. one scolded as the other could only laugh more— belly aching, rib shattering laughter. as they picked up the pieces off the ground, shattered porcelain pricking their fingers, its in that moment when they realized just how much of their life they’ve been missing. a bane existence the pair of them had, used as pawn in a meaningless war— stripped of any childhood, the sweet sounds of a mothers lullaby and goodnight kisses were exchanged for broken bones and humiliation. a life meant for men, yet inflicted upon children, a life not worth living and yet, they did. their suffering was met to deaf ears, yet the strength and trust that was built between one another— it was the only thing keeping them alive.

as they scurried to find superglue, the sounds of their feet echoed throughout the hallway. walls covered in expensive art, as you gazed upon their beauty you often wonder if they are filled with judgement— their wealth being rubbed into your face, without even saying a word. the strokes on a canvas, as if each one told a different story and emotion; hannible tried to understand, as he mindlessly stared at the walls of his prison. how often he wishes to ruin these paintings, as they silently taunt him of what he could never have— wealth, freedom, even love. each story that was held on those canvases only made him realize what he didn’t have and how much he wished to shred them. but for once, hannible could drown out the sound of his own thoughts as matezh and him ran into a bedroom and locked the door. the adrenaline that pumped through his veins and the unspoken comfort he had with the other— it simply made him feel.. less alone. more worthy of things he yet had achieved, as if he could handle anything that was put in front of him as long as he had the other.

“be serious we need to fix this damn thing”
“when am i not serious matezh? you know me better then that”
“yeah sure, tell that to my busted lip”
“listen it was one time”
“just focus would ya”
“yeah yeah”
twitchy hands, missing pieces, and sticky fingers. fixing things weren’t exactly in their programming, but they made do with what they had and knew. while it wasn’t the prettiest thing, as long as you didn’t look at it to hard you wouldn’t notice the obvious two pieces that didn’t belong. it wasn’t as though anyone used these things, they sat upon their home collecting dust.
“we are so screwed”
“hey i think it looks pretty great”
“how blind are you?”
“it’s not as though they’d blame us, they don’t have any proof it was us”
“that hasn’t stopped them before, don’t you remember when they broke your nose?”
“let’s not talk about that”
“you know i’m right”
“whatever, we just gotta get this done and never mention it again”
“stop talking and maybe we’ll get it done”
as they mindlessly bickered with one another, they soon realized that the plate was finally finished— not the best work, but it got the job done. hannibal playfully wiped the sweat off off matezh’s forehead before he told hannibal to check to see if the cost of clear. quickly making his way over to the door, he slowly opened the door and giving matezh a thumbs up. soon they found themselves back at the display case, casting each other a look before they placed the piece of china back in its home.
“they won’t even know the difference”
“ha, you really think so huh?”
“of course, i wouldn’t lie to you would i?”
“i don’t know, i think i’ve caught ya in a lie or two”
“let’s just go”

teenagers acting like teenagers, it’s what they should always do— not be forced to act like men, killer soldiers nevertheless. days like these only happened one in a blood moon, but it was a time that the two of them cherished more then anything else. a time where they could have innocent fun, their inner children lavishing in the mischief and laughter. that’s all they should be doing, hannibal and matzeh were handed the short end of the stick of both their lives— a solider in a child’s body, acting as both judge and executioner, and left to heal their mental wounds alone.

at least they had enough other
as long as they have each other, they could get through anything… no matter what.

right..?

~~~~~~~

a cold wind blew through the lonely house on the hill, it’s shattered windows couldn’t keep out the blistering cold from outside. it sat, untouched for years— everyone knew about “The house on the Hill” but no one took the time to learn what was hiding inside, the haunting words that were painting into the walls. rotting floor boards, wilted flowers and decaying vegetation, a broken fence, and filled with secrets. it was a prison that hannibal lived in, forever chained to something he once called home. somehow he found comfort in his own misery, a place where he could unleash everything that was hurting him in one lonely spot… away from anyone else, a place he could decompress and come back with a broken smile on his face. that home was the embodiment of everything that pained hannibal, how much he’s neglected his own mental being— such a lonely existence isn’t it?

“oh hannibal”
a voice laced with honey and vanilla, something about that tone made the pit of his stomach do a flip. it was different, hannibal didn’t like different.. but this… this he was willing to learn. he lifted his gaze from his papers to see the captivating smile of cyril, forcing himself to bite into the flesh of his cheek to keep his own at bay. a constant pain in his ass he was at the beginning, he had heard about him from matezh but never got around to meeting him— but now he’s here… he’s always here, though one must be persistent if they wish for their prize. with that being said, it’s taken cyril four years, four years to wedge himself between the icy layer that kept him from the goodness that hannibal held inside. it was as if no matter how many obsctules he put in his way, cyril found some way to get around them— an annoying pest at first, but hannibal somehow… started to enjoy the fight. as the years past, a softness grew within his battered heart and sparks began to flicker. a once slow beating heart now finding a new reason to fight, a reason to go on.

“what are you doing cyril” he asked the glowing ball of light, the smile never leaving his face as he shut the door behind him. his head never moved, but his eyes followed as cyril walked deeper within his cave, a place where he can be alone with his ever lasting thoughts and take a moment to decompress from the daily job of working with numbers. “your telling me i can’t come and see you, han” god that nickname made his eye twitch, but he kinda liked it. he figured no amount of protest would deter the use of such a name, so hannibal was forced to find a way to tolerate it. though the smirk that graced his tan features seemed to do the trick, just enough though. “you act as though you don’t enjoy my company” at this point cyril was standing in front of his desk, that smirk still plastered on his face.

a rough breath came through his nose as he leaned back into his chair, placing the papers down upon said desk before bringing his full attention upon the man standing in front of him. “you ever been told your annoying like a fruit fly dearly” hannibal teased slightly, reaching into his inner suit pocket and taking out a flask. his choice of poison? bourbon today, he was tired of tequila. “only by you han” the other said just as teasing, maybe even more. a half laugh came past hannibal’s lips, his eyes now focused on the flask as he went to open it. without noticing, hannibal couldn’t see the slight churn of expression that cyril had as he watched the older man take a sip from the poison laced flask. “oh you love it.”

being lost in thought, he soon realized that cyril was standing next to him by now. placing a hand upon his shoulder seemed to snap the man out of it, what felt like hours was meer seconds in real life. “you okay han, seemed like i lost you there for a second” a soft squeeze was put upon his shoulder, an act of care and comfort. it didn’t matter what cyril did and no amount of disconnect hannibal tried, a heat built within the pit of his stomach whenever his body was touched by the other. a fire light against his skin, as if a match was lit and yet— he didn’t flinch away from the pain, he leaned further into it. everything that was and is of cyril was so new to him, a sensation he once long forgotten all those years ago and yet the fluttering of butterflies in his stomach said otherwise. an annoying blush would grow on his face and make him flustered— a collected fluster, but flustered nevertheless. no one has ever been able to make the beast feel this way and yet, cyril did it without even trying.

it pissed him off, yet was captivated by it. letting his head pull upon his shoulder and looking up at cyril, he simply shrugged his shoulders at his question. an eyebrow was raised and a chuckle soon followed next, cyril let his hip rest against the desk as he crossed his arms over his chest. “whatever you say there old man, though sometimes you worry me” he said honestly, eyes soft as they stared into his own. hannibal’s didn’t understand it, but for some reason that… concerned him. deep down he never wants cyril to worry about him, especially like that. it wasn’t a burden he should feel to have, the horrid things that weight down his mind were for him to carry and no one else— no one could take away this burden, the heavy bolder of misery and death being held up by two sets of war torn shoulders. however knowing cyril cared that much just… it gave hannible… he didn’t know what it gave him, but it wasn’t bad. it was good.

do you remember that lonely house on the hill, it’s windows broken and floor boards rotting. the coldness that once ran through that house now stood still, broken windows are no more. a chimney now blew smoke, a newly found warmth spread throughout the home as things became to slowly change for the better. everything the warmth touched began to heal some of the things that were once forever broken— those that couldn’t be fixed were left alone, but tended too the best it could. the process was slow, the house was not used to such a heat and often retaliated. but the constant heat won in the end— new flooring, a working sink, freshly planted flowers and a new fence. the home was painted a fresh coat of dark green, dead grass now covered in stones and wild plants. a home worth living in, a home that could help mend the bad memories with new ones— as if the chains that bound him to a desolate place now cut free by the hands that fixed said home.

as if out of impulse, his body refusing to listen to his mind, hannible reached out and placed one of his hands upon the others arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. a genuine smile began to grace his face, features softening— a look that he once thought died so many years ago. it wasn’t as though his sweetness towards his god children weren’t genuine or the undying bond he had with matzeh wasn’t real, its just… he though these feelings had all but died the night his wife lose her battle with her inner demons. without a second thought, hannible traced his hand down cyril’s arm before reaching for his hand. a gentleness that combated the misery, hands that once only stole life had been gifted the chance at making a new one— perhaps he was finally getting a break, god he sure needed one.

taking the hand of the other man, the small grin on his face only grew more. his thumb gently rubbed cyril’s knuckles, was it affectionately? one could say that. “i don’t ever wanna worry you cyril, it’s never my intention too” words laced with a richness like chocolate and smooth like fine wine, lifting the others hand closer to his face and placing a kiss upon his hand. the act was a new one, perhaps it was too new— was he getting a head of himself, no he can’t be. the innocent kiss lasted for a few seconds before he pulled away, once again rubbing his thumb against cyril’s skin “don’t get all flustered on me now cyril, we still have a full day of fun” he said teasingly, the blush that sat on cyril’s face made hannibal laugh. it was genuine and it felt good.

~~~~~~

nothing seemed to go right.

but hannibal hadn’t expected this to happen.

it was quick, it was loud, and it was mean.

anything before the sound of glass shattering and people screaming was forgotten— blood was smothering the once clean floor and people were booking it towards any and all exits. somehow hannibal was calm, how painfully desensitized he was. it was as though everyone was running with their heads cut off, though a surprise attack will do that to someone. soon enough, the sight of a falling giant had quickly caught his eyes— an word, a brutal chest wound as the bullet shot into his chest cavity. in the back of his head, it reminded him when he was only twenty five years old. forced to kill a man the family framed as a dirty rat, shaky hands held the rifle as he took his first and only shot. the man had laid there, spazzing for only a mere second before succumbing to the wound. it left his stomach hurting, vomiting all over his own shoes as he was laughed at by his keepers.

he snapped out of it as he heard the second shot, this time a bullet was logged into the shoulder of vince. well fuck the thought came into his head, taking passing glances around the room to make sure that the kids were alright— he’d be damned if something happened to them. somehow his eyes were able to locate almost all of them, a mixture of facial expressions but all had one thing in common— panic. it was only a matter of time before hannibal shot up from his seat, taking a glance at evangeline and giving her the look of *please be safe* before locking eyes upon dakota, hoping that he hadn’t been caught in any cross fire. it made his stomach hurt, but seeing that he hadn’t been harmed soothed some of it— these feelings were starting to form unwanted memories and all he could do was push them as far down as he possibly could.

while he wanted to protect all of them, hannibal was only one man. the internal tugging of his heart strings made his chest heart, the thought of something happening to them… hannibal couldn’t go through that again. he wouldn’t let it happen. noticing that both vince and the avancini were being taken care of, he reached into his suit pocket to pull out his own phone in dialing 9-1-1. the phone range only twice before a dispatcher was one the line, a quick exchange of words were made before hannibal began to notice a another wave of panic that ran through the guest. it confused hannible only slightly before he caught the sight of a kitchen fire as the kitchen staff ran out from the doors. as those doors flew open, the sight of the fire was shown and it only made hannibal roll his eyes in annoyance “that’s fucking great” he said to himself, now ignoring the dispatcher on the other side of the phone. was anyone going to try and put out that fire, or were they planning on letting this place burn to the ground.

quickly, hannibal made his way back towards the kitchen. the heat of the burning stove made his skin want to crisp up, gritting his teeth and squinting his eyes slightly as the heat got even hotter. there had to be a fire extinguisher somewhere in this place, but where was it. as he quickly searched for the extinguisher, he finally caught sights of it as he ran over to it, the flames only growing bigger the longer is blazed. breaking open the glass case before taking the extinguisher and heading back towards the fire. in a matter of seconds hannible began to put out the fire, the scent was horrid to the nose and made him cough as if he smoked a pack a day, but at least the fire was finally being taken care of… what kind of fuck shit is today?







/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.
 





/* ------ left side ------ */




/* ------ left side info ------ */
mood exhausted

location dining hall (the floor, specifically).

outfit dis

fun fact gotta love some trauma, waiting for her future GF

tag mentions Az, Auguste, Vic, Cas, Marnie, Hero, Cyril, Hugo blue-jay blue-jay qunqun qunqun miyabi miyabi neon reverie neon reverie demonology demonology LowkeyLovingLoki LowkeyLovingLoki boo. boo.


carmensita




/* ------ right side ------ */
At what point do you stop enjoying being right?

A ticking time bomb, that giant, fuck-off powder keg...Melissa had lit its wick and the fuse was short.

Her body hit the floor.

A sudden, rhythmic beat pummeled in Carmen’s eardrums, thump…thump…thump. It started slow, the resounding thud leaden; it dragged out against the erupting tornado of movement. People had sprung from their seats, and the wave of panicked voices, screams and pleads hit Carmen square in the chest. She gripped the table cloth, the silken fabric twisting in her fingers, as though she could find a semblance of comfort within its threads. ”What the- what the fuck,” her other hand curled tight around her wine, a pulse away from fracturing the glass. Her jaw clenched; the dark eyes of a once-hunter now more closely resembled a deer-in-headlights. It's happening too quick, just give me a minute-- but the discordant yells pushed on, now latching themselves onto that dull, steady beat that was keeping her grounded, warping the vision. She felt caught in a riptide, the fingers that dug into the table paled as she clung to the moment before Melissa had fallen: dry small talk, eye-rolling, and an absurd seating arrangement...she wanted it back.

What was it that Azalea said a moment ago?

'Lest we all get lost in the wreckage'?

She blinked.

Auguste hit the floor.

Shit.

Carmen shut her eyes and placed her glass down, drawing a labored breath; a ragged inhale as she attempted to center herself on the solid rhythm in her ears. Her heartbeat. It was still there, and she was still there. But it grew heavier, thicker, losing its shape as it bled into the dissonance. The world around her distorted, sound swallowing her...a hand pushing her head underwater.

No.

Carmen jerked her arm back, the glass of white beside her toppling to the floor in the same instant she had willed herself to move. She dropped from her chair, her bare hands hitting the ground, splinters of the broken muscadet riddling her skin, the small nicks setting her fingers on fire. She swallowed a yell, forcing down anything that could draw notice. She relished in almost all attention...but now, Carmen wanted to go unseen. Embarrassment and dread mingled as she pressed herself into the table leg. These fucking families. She seethed, venturing a tentative glance past the draped table cloth to find Auguste.

He was bleeding out.

Her eyes flickered up to Azalea as the other woman's legs blurred across her field of vision. What the fuck, Azalea? Az had made a beeline for the window. Don't. It's not safe! Carmen had wanted to shout, extending an arm, but recoiled instantly, a red palm now pressed tight to her chest in an effort to settle herself. She wanted to fold into her own body--any outward movement set her nerves alight. There was a panic attack so close to her surface, whatever nonchalance she typically carried had flown out the window the moment a bullet had flown in. This is so stupid. You jinxed it...can't keep quiet. In a hasty swipe, she snatched some napkins from the table above, silver rings jettisoning off her fingers, pinging across the floor as she pressed the paper to her cuts. Ew. A pulpy mess as the red soaked it through. Carmen could now feel something bubbling in her chest, an emotion wanting to escape--and it did escape--but not as an inconsolable weep or scream, as a laugh. Brackish, dry, tinged with derision. It was the kind of laugh that comes from shit hitting the fan, and knowing there's absolutely nothing you can do about it.

Now get off your ass.

Fine.

Carmen steadied herself with the table and forced herself to her feet. Moving her own body felt like pushing a boulder up a hill, her mind weighed her down, leaving her gasping as she finally extended to an upright position. She threw the soggy napkins to the side. Gross. And took the slightest moment to pause, a microscopic beat. The people who had been at her table aside from Azalea; Victor appeared physically unharmed, and so did Casimir--the Adamski. A foul, bitter tang pervaded her taste buds as she watched him with something of a scowl, a dirty look as though to say 'you better not have known.' Sure, she could be a dickhead sometimes, but how low does one need to be to have a shooting at a damn memorial? She shook her head. That didn't matter right now. Carmen moved forward, a sliver of resolve pushing her towards where she'd witnessed Auguste fall, allowing her to travel a few strong steps across the room. She'd been taught first-aid, well...taught might not be correct. She'd attended a class or two, but whether or not she could recall anything from them was another story. But perhaps she could rattle her brain for something.

Wait.

Don't look.

Her muscles tensed as the man's body came into full view: blacked out, unresponsive to the turmoil. Guilt froze her mid-step, it racked Carmen's bones; Auguste had been engulfed by an echo of the past. A swathe of a memory peeled across her vision. The floor beneath her had become the wet board of her newly-gifted yacht, the screams melding into the beat of early 2010s pop music--so distant and so grating as she tried to grasp the twisted image before her, barely standing as she withstood a chill, shivering like a drowned rat in a soaked-through party dress. She saw her ex-fiance, Paulo, choking on his own blood that pooled from a bullet wound in his neck. He reached for her, she staggered back. No no no no, it was never meant for you.

Smack!

"Jesus Christ!"

She had stepped back into someone; a staff member, a nobody, no one of note, and still the collision sent her to the floor, again. She backed up into a nearby table, ignoring the spray of red across the light fabric. Now half-shielded from the bedlam, she tried to gather her thoughts. She listened as Hero called 911, as Marnie raced to the kitchen, as people covered windows, as enemies tried to save enemies--she felt useless and exhausted.

"Jesus fucking- God, fuck,"

Oh God, really?

It was his voice, the voice of someone she had tried the longest to avoid. She turned to look away as the man knelt down by Auguste, Azalea and Hugo joining him soon thereafter. She crawled out of his sight and to the opposite end of the table. It was all too much. Now afflicted by the thought of him, Carmen felt welts spread across her insides--sore spots she didn't have time for right now. In an effort to cure them, she dove a hand into her pocket, red-stained fingers smearing her phone screen as she pulled the device out. Call them...they'll answer. She clicked on her mom's number, watching it ring through with a fraction of hope. "Come on," she muttered through gritted teeth. But there was nothing. Why wasn't she at the memorial? Some bottomless brunch took priority? Whatever. Another ragged breath. Dad. Carmen's faith in him picking up the line was just as dim, but a flame crackled nonetheless. He might have the energy to answer, a moment to spare for his daughter; to speak to her, to have his voice carry through some much-needed solace...but it rang through, all the way through. Bullshit. Fucking fuck. She dropped her phone to her side, plastic case clattering as she brought her knees to her chest, burying her head in her arms. Her body had given in.

The letter.

She should never have gotten in the god damn car.




/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.
 



Doctor, can you fix it up with a stitch? I’m craving structure in this mix. I fear I’m leaking out. Someone tipped me over by my spout. While

dakota adamski








Body rigid and eyes glimmering in admiration, Dakota was devout to Melissa's sudden turn in speech. He didn't even take note of his phone vibrating in his cardigan's pocket.

Melissa Zhao was brave enough to say what Dakota couldn't. Unlike her, the once heir had hurriedly packed his family's murder into a box twisted with bolted chains and thrown it into the ravishing ocean — to never be found by anyone. He had witnessed it for fuck sake. He should of said something. Done something.

In the back of his head he hears a disembodied voice: You still can.

He waited for each burning word that left her lips until it was her very last. Instead of words, blood spilt from her parted lips, desperate to share the accusations that the bullet aimed to hide forever.

Blood pooled around Melissa's crumpled body on the stage and all Dakota could do was withdraw.

Sound seemed to fade; the scraping of chairs, screams and commotion were unheard for him. The incessant thumping of his heart was all he could hear, threatening to make his ears bleed.

He likened it to being underwater, slowly sinking until the surface was replaced with darkness. He remembered slipping into the bath's watery depths to relive the moment his parents died.

Melissa was dead, yet never more alive. A perpetual stare in her unblinking eyes, blood running down the stage's wooden edge and her gaped mouth that held all the unspoken secrets. Dakota matched her stare, his own eyes searching for what Melissa's final thought was.

His mother's final thought was about him, her eyes wet with tears and staring longingly towards the closet that he resided in.

The next bullet ripped him from the depths, the all-too-familiar ringing in his ears.

Another.

Vincenzo's draped arm around Dakota fell from its place as Marnie's flowery dress flittered past him, hands stuffed with napkins.

He could taste metal.

I've been shot.

Dakota seemed ready to accept his fate, his arms lolling by his side.

Yet eyes found no form of injury on his body.

Dakota's fingers glided over his face, staring at the deep red that painted his fingers, blood freckled over his face.

Realisation kicked in as Dakota's head turned to the side and found blood oozing from the over-saturated napkins that were held to Vincenzo's shoulder.

Oh my god. No...not him.

Dakota could only watch as Marnie was swallowed up by the sea of black with an empty promise of returning. He could see glimpses of other familiar faces in the chaos. Melissa wasn't the only one.

"V-Vince..." Dakota stammered, unsure if the name even left his mouth. The taste of blood made his throat burn with bile. There was so much blood.

He wanted to help. He truly did but he couldn't.

I can't! I'm sorry! This time the words didn't leave his mouth as though the same bullet that whizzed through Melissa's neck had found its place in his.

He was being pulled back into his nightmare but this time he was awake.

His eyes pleaded for forgiveness in Vincenzo's direction as Dakota attempted to get up but Vince's blood had other plans. Dakota fumbled backwards in his chair, head smacking against the wooden floor.

A searing vision of white.

Dakota felt the first high heel dig into his chest and the boot pressing into his cheek.

The stampede continued but Dakota had gone numb. Curling into a ball, Dakota's crying was drowned out by the commotion.

He was a coward all those years ago in that closet and now wasn't any different.

A fucking coward.


mood | literal mess
scroll

location |on the mf floor, keypark hall.

tag | interactions: vincenzo ( koala koala ) mentions: marnie and melissa.





/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.
 
















House of Wolves



My Chemical Romance








Auguste Cortes



  • .




A scream. A loud smack, a single gold ring slicing through an eyebrow. The sticky feeling of blood. A thud. Being wrestled to the ground. Held down. Pinned down. He couldn’t move. The buzz of a razor, his neck getting sore as it was run through black and white hair. There was screaming, screaming, he was lashing out and trying to claw manicured hands away from him, they were piercing his skin, turning into claws. Screaming. So much screaming, like the shriek of a banshee. The last thing you hear before you die. Fear. Paralyzing fear. Terror. Churning in his stomach. Acid bubbling up his throat. He was going to throw up. He was going to throw up. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t-

Fury in his mother’s cold eyes and her sharp movements. Hurried apologies pouring out of his mouth, begging her to let him go. Pathetic.

It was over. He was being held. His new itchy head being petted. Being rubbed.

Panic…

Pain…

Lights. Blinding lights.

He was surrounded by monsters. They were holding him down. They were going to kill him.

His arm twitched upwards for a brief moment to knock off the heavy weight that was on him, the monsters surrounding him seemed intent to crush him alive. His arm didn’t make it. It felt like his limbs were being dragged down by lead.

They were speaking, the monsters. He couldn’t understand them - though he knew that he knew the language. He only understood a couple of words. It was something about cats. And fighting.

He was always fighting.

He wanted to stop fighting.

He had to stop fighting.

Please let him stop fighting.

If death was the alternative, then he supposed his slow waltz with death was going to come to a close - he welcomed the cold embrace.

There was pain dancing behind his eyes, the bloom centered around where the monsters were pressing down - spreading throughout his entire body.

Painful and slow, his slow decay finally coming to a long and drawn out end. He gave them everything. He gave them his strength, his mind, his innocence, his soul. And they couldn’t give him an easy death. He felt the old rage seeping into his blood once more - his lifeblood. The thing that had kept him going for so long.

His vision went red again as he felt the immense urge to get up and claw the monsters’ throats out with his own fingers.

Auguste was going to die, but he was going to take as many of these damned souls with him as he went.

He managed to lift his head just a little bit, the body raising, bursts of pain roiling through his entire body as his reanimation came to fruition: a monster from the grave. His facial expression twisting into a snarl as he stared - despite being delirious, there was very little cloudiness to them. His eyes were brighter with pain and fever - only increasing the intensity of his icy stare as he made eye contact with Hugo. “I’m going to rip your fucking eyes out”

No, in fact, that was not even remotely English. Hopefully, Hugo could speak French.

As he attempted to rise once more - to fully sit up, black spots danced in his vision. The monster boiling inside of him rising to the surface as his instincts took over. Attack. Attack. Attack. Attack. To live you have to attack.. His mistake was that he had begun to pull his leadened feet underneath him. The bullet wound in his chest was not happy with that as another paralyzing round of pain wracked his body. The world went weightless and he watched himself collapse for a second time that day. This slumber far more painful than the first…

He was constantly in pain…

He wanted it to end already…

Let it all end…

Let him go.

He was falling…

Falling...






/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.
 

KEYPARK HALL.
In Keypark Hall, amidst blood and chaos, a phone sent out a desperate call. It traveled through the city’s air and landed in an emergency dispatch center. It wasn’t a busy day, not before this. An employee processed the call, eyes growing wide in shock. A voice, just barely shaking, relayed gunshots and fire. The call clicked off, and ambulances, police cars, and a firetruck raced off through midday streets.

The building sat with life and death rolling their dice. One body’s blood slowly spread, staining cold floors, and another, barely breathing, strained under the pressure applied to it. A team of paramedics burst through the doors, slowed at the sight of a scrambling crowd, then rushed to find the victims. They replaced the black-clad, bloodied attendees surrounding Auguste, who’d burst out and again stilled. He and Vincenzo were carried off in stretchers.

The Hall does not quiet. It is messy and bloodstained, servants and attendees alike filled with panic. The memorial is left behind unfinished, shot neatly to death.

Details ;;
Time: 1:16 PM

Tags ;;
Auguste Cortes qunqun qunqun , Vincenzo Salvatore & Alyona Kriselyov koala koala , Carmensita Da Costa Rocha mxlly mxlly , Casimir Sayed, Kiko Na Chiangmai, & Victor Rivera miyabi miyabi , Azalea Washington blue-jay blue-jay , Hannibal Dimitrescu arthur morgan. arthur morgan. , Evangeline Huang xayah. xayah. , Mr. Kim & Jin Ahn @.moonchild., Marzanna Adamski ravensunset ravensunset , Hugo Young boo. boo. , Baroque Adamski cavitea cavitea , Hero Bechtel demonology demonology , Jasper Mistri @Wandering Owl, Azure Dahl celadon. celadon. , Harris Felicette @LeilaRF, Dakota Adamski idiot idiot , Marnie Edwards neon reverie neon reverie , Cyril Rossi LowkeyLovingLoki LowkeyLovingLoki

OOC ;;
Congratulations on completing the first event! Auguste and Vincenzo are both alive and safely at the hospital. We’re now entering into a ‘filler’ round: the memorial has passed, and you may roleplay out any scenes you’d like to see happen. This can be either immediately following the memorial, or at any point within the following week. Since this round will only last 1-2 weeks, you may want to collaborate with other players to write out the posts you’d like to see!
 



hugo.





































  • mood



    it's nothing
















Sun, Oct 2, 2022

The demise of Hugo’s world had begun precisely one year ago. To have it climax on the same day, at a misremembered memorial, almost felt like some sort of sick joke. He had plenty of time to think about it, waiting in the hospital until Auguste got out of surgery, but he didn’t. His hand was in his pocket, rubbing over white pills and edibles through a plastic baggie, a soft flowered purse filled with odds and ends sitting at his feet.

Odd, at a time when he was supposed to be worrying about a nearly-dead man that he would be thinking of two others instead, one very definitely alive, and the other very definitely dead. Two spaces of his heart that sometimes felt like the same whole.

I couldn’t visit your grave today. He slipped his glasses off and pulled a tissue out of his other pocket to clean them. The one day that family’s supposed to visit, and I miss it. You’d probably get mad at me. There was a man around his age sitting on the other side of the waiting room, a sweaty mess. Hands were clasped between his knees, red-rimmed eyes staring at scuffed slippers. He hadn’t shaved and it showed. Didn’t look like he’d slept, either. Hugo might have looked more put-together but he felt the same. Flipping his phone out, he sent a quick text to a contact named only Moonshine. His phone hadn’t been in the purse so he could only assume it’d been in his pocket.

*My place. Safer there. Might be late.*

He wouldn’t put the baggie back into the velvety pocket it had occupied before. Maybe he wouldn’t notice it was gone. It was a subject Hugo didn’t want to breach, not after today. He just needed to hold him and have him be alright.

A nurse walked into the room, and both men’s eyes snapped up, greedy for news. She tapped the shoulder of the other, the bathrobe-wearing man, who followed her with an anxious smile.

Too squeamish to watch your own child’s birth? Hugo looked at the chafed linoleum floor and thought of how he and the man had been waiting for much of the same news, only one was attached to a baby, and the other to a killer.

Life and death. Seems to be all I can think about these days.

Jakob had never even had a chance, throat full of glass like he’d swallowed shrapnel. There had been no operating room for him; the only waiting Hugo had done was with the funeral director. When others mourned the loss of an alliance that had already been on the rocks, Hugo wept silently for his brother and grew bitter. The service had been small and sparsely attended, but Hugo was only too glad to have Jakob all to himself, even if he was six feet beneath his feet.

Auguste wasn’t someone important to him, but at least he had a chance. Maybe he didn’t deserve it, and maybe Hugo had thought once or twice in the last hour about how unfair it was that someone like Auguste got to live where Jakob—

The nurse came back and beckoned him silently. Hugo grabbed the purse and felt the weight of the pills in his pocket grow heavier.

—

Sat, Oct 8, 2022 7:47 PM

Agony, a week of it, kept Hugo more on edge than he had been in a long time. Names floated in and out of thought, concerns he applied himself to with vigor but no passion, the flame in his heart grown dull. It was hard to concentrate when there was only one thing he wanted to think about. Or two, really. No, three. Four?

Auguste. Alive, for now. Who disrupted the memorial? Jakob was a victim just like Melissa—the same bloodstained hands? Baroque was looking at him differently. Find out where that girl would be and talk to her. Car thief, bad news, another third party. Fourth party, at this point. Why take out Auguste? Did he know something? All he could get from him were tears. Drifting away, drifting away, slipping through his fingers, can’t see the moon, she didn’t have loyalty but her—

And then he—

When would—

Hugo wasn’t sleeping. He ate when his stomach shriveled and coffee started tasting bad, maybe because the blend was similar to what he’d had on their first…

Was Baroque mad at him? Was he doing something wrong?

Hugo didn’t want things to change. They’d been going steady for over a year now and he liked what they had—a warm embrace to snuggle into, lips that whispered words of affection, gentle umber eyes he could swim in. Their chemistry was good. He still couldn’t get used to the way he talked about him, as if Hugo was the sun in his sky, but that was just how he was. It was fun and sweet, and sometimes he felt like maybe it really could have been something if things were different.

Hugo cared about him. Cared far more than he’d ever admit. And that was why he couldn’t let him say those three little words, because it could never be real between them, and he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if Baroque gave him his heart. Hugo’s hands were claws and he knew he’d only tear it apart without meaning to.

The way things were, right now, they were good. Nothing needed to change.

So why was he so unhappy?

After their first date Hugo had felt like the happiest man in the world, walking Baroque home in the rain and getting to kiss those lips that tasted like hot chocolate. Heart like a runaway train, picking up speed and never slowing down. They had made love before that but afterwards it had never felt so real. Suddenly Hugo found himself wanting to wait until Baroque woke up, trace the curve of his spine with a finger and steal those eyes for as many moments as he could.

Jakob died and… Baroque was his saving grace. Hugo never would have found a reason to stop putting his alarm on snooze. And it was thanks to Baroque that he determined the limits of their relationship—that they could have each other but only so much. It was safest that way and that was all Hugo wanted for Baroque, for him to be safe.

Red-rimmed eyes, unshaved face, an empty ache in his stomach were easily ignored. Hugo was starting to feel like the man in the hospital waiting room. He’d been staring at the unsent text message for fifteen minutes now, thumb hovering over send, waiting for some sign that he should delete it and forget everything. He didn’t want things to change. Things were good now. He was just stressed, and that was why Baroque had seemed so off the last few times. The sex was still good and that meant something, and it was enough.

I don’t need to send this. Everything will work out fine. Auguste will heal, and I’ll find who did this, and that, and then Baroque and I will be happy again, and things won’t have to change.

The cat rubbed at his ankles, hungry and impatient.

Cold skin only just grazed the phone screen. A crinkle of plastic under a defeated palm, greasy hair falling forward as a head hung, overcome and dreading.

*8. we have to talk*

Did time pass? He wasn’t aware of it. Muscles might as well have shrunk in atrophy for the way he didn’t even flinch when the click of a turning doorknob came. He’d been waiting for it all day but now that it was here, he didn’t want Baroque to see him this way. For being the man who knew all the secrets, Hugo was alone and in the dark. He had no way of knowing how this conversation would end.

A shuffle of heels, and a pause just across the lintel. Hugo looked up from the space between his arms to see him—or rather, to see what was missing. Bright prints and colorful accents substituted for simple black and white, like he was attending another memorial service. Dread rippled through Hugo.

There was a year’s worth of words he could say to him but he’d only been rehearsing four of them.

“You didn’t tell me.”


A hand opened to reveal a crinkled plastic baggie filled with pills and edibles.

































burned out



dodie










♡coded by uxie♡
 
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Cherry Wine



Hozier








Auguste Cortes



  • .




The dirty alleyways of Paris, the glint of a knife, fresh new lines of red found their ways up his arms, stinging bites from bringing fists to a knife fight going ignored as he slammed the boy’s hand against the hard brick wall. Once. Twice. A loud snap, a scream. A cradle of the boy’s arm as the knife clattered to the ground. A declaration “Psychopath!” A sharp kick to the boy’s ribs, his head underneath to Auguste’s heel.

Cold and calm fury reflected in the boy’s ice eyes, the corners of his vision going red once more. “Say it again.”

But when it was all over, the white hot fury that had boiled over, so hot that it felt cold, faded. Tightened up back into a tight ball of rage that he swallowed down, back into the empty pit of nothingness. The color of the world went away. A world of nothing but static. He wanted to feel things again, even if it was the fury. Even if it was self-hatred and self-loathing. He wanted to feel something.

He wanted so desperately to feel alive again…

Wasn’t that…

Wasn’t that everyone’s goal?

Not just to survive…

To be alive?

Eyes fluttering open, the weight was worse on his limbs. He couldn’t move. He could barely breathe.

There were lights. Red flashing lights.

Hurried voices speaking in panicked tones. Commands - though much more clinical than the panic of before. They were moving in a metal box, a siren wailing.

He was not there.

He was still on the streets of Paris.

The same knife from before was in his hands, where had the owner gone perhaps Auguste didn’t know, blood streaking his cheek. A hesitation had led to a slash of pain in his side where the foreign knife had nearly entered his ribs. Red. Everything was red and he was furious. A blink, and his now massive frame was on top of the man. The knife was drawn, plunged into the other’s chest, again and again and again and he couldn’t stop he couldn’t stop he couldn’t stop he had to keep going they were depending on him he couldn’t lose them too he couldn’t lost them they were all he had and the man was begging for forgiveness, for mercy, for his mother (Auguste had had a mother once before, and then she’d died alongside his father)… And then silence as Auguste continued stabbing.

The body was cold and somewhat clammy before Auguste could stop.

There was a strangled gasp for air. There was blood covering his hands, it was in his slowly growing out hair. On his face. In his clothes.

What had he done?

And then he threw up in the dirty alleyway, defiling a corpse added to a long list of crimes that Auguste had committed in the name of his gang.

The blood had never washed off.

That rage had fermented over time, becoming a valuable resource. A limitless supply of energy. And then it had spoiled. Became a void in his stomach. A feeling of dread and aching nothingness. Tiredness and lethargy had ruled where he’d once had frenzied fury.

The Avancini rabid wolf, the punishment for any of their enemies. All of their enemies. Death incarnate. You couldn’t fight him, you couldn’t hurt him. He barely felt any pain while he was enraged. All you could do was run and pray. And even then, more often than not, seeing him was a death sentence….

At least, that had been when he was a younger man…

Younger man… He was, what, 20 something? He was 20 something and yet he felt like he had lived for centuries…

He was so tired.

He was so tired of scraping by, of fighting, of clawing his way to victory, of harsh words and harsh blows, of sleeping for 2 hours or less, of enduring.

He was so tired of surviving.

He wanted to just… sleep.

And when he closed his eyes, he could dream about living, not just surviving.

…

It never ended…

Why couldn’t it end?

…

It was black. It was comforting. It was nothing. It was everything.

And then he took a ragged breath in. There was light. Blinding light. White. Violent. Crashing through his peaceful dark paradise.

He was going to fight this. He had to fight he had to fight he had to fi-

There were voices again as he kicked out and clawed at the people surrounding him. Pain wracking his every move. Survive. He had to survive. Kill the monsters. Beat them. Survive.

There was a needle piercing his skin, and he fell once more into comforting, dreamless slumber.

He became aware of his breathing first.

It hurt.

He was so tired of hurting, why couldn’t he just… stop.

His chest… hurt. But it wasn’t the normal crushing weight of his sins constricting him slowly… it was… external. Stabbing pain.

Tired blue eyes opened, a couple of bleary blinks went by, blinking tears out of his eyes, though none of them fell.

Then at the people gathered around his bed, eyes lazily making eye contact with the guy standing over him. It was a rare thing indeed to have people standing over him… He didn’t like it, it reminded him of when he was a scrawny, gangly kid.

A pink tongue slithered out and wet his lips. His throat felt dry… scratchy.

In between stabs of pain from the cardinal sin of breathing, there was an itch where the wound was slowly healing itself.

Being shot was a miserable experience. Who could’ve expected that one?

He guessed that this was just another day in the life… He wanted to go home and actually sleep and forget that this had ever happened. In the best of circumstances, he was a pretty quiet and withdrawn person. These were the worst of circumstances. He just wanted to be left alone.

Something about Hugo being there made him want to cry.

What was more pathetic? Hugo had become so used to the monster that he had to live with that he seemed genuinely worried about it, cared for it, in a way that had to be Stockholm Syndrome at its finest… Or that Auguste was so starved for soft touches, that he would’ve killed a hundred more men if only to extend this for a minute longer.

His eyes closed once more. Maybe if he pretended like he was asleep they would go away and all the pain that he’d locked away since he was five would stop boiling underneath the surface, desperate to be released.

One eye peaked open. He was still staring at him.

Stop it.

Stop pretending like you cared.

Stop pretending like he was anything more than a tool to be used and then discarded when something better came along. When the tool became old and broken.

Hugo’s eyes were still burning into him. He was too tired to internally translate what they were saying so he instead just stared at the ceiling.

He’d just been clawed back from death once more. He’d nearly died.

His entire life was a dance with death. A slow dance with death as it followed in his wake. He wasn’t so much as running away from it, as ambling away as its cold grasp tried to grab a hold on him.

He’d nearly died, and this one wasn’t even one that he’d wanted to cause.

It was just another day at the job. Just another day in his life. Death haunted him constantly - why would this ever bother him. There had been plenty of attempts on his life before, there would be plenty since. He’d watched plenty of people die.

He was Atlas, carrying the world on his shoulders. But this was his burden to bear. It was his burden and his burden alone. He’d take it, if it meant saving someone else. This would not be the straw that broke Atlas's back.

He’d nearly died.

A pathetic sniffle.

Stop it.

He was in a den of wolves. Weakness was only treated with scorn and hatred and more pain. That’s why he had to constantly be on his feet and ready to be attacked. As seen by his current predicament, letting his guard down for even a moment could be deadly.

But he’d just nearly died

There was something welling up in the back of his throat.

A small part of him wanted to live, if only to spite everyone else.

There was a deep pressure in his chest.

Not even death wanted him. He’d tried 4 times now.

There was something wet. A tear? That was… strange and new.

He was a monster.

And so one tear became two.

His colleagues were never coming back

And two became three.

He had just killed someone - there was no coming back from that

And it just kept pouring out

This new family’s love was conditional - he needed them desperately.

Shame made his face turn red.

His best friend of five years, his anchor was never going to talk to him again because he was gay and he loved him and that was bad.

Pain and deep sorrow overtook his reason and rationality as he pushed away the stabbing pain of his chest to make some attempt at hiding the tears.

He was never going to have unconditional love.

His mother never wanted to see him again. She hated him. She loved him. He was all that she had left. He was everything she despised.

He was never going to dance or sing again.

His father was gone - he’d killed himself. Auguste was never going to hear his voice again. Never going to see his face again.

Auguste was sobbing. Over the life that he could’ve had. Over all the pain that he’d forced down into his very being to let it heal in peace while he kept himself alive. Over everything that he should’ve cried over since he was 5.

And then silence.

A blink as he wiped the tears away, and then looked up at the ceiling. Red rimmed emptiness. The calm before a storm.

“... You should’ve let me die.”

—--------------------------------------

So Auguste was put into therapy. Extensive therapy. The type of therapy that you are forced to go to when your opening statement after a week in a coma is “You should’ve let me die.”

He didn’t like therapy. The old lady with her little halfmoon glasses stared at him and they seemed to enter some kind of death match while she asked him personal questions about everything.

It was like an interrogation. He didn’t like that.

But, even when he’d signed off on being treated more, he still went to his daily sessions of staring at each other while the old lady asked him questions into the void. Something that she called “progress” which was…

It was not motivating at all the little bit of praise. No. Not at all. And when she scribbled something down after saying that he was making progress… it was not foreboding in the least bit. No. Nope. He was fine.

He was great!

He could not work for at least another couple of months but hey! No need to stay up till the wee hours of the morning digging graves! Woohoo! Paid vacation baby!

Not like he could really do much of anything except stare at the ceiling and get takeout delivery and take his medication and sleep.

But eventually, the outside world came crashing in in the form of a growing guilt: he had not fed the grocery cats in a while.
See, there was a big little feral cat group behind the grocery store that he frequented and usually he brought them food but obviously he’d been a little bit busy with the whole “nearly dying” thing. So he hadn’t been able to make the trip recently and…

Well.

Yeah he felt bad that he wasn’t feeding the lil gentlemen.

So what else was there to do other than call a… work acquaintance to come and help him feed cats.

Listen, this wasn't usual procedure but it wasn't like he could call one of his friends outside of work to help him. He'd kinda had to ghost after the whole "getting shot" thing, y'know? That one would be a bit hard to explain away.

Woo.

The car arrived and August limped in, having to contort his massive frame in order to actually fit within the vehicle. He looked too chipper. Too… Good. Too lively. Even before the accident, there was never so much rose to his cheeks, nor brightness to his smile.

“Cats!” He said, instead of a greeting or a how are you or a ‘Look! I’m alive!’ Truly, a changed man since the entire experience. Or perhaps this was the way he'd always been, if people had bothered to actually pay attention to his interests and his hobbies outside of killing people and generally being menacing in corners and failing at the most basic of social interactions. “Let’s go!”






/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.
 
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scroll








the fool



azalea.













mood

curious + warm











outfit

mildred hates it











location

en route to a local grocery store











interactions

auguste, text to victor, mention of hugo











tags

qunqun qunqun miyabi miyabi















Saint’s Heights City Hall / feat. Mildred Witherly


Mildred sat behind the front counter of city hall, pondering over a crossword puzzle. She was on word number 19, a horizontal one. Six letters. The clue: desert of Southern California. Per the overlapping completed words, the second letter had to be ‘O.’ Mildred thought about it for only a few seconds before her wrinkled hand lowered a dull pencil and wrote ‘MOJAVE.’ She chuckled quietly to herself in triumph and tucked a strand of white hair behind her ear.

She moved on to word number 20, a vertical one. Five letters. The clue: British poet of “A Poison Tree.” Per the overlapping completed words, the fourth letter was a ‘K.’ Mildred narrowed her eyes and scratched her head. She thought about it for several seconds, but nothing came to her. She hadn’t really read any poems since her college days. She was sixty-three and had worked at city hall for thirty-nine years now. Her memory wasn’t quite what it used to be. She often found herself forgetting the names of coworkers, judges, and even the mayor. And, now, her waning memory was costing her the ability to complete this crossword.

The receptionist frowned as a different word entered her mind: retirement.

Setting aside the unfinished crossword, Mildred opened a search engine on her desktop and began typing: Saint’s Heights assisted living facili—.

Then came Azalea. Mildred looked up just as a tall, brown-skinned woman came in through the revolving door, a glowing smile on her face and a small stack of papers in her hand. Mildred did not smile back. Instead, she looked over the young woman’s outfit and scowled. The receptionist found the ensemble to be noisy and the floral patterns on the top to be tacky.

Mildred thought bitterly: Girls these days have no idea how to dress. Just bright colors and cleavage. No subtlety.

Azalea’s gait was confident. Precise, yet it appeared effortless. A clack accompanied every one of her steps. She believed that heels made statements in more ways than one. She came up to the desk and met Mildred’s frown with her carefully cultivated grin.

The receptionist faltered. Her face softened. The young woman in front of her looked familiar, but she couldn’t place it; again, her memory wasn’t what it used to be.

Azalea spoke, “Good morning! I’m here to request a legal name change.”

Mildred pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “You got the paperwork?”

“Of course.”

Mildred took the stack of papers and began flipping through. When she read ‘Daphne Azalea Washington,’ realization hit her like a truck. This woman had been in city hall to request a name change before. Several times, in fact. She always got rejected, yet she always came back. Mildred rolled her eyes, silently lamenting that this girl planned to waste her time yet again. Regardless of the futility, she still had to file the request. She inspected the first page in the stack for mistakes. “So you’re trying to switch the first and middle?”

“No,” Azalea responded very quickly, but her expression didn’t change. “I want the middle name to supplant the first.”

Mildred scanned the documents and nodded, confirming that their contents were consistent with what the expensively-dressed young lady was saying. “So, no new middle name? You just want the first name gone?”

“I want it gone completely. And I don’t need a middle name. It feels like having two firsts.” Azalea examined her long, painted nails, deep green in color. “I just want one that feels right.”

Mildred rolled her eyes, annoyed by Azalea's dramatics and way of speaking. But then she met Azalea’s face, saw she was still smiling, and felt a little guilty. You couldn’t pay her enough to admit it, but the older woman found the younger a little charming. There was something refreshing about her. Flipping to the next page in the stack, she said, “It’s a shame. ‘Daphne’ is such a pretty name.” Scratching her head, she added, “My niece is named ‘Daphne.’”

“I need more than 'pretty.'” There was no ruth in Azalea’s tone—only an intense certainty. The sort of certainty that was dangerous. It startled the receptionist, who gave a quick nod and didn’t broach the subject further.

Mildred spent a few minutes clicking around on her computer, cross-referencing the details in the paperwork with those in the system, and double-checking the proofs of identity and residence. As she perused the young lady’s file, Mildred was able to recall why her requests were always rejected. “It says here you were convicted of… murder?”

“Manslaughter," Azalea corrected matter-of-factly. "The charges were adjusted after my testimonies."

Mildred nodded absently. “Yeah, that. Among other crimes. You understand that being a convict will significantly lower the chances of your request being granted?” She sat back in her chair and flipped to the third page of the paperwork. “The Court may reject it based on suspicions that you’re attempting to engage in fraud or any other crimes.”

Azalea’s upper lip twitched almost imperceptibly. “Yes, because changing my name to something that is nearly identical and that I’m more commonly known by would be so useful for fraud, wouldn’t it?” The words were rapid-fired, barbed. Before Mildred could respond or even react, Azalea added in a much softer voice, “Sorry. Whatever the odds are, I have to try. This is just… really important to me.” Her dark eyes sparkled in the white light of the hall, like dew on a black petal.

Mildred felt tense now. More memories of this young woman came flooding back: not only the frequent name change requests but also the constant inquiries concerning the whereabouts of her incarcerated father.

The receptionist had only given the ‘You’re a convict so blah blah’ spiel because it was procedure, but Azalea had responded with an unmistakable poison right before shifting to a sudden tenderness. It was jarring. Mildred was a little unnerved—also a little fascinated.

Mildred hurried to finish her inspection of the paperwork. “Well, that’s it for now." She neatened the stack and put it into a nearby bin. "All your paperwork is in order, so I’ll file the request with the Courthouse today. You’ll get your response in the mail in approximately one month.”

Azalea’s smile blossomed, revealing pearly white teeth. “Thank you.” She turned to leave but hesitated before taking a step. After a few moments of silence that made Mildred uncomfortable, Azalea said over her shoulder with smooth glossed lips, “It’s ‘BLAKE,’ by the way.”

“Hm?”

“On your crossword. Number 20. Vertical. It’s ‘BLAKE,’ as in William Blake. The British poet that wrote ‘A Poison Tree.’”

“Oh.” Mildred nodded. Picking up her puzzle and pencil again, she wrote ‘BLAKE’ in the boxes. A perfect fit. The old woman looked pleased. “Thank you, Miss.”

“No problem.” Azalea looked at the ground. “I recommend it. The poem, I mean.” She sounded strangely sincere. “Blake has a lot of good ones, but that one just speaks to me.”

Azalea began walking away. The rhythmic clack of her heels provided a metronome as she recited quietly to herself:

“I was angry with my friend;
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow…”​

Mildred's eyes didn't leave Azalea's back until she was out the door and down the street. After that, the receptionist released a long sigh and returned her attention to the crossword puzzle. Word number 21...
-

A car en route to the back of a grocery store /


Deep green nails rested against a deep green phone case with little white florets.

Azalea was in the back of a black car, tapping away at her phone. She was typing a text to Victor: Good morning, my love. A heart emoji. I’m going to spend some time with Auguste. We’re feeding stray cats! A cat emoji. A heart emoji. How are you feeling? We should have a date tonight! Heart emoji. Heart emoji. An excessive amount of heart emojis.

She added some more to the message until she was satisfied and pressed send. She didn’t realize she must’ve had a silly-looking smile on her face until she looked up and found the driver looking at her through the rearview mirror, clearly amused. Though, he turned away once Azalea’s eyes found his. She slipped her phone into her purse and sat up straight in her car seat.

It had been a week since the memorial. A week since the shooting. A week since she had bumped Marzanna Adamski to pull open curtains, lean out of a shattered window, and swear vengeance on a potential active shooter. Yeah... not her best moment. It had earned her a bit of an earful from Hugo and, as much as she hated being reprimanded, she couldn't even blame him. She had been serious, though, about the revenge—very serious. 'We will find you! I swear!' Her own words still echoed in her head, a promise of vengeance waiting to be realized. Needing to be realized.

However, vengeance was a dish best served cold. In the meantime, she was glad to spend time with Auguste. It sounded like a cliche, but it was the truth: in those moments where it seemed like the man might die, Azalea felt sharp, inarticulable regret. She didn't quite understand it, but she knew for sure that she didn't want to feel that way whenever his day actually did come. Thus, she resolved to get to know him more as she had always wanted to. Additionally, Hugo had asked her to help keep an eye on Auguste. She had planned to hang out with him regardless of that, but it also couldn't hurt to try and help Hugo out after everything that had happened. He probably had a lot on his plate.

The car came to a stop, and Auguste limped in. He looked... bright. Even brighter than before he had been shot through the chest with a sniper bullet. It was unexpected, but Azalea wasn't going to complain. She welcomed him with a "Hello!" and a smile—not her careful, well-pruned smile but rather one that grew wildly. "Cats! Let's go!" And the car was off.

It was a little surreal to see the man up and about. Azalea was having a hard time getting the image of him dying out of her head: the rapidly-growing red stain, the metallic smell, the single tear making its way down his cheek... She tried not to think about it, but for Azalea that was like trying not to breathe. She wore the past like a pair of glasses—without it, nothing she saw in the present made sense and the distant future was simply a blur. The past hurt in a way that was essential for clarity of mind.

Azalea had yet to figure out why she was invested in Auguste or why she felt comfortable around him. There was the simple answer—he was an Avancini, an ally—but it had to be more than that. Ever since the memorial, she had been mulling over it even more. Sitting across from him now, when he was simply excited to see cats, she thought of her father. Jared Washington. She thought of him curled up in the corner of a dark room, pulling out his own hair. She thought of him flipping tables and throwing chairs. She thought of him sitting by Daphne, watching cartoons with her, faintly smiling. She thought of him trying to cultivate flowers in the grey, rocky soil of their yard in the slums of Saints' Heights. He was originally from Texas, where azaleas flourished on hillsides in purples and reds. In his language of flowers, the azalea meant 'home.'

Every thought hurt—the past was thorny like that. And, for all of it, she felt no closer to figuring out her friendship (or whatever it was) with Auguste. Maybe, she thought, the answer lay in what they were about to do now: feed stray cats. The first time she had stumbled upon Auguste doing it, she was perplexed. Maybe, for him, those cats were the flowers among grey, rocky soil—something quiet and gentle in a loud, violent world.

Azalea realized she had zoned out a bit. She looked at Auguste from her seat and prepared to say something—to ask how he was feeling or how everything was at the hospital or something along those lines. She knew it would sound like small talk, though, and she had a suspicion that Auguste wasn't a big fan of small talk. So instead, she did something that came more naturally to her. Something that might annoy Auguste even more than small talk: questioning.

Giving in to her inquisitive nature, she probed: "How did you start feeding the cats?" When it came to the Avancinis, she always had that urge—that overwhelming urge to know. To know their stories. Their motivations. Their thoughts. It was more than simple nosiness; it was a burning wish to feel closer to her allies. To complete the portraits of them that hung in her mind. To properly write their characters in the ever-expanding epic poem of her life. Call it dramatic, but she found it enriching.

Azalea had really wanted to ask why, but she settled for how, thinking it less demanding. She followed up with, "Have you named them?" A playful smile. "If you haven't, I might."

A pause, then a chuckle. "I probably sounded silly bringing it all up last week, huh?" In that moment at the memorial, when it seemed like Auguste was lost, Azalea had reached out to him by mentioning cats of all things. It would've been funny if she hadn't been so tragically serious about it and hysterically crying whilst saying it.


♡coded by uxie♡
 
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baroque adamski
❝ You use me like you use everyone, to pitifully patch your pitter pattered soul. ❞
mood
. . . ow.
outfit
x.
location
limbo.
interactions
hugo boo. boo. , marzanna ravensunset ravensunset

It had been days since the memorial, since death and blood threatened the delicate airs of self-perseverance. Baroque's world had been threatened and sewn back with parts missing until he couldn't dip his fingers in gold and pretend it was okay. He had cried before two people that hadn't seen him despair since a time of foreign soil and romantic words.

A golden child, the warm summer sun set into the softness of hair. She was a reminder of loss, in more ways than one to the brown eyes that wavered in front of the wooden door. The smallest sheen of old residue dulled the surface; a place where they had once all tacked handmade name tags to their doors and howled as children do. Hesitation bares fangs against the raging loneliness, teeth and sinew scattering the marble floor of his mind.

He had to try.

Silver-lined knuckles drag a pattern down the wood, a familiar call from days long past. His hand is already on the handle before he can get a response, an opening into a dangerous room prompting the poking of curls and peering of eyes around the door. “Marzanna? Can I come in?” Words that ultimately held no value as the lithe form of Baroque slipped through the door crack he had created and into the bedroom. It was unfamiliar territory despite the many nights he had once spent there, fingers curling around the devices in his hand as he stood there, a child afraid of the question they wanted to ask.

“I’m sure you’re busy but I wanted to ask if perhaps you had time for a round … of … Mario Party.”

He almost finished the sentence in a whisper, the rare flash of embarrassment pulling itself high on his cheeks as hands held out two pink-colored devices.

Marzanna’s room is painted white. Her figure sat at an ornate dressing table, back to the door. Her fingers hid their tiny trembles as they pulled sand blonde hair into its well known ponytail shape. Her eyes met their reflection, studied the imperfections locked into her skin.

A knock rang its way through the wood of her door, filling the room, and Marzanna’s body tensed, springing its way into action.

She had jumped up and turned to face the door when the familiarity of his voice registered, his figure stepping inside.

He always seemed small, despite the height he had on her. She willed her muscles to relax.

“Don’t you have other things to do?” Marzanna settled on asking. It was a twisting reminder that he had the luxury of still acting as a child, one that had long ago been taken from her. It wasn’t that she didn’t want it. His presence on the cold floor of her room was ghostly, familiar and strange all at once.

“If I said no, would you find my offer more tempting?” His head tilted, the twist of a smile curling his lips up. It was easy to put on a pretend sense of confidence once his foot was in the door emotionally. Marzanna had once been his world, a collection of protection and fragility he wanted to keep sacred; a canary in calloused hands.

Steps took the younger sibling closer, an edging along the floor in heels he never seemed to part from. One of the gaming devices was held out once he had reached close enough to offer it.

“Come on, Marzi. One game. I’ll stop raiding your jewelry box for a month if you say yes.”

His eyes briefly pleaded, a falter on the sly look that had predicted a declination of the offer. It was too silly for someone that had only to wait for the throne she was destined to sit on.

Marzanna made a mental note to buy a jewelry box with a lock on it, but the thought was quickly whirled away in her mind. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d stepped foot in her room, not willingly. She liked things being simple, even if simple was when they didn’t like each other.

Was this a trap? Was it about the mess of a memorial? Had he also gotten a terrible note that morning, or could he be the subject in it?

“One game.” She couldn’t ask him why he wanted this, not now. She couldn’t even process why she wanted it as badly as everything in her screamed for it. Her head held itself up, meeting his look.

White acrylic nails took a pink device out of his hand, flipping it over in examination. How many forgotten treasures had her barely recognizable baby brother kept stashed away? A thumb flipped through the game’s character selection screen.

"You know, you'd look good with short hair." Like mom. He was holding in the collapse of his lungs at the acceptance of the game, let alone the invasive thought that tap tap tapped on his frontal lobe. A body fell back on the bed of her room, concern hidden as a screen tucked itself beneath his chin.

"I also know," His head raised up, a childish smile foreign to spoiled skin, "that you're about to lose." For a minute he would allow himself to be happy, to ignore the ticking bomb that sat in his pocket. Was Marzanna happy? A stylus clicked on a pink princess, the cheerful voice bit crawling out of old speakers.

There were a handful of questions he could ask her about the memorial, about life in the family. The letter had been thrown away and arms wrapped around him, both things he was sure would gain only frowns from her.

"So … watch anything good lately?" He cringed at the suggestion, a flinching of skin he hoped the other wouldn’t notice as devices called out the beginning of their game.

It was said that after many years of not riding a bike, jumping back in would still be easy, the memory locked into muscles. The same could not be said of the childish video game, her stylus pressing at the screen with little understanding.

“No. There’s been… a lot going on. How about you, anything new?” The words felt heavy. The mushroom hat of her character bounced forwards. She wanted to ask about the look on his face when the shooting had started in the memorial. She wondered what it was that he truly wanted to ask.

Neither could. The small talk continued, music and tv shows and whether they’d been having breakfast.

It was simply meant to be a game, a friendly back and forth between distant siblings like a line tossed across the gap. Meaningless answers that hid the secrets they both held, pinkies that touched but never held. In a way, it was nice, needed. Something about even strained closeness felt better than the falsities Baroque had fallen behind for months. He wondered how it would’ve felt if the situation repeated itself in the company of another, if it would have the same strain.

But after the memorial …

Sounds of a longing heart trickled out over their game, interruptions in the forms of small talk and accusations of cheating that had almost pulled him away from the waves that kept threatening to pull him down. Almost. The buzzing of a phone in a specific pattern had a hand abandon pink stylus, place a cracked screen before his face and eyes to a text that beckoned and warned.

‘8. we have to talk’

Of course it couldn’t last.

Disgust pulled at his mouth even as he obediently slapped close the gaming device before a game had even been finished. A stifled voice was enough to send a shiver down the moving body. Strings pulled at him now, a love abandoned that called to him stronger than the shallow greyness he occupied with his sister. The clothes he had on would have to be enough, dreary fabric soaked with the lamentations of an aching soul.

“Something’s come up for me.”

He wanted to apologize, to let himself ignore the text and pretend he had never seen it, that it had never been sent.

‘we have to talk.’

Baroque was weaker than he thought. Only eyes could give a glimpse of the sorrow he felt towards the woman he was leaving behind, an explanation he could never truly give that picked and pulled like a scab.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”




Sat. October 8th, 2022 8:43 PM

Baroque didn’t want to be there, at the door of the familiar apartment staring with uncertainty. A few days ago it had been enough to know Hugo was okay, to spend a night together tangled and whispering the usual nothings they had once shared so often. Now a key was held in his hand, hesitating to move to unlock the door. It was a silly idea that Hugo actually wanted to talk but his heart was racing, a warning to danger beyond the wood. A sigh curled away from him, falling to gently land at his feet before he forced his face to accept a smile and reached to unlock the door.

It surprised him when the door opened with little prompting.

He never keeps this unlocked.

Keys were stashed back into his coat pocket, a handle instead turned and opened with a calling towards the one inside.

When he had stepped through the familiar threshold — plaster smile thrown back on — there wasn’t the expectation that anything beyond the usual would await him. Like a dog he had come to this house, begging for the affection he so often found himself missing. To think that instead he would be greeted with such a pitiful scene was unthinkable. An abused plastic baggie and four, pain-ridden words trailed knuckles on the mask he wore, a slip of smile giving thanks only to the makeup that concealed the strain on his face.

Tight-lipped disappointment and a lengthy exhale hallmarked the unwilling participant in the conversation he faced. Heels drag along the ground as a door seals behind him, patient for the inevitable return. “Tell you?” He stepped closer, a body brought along another as fingers reached out and traced themselves down the length of a turned spine. “Is it not more disappointing that it took you months to find out?” The frowns that pulled at his lips were hidden from seeking eyes, a face turning away and denying the request of connection.

Hugo always shivered at Baroque’s touch but this time was different. “How could you do this to yourself, Baroque?”

Easier done than said, believe me.

“Hugo, listen —”

“I can fix this; it’s because of me anyways, right?” There was a distress in his voice that shook and spoke of hours unslept. Red-rimmed eyes sought desperately for anything that might give them a way to dull the pain that these pills were the catalyst of; Baroque was cracked like a porcelain doll and Hugo needed to find out why.

Ache didn’t properly describe the soul-deep gutting feeling that lashed through Baroque's heart, flames reaching to lap their tongues eagerly against the sore muscles threatening to fall. This wasn’t something that could be fixed. He was aware of that much, eyes daring to meet long enough that a mouth grew dry in its efforts to respond. “There’s not an answer I could give you that you’ll enjoy, my dear.”

A lower lip trembles, affection wavering in its ability to hold true as fingers take control, a delicate band of silver catching the irony in the swift retreat of the bag he had reached for. It bit at him, a warning he saw reflected in eyes he once worshipped. There was a wolf cowering before a lamb, silence that screamed unspoken danger and pulled his jaws in irritation.

A tongue felt along his lips as hand retreated and raised to run along his coat, a straightened figure that ignored the standoff. “When did you start caring about what I did, Hugo?” He tested the waters, toes that dipped into the darkness before him as a dare.

“Tell me, when did I stop being just a warm body to you?”

He snapped with a sharpened beak, the warmth in his voice gone as a hand trailed along the empty length of table before him. There was distance he wanted to put between himself and judgement, whirlpool eyes he knew would swallow should he meet.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

It was the shock in Hugo’s voice that disgusted Baroque, fingers that curled and lips that twisted in a desire to bear a sneer towards the voice, the unknown. He wanted to believe that naivety belonged in their relationship, that things could be swept neatly under Persian rugs, hidden behind whispered curtains. But it was all they had been doing for months. This conversation had been due for a while; empty mornings and longing hearts that pushed both to the precipice of ‘too little’.

Lips pulled back, the first words of altercation dancing carefully off as feet brought him before a distant memory. “Do you know how hard it is to pretend that being with you is worth fighting for?” Umber met a shining black surface, a dark pool he hesitated to stare into. “Every time I come over —” The cold gripped warm hands, fingers sliding along the edge. “I know you only ever want one thing from me.”

The lip of a lid is lifted, a crooked finger teasing along abandoned ivory keys. Once they were played often, a gentle call back to better times between the two of them. There is never time lately, a thought he keeps tucked away. The sound of a chair scraping against the floor prompts his head to turn. He spares a look away from the piano, dejected and accusatory at the one who took that time away from him, the one who dared now to stand.

Heart thumped from the sounds of hammered strings, sounds that once brought comfort and admiration but which now brought only agony to a heart refusing to turn without. “You’re talking like that’s not what you wanted all these times. Isn’t it?”

A voice stained with desperation that betrayed the impenetrable stone he so often hid behind. On a better day he would’ve felt happy that Hugo dared to show emotion, a victory overshadowed by the grief of the situation. This is what it takes to get you to react?

Baroque felt sick.

“You’re right, I enjoy sitting around like your side piece, waiting by the phone for weeks —” It is an aching heart that cuts off the words, fingers pressing in a fist against keys that send a cacophonous resonance through the apartment. He retrieves the hand, a weight of the lid slamming shut and echoing an encore into the growing silence between them. Once this place had been filled with laughter and love, a place of joy and comforting exchanges.

Hugo flinched as though he’d been slapped.

“Do you really think that a handful of sweaty hours is all I want from you?” Anger rises over the grief, a bite he could call defensive in any other situation.

He watched as legs seemed to tremble and bend, a seat retaken in reaction to the switch in tone; a surprise, surely. Months of negative emotions found themselves begging for release, a vile potion in the larynx created from tear-filled nights and lighters held too close to polaroids.

“A ‘handful of sweaty hours’, Baroque?” Hugo’s voice cracked, incredulous.

“Offended at my generosity?”

“Do you even hear what you’re saying? Grow up.”

Two words that clung to the recesses of his heart, plucking at frayed strings in a way that made the nausea unbearable. They were whispered in the mind of a twelve-year old wearing black, tossing a single daisy on a pile of roses. The yellow had been a haunting streak of paint since that day, the dirt he couldn’t clean from under manicured nails. Yes, I should grow up. It drove him to step forward, fangs ripping down through the feathers of innocence until he stood a preening monstrosity over a fading opposite. Hands lifted, sliding along the grain of familiar cheeks and jaw, tilting a worn face to meet his own.

“I’m sure, Hugo Young, that it’s easy for you to lecture about growing up when you’re the one being satisfied.”

Fingers fell away from their careful hold of skin, moving backwards to rake through dark hair as the smile Baroque had forced fell in his movement to straighten himself. He tousled the greasy locks in bitter affection, briefly musing on the surreality of their situation. All because of a bag. A head pulled away from his touch, the face he just held now filled with wariness and what?

“I can’t believe you.” The words were followed by a bitter laugh, a cut-off sound Baroque had never thought possible from him before. Calloused hands touched by the heartache of life gestured towards forgotten pills and fructose treats, a bag that obtained only a triangle of Baroque’s attention before he found it secured in Hugo’s hand, in the spaces he was meant to occupy.

“I wanted to talk about this, Baroque,” He shook the bag, the contents inside jumbling with each other. “Not whatever the fuck you’re going on about. Why are you so intent on making me the bad guy?” His voice was strained, a face devoid of its usual mask and filled with an endless puzzle of emotions. Baroque wanted to reach out, to soothe him, to make this bett—

Stop thinking like that.

“Why the fuck are they so important to you? Do you really want to hear about how they numb the pain of living such a fucked life with a failing relationship? God forbid if I try to go a few nights without crying myself to sleep.” He had to turn himself away, fingers raising to press into the temples that throbbed. It was one part detox and two parts pain at this point, bitterness towards the other burning his own throat. “Please, Hugo —”

“Failing relationship?”

Silence briefly veiled itself over their conversation, eyes steeling at a far away wall. Baroque took a step away from that voice, a gasp shuddering from his chest. He felt fragile, a crumbling doll tottering along with only ancient glue to hold him together. His brain was scrambled, scattered thoughts whispering hints of sentences, fragments of cohesion to spit from a war-torn throat.

Only, nothing came.

He felt Hugo strip him with words; he felt him caress at his jaw and call him the fool he felt for believing he could have this conversation, that it would convince him.

“No — you’re wrong, nothing’s failing.” Words shook with the need for them to be true. “We’re doing fine.”

Don’t say that.

“Just take them, Baroque. It’s fine, we’ll figure this out.”

Please shut up.

Baroque stood helplessly as a fragment of love stood and approached him, pressing cursed plastic into the cracks of his hands. Hugo’s face betrayed their situation, desperation that promised sunny mornings and hot chocolate nights. They won’t come, I can’t trust you this time. The rustling of plastic was deafening, a roaring damnation that pointed the fault back towards him and sank a crying heart through his stomach.

“Please don’t cry, birdy.”

Baroque wanted to punch him.

The tears had gone unnoticed, a free pour from brown eyes that threatened to drain him entirely. It was a bread crumb trail of despair that dripped down his chin and fell silently to the floor. I don't want this. Hugo had plucked the nickname he liked best and dusted it off before him, offering it like a shining present that could make things better. The word became a thorn in his side, a throbbing in his mind that screamed and spat at him, a hollow whisper of nights that no longer led to mornings and dates that had become archaic.

“Let’s forget this ever happened okay? Why don’t we —”

“Why don’t you drop the fucking act, Hugo?”

The bag flung itself from Baroque’s grasp, a rage that hurled it unceremoniously to the chest he backed away from. He could not stop the tears that fell but they were no longer for Hugo. “Spare me whatever performance you’re trying to put on. Birdy?” Teeth bit out the word, the weakened visage now filled with an overwhelming sense of anger as hands pushed back at the other. “Don’t talk to me like it wouldn’t be convenient for you to go back to picking and choosing when I get to receive an iota of affection from you.”

“Stop talking like that! You're so—Christ!” Cracks began to form, a cavern beneath that threatened to open its maw and swallow whole the betrayed, shaking form. Hugo could be as jilted as he wanted but it wasn’t the lover Baroque wanted, needed. “I am not like those — those people you surround yourself with!"

“Aren’t you?”

His voice was rising to match the increasing volume of Hugo, a hand gripping at the overcoat that covered his heart as though it could stop the breaking.

“Are you not the one who stopped texting back first? Aren’t you the one that continues to pull away? Every time I reach out, where do you go but backwards?” They were both yelling, only a vacant apology later to be given to the neighbors. A soreness formed in Baroque’s throat, lumps and stones that battled the words he choked out. This was different and it scared him, scared words he had feared to say into the back of his throat like waiting bullets.

“One little kiss in an alleyway and suddenly I need to be the one reaching out to you? Fuck off!"

“You’re the asshole that came back for seconds, Hugo. It’s been over a fucking year, you don’t just get to decide that all the moments we’ve shared mean nothing!” His fist slammed down on the table, a high-pitched squeal where silver met the surface. “God forbid if I just want to be someone that matters outside of the bedroom. We haven’t even been on a date in months.” This conversation wasn’t where he needed it to go, a feeling of heat rising along his limbs as air felt harder to draw in.

His voice was choking, a sob that pulled itself from his chest and threw itself at Hugo. Baroque hated crying like this, hated even more that it was in front of Hugo that he wept, the pain of time pouring out all at once.

“You want a date, I’ll take you on a fucking date! God — Baroque, I’m not going to give you more than that, I never promised to do anything like that.”

Two pairs of eyes fall on a silver ring that says different, a vow made between hearts filled with hope for a future. Brown narrows, a judgemental leer that dares words to speak against the bind they had once made.

“Baroque, you didn’t actually think we could be something real, did you?”

Silence permeates their space again, an agitation-filed air that choked at the both of them in the midst of a stare Baroque knew he was fated to lose.

Of course I … didn’t you? He felt broken to think about it, a thumb running along the silver band on his own hand, a band that squeezed impossibly tight with every word shared between them. Once he thought it mattered, a symbol of the Hugo he once used to hold and teach piano to, the man he had slowly but surely given his heart to.

“Haven’t … you ever wanted that for us? A happy ending?” The words come in a whisper, fear seeping into them as eyes avoid meeting another. It’s already evident what the response will be, a pain Baroque doesn’t want to believe he’ll ever be ready for.

“God, Baroque —”

Please don’t say it.

Hands gather into the coat around him, a warmth he finds himself desperate for as the chill of a foreign voice soaks into his skin. It was a selfish thought to think he could ever be the one special enough to capture the heart of someone like Hugo. Foolish, even, he bitterly thought, fingers brushing away the remnants of old tears as heels dragged along the ground again. The sentence didn’t need to be finished for Baroque to see that a decision had been made.

Hugo continued to be the fortress he was when they met, an uncrackable wall he now stared at the outside of rather than warmly sitting inside.

“I — I need to leave.”

The door beckoned to him, a call of safety and happiness he had to convince himself he would find after he left this home. Maybe my own place could be a start, somewhere far away from here. He must've moved too slowly, a heavy heart that weighed him down and allowed Hugo’s fingers to grip at his coat and pull backwards. Soft curls swished through the air as a head snapped and stared at the man that clung to him, begging.

"Baroque, please don't leave —"

"Or what? Find someone else to fill your sheets, Hugo. I can't —" Like wind falling from sails he felt his breath falter, the beating of his heart increasing to a point he was sure the other could hear. I just need to leave and forget about all of this. Yet the fingers curled around his arm wouldn’t fall, a betrayal from his body as a sapping of strength caused little resistance. The tears had begun their barrage on him again, a blurring beneath lashes as another step back only prompted one forward. “Hugo, let me go — end this.”

“You’re not listening, I need you!”

Baroque was shaking.

“I don’t want you to leave, I just want this to be better.” It was a cry he wanted to block and push away, drown down a sink until the pipes clogged and it all came flooding back. Hugo was right, they didn’t have a chance of being more than two bodies. All of his thoughts had been foolish ideas, impossible dreams. The ache didn’t stop, a full body wound shredding him apart as he was forced to listen to the whispered truth, the lovesick words he wanted to say. Please, he whispered in his head, a hand moving to pry away fingers, a task that proved only to agitate the situation further.

“You can’t make this better, Hugo. We —”

Will never be better.

A sob was stuffed down, fingers slowly pried from their grip in a way that only made him want to pull Hugo closer. I can’t do that. Baroque knew it would be selfish, the most selfish thing he had ever done. He knew it as a watery smile crossed his lips, a gentle shade of brown taking in the expanse of his second biggest mistake. Those same soft cheeks, red-lined eyes he wanted to drown in and never surface from.

“I wanted this to be better too, Hugo.” For a moment he found the spaces between ringed fingers occupied with his own. It was a dangerous action, unnecessary. “There’s just a difference in what we want and I’m afraid mine is asking too much out of you.” The smile remained, a step that brought him closer and cursed the heels that took him so much higher. An alleyway and the taste of blood wormed its way into his mind, a hotdog left behind as they danced together in the rain. Baroque let Hugo’s cheek fill the palm of his hand for a final time as he bent down and pressed lips against his forehead, a whisper heard even against the screaming of his heart.

“I love you, Hugo Young.”

His fingers slipped free as heels took him away in one motion, a head turning as rageful venom began to spew.

“That’s what this was all about? Love?”

The way the words were hissed made Baroque flinch, a sound like consecration brought to unholy shadows the sank under his skin and pulled. He would have to convince himself later that all of these words came from a place of confusion, that they didn’t reflect the real feelings of the one he had given away his heart to. A hand wrapped the handle of the apartment door, a threatening collapse of his lungs that threatened his ability to leave.

“You’re still the same disillusioned whor—” Sobs betrayed the hurt behind the words.

“When you figure things out, I’ll be waiting for you.” He allowed himself a smile, allowed that last bit of happiness he would feel for a while.

“Take care of yourself, Hugo.”

“That’s why you made me wear this, isn’t it?”

The door opened in time for the cry to follow him out, the high-pitched clatter of Hugo's ring thrown to the ground behind him a resounding bullet to a weakening resolve. It was the final push his feet needed to leave the place, to leave him. Baroque had given Hugo his heart and decidedly had to allow him to break it.

I hope you find happiness one day.

The smile faded from his face as the door closed behind him.

A body faked itself through the motions of walking, the stumbling of a bird that had seen heaven and was thrown back to the Earth. Baroque had fallen from the graces of his name, muscles convulsing and screaming in a phantom anguish. His body crumpled along a brick wall he could have smashed his head against had he the strength.

I’m so sorry.

The carefully woven pages of love he had stamped ribbons and pressed flowers to crumbled around him. No eyes saw the way he disintegrated into the grime of the alleyway, a hand clutched over a heart he was sure had stopped. Once three words of false affection had been whispered to him and he had thought their eventual absence was loss. Idiot. Three syllables he fished from the flooding of his mind before he sank back into the murky water and drowned.

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */
© weldherwings.
 
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scroll








armoury



cyril.













mood

let's get physical











outfit

black suit + black coat











location

hannibal's office











interactions

hannibal











tags

arthur morgan. arthur morgan.















Cyril wouldn't have considered himself particularly traumatized post-shooting at Keypark Hall. Sure, it was chaotic, and Cyril didn't want the death of the Avancini who he'd tried to save on his conscience. Thankfully, the boy had lived, as well as the other man who'd been shot, though much less fatally. He'd left the Adamskis alone for about three days after the incident so they could all recover, and then he became mind-numbingly bored and decided he needed to annoy the family.

Sometimes, like this time, he came over for breakfast, bothering whoever was in the kitchen with him. Many seemed to be occupied, though, which Cyril supposed made sense. He was probably the only one whose main form of business (and entertainment) was the Adamski family themselves. Maybe that was a little sad, considering they didn't even really like him very much. Cyril ate toast in the kitchen, refraining from going where he really wanted to go for approximately thirty minutes before he scoffed his meal down and headed for Hannibal's office.

He was sure Hannibal was doing something important. He was always doing something important. He was an important guy. Not like Cyril, who wasn't smart or clever or knowledgeable about anything other than guns and violence. He liked to think he had some kind of expertise, but even he had to admit that just about everybody else in the world of organised crime had almost the same amount of expertise. But that was okay. Cyril got paid, and he had somewhere to go, even though Matezh and his children would tell him that he wasn't welcome.

Cyril rapped his knuckles on the door to Hannibal's office, but opened it before he received a response. He grinned at the man sitting at the desk, closing the door behind him and hoping the everybody else was more respectful of Hannibal's privacy than he was.
"Han,"
he greeted, wandering slowly around the room, eyes roaming over every shelf and document.
"I hope you're coping, after, well. The memorial."


Cyril came to a stop just in front of Hannibal's desk. He took a seat in one of the chairs facing the other man, leaning back and making himself comfortable.
"You could always let me know, if you get scared at night. I'll keep you safe,"
Cyril winked, fully aware that Hannibal was more than capable of taking care of himself.

♡coded by uxie♡
 






alyona
















mood.


help






outfit.


see discord






location.


hospital; some underground club






tags.


Casimir miyabi miyabi ; Hugo boo. boo.














oct 7 - a.m.

Days had passed since the memorial. The events of that day had become another stain in Alyona’s memory; the sound of bullets and screaming echoing in every corner of her mind. She could still smell the faint tang of iron mixed with alcohol—so much that she swore she even tasted it sometimes.

She had isolated herself after the shootings, only emerging from her home whenever asked. Thankfully, no one had actually bothered her or asked for her company aside from a nosy neighbor that’d been attempting to court her ever since she moved in. There was a part of her that itched to text Casimir, though. It almost made her ache, not hearing him or being able to simply sit in the same room as each other.

However, the desire she felt to be near Casimir was not comparable to what she felt towards Hugo. He was almost like a home away from home, or maybe an extension of it. A brother she could call whenever she felt lost and alone, but also a brother she couldn’t bring herself to call after what had happened and what she had seen.

Alyona knew her own curiosity would cause a rift between them if she tried to poke at the lion of secrets. It wasn’t her business. He’d tell her if he wanted to.

When had they gotten so close anyway?

Shut up.

No questions. That’s the agreement she had made with Carmensita nearly a year ago. Work for the family, do as she was told, don’t get close to anyone, and everything would be alright. No one would ever know or find out.

What am I doing?

The life of crime became a familiar lullaby years before she ever joined the Avancinis, yet things were different back then. Like a porcelain doll she was paraded around by her former flame for all to see and desire. She was young and ignorant to the evil that lurked within the shadows of her spoiled lifestyle. It was nothing like her life now.

Blood and worry etched in every movement and word. Worry was a stalker that Alyona couldn’t shake. She wasn’t safe anymore, not like when she was tucked underneath Leon’s arm—even though he’d been the true evil all along.

Alyona often missed her old life of ignorance and wealth. Not having to worry about her secrets being exposed, her ailing parents, or the potential bullet that awaited her whenever she was awake had really been a privilege. A privilege, she realized, that was as much a dream as she wished her current situation was.

“The cancer isn’t responding to the treatment.”

Alyona blinked. Her heart slowed.

”I want to stop. I want to spend my time at home, not here.”

The room blurred and swirled. White blinded her momentarily as the woman continued to blink, trying to awake from whatever nightmare she was in. The walls were bright from the natural light that streamed in from behind her, yet it all felt so dark and cold.

Something lodged in her throat. She was nothing but a small animal trapped in a cage.

”Alyona.”

Had she heard that correctly? Alyona felt her eyebrows scrunch as she stared at her mother’s aged face. Natural beauty graced her gaunt, sickly features.

”Fatemah. Look at me. Look at me.”

Again, Alyona blinked. This time everything was clear. The room was no longer silent as the sound of machines filled her ears. She smiled with disbelief. “Maamaan, what are you talking about? If one treatment doesn’t work, we can find another. We can even look into options in Europe or Asia.”

Her mother smiled back at her—the one that meant there was no way to change her mind. It made Alyona want to scream and lash out, to grab the nearest piece of equipment and throw it across the room. The child in her begged for it all to be a lie even while the adult version of herself tried to reason with whichever god she was playing chess with.

A dead sister. A father diagnosed with early onset dementia. A mother who accepted her death sentence. Everyone around her suffered. Truly, her life was some kind of sick joke to the celestials above. She almost started laughing right then and there.

What was the point in liv-

“Is this really what you want?” Her voice was small as she sat beside her mother, wrinkled hand in her younger one. Tears threatened to slip down her cheeks but she rapidly blinked them away.

“It is, Little Lamb.” Thin arms wrapped around Alyona as Death carved defeat into skin and bones.


oct 8 - p.m.

Around her were men of all ages and ethnicities. She sat lazily on her client’s lap, the warmth of his chest pressed against her back. His rough finger lazily traced up and down the skin of her exposed thigh as his laugh rumbled throughout her body.

The smell of expensive cigars and liquor fluttered towards her as his mouth brushed against her ear. “Thank you, again,” he murmured sweetly, a bit of dark intent laced in his tone. “You make me feel like a powerful man.”

It took all her willpower not to curl her lip in disgust, instead opting for a sweet, alluring smile. “Of course, Marcell.” From the corner of her eye, she saw a man watching them like a preying wolf. His finger tapped repeatedly on the back of his cards, a nervous habit of his she assumed. Their gazes briefly met.

Her red lips curved as she dipped her head back, breath surely tickling Marcell’s ear as she whispered. “He’s bluffing, by the way. Nervous taps and sweat along his hairline. You’re welcome.”

Marcell merely let out a low chuckle as he offered a kiss to her shoulder. The gesture brought both ease and discomfort to her body, and she blamed the lack of physical intimacy as of late.

As the men played their game of poker, yelling and colorful curses flying in the air, Alyona politely excused herself and made her way to the ladies’ room. She needed a break, desperately. Away from her current job and crime, mostly, but she always needed a break from the mask she’d painted so thickly onto her face.

The blue light of her phone lit up her face as she silently stepped into the empty restroom. Her nails tapped lightly as she scrolled through her texts, fingers pausing on one name.

Casimir. Their last messages to each other were over a week ago—a couple nights before the memorial itself to be exact.

For a moment she felt like an anxious teenager unsure of how to handle having a crush. This wasn’t anything close to a high school crush, though. It was an agreement. A situation where they both got something out of their involvement with each other or a brief infatuation at most.

Yet why did her heart race as she typed out and sent the simplest greeting?

Hi.

Regret instantly pooled inside her gut as she wanted to unsend the message. She suddenly felt like an idiot, fighting the urge to run a hand down her face and smudge all her makeup.

“Seriously, Yona?” The woman muttered to herself as she let out a frustrated sigh. She tried to convince herself that it was only the physical company she needed. Not the conversations, book exchanges, subtle smiles, and warming laughs.

There was no going back, though, and if she’d messaged one person, she may as well message another.

Her hazel eyes flickered over her texts once again, this time pausing on Hugo’s name.

Tap tap tap.

Hey.

Delete.

Tap tap tap.

What are you up to?

Delete.

Tap tap tap.

I saw-

Delete.

Tap tap tap.

How are you doing, Old Man?

Send. She watched as the message turned from Sent to Delivered and it felt like her own heart had frozen in time.





”help.”


♡coded by uxie♡
 






alyona
















mood.


help






outfit.


see discord






location.


some underground club






tags.
















Part 2 (:

Alyona let out a shaky breath as she set her phone down. Her eyes flickered towards the mirror, noting the darkening spots around her eye beginning to peek through the makeup. Nimble fingers rustled through her small purse as she pulled out a small pallet of foundation for emergency touch-ups.

She began tapping lightly at the healing bruise, mind a swirling mess of anxiety and borderline nausea.

The texts were sent. There was no going back. They’d either respond or not. Hopefully, it was the former or else she’d really feel like the dumbest human alive.

“I thought I saw you, Aly.”

Something like cold, raw fear coursed through her veins. A layer of ice formed across her tan skin, expanding until it was the size of Siberia itself. Her hazel eyes met dark brown ones in the mirror as a familiar face emerged from the shadows of the restroom.

“Leon.” Her voice was small, barely audible with the music raging throughout the club. She watched him smile at the way she said his name.

Oxygen. Breathe. She was forgetting how to breathe as she slowly turned around, hands clutching the marble counter until her knuckles turned a ghostly white.

“What are you doing here?” Alyona finally managed to croak, noting the closing distance between them with each of his predatorial steps. “I thought we agreed to never interact if we saw each other.”

It had only been a year, yet Leon’s appearance had changed so much. His hair was shorter and cleaner; the loose curls she had once craved to run her fingers through were long gone. She dared to think he looked older, even though his eyes still had that ancient, ill intent within them.

“Yes, we did,” Leon purred as he moved closer. His fingers moved to hold a locket of dark hair, rings so cold as they brushed against her. The rough pallet of his thumb left an itchy feeling against her cheek as he pushed her hair back. “You… look so captivating tonight. I couldn’t help myself.”

“Don’t touch me.” Alyona warned shakily, though her body refused to push him away.

Leon offered a subtle pout as he stepped closer, thigh pressed against thigh as his lips lightly grazed the nape of her neck. Alyona clenched her jaw to keep from lashing out; a strong desire to dig her manicured nails so deep into his eyes began to grow.

“I miss you, baby.” Leon murmured, a mocking, childlike innocence in his tone as he pulled away, fingers tilting her chin upwards. A bit of annoyance flickered in his depthless eyes. “Look at me when I speak to you.”

Reluctantly, Alyona’s gaze met his. She wanted to scream when he smiled at her approvingly but instead her lip curled in disgust. “What. Do. You. Want.”

Suddenly, rough lips were pressed against hers. She screamed into Leon’s mouth as she pushed him away, the man only laughing as he stumbled back a few steps. Alyona watched as he licked away blood from a wound she caused, her own hand reaching to cover her mouth as she fought back the vomit.

“Fine.” He chuckled deeply. “I came to offer your spot back. I spent a lot of money creating you, and quite honestly, it’s exhausting having to wait for you to pay me back each month. It’s been what- nearly five years now? Why not come back and you don’t have to worry about repaying me at all? I’ll even pay for your parents’ long term care.”

“Screw you, Leon.” Was all Alyona could say, tears threatening to reveal themselves to the demon that caused them. “We’re sticking to our agreement. Now leave me alone.”

The man only smiled and shrugged as he dug into his pocket for a cigar. “The option is there. My number hasn’t changed.”

Alyona didn’t answer as she watched him exit the women’s restroom with silent, lethal rage. She’d managed to hold her ground, but the facade immediately crumbled as she turned to face the sink. The cold, autumn water somehow burned her lips as she viciously rubbed them over and over again.





”help.”


♡coded by uxie♡
 












azure(s), part one
































#avancini








#page of wands




















♡coded by uxie♡


INTERACTIONS: Carmensita ( mxlly mxlly )
MENTIONS: Jasper, Kiko, Harris, Auguste, Azalea, Hugo.

Wednesday, October 5
2:39 AM

There were two of her tonight, maybe three. She spent hours watching herself watch someone dance carelessly under strobe lights, pressing up against other bodies, letting her hands be guided to other women’s hips. The lights flashed at transitions and they saw her face, kissed her lips. Long nails in transit across her neck. Mind too slippery to grab a hold of or force anything through.

When she steps up out of the cab and onto the street, she is thrown back into her body. Sick and smelling of other girls’ sweat. She wobbles her way to her room, skin cold in the night, concerns herself for a second that she’s lost her keys, finds them, opens the door and closes it behind her. She keeps the lights off and does this unhinged spinning movement through the haze, falling back onto her bed, her stilettos and purse already on the floor somehow.

Her attention is everywhere and nowhere. She does not remember doing her makeup tonight. She does not remember how she got to the club, or why she decided to leave when she did. She does not remember yesterday at all - it’s gone.

She’s so exhausted she could sleep for days, but she’s not tired. She can distantly hear her heart patter like a bird flapping its wings. A contact high? This doesn’t feel like any ecstasy high she’s ever had. She’s not feverish. Her eyes are wide open but only half-seeing. She finds a cigarette pack on the bed next to her and rattles it in her hand, ears perked. But it’s empty. So she just lays there, motionless, everything inside her a rush, a big twisting.

Music. Booming bass attack. Prone on pavement. Feel that? The vibrations of an idling engine. The hallway room during the heatwave when the Dominican couple downstairs were arguing. Mum and Dad. No. Mum and her boyfriend fighting when the girl from the after-school program was staying over. Her name was Laurel. The time she and that girl shoplifted a bunch of clothes and went to her house and dressed up like Anne Hathaway and Emily Blunt and then they kissed. Her name was Hanna, no second h. How old were they then? Fourteen? Fifteen? The windows she’s climbed out of in flight. She had to break one open once because the girlfriend was basically punching the door, like trying to punch through it. That time an actress elbowed her in the face during. Breasts. She was ready to go home with any woman who touched her tonight, to let somebody happen to her while she peeked through herself to see it. But everyone left with each other instead, or seemed to. Why? Did they see it in her? Did they see that she’d seen-

Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up.

She tramples the thought before it can really occur to her. She’s rather graceful at that. Self-evading manoeuvres.

Second option. Did they see something that wasn’t there? Could everybody? Could she?

She’s done it before so she knows just how unwise it is when she’s like this. But before she can stop herself she’s in the bathroom, hitting the light switch, facing the mirror.

Is this… the girl from the club? The one who almost got ********* in the bathroom before somebody came in and-

No, the nose is different.

Or-

Who-

Her definitions have been thrust out of reach. She’s leaning really far over the sink now, legs sliding backwards in a V, knees locked, tiles squeaking.

Curious. Her eyes are really shiny. Pupils blown out so far there’s almost no colour to her eyes at all. They’re like an owl’s eyes now.

Her tongue hunts along her top row of teeth. She cups her jaw in her hands in a kind of goofy way, casual, giggling.

“...Just wanna say this: I... love... your eyeshadow.”

* * *

Sunday, October 2
1:01 PM

Azure sees Jasper speak and sort of lets it recede from her hearing. It’s not about work, because the lines around his eyes aren’t dark with stressed importance. That’s how you know. That’s how you know you can ask him short questions with long answers. It’s even better because Jasper doesn’t really delight in long answers or lecturing, but he’s serious about every conversation, so he tries. He does try.

Meanwhile Azure is drawing her name on the underside of her placard with her pointer finger. A-z-u-r-e-D-a-h-l. D-a-h-l. Dahl. Her father’s name. Her mother once showed some desire to change this for her, a contest to her own indifference, but she never saw it through - that would have meant waiting areas, phone queues, paperwork. On the other hand: A-z-u-r-e-R-o-b-i-t-a-i-l-l-e. Fluid. Free from a blunt ending. As a teenager, she signed a few diary entries like that. Wrote really bad poems about the beauty of suicide and credited them to Azure Julianne Robitaille.

Jasper speaks and Azure steals a few real looks at the woman sitting next to him. There’s a fuzz on her that her initial glance never caught. She’s coiled around herself in a recognisably defensive way - she didn’t come here by herself. She was picked up and brought here. Jasper? Oh, he would so do that, too, wouldn’t he? She quirks the corner of her mouth at this, not really smiling, not judgemental, just bored. She might reveal more, maybe say something, if they were anywhere and anybody else.

Then the young man. The last to join the table. He’s an Adamski. She can tell by how his body inhabits his chair, as if by remaining still enough he could somehow become less apparent to them. He must be used to being viewed poorly, with the way he stops himself from fleeing when you turn to face him too quickly. A flamingo drinking water amongst a herd of rhino. Azure would get up and sit somewhere else if she could but she just pretends that he’s see-through, pretends that she’s never been more comfortable anywhere else. Then, what do you know, power of suggestion: it’s true. There really is nowhere else that she’d rather be right now.

A woman named Melissa Zhao takes a set of steps up to a lectern at the front of the room. Azure crosses her legs and fans the hem of her skirt a bit. She thinks she understands it. She thinks she’s understood from the word go - she rates her own slyness highly now. This is a really sombre dinner party. She hasn’t seen anyone hunched over, inconsolable. No one’s got February in their eyes. Everyone seems busy dealing with private intrigues of their own. It’s fun. To notice this, to whisper something about it to yourself. It’s less fun to know, to really know, how much more complicated your life gets when you have everything.

1:02 PM

“Louisa was my sister.”

Yours too? She smirks at this like it’s a shared joke now.

“More than that, she was my closest friend. Louisa was always my largest source of hope. She believed in a better world, and she was able to bring it to life.”

Something marble-sized falls inside Azure with a plunk and then rolls around as she shifts from one buttock to the other. Like it deigns her to hear that. Then where is it? Show me that world you’re talking ab-

“-Murdered.”

That doubt she thought she’d definitely wrung out of her scurries back in. Small teeth gnawing at her ribs.

“You took the one good thing-”

Nobody’s going to pull her off the stage? People are moving from Azure’s outer vision to embrace her, take her away, but it’s like they’re knee-deep in opposing current - they’re not reaching her, won’t reach her in time. Oh, but that time has passed, hasn’t it? Sometimes it’s always been too late. And oh, she sees it now. She sees the Louisa in her. They’re both naturally gorgeous. They share an immodesty of spirit. They’re both…

Alive.

Then everything boils.

It whistles so loud, louder than anything. It’s only when Azure sees Melissa die on her way to the ground that she remembers what gunshots sound like. She’s never heard them this close. There’s another sound too. Trapped animals screeching. What? Oh, but then the throng of at least a hundred grabs a hold of her, sweeping her up in the uncoordinated panic. She’s shoved by two people running in different directions and lands with all her body weight on her bare knees. All she can see down here is the bramble of everyone’s legs, a wild blur that lets no light through. The floodwaters rise around her and she has no plan. She's close to flailing.

Before she can even find her hands for her feet, somebody has kicked her sunglasses from where they’ve fallen on the ground. They’re out of her sight now. A cellphone tracks to a stop in front of her and then is pitched away again, with a crunch, by the toe of somebody's oxford. Within seconds every seat has been deserted and she is alone in the swarm. Another impact and she’s rent onto her back, crashing into a group of chairs.

Huddled there in that debris, Azure’s head snaps to the great window at the end of the hall. Glass has rained down from an entry-hole, but it’s too well-designed to shatter completely. BANG. BANG. Two more shots. Two more holes. All you can hear is the resounding echo of this and the downpour of human voices and the applause of 250 pairs of shoes on what is now gruesomely clouded marble. She spins herself around by her ankles, trying to see something… anything… make out some central object to focus on. Anything to latch onto. Anyone.

Behind and to the right of her is a bespectacled old man in a black sail of a coat, gripping the nearest table so hard that the veins in his old hand are all popped out. At once, the five thousand explosions in her head all cease, are silenced. She then seizes her own intelligence, the actionable part of herself, and does what she does really well. She transmutes. She becomes a vacuum.

She slithers between table legs to get to the old man, assuming full height next to him as he’s barrelled into by a triad with their arms linked. She braces against him but he doesn’t fall. His grip on the table edge doesn't loosen.

“Hey. Come on. Let’s go.”

“No, I…” He’s cagey and he shakes his wrist back and forth to that effect. His gaze holds nothing. He doesn’t understand anything happening around him.

Without any warning whatsoever Azure slams a fist down on his knuckles. He lets go of the table and wails with the pain. He sounds like an overblown clarinet.

“Come on, old man.”

Then as his body jackknifes she snatches for an outline under his coat. It's there and she grabs it, taking him by the underarms.

“Go. Now.”

She starts pushing the old man through the tumult as fast as her legs can meet the floor, battering him into and through everyone in their way. The old man’s face collides directly with the back of a woman’s head and his glasses fly off. In another instant a younger man’s raised elbow hits him in the mouth, which at running speed makes the old man’s entire face swell and pucker. But most people semi-consciously spot just how old and frail he is, and how fast he’s moving, and something akin to a path is cleared.

But then the old man trips on his own coat and corkscrews into a stranger, knocking them both down. So Azure’s in the tall grass again. No shield. Fumbling and panting. Her extremities lumped with the beginnings of bruises. But she doesn’t slow or stop. Her mind almost catches up to what’s going on, too, but she pumps even harder than she thought she ever could, just enough to stay barely ahead of herself, sending great shooting pains up through her legs to her waist. She is unaffected. She is a lean pair of scissors cutting swiftly through it all now. She is an impala in four- or five-inch heels. When it seems to tug at her forward movement she wriggles out of her $500 coat mid-stride, arm by arm. It comes off and parachutes up into the air, lingering there for a few seconds.

1:04 PM

There’s an unoccupied space behind one of the hall’s many Roman columns and as she slips away from the frenzied unthinking mass of memorial-goers she keels over onto all fours, gasping in that small pocket of air. The first substantial breaths she’s taken in minutes scratch her throat, her insides. With trembling hands she chases what might be wounds across her body, but there are none, just pain. She sighs. She could scream. But she doesn't.

An acrid smell hangs overhead and she senses it only now. Black, dense, billowing smoke. She can’t comprehend it. She doesn’t feel the need to. The fire will never get to her.

* * *

Wednesday, October 5
3:08 AM

Azure’s skipping over every sidewalk crack in her little black dress and her shoes and her Miu Miu handbag when there’s a crackle in the night air. It could be from mere blocks away. The hairs on her body stand rod-straight and there’s a queasy lightning in her navel for just a second but she keeps walking as if nothing happened. It’s not like anything really did.

She’s only a step behind herself now and she wonders if it’ll last, or if the canyon in her will widen again. She wonders when feeling will come back to her. She’s sore, and her joints are tough like knotted rope, there’s the taste of vomit in her mouth, and the lining of her leather jacket is all gross with sweat now, but she only knows these things. They’re just theories. She is hypothetical. She is plastic. Every part of her perception is packaged. Is it like this for everyone? Do normal people just... know how to forget it’s like this?

Why can’t she?

The all-night corner store is a bath of yellow light. The clerk behind the counter is an Iranian man in a polo shirt. He’s solving this book of number puzzles with a golf pencil and he’s got a portable radio set up playing Arabic music on low volume. Does he need sleep?

As she passes him on her way to the back aisles he recognises her. Not enough to really know her, just to know that she’s been in here before. She’s a kind of girl that he sees a lot of. A girl with a lot of money in liquid who loves to take out individual $5 or $10 bills, leaf them in her hand, and then set them down to pay for cigarettes. If he hadn’t been working there for so long, he would feel somewhat teased by this.

Azure reemerges from the back aisles with a bottle of water, a bottle of Minute Maid orange juice, and a packet of Swedish Fish. She pulls out a thin wallet with $10 bills.

“You have Camel Regulars?”

“We do,” and the man jams his head and hand under a black curtain to fetch them.

Meanwhile Azure is looking around at everything like a fish looking out from its fishbowl. Everything on every shelf is so bright and so cheery, but it reminds her of toxic things. Poisonous frogs and cans of insecticide. “You know, I gotta say, the atmosphere of this place… it’s really a serve.”

SHUT THE FUCK UP.

The man reappears with Azure’s favoured cigarettes, only he’s completely baffled now. “...What?”

“Like, you know, the style is nice. I like the lighting.”

“Electrical company does that.”

“Well, it’s nice.”

Oh my God.

“...Glad to hear that,” and then he’s listlessly bagged her things and sent her out the door.

3:16 AM

Azure’s at a street corner now, overstimulated by the yellow-red-green of traffic lights, trying to take pictures of the moon for her 100-follower Instagram. She’s not getting it, either for the camera quality (her iPhone is older) or where she’s standing on the earth’s surface.

Really, though, she’s not altogether confident right now that the moon even exists. What presents as the moon high above her could, after all, just be a painting of a dish on a black gouache tablecloth. Everything in the sky could be theatre props suspended by wire. In any case, she would know it to be the real thing if she could just capture it. But she can’t. Embattled, tries to swipe out of the app but her fingers can’t seem to do their task. She can’t synchronise with anything that’s going on. It’s kind of comical. It’s kind of comical until the second her mind, riding a brave frequency, finishes the thought that she prevented herself from finishing before.

Did they see that you saw a woman die? Did they see that you saw a woman get shot and die in front of you? Did they see that you saw two other people get shot? Did they see that you saw what happened after, when it dawned on everybody that they were no longer just watching? That they were also maybe dying there too? They see that in you?

Did it come through in the small white hairs of her wrist? Did they hear her speak and did it sound starved? Like a lie that really wasn’t about anything? Had she lied to just lie and they clued in on that? Is there a residue of it all over her that will never wash out or is it a choice in her, a choice that she will always make from now on and she’ll never know when she’s made it or how to stop making it?

Did they see who you are?

Are you too weak to hide it now?

Who you really are? You know, a-

A ride-share breezes by, heading straight with its right turn signal still on, missing the curb by only a few inches. A rat nibbles on a piece of rubber. A dot of alternating red-blue-white light travels in a straight line through the sky above.

Azure elevates her phone above her head and taps the screen. It makes a clicking sound.

… And she still hasn’t caught the moon.

* * *

Sunday, October 2
1:15 PM

Azure is inert and imagining escape.

Ten minutes go by. There’s a lull in the dash of the crowd that lets the high register of sirens be heard, so that calms most people down. They start collecting belongings, reuniting with those they were pulled apart from.

The hall is shorter now than before. If you were there from the go of the third gunshot, you could have sworn it was a whole ocean that went on forever, this waving colossal surface of thrashing bodies and arms and heads. But there are rooms and anterior rooms and exits. There is life outside the walls of this building.

Azure knows she’s left a bag with thousands of dollars’ of equipment on the other side of the building, so she gets up. She’s flattened, worried somewhere inside her that the vertical pressure of being upright could suffocate her. But she doesn’t show it. She’s back to not showing things again, trying not to, trying to gather the molecules of mystery that have dispersed from her.

So she goes on and tries to locate where she’d been sitting, all the while impersonating some utterly composed, utterly unknowable woman with long legs. It lasts for a while with the amnesia in the room around her - being in the same space as death shrivels the memory centres in your brain. The fire has been dealt with. The nervous back-and-forth people have been properly annexed at the front of the building and then there’s a man who would be dead already if nobody had called 911 and nobody was with him. But somebody did call, and people are with him, frantically attending to the massive blot on his chest. A man in all black and a woman in flowers. If he does die there, on that tile, it will be apt. It will be sufficiently ceremonial.

1:17 PM

Her bag has been cast beside a wall. Was it stepped on? She holds it up and gives it a few shakes - there aren’t any new, smaller pieces moving inside. She puts it on, scanning her surroundings for where her very expensive coat and her very expensive sunglasses could possibly be.

In doing this a young woman crosses her view.

She’s sitting inwardly, her limbs all folded into each other. Dark hair on fabric. Hiding from it all. But then Azure sees the blood smears and soiled napkins all around her. Is she-

Is anyone going to-

Oh, fuck, no. No. C-

She has to. She has no idea what to do or who to be but no one else is advancing towards this girl. No one else is going over to her.

It really has to be me?

Fuck this bitch.

Azure closes in and, sure enough, there’s a life-song coming from her. A solitary undertone. She’s just really afraid. So, like, where is the blood coming from?

Oh, fuck this bitch.

“Hey-” and when she tries to stoop down, the balls of her feet give out and she buckles to her knees. “Fuck. Fuck.”

“Um-”

Come on.

Sharp, rapid breaths, then:

“Are… are you… did you get hit? Like, where are you bl-”

A glass-studded hand darts out from under her bundled arms and catches the bone of her kneecap. “Oh. Okay, um… c- can you get up?”

The girl raises her head, evidently dazed and overwhelmed. She smiles. It’s a nervous smile, a diffusive smile. A sorry-about-this-situation smile.

“I suppose living under here isn't an option?” There’s a lightness in her voice.

Not exactly, Azure thinks, but that butts the limit of what seems appropriate when she tries to say so. She wishes she could get away with saying nothing at all to this girl.

The girl takes a beat, wipes her hair from her brow, and eyes her company for the first time. Her face is red. She sits up in an effort to look less like a miserable clump, less like a dead person, more like a sober person.

“But… yeah, I’m fine. I-I will,” she draws a raggedy breath. It’s clear she was on the verge of tears.

The girl pushes herself to kneel against the table, surveying the room like a meerkat scouring for predators, then rolls back to a sitting position. Her breaths are shallow and her attention keeps flickering over to the door.

“...you don’t think they’re still around though, do you?”

Wait, could-

“I, uh… No. No, I don’t think so. But I’ll st- um…”

You’ll what?

“I can stay here with you until we know for sure. Because…”

Azure smiles. It’s a forgive-me, I-don’t-know-what-I’m-doing smile. As fenced-off as they are, there’s helplessness in her blue eyes.

“And I don’t mean this in a bad way, but you seem… you’re buzzed. And that’s… yeah, that’s alright. I can stay with you until we know. Do you need… Here.”

Somebody’s silk scarf has been left draped over the back of a nearby chair. It’s black and yellow and translucent with printed red flowers. It’s kind of tacky. Azure scrabbles to it, loops it around her fingers and takes it back with her. She tries to dress it around the girl’s hand but she doesn’t know if she should fold it first, or…

“I’m sorry, I’m… Okay, here, grab one end.”

She has the girl scrunch one end of the scarf in her palm and then wraps it around and around, minding the pain, until you can’t see the blood anymore. The girl flinches, bites her tongue, diverts her eyes - and then tilts her head, reckons with the gaudy scarf, and offers…

Sarcasm. “I think the blood stains will be an improvement.”

Oh, so you’re funny now?

“And then just hold it and keep it tight, I guess,” and she only realises after she says this that she’s peering rather intently at the crescents of the girl’s half-dark irises. They keep each other there for what might be a fraction of a second too long. For a fraction of a second, everything around them is reduced, made less significant. Made more bearable somehow.

"...Thank you, you're... thank you."

They look elsewhere, but they're still there in the silence together. Just the two of them. Nothing else.

Then it’s over.

Azure insistently keeps her eyes directed downward and she can't fathom why. “...Did you come here with anybody?”
 
Last edited:












azure(s), part two
































#avancini








#page of wands




















♡coded by uxie♡


INTERACTIONS: Evangeline ( xayah. xayah. )
Hugo ( boo. boo. )
Carmensita ( mxlly mxlly )

COWRITTEN WITH: mxlly mxlly

Friday, October 7
9:46 PM

There’s a bar somewhere in east downtown that somebody told Azure about once. She can’t recall exactly who or in what context. More than likely a slutty context.

It takes up the second floor of an historic building and fronts as though it were a BDSM club. Iron-barred windows, industrial fans whining. The patronage is of unique composition, a stir of different scenes and ages and classes. Nobody’s outright bellicose but the people who come here garlanded with money typically receive ugly, screwed faces for their trouble. Maybe that’s why they come here at all. To go half as long on drinks as they would, see underground bands with violent noise dynamics, be repeatedly disconcerted by the notion that they shouldn’t be there.

She’s buoyant with a few shots already, in a proud and debauched mood, a pretty picture framed in a booth with leather cushions and no one else around.

Who is she? She’s a beautiful woman. What is she doing? She’s scoping out other beautiful women. She wants to admire somebody up close tonight. Up close meaning like a foot away, most likely. She doesn’t yet know if she wants more than that. But there are a few beautiful women in this establishment tonight. There’s a woman with a black lip and smoky eyes and latex gloves and a towering hairdo. There’s a woman with acrylics like crocodile teeth, tapping them on the round of another woman’s shoulder. That woman is a work of art also. Green eyes and chanteuse hips. A couple is never boring. And then down the bar from them there’s yet another woman-

There’s-

There’s a woman that she knows. There’s a woman that she knows quite well. From a night where very little went withheld or un-exchanged. There’s a woman at the bar now, seated by herself, whose body Azure wagers she could carve into a block of clay, every valley and crease, and yet her name just isn’t quite there. It’s more than eight letters. She knows that much. It’s like… Emmanuelle? Emmeline?

Azure steps over to the woman. She does this maybe more smoothly and deliberately than she’d intended, as if the woman were an easily startled animal of some kind. She lowers herself into the bar-stool next to the woman just as the bartender enters from the backroom with two bottles of English gin.

“Hi. Cosmopolitan. And could I do a shot of that peach vodka behind you? Thanks.”

Azure moves her eyes but not her head. The flawless skin, the diamond-cutting angles of her face, the placid look. The command with which she holds herself. You don’t readily forget someone like that.

The bartender sets Azure’s drinks down in front of her and takes her money. She does the shot. It’s agreed upon, then. She’s closing in. She leans on one arm, lowers her eyes.

“Hi.” Her voice softens to a purr. “I hope I’m not bothering you. Please tell me if I am. But I think we’ve met.”

Azure stops herself here as a new confusion spreads within. Where in her recent past has she seen this woman? As in recent recent. Her inquiry doesn’t go that deep, doesn’t yield anything, because she can tell the woman is waiting for her to keep talking. So she does. When a girl looks attentively at Azure and doesn’t falter, it makes her obsequious.

“...I’m sorry, I’ve been trying to remember your name.”

And it continues to bug her. She absolutely saw her somewhere. So where? Where?

Then it all clicks into place.

“It’s… it’s Evangeline, isn’t it?”

* * *

Saturday, October 8
12:11 PM

Someone is pummelling at the door.

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.

Hello?

With difficulty, Azure opens one eye and then the other. They burn. Retinas shredded.

There’s a braid of sheer pain around her head. The bed covers where Evangeline would’ve slept are unrumpled and smoothed out. No suggestion that she was ever there at all. Her side of the bed is all tangled and fucked up and the pillows are all over the place.

The room is one of those mostly-beige suites with lots of touch-screen electronics where people on business trips court one another and have extramarital affairs. Azure knows she’s probably paying for it but she can’t remember how much it was. Or is. Do you pay before or after? It’s been so long since she’s done this.

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.

She also knows that the window shades are wide open and she is naked. She’s not at the consciousness level where this is a problem. To her, her body is adorned with the cryptic camouflage of a hangover so there’s nothing for anyone to see, were they looking.

She tries to decamp the bed without her head straying far from her shoulders but no, sorry, she’s teetering with bile. Standing up she can feel it press the back of her throat. Her legs are jellied and she can barely walk.

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.

Excuse me! Hello? You need to vacate the room, Ma’am!

She spews into the toilet she neglected to flush earlier, flushes it, spits a few times and then flushes it again. The guy from guest services is still going

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.

on the door and it makes her shiver and want to murder him. There are bottles from the minibar stashed in the bathroom wastebasket for some reason.

She’s going around fetching what she was wearing last night off the floor. Her purse is under the bed and her phone is in it. She didn’t think it would be. This doesn’t exactly fill her with joy, though. Nothing could right now, because-

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.

Azure slings her purse strap around her neck and bolts to the door, sending it flying open with a jerk of her arm. The boy behind it is younger than her if she had to guess. But she doesn’t guess. She doesn’t think. She is feral-minded. She’s hoarse and sounds like death but she gets right in his face and barks at him.

“DO YOU HAVE TO KNOCK THAT LOUD?”

“It’s eleven minutes past…”

“I KNOW WHAT THE FUCKING TIME IS. DO YOU HAVE TO KNOCK THAT LOUD?”

“I was just trying to get your attention. You should have-”

“YOU HAVE MY ATTENTION. YOU HAVE MY ATTENTION. YOU HAVE MY ATTENTION. THERE ARE OTHER PEOPLE IN THIS HOTEL BESIDES ME AND YOU. PLEASE BE CONSIDERATE. THANK YOU. BITCH-ASS.”

“What did you just call me?”

She doesn’t want an altercation and there are housekeeping staff standing behind him anyway so she’s heading down the hallway away from them, but she calls after him: “I called you a bitch-ass. It’s a slang term. It means I hate you.”

And she doesn’t want to figure out if she hasn’t paid yet, and this hotel probably starts at like $300 at night and she doesn’t need that right now, so she finds the nearest emergency exit door and jams it open. An alarm starts shrieking and Azure starts booking it down the stairwell to the ground floor, her purse a pendulum on her wrist.

12:49 PM

“Claud. I was starting to get worried about you.”

“Thank you for being mindful.”

“So what’s up? Should I really be worried?”

“No, I was just getting ahead of myself.”

“You? Never. I could hardly believe it. You never call me that early.” Simpering now, a cover for her own uncertainty: “Did you miss me?”

“I got a lead for you. That’s all.”

Oh, she really doesn’t like this.

“...Explain that to me.”

“White SUV. Licence number B-9-Z,4-P-7. Third floor of the parking structure at the corner of-”

“‘White SUV’?”

“It’s a ‘16 Volkswagen.”

“Are we… uh… families with window stickers and junior hockey equipment, that’s our client base now?”

“It’s not the car, it’s what in the car. There’s a hatch under the mat in the cargo space. You bring it to a shop at... 4200 Vienna Street. They'll let you in.”

“Oh, and they're gonna throw me a barbecue when I get-”

“Azure.”

“Claud.”

“You wanted new clients. I found you new clients.”

“I didn’t want you to find me new clients. I wanted you to help me find new clients.”

“I’m never doing you a favour again.” Only half-serious.

“So why are you telling me this over the phone?”

“It’s a highly valuable assignment. I persuaded them that only you could do it-”

“Who is ‘them’?”

“-so it wouldn’t go through public channels to get to you just trust me. Your safety is guaranteed.”

“Why should I do that?”

“Do you have any idea how much trust I put in you?”

“I can venture a guess.”

“Look, maybe I should have asked you first, but this will be a big step up for you. If you take it. Just show them that you have the discipline.”

“And don’t reflect poorly on you.”

“Have I ever asked you to do anything else for me? Everything else is up to you. I’m not the one holding you back from going anywhere with all of this.”

She doesn’t really know how to respond to that, so she just hangs up and covers her face with her hands.

1:43 PM

The old town has a district so old that there are tramlines, unused for decades, embedded in asphalt. All dreary undriven avenues and smokestacks.

A hydraulic door opens and Azure drives the SUV into what must have been some sort of depot once. There are grid windows on one wall with heather daylight streaming through. Freight containers that were never claimed, sitting there in stacks. Exposed under-girding. She’s on her own.

Oh. I'm about to die.

She thinks she's never been more sure of anything.

In this order: her mother. Lea. The girl from the memorial whose name and face she won’t even let herself envisage - as if to have an idea of her at all would profane her in the real world somehow.

She has trained her reflexes in preparation for something like this. She knew it might happen someday. She knew wasn’t being careful enough. Tactful enough. Was she really trying to be? Wasn't she just hoping, finally, to arrive here, at this point?

The point where the important people expect surprise from you and you don’t give it to them. And they shoot your head off but it’s too late, you’ve already won.

Was she not just trying to expedite that?

Adhering to this policy she steps out of the SUV, her manner uncautious and even a bit brazen. She shuts the door without trying at all to be quiet and it carries on through the building, buffeting the walls, singing through the ceiling support beams.

She doesn’t walk away from the SUV. She stands in one place, her eyes pinned to the ground, her mouth a thin upturned line.

Beep-beep. Someone engages the electronic lock.

Footclaps behind her. Then nothing.

Cigarette smoke.

The important people. Their expectations.

She turns around to face them.

Him. His face. From… from…

Her guard stays up. She blinks her focus back.

“So what is this?”

1:44 PM

“You were seen leaving the parking garage at…”

Hugo takes a glimpse at his watch.

“1:20… Twenty-three minutes.” His speech is clipped but not perfunctory. He doesn’t just speak for effect.

“Well, you could’ve made it harder than that, and you didn’t. Why do you want to act like you're impressed?”

He grins. His jaw is set. She can see that he’s actively clenching it. “I needed to see it for myself.” A pause. “The work you do.”

A ripple of vanity goes through her, and she mocks it. “Were they right about me? Am I that girl? Do I have what it takes?”

“You’re an underachiever.” He hits his cigarette and inhales like the French do.

“...Okay, so, what, then? You bring me here to talk about my attitude? Is that it? Lecture me on my bad habits?”

“I want to know what your price is.”

Slowly, raindrops the size of locusts start falling outside.

“For my loyalty.”

“You find that ridiculous, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. That you think you can buy it from me and then it’s yours and I’m indebted to you. Yes, that is ridiculous. That’s fucking crazy bullshit. That’s nineteen-fifties bullshit. I never once asked to be a part of anything. Part of anyone’s family. That’s the last thing I want. I don’t-”

“I don't want to buy it. This isn't about money. I want to earn it.”

Anger now, barely controlled. “And how are you going to accomplish that? Tell me. Are you gonna stalk me out of my relationship? Out of my apartment? Follow me around for a year? Send me printouts of my own emails and my fucking search history? Put me on the guest list of a memorial service that gets shot up, and send me a death threat letter on the day of? Is that how you’re earning it?”

Something about what she just said shadows Hugo’s brow. His glasses slip down the bridge of his nose and he readjusts them. “...What was that letter-”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“I’m being serious now. What did that letter say exactly?”

Azure laughs in disgust and paces around in a circle, trying to breathe evenly and failing. “I’m not doing this with you. Why are you even here?”

“I think-"

“You want bodies lined up in front of you for what’s going to happen. Okay. But you can’t send just anyone down here, no, you have to come here yourself to do this. To reap all the new talent. Personally. Why? And why me?”

Hugo baulks a little bit at being interrupted. He holds his cigarette in his mouth and flares the neckline of his jacket.

“I think you’re coasting along on your own ability. I think you have a restless personality. And I think… that you can do much more than what you’re being asked to do.”

She's set off-balance. “Oh, I’m sorry. Wasn’t aware you knew every fucking thing about me.”

“I was like you, once. Grand larceny. Motor vehicle theft. Small-time. I began as a juvenile. I made my own deals. I never thought of where I belonged in the hierarchy. I, too, thought that I was an exception. I thought I was protected, somehow, because I was young, with a bad temper and no ambition. That’s an easy mistake to make.”

“So if I go with you, you’ll protect me? Is that what you’re saying? How will that not make me a bigger target?”

“They’ll know you’re with me. If anything happens, I’ll take retaliatory measures.”

She scoffs, but it’s choked.

“I know you invited me to that memorial. You put me in that room. You ruined my life for leverage. So that I would accept any offer that you made when the time came.”

The man spikes his cigarette at the ground. “Think about what you’re saying. I staged an attack and had Avancini soldiers shot just to manipulate you? Grow up. Yes, I invited you to that memorial. No, I did not at all expect what was going to happen. No, I did not send you a death threat. No, I did not ruin your life. I don’t know who did, but if you pledge your commitment to us, to this organisation, I will help you look for them.”

Azure takes a step toward him, haggard with rage. She peers into his eyes for something that will confirm her disbelief in his words, and she’s even more enraged when she doesn’t find it. She sees sleeplessness and weakness and worry. He’s eaten up inside. By this?

They stare each other down.

“Will you kill me if I say no to you?”

He’s exasperated but he doesn’t answer.

“You can’t risk an interloper. So do it. Do it right now if you want. Better safe than sorry.”

He doesn’t move. Neither does she.

1:45 PM

This interaction is mutually understood. Then, at last:

“...You are such a freak,” she says with this mix of contempt and admiration. “You let it get to you, don’t you? You care. You act refined, but you care, don't you?”

He doesn’t regard this openly. He just removes his glasses and wipes the lenses clear of fog with a pocket-cloth.

“I know you want more, but wanting something is easy. Wanting is just wanting. Getting more is more difficult, because it requires a modicum of trust on your part. Just think about it. If you’re ready to quit being a naive fucking child and trust me, then you know who to contact.”

With that, he turns on an axis and starts away, trailing blue smoke and shoe polish behind him. But he stops midway to the darkness and addresses her one last time.

“I’m sorry about what happened to you.”

Sincere words from a born diplomat.

Then he is darkness, and Azure is in that scant ambient light, seething and sucking on her own lips.

* * *

Sunday, October 2
1:37 PM

Azure plants herself down in a window seat. The girl follows, her face all gnarled up in dismay, hands conspicuously held up and away from all vectors of contact - but then, as she’s about to take the seat next to Azure, the bus lurches ahead and the girl has to grip the nearest pole with both hands so she won’t be sent reeling to the back of the aisle.

Azure doesn’t pay as much heed to this as she’d like to. What’s close to her beckons from far away. She is busy, between road bumps, with how abnormal everything is right now. It all runs a bit slower than it should. It’s all covered with some kind of film. Some kind of chalky substance. Everything except the girl. She’s here, beside her, warm, exuberant, blushing with life.

She retires from the warped scrolling cityscape and turns to her and says “If you’re going to the hospital for that, I can come with you. If you want to just not be alone.”

She doesn't know why she just said that. It’s not really her that said it. It’s her replacement. A facsimile, down to the details of her digits, yet unable to speak with the passions of a regular human being. There’s a weird detachment to her voice, to everything about her now. Whether it can be observed by anyone else is another thing. She holds two digits to her parted lips in imitation of her favourite vice.

The girl considers things, and then she shrugs. “Yeah, it’s… it’s nothing… it could be worse.” Then she pauses, and it’s a felt pause, debating what she should and shouldn’t make known. Intuiting the level of disclosure that would be appropriate for this bus ride.

Azure zips her head side to side really quickly. “You probably don’t need to, anyway. Doesn’t seem that bad to me.”

“It serves me right.” She looks amused but it’s a mask. “...I knew this shit was going to end in disaster.”

Shyly: “And you walked through it fine. Or at least you look fine. Put-together. Still slaying.”

The girl clicks her tongue, now acutely aware of her own untidiness. “And, uh, well… thank God for that.” She smiles and it’s bashful and self-conscious and Azure can tell by the way it makes her lips curdle that this is unusual for her. It’s not her custom to smile like this. This makes her feel beautiful but it also doubles the distance between her and her body.

Then the girl moves herself a little closer, holding her head at an angle that makes her cheekbones catch the light. “...How about you, though? Are you… fine?”

Something glints in Azure for just a second, like a mirage, and then it’s gone. “Just shocked, I guess.” And in a this-is-a-joke voice, all her vowels stretched: “What do you mean? That kind of thing happens to me every single day.” She flattens one hand, shakes her head so that her hair whips around and settles differently on her scalp. “It’s just part of my fast-paced, twentysomething lifestyle.” Then she smiles in apology for not being funny.

The girl laughs. It’s not very loud, but it’s genuine. “Your lifestyle? Remind me not to make a habit of hanging out with you then.”

They both laugh a little, like it’s something bounced back and forth between them.

But this is the girl’s stop and she’s so excited that she’s on her feet before the doors are open, before the bus’s tires have even made their last revolution. Azure is already behind her. Azure is about to chide herself for the sick feeling that this gives her, the immaturity of having it.

Only the girl hesitates and then turns back through the people budging past her, holding one of the overhead straps to stabilise herself against them.

1:39 PM

“I’m Carmen, by the way.”

Azure drops into the moment.

Carmen.

Carmen, Carmen, Carmen.

A page in a book of prayers.

“I’m…” and just then an ambulance races by, drowning out all other noise. “Azure.”

“You’re who, sorry?” and Carmen really wants to hear this, but her strength will not match the combined might of the other passengers. She has to disembark and she has to do it now.

Azure would call after her, but she’s too vacant to do anything other than mumble. “Azure.”

But Carmen is out of earshot. She tries to hold onto their eye contact but it’s gone when she passes through the door, out onto the sidewalk. Azure watches her stalk away through all those pedestrians, trying to estimate the number of steps she’ll take before she can no longer be distinguished from all the rest.

Azure loses count, forgets how to count. Counting is meaningless when everything is bubbled by the thick glass, projected backwards.

People with lives and plans and spontaneity and places to go and places to grow.

One of them was right next to her. Almost touched her hand.

Carmen, Carmen, Carmen.

Now just an idea like the rest.

Azure splits apart like the shell of an egg with someone’s thumbs through it. Dissembled into small pieces.

They ride the bus until the sun goes down.

 
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hugo.





































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    i am cone sold stober
















Sat, Oct 8, 2022 8:59 PM

All over again. It was happening all over again. Panic shuddered through Hugo as he fell against the closed door, fists hammering against it as if he was on the outside and Baroque had locked himself within. A face that hadn’t seen tears in what felt like a lifetime was now streaked and splotchy, red-rimmed eyes from behind smudged glasses, expression contorted into one of agony. He wanted to be angry.

“You don’t even know what love is!”
Lips screamed against wood.

“Sick—I’m some sick fantasy for you!”
Knees buckled and slammed into the floor, fingernails digging into the doorframe like he was trying to rip it open. The handle remained untouched.

“So you throw me away just like that?”


There was nobody out there. Footsteps had trailed away long ago, but Hugo’s claws refused to retract, an anger misdirected, pointed out instead of in. He couldn’t see straight; twenty-two hours awake and screams that should have been cathartic only compounded into a migraine that would cripple him shortly. At some point he was back on his feet and hardly aware of it, hip colliding with a cabinet, shaking a glass from its perch and sending it crashing to the floor in a million little fragments that looked very much like his entire world.

And then he was back on the floor, face buried between shaking hands, nausea pooling in his stomach and threatening to spill over. His shoulders trembled. There was a hairline crack in the right lens of his glasses, which had been abandoned on the table—the emotional blindness was now reflected in reality, a fitting punishment for one who had turned his head the other way too many times.

Wails turned to sobs, turned to silent weeping, turned to shivering. For the second time that day, Hugo wasn’t aware of minutes and hours slipping through his fingers. Ashes and cigarette butts surrounded him, still huddled on the floor, the air choked with smoke that had nowhere to go but around him, a cloud that had once thundered and raged but was now reduced to silent hovering.

Baroque was everything to him. Did it have to be more complicated than that? The four letter word, the one Hugo had been avoiding for so long—did it really mean that much? Why?

Why couldn’t he just—

The pounding in his head was near-unbearable now. By some strength that didn’t feel like his own, he shuffled into the kitchen and very nearly stepped on the cat, which was winding between his feet, crying in protest of her forced hunger strike.

Something inside him snapped.

He screamed. The cat was Baroque. He hated it. A fog of red overtook him, and suddenly he lashed out, a foot very nearly making contact with her, but she hissed and ran. More glass shattered as a cup was hurled to the floor in useless pursuit; the cat was long gone.

Suddenly reality washed over him like hydrogen peroxide into an open wound. Another cigarette dropped from his fingers as he fell back against the kitchen counter, shaking at the realization of what he’d very nearly done.
“No, I didn’t…”
The blood drained from his face, skin turning cold and clammy. Why did I do that? What if I almost—

Sun, Oct 9 2022 3:12 AM

It was safer to turn to a numbing agent, he told himself, pouring the sixth glass and watching the room spin. Alcohol stung his otherwise-empty stomach, sloshing like an ocean rocked by storm winds, the earlier nausea rising from his gut to his bowling-ball head. There was an acute pain on his heel, where he’d stepped on one of the countless shards of glass, but it was nice to be grounded, to look down under the table every now and then and see that the red puddle had grown a little. The cat was gone and so was Baroque. One was hiding under his bed, the other still buried in the recesses of his heart, in a cage of his own unfelt feelings, a mirage he continued to worship and despise, like a prophet chained to the temple, knees bruised and fists full of his own hair, a desperate wanting and loathing, visions of a honeymoon life torturing him every time the bottle grew emptier.

This was familiar, he noticed wryly, the image of a man at the kitchen table getting drunk on cheap whiskey at three in the morning. He’d been a child of eight, peering around the hallway corner and wondering when his dad would animate like a puppet on strings and start banging on his brother’s bedroom door. Jakob had always been the scapegoat. Am I my dad? Bloodshot eyes stared down into an empty glass that seemed to refill itself. Amber liquid sloshed over the sides as he overestimated his own motor skills.

Someone had texted him. He was only looking now, not noticing that the timestamp was of some four hours earlier, only hoping to see a contact labeled “Moonshine” and not “Alyona,” but despite the fact that it was the latter, good feelings were associated with it, a comforting presence, pursed lips that always seemed to speak more than they intended, eliciting amusement and reminding him of a younger sibling. They would have liked each other, he mused, tapping on her contact and calling her although he wasn’t sure why. Maybe I would have tried to set Jakob up instead of the other way around.

It rang four times before she picked up.

“Talk about leaving me on read, Hugo. What?”

He stared at his phone screen, wondering if perhaps he should have given her a profile picture. There weren’t any pictures on this phone, though.

Silence for a beat.

“Hello?”

There was a sound of movement on the other end, rustling, a tone of exasperation. Of course she wouldn’t want to talk to me, Hugo thought, his arms sliding down onto the table and head resting in an elbow, thumb hovering over the red button that would hang up.

“Wow, this is probably the first time you’ve prank-called someone, right? Congratulations. You suck. Good night.”

“Wait!”
Hugo’s broken voice broke through before he could stop it, chin jutting forward like he was trying to follow the lips that had been hovering before him in his waking dreams.
“You can’t leave me, too…”


“Are you drunk?”

“I… He fuckin’...”
A mouth that stank with alcohol trembled, threatened to crack and wail.
“Do you want a cat? I almost killed my cat…”


More rustling. She was walking. “Are you home?”

No response.

“Hugo?”

He hadn’t quite passed out yet but being conscious was exhausting. The room was still spinning and he felt like he was being pushed against the walls, like he was on some fucked up carnival ride. Why hadn’t Baroque come to visit yet? He texted him almost seven hours ago. Oh, that’s right, he left me. Can’t believe I forgot about that…

“I swear to God, if this is some stupid joke…”

Hah… I’m crying again…

































slow dancing in the dark













♡coded by uxie♡
 





/* ------ left side ------ */




/* ------ left side info ------ */
mood bang bang

location somewhere in the street

outfit 1

fun fact I accidentally deleted this like 3 times

tag mentions Azure, Alyona celadon. celadon. koala koala


carmensita




/* ------ right side ------ */

Oct. 2nd, 1:39 PM​
"You're who, sorry?" Carmen heard the bus doors open, a signal for those who were leaving to file out. She wanted to wait, just one more moment to catch the only word she needed to hear--but she was pushed back, someone's shoulder bumping into her chest.

She chanced a glare at who knocked her, was it that hard to wait? They gestured for her to move, a fuelled wave of the arm in the direction of the door. She ignored it, eyes searching for the golden head of hair further back--but five more people had stood up, and then another, and another, until Carmen could barely see anything at all.

She disembarked and followed the flow of the crowd, hiding her scarf-wrapped hand in her coat pocket, and with each step she took, a new question came to mind: it was two syllables, right?...step. why hadn't she seen her before?...step. and does she like women?

Carmen slowed her walk, disrupting the line of people behind her; she was now an islet that parted a river.

She had turned back in the hopes to see a held-up bus, perhaps someone needed help getting off, or traffic was just really bad...but her eyes met an empty stop, a plain, vacant strip of concrete, "right..." her voice was low, and clearer than usual, free from any inflections of sarcasm or scorn. She had just accepted it--that girl had been a blip, something that wasn't supposed to stay...

It didn't mean anything...

Oct. 5th, 7:55 PM​
The Rocha’s dining room was circular, with deep wooden floorboards angled towards the round table in the center. The curved walls surrounding it were decorated with showy paintings by various artists, but each artwork was equally garish; their orderless, colorful brush strokes clashed, fighting to be the statement piece, it was all very...modern. Carmen couldn't decide if she hated it. But what took the contemporary cake, and what she did hate, was the newest addition to her mother’s collection, a pink and red glass...lumpy disc. The closest thing she could liken it to was a giant prawn cracker hooked on the wall, a smooth, wavy eyesore of about 1m². She regarded it from the dining table, silent and simmering as her family and their dinner guests conversed over full plates of pasta.

"--it must've been thrilling..."

Carmen could have snapped her neck catching the end of that sentence.

"What?"

She glared at the man across from her, she couldn't remember his name, but he was some hotel tycoon, over-dominating in real estate and conversation. He had sharp features and a shock of grey through his dark hair, and a smug half-smile plastered to his face like a permanent fixture, like he was always pleased with himself.

The man was sitting beside her mother, Chiara, a woman whose eyes were deep, and leveled to her daughter's--they warned Carmen, as though she knew exactly what her child would do. Perhaps Carmen would have cared if she wasn't tired and dehydrated, if thoughts of the shooting hadn't stolen her sleep, and if bitterness didn't boil under her skin whenever she saw someone smile too wide.

She couldn't decide where the rage came from--if she were more embarrassed or scared. She had gone out the evening before, dizzying herself with cocktails in the hopes that it would knock the memories out of her head, drown them, dissolve them in liquor until there was nothing of that day left...but it hadn't worked, the women she'd kiss were drawn to the bandage wraps on her hands, words of concern and curiosity sending her back to when she had helped her, the one who had stopped, and the moment Carmen had passed up all too fast...and her regret turned into a grudge.

Carmen had opened Instagram once yesterday afternoon, she had wanted to think it was out of boredom, a mild curiosity at most--but the memorial had hit her hard, harder than she would allow herself to admit. Her head was clouded with words, too many words, words she wanted to say but couldn't find the means to express...they made her look weak and delicate. That isn't who she was, it couldn't be.

But the girl had seen a crack, a fracture that ran down her face no matter how high she held her head...and she had let her see it, willingly so. Part of Carmen wanted to speak to her, but another part of her wanted to yell at her just for being there. If she could, Carmen would have typed everything she remembered about her into the search bar, all the details bar a name: the soft eyes that could barely meet her own, the way her hair fell, how she would hold two fingers to her lips--

What the fuck.

It didn't matter, none of those details did. She had helped Carmen out of pity...a merciful gesture to save some random chick on the floor from shame.

Carmen had been a ball of resentment for the past twenty-four hours...and now she was back in the dining room.

"A woman died and you think it's thrilling?" her words dug at every syllable, turning the mood on its head. "Are you fucking serious?"

Her mother's hand touched the man's arm, as though she were reassuring him with a light pet, "I'm sure he didn't mean it like that." Chiara smiled at him, and Carmen wasn't blind to the fact they'd been flirting all night, she would laugh a little too hard at his jokes, and he would never shut up about how lucky her father was--a man who was now isolated up several flights of stairs, too in his head to come down for dinner, "it was just that it was a rush, right?" Chiara clarified, "high adrenaline..." something electric sparked between her mother and the man.

"Yeah," Carmen scoffed, fully expecting that betrayal, "that's exactly it," sarcasm rolled off her tongue, imbued with her disgust for the weird energy coming from the other side of the table. She stabbed her fork into her spaghetti, "can someone just pick a different topic?"

The man appeared to have obliged, but then: "I wouldn't mind being in a gunfight, I would make a great action hero."

Carmen held her breath, eyes diverting from the man and her mother as Chiara rubbed his arm with affection. She had tried, she really did--she wanted to forget it, the feeling of being frozen whilst your nerves were on fire, yelling at you to do something as the realization of how helpless you were, crept in. The migraine that had been following her for days didn't calm her either, it clung to the back of her brain, pulling her one way as the man's words pulled the other, stretching her thin.

"Would you excuse me," Carmen shot up from her seat, pushing it back with a screech against the wood. No, no no, even you know this is a bad idea. She stormed to her father's office, hands digging through the drawers of his desk for something she knew he kept there. Her fingers curled around its handle. A revolver. Bingo.

The sheet-white color the man went when Carmen walked back in was gratifying--the barrel aimed at his face from six feet away. He pushed back against his chair, an arm raised to calm her, as if he were Chris Pratt in that one scene from Jurrasic World, and she was a velociraptor.

"Carmensita!" her mother scolded, standing to meet her daughter's height. There wasn't any fear in her eyes, they didn't shine wide like the man's...they were red, furious.

Perhaps she let the gun linger on him a touch too long...maybe it was cruel, but the hot pulse that beat inside her body collided with reason. She held the silver firearm out straight, watching the rapid rise and fall of his chest. This is what it felt like...isn't that what you wanted to feel? The thrill?

She was too in her head to notice that her own breath had begun to catch, her jaw clenched so tight it ached; a vision of pure wrath dressed in white.

She moved her aim slightly to his left, finger pressing hard on the trigger.

BANG!

The giant prawn cracker shattered, red and pink glass pieces showering the floor.

"Que porra, Carmen!"

Carmen was already a step away from the front door when her mom shouted after her. She'd left the guests to their own bewilderment, placing the steaming gun down on the table before excusing herself. It wasn't the wisest choice, she knew that, but she had always made decisions at the snap of a finger--and besides, no one got hurt. So she kept walking forward, ignoring the sound of Chiara's heels as she came down the staircase.

"Carmen!"

She stopped, now outside on the ceramic tile that led to their front door. She turned around to face her mother, who was standing two steps above her on the porch. They stood at odds, and it was evident Chiara was searching her brain for something to say--what to say. So Carmen waited; her booted foot digging into the pebbles between the tile, popping one out, and kicking it into the bush. Chiara didn't react.

"That man was going to fix a...mistake your father made last night," Chiara finally said in Portuguese, covering the words as though the people two stories up could hear them, "why do you ruin everything?"

"We don't need anyone," Carmen's words were fast, deflecting any guilt Chiara laid out, "so don't embarrass yourself like that, he's an idiot."

Chiara threw her hands up in disbelief, her dry laughter echoing in Carmen's ears--it mocked her, "embarrass myself? Right, because that performance wasn't-"

"Why didn't you call?" Carmen's voice was flat, tired.

"...what?"

"Why didn't you call? I could have been dead."

Silence clung to the air around them, encasing them in a bubble; an atmosphere separate from the rest of Saint's Heights. The night's noises were muffled, bouncing against the bubble's invisible walls as Carmen watched her mother lose her words. It made her sick. You don't have a reason. There was movement in her face, so faint it was almost imperceptible, a crack, a slight furrow of the brow, a watery glaze over her eyes. Do you even care?

"Great," Carmen popped the bubble, shaking her head with a laugh, a mask, "that's just great." She took a few steps back before turning away and leaving her mother on the porch, "anyway...stop flirting with shitty men, one is enough!"

Carmen was walking away fast. The cool air whistled past her, small gusts of wind sweeping through her loose waves, gathering them up into a flutter of deep chestnut as the floor of her boots slapped firmly against the sidewalk. She shouldn't have gone to dinner, why did she go? Because they're family? What did that even mean anymore? That thought slowed Carmen's steps until she came to a stop, the blue light from her phone screen now spotlighting her face as she stood alone in the street, thumb scrolling through her contact list.

Alyona.

She never knew what to think of her, if she should even think of her. The vulnerability in those hazel eyes from when she'd first seen her, and what Carmen did to save her own skin--it's just how it goes, she told herself, gaze set on the blank message bar. Her thumbs hovered over the keys, an urge to reach out--but she wasn't sure how. They couldn't talk like normal people, people whose lives weren't stained by an ill circumstance, people whose lives weren't drenched by blood and violence...

Hey.

Carmen immediately erased the message. Her intrusive thoughts told her to shove her phone in her mouth, and bite it out of frustration, or hurl it at the brick wall across the road...neither of which she did, but she didn't text Alyona, either.



/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.
 
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