I DO BUT KEEP THE PEACE

"MY HEAD IS BLOODY, BUT UNBOWED." BELLAMY SANTO DOMINGO | BENVOLIO

[xshayarsha]

I don’t know how God can bear seeing everything at once: the falling bodies, the monuments and burnings, the lovers pacing the floors of how many locked hearts. I want to close my eyes and find a quiet field in fog, a few sheep moving towards a fence.

Kim Addonizio, from Wild Nights; Tell Me; The Numbers. (via xshayarsha)

[benvoliosantodomingo]

odessasvernon​:

Funerals had always left a bitter taste on Odessa’s tongue. She hadn’t expected to attend so many in her short lifetime. Howard, Marius, her father, and now Valentina were all buried in the ground and Odessa had to wonder who would be the next to follow suit. Her eyes had flicked over the dissipating crowd as the funeral ended. She spotted Matthias, Roman, Marcelo, and others as they headed back to their lives. A nervousness took hold of her as she thought about any of them being the next to go.

And then her eyes looked further away from the crowd, and she spotted a familiar figure tucked away from prying eyes. She watched Bellamy’s hunched figure for a moment before she made her way over to him. There was always an undeniable softness in her gaze when she looked at Bellamy. He was her first kiss, her tender heart, and she felt that pain that he was in. 

She sat next to him, and her eyes watched his ragged figure. Her hand reached over to rest on his shoulder as she listened to his question. Odessa wished she could just run away from it all. She had that bit of freedom with college, but she knew that freedom was fleeting. Bellamy also had that freedom, and a part of her wondered if he regretted coming back. Would he have been burden-free if he was away from all of this? Would his shoulders lighten the weight they were carrying, or would he still carry their struggles with him?

Her hand reached up to lift up his chin. Her brown eyes met his hazel eyes as she smiled softly at him. “No laughing.” She would never laugh at Bellamy. “Where would we go? Paris? Berlin? How about Athens? I’ve always wanted to go to Greece.” She hummed lightly as her foot nudged his. “You and me relaxing on a beach. Doesn’t that sound lovely?” 

i don’t care where, he thinks to himself, as he finds the corners of his mouth turning upwards into a kind of nearly-there smile--the muscles aching with disuse. as long as you are with me, it doesn’t matter. he’s almost brave enough, or perhaps, almost weak enough to speak the words out loud, to dig his fingers inside his chest cavity and simply hand over the traitorous organ that has always been hers--he thinks she would probably take it, she’s kind enough that she would indulge him in the illusion, at least for a moment, before she gave it back to him. he swallows the feeling, and it feels like a stone sinking to the bottom of a lake--a slow kind of death that he’s been cursed to continually repeat.

wherever she is now, he thinks valentina is probably rolling her eyes, shouting at the top of her lungs for him to be brave when it actually counts.

“i thought of you a lot, when i was in paris.” he admits, with a small shrug of one shoulder. he rests his head on her shoulder, exhales slowly. “you would like it there--we could go dancing.” he chuckles, but the sound feels broken to his ears--like someone smashing a bottle against brick, rendering something that used to be whole and useful to nothing more than disparate and sharp pieces. its an absurd fantasy, to think that he could whisk odessa vernon off to the city of love and light and win her favor under golden chandeliers like they were some kind of reincarnated gatsby and daisy, but at this moment in time it feels like the only thing standing between himself and throwing himself into that hole in the ground beside his friend--

here lies valentina gallo, and the hope and courage of bellamy santo-domingo.

he cranes his head to look odessa in the eyes for a moment, before he turns his focus to the slowly thinning procession of people parting ways in the distance. “i think--” he starts, before the words become stuck in his throat, before he manages to finally choke them up. “i think i might have been wrong, this whole time. i don’t know if anything in verona can be changed for the better.”

there, his mind supplies. let it bleed, maybe then at least you will finally be empty.

[benvoliosantodomingo]

bell n ro

001. .   .   .   kills the spider | bellamy politely escorts the spider outside bc ro is scared and won’t admit it. and / or they agree to concoct and excuse to draw marcelo over so they’ll kill it for them. 

002. .   .   .   proposed | listen...it’s a RACE........they both want to come up with some kind of romantic surprise, but it’s bellamy who wins out!! because it just falls out when they’re laying in bed together, just talking, as if the world outside of their room doesn’t exist. he just kisses roman’s hand and says something like “hey, you should marry me.” roman just rolls his eyes and says yes, and a week later proposes to bellamy again in a villa he bought for the two of them, or something equally elaborate and ridiculous. 

003.  .   .   .   kissed the other first | roman, while they were drunk teenagers. it happened repeatedly and they never spoke about it, until bellamy came back to verona and they were drunk AGAIN....only this time roman comes clean and says everything he should have said before bellamy left in the first place. 

004.  .   .   .   initiates things | roman thinks he has game, and bellamy laughs every time without fail, but follows him anyway. if things are vulnerable, its usually bellamy who initiates as a way of offering roman a form of comfort. 

005.  .   .   .   would leave the other | listen.............roman is in deep, was born in deep, with the montagues, and there would come a point where bellamy would have to get in just as deeply, or decide that his principles were worth more to him. if it’s roman against the chance for him to enact real change, to make something better, he’s going to choose that future. 

006.  .   .   .   is more jealous | roman, bellamy is dense as hell and hardly recognizes when people are flirting with him, which makes the whole thing worse. 

007.  .   .   .   is lazier | they’re equally lazy kings...their longest streak of not leaving their house / bedroom is about five days. they just order take-out and watch terrible t.v., and pretend the world outside doesn’t exist, as a way of coping. 

008.  .   .   .   sends weird texts at 3 AM | bellamy, because he has a lot of feelings but doesn’t always know how to communicate them. occasionally, roman will just get a text that says something like “our time on this earth is so short......babe.......we should linger in each other’s lives more.....” 

009.   .   .   .  is more experienced | roman, and that’s hard for bellamy to get over at first? but there’s no one he trusts more, so he gives roman the benefit of the doubt. 

010.   .   .   .  said i love you first | they’ve been saying i love you since they were kids, so the first time bellamy looks at him and says i love you, roman just brushes it off and says he loves bellamy too. a whole discussion follows in which bellamy has to get roman to realize that no...he LOVES loves him. 

[benvoliosantodomingo]

Bell/dess/ro!!!

001. .   .   .   kills the spider / ro, bellamy would happily let it continue living in their house and dess wants nothing to do with it, so the duty falls to him as the neutral party. 

002. .   .   .   proposed / ro to dess, because bellamy didn’t want either of them tied to his family, or for his family to even know about the two of them. he’s mostly okay with it--they both treat him like a spouse, and if he communicates when he’s feeling insecure they both do their best to reassure him. 

003.  .   .   .   kissed the other first / bell was odessa’s first kiss, and then kissed ro while they were both drunk, and eventually the two of them came to him and told him to stop being stupid and obviously pining after the two of them, when they both wanted to be with him as well. dess kissed him first, and then ro told her to stop being greedy and kissed him as well. 

004.  .   .   .   initiates things / ro, who’s really good at that sort of thing in comparison to bellamy who is dense as hell. sometimes dess surprises them both and draws them both in and they’re helpless to it. 

005.  .   .   .   would leave the other / bellamy, because he would feel like he was getting in the way of their relationship. i could see dess and bell worrying about ro leaving the two of them, because they can’t satiate his big heart with enough love between them. 

006.  .   .   .   is more jealous / roman montague!!!! boy prince and heir to the throne!!! 

007.  .   .   .   is lazier / bellamy is the voice of laziness, and tries to convince them at least once a week to call of work and just lay in bed with him, doing absoultely nothing. he needs to escape from the world outside, from the weight, every so often. 

008.  .   .   .   sends weird texts at 3 AM / ro and bell to dess, bc they’re both drunk again and she’s responsible. its mostly rambling about how much they both love her though, and they become increasingly more difficult to decipher because at some point they switch to voice text. 

009.   .   .   .  is more experienced / roman...obviously. 

010.   .   .   .  said i love you first / bellamy, who says it often and freely and doesn’t feel bad in the slightest. he didn’t hear it a lot growing up, so he vowed to be free with it. 

[musingmeme-blog]

ship meme  !

send me a ship and i’ll tell you who

001. .   .   .   kills the spider

002. .   .   .   proposed

003.  .   .   .   kissed the other first

004.  .   .   .   initiates things 

005.  .   .   .   would leave the other

006.  .   .   .   is more jealous

007.  .   .   .   is lazier

008.  .   .   .   sends weird texts at 3 AM

009.   .   .   .  is more experienced

010.   .   .   .  said i love you first

[lamprius]

where: café, neutral territory 

when: april 15th, 2019

with: open to all 

No sessions scheduled for today, so Lamprius is free to float through Verona like a ghost and haunt the city whichever way he likes. He lands at a cafe, at which he orders one (1) plain black coffee and asks for three napkins: one for himself, one in case the wind decides to take the first, and one because he expects the unexpected.

Lamprius hasn’t been here since, well, before, and this is the thought that strikes him as he catches sight of the planter box right next to his table. The café owner is growing violets, purple and delicate, but Lamprius is much more interested in the planter box itself. Red and rough, built out of bricks, and standing at a little more than half a meter in height. It looks all of the decade it has been sitting here; just another bit of Verona for the average passerby to let their eyes slip over.

But Lamprius’ gaze stills as soon as he sees it. He remembers a night, years ago, he’d sat at this very table, almost certainly next to this very planter box. He wonders…

He reaches down to let his fingers crawl over the bricks. Idle is the gesture, like a dreamer lost in thought - but Lamprius’ mind doesn’t dream nor is it ever idle. He’s counting. What was it? ‘13 steps towards the sky on a sunny day?’ Lamprius counts out the bricks while feeling that warm Vernon sun beat down on him as he waits for his black coffee. When his hand stops, he gives the brick its settled on a little push -

Nothing.

No wait, it’s: ‘12 steps towards the sky on a sunny day.’ He moves one brick over, and tries again. Sure enough, with a little wiggle, the brick comes free from its bed.

Lamprius gives his first smile of the week. It graces his face, small and lost to the city almost immediately, but it exists.

Fucking Hecate. He thinks as he draws out the pack of cigarettes from the little cubby in the planter box. Fucking Hecate. With her hidden treasures and dramatics. ‘The city is willing to share its secrets with you if you let it.’ She’d say to him cheekily. There were bits of the Witches, hidden just like this, all over the city. There is some small comforting knowing that if he dies, those pieces will still stay embedded in the very walls of Verona forever.

Lamprius remembers more now, how she used to equally say ‘Those things will kill you’ whenever he’d hold a cigarette between his fingers. And Lamprius would always reply with ‘God, I hope so,’ before tossing the stick aside (because he’d been thinking about quitting anyway.) They’d sat here once and shared a cigarette together one similarly sunny day, hadn’t they?

In midst of this memory, Lamprius feels eyes on him, as steady as the rays of the Verona sun. He lets his gaze gently flick up to settle on his spectator with no signs of being startled or even surprised. Anyone who went a second in this city thinking they weren’t being watched would do well to think again. He holds up the pack of cigarettes, showing he doesn’t mind the stare.

“Would you like them? I don’t smoke anymore.”

As he does this, something shifts in the weight of the box that makes him realize - he opens the pack to check- 

“Ah.” Evidently not even death stops the Witches caring about whether this soothsayer fills his lungs with soot. The small box, though it does have plenty in it, definitely does not contain cigarettes. A joke that’s literally spent years waiting for him to stumble across it. 

“These aren’t cigarettes.”

[benvoliosantodomingo]

there is no time table for grief. he’d said that particular phrase, that particular combination of words and syllables, almost a thousand times--so much so that it was as if his face possessed the muscle memory of forming those particular words. healing isn’t linear was a close second--he’d said that perhaps a paltry hundreds of times, in comparison. not that any of it mattered--he says each phrase to himself now, as he watches his own reflection in the dark abyss of his cup of coffee, and he cannot bring himself to believe that they possess any meaning at all. they’re just shapes that a mouth can form, sounds made by flexing the tongue and sending air over the teeth--just noise, mean to fill the empty space so human beings don’t lose themselves in the everlasting sense of silence.

grief never truly ends, he should have said instead. you just move forward with it forever sitting on your chest like some kind of ancient, grim torture. healing is a fabrication invented to make it feel as if each unsure step you take in darkness is leading towards something brighter, instead of an even darker abyss.

he wants to feel better, he wants to be better, to make valentina’s death mean something--but every time he turns his mind towards a course of action, he finds himself paralyzed by the idea that it will only happen again--he will watch every one of his friends meet a gruesome end until the wheel of fate decides that it’s his turn. so instead he just hides--he deviates from his usual routes home so he doesn’t run into anyone he knows, he says only enough to his friends to convince them that he’s fine, and he finds safety and sanctuary within himself. between the bones of his ribs.

he exhales and takes a long sip of the coffee that’s long since gone cold, when his eye catches on the person sitting a table over from him. he watches as a small smile pulls at the corner of the man’s mouth, before he dislodges one of the bricks from the planter he’s sitting next to--it’s such a bizarre sight that bellamy can’t help but smile at it, can’t help but continue to watch as he pulls a carton of cigarettes from the hollow space.

“what are they, then?” he says, after the man offers him the carton, only to discover that what is contained within is not what he expected. “i’ve seen that nicholas cage movie--if you show it to me you have to allow me to go on the treasure hunt.”

[benvoliosantodomingo]

when : april 19, 2019 where : the gym where marcelo works, near closing with : @ofrosso

he’s been trying to formulate the language for about a week, before he actually works up the courage to say anything--he’s so used to being on the other side of these conversations, to being something solid for ‘celo to lean against while they work through the restless tide of their emotions, he has no idea how these things are even supposed to begin.

i don’t know if you’ve noticed, but i haven’t been doing that well, lately--not anything serious--

i miss her, i want to do what she would have wanted.

every night i dream of you in her place, and i wake up breathless and clutching my sheets, like my heart has been ripped from my chest, will you please listen to me just this once--

he’s gone through at least a dozen variations, and as he walks through the doors of the gym he’s still not entirely sure what to say--but he is sure of the knowledge that if there’s anyone who will tolerate his uncertainty, its the person who knows him better than anyone on the face of the earth, the person who is a part of the makeup of his very soul. after all, hadn’t bellamy always told them, written it on numerous postcards, sent it over text messages during the early hours of the morning? i walk the streets with your heart inside of my chest, i feel your pain as if it were my own. if anyone understands him, the pain that has taken up permanent residence between his ribcage, without him ever having to speak the words--its marcelo rosso.

he finds them leaning against the canvas ring at the center of the room, their eyes darting between the two opponents who dance around each other. he can’t help but smile at the sight--the first real one that’s blossomed across his face since valentina died, he’d wager. they are focused--eyes alight and moving with as much grace as the feet of the fighters, but their shoulders sit low and with ease, rather than tense with roped muscle clearly visible underneath a thin layer of skin. they are happy--at least, as much as it’s possible to be considering everything they’ve been through in the past few weeks. but he’s selfish when it comes to their happiness, greedy--he’ll take whatever he can get and drink it in with a dionysian fervor.

“they’re good.” he says casually as he approaches, comes to stand beside them. “its almost as if they have an excellent teacher.” he watches as the young woman lands a kick to her opponent’s ribs, enough of a blow to send him stumbling to the canvas and have him wheezing for air for a long moment.

[benvoliosantodomingo]

hermionediangelo​:

There were nights that she couldn’t escape the dreams, nights that her imagination ran wild, pulling her upright in the bed like a toddler demanding immediate attention, leaving her with a heavy heart and heavier breath. Those nights she ventured outward, tentative, like a deer emerging from the edge of the woods, hoping the city that had brought comfort in her youth might do so again. Lady Luck seemed to roll the dice on Harriet D’Angelo, some nights the tactic worked and other times it didn’t, but the air on her skin was a reminder she was alive as it raised goosebumps on her arms.

Breath catches in her throat at the sound of retching - teetering on the edge of fight or flight - her relief palpable as she notices the solitary person emerging from the alley. Harriet had argued with the part of her that told her to keep walking for years, now easily ignored as she stops to check on the stranger. Quizzical is her expression when they offer their excuse, having no reason not to believe them, she attempts to offer comfort instead. 

“It’s hard for a lot of people to see what has happened to the city,” she comments, gaze raking over the ruins of the building that was once known as To Tame A Soup, something sad flashing in its depths before it is swiftly snuffed out. “You chose the right place at least, most people wouldn’t look twice at you here,” her smile quickly falls flat at the realisation that her effort at making a joke might not have been appropriate and her expression scrunches for a moment. “Sorry.” 

bellamy watches her hand gently transverse the burned facade of the once bustling restaurant, and his first thought is that it seems to delicate, too gentle. its already burned, he wants to say. already empty, hollowed out--there is no need to be kind to it now, to touch it like it’s something delicate--its already been through the worst. is he really any different? he feels as though the events of that night were a match, that cosimo capulet forced open his jaw and tossed it, lit, into his throat so that he could burn from the inside out, until everything he had ever believed in had become brittle and blackened beyond recognition.

he wants to ask her to leave so that he can retch again, until some of the ash that fills his stomach starts to come up--but he doesn’t. instead he scrubs his hands over his face for a moment, waves a hand furtively in her general direction. “no, no, please. don’t be sorry.” he tries to smile as warmly as he can, but he’s sure that it just looks like someone is pulling at his face with invisible hooks, trying to force it into a facsimile of the ease with which he used to do it. “some days i feel like there’s nowhere to hide in all of verona--so it’s good to know that there is a place, i guess. just in case.”

he doesn’t reach out and touch the building--he has an image in his mind of the whole thing falling to pieces the minute his palm touches the brick. for that must be his legacy--bellamy santo domingo, arrogant enough to think he could bring peace, when in reality he possessed a touch that only brought about destruction. instead he tucks his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt, his fingers curling into the meat of his palms, leaving angry crescent shaped marks in the skin. “i think there are plans to rebuild it though.” he chuckles, shrugs his shoulders. “so it won’t be for long. thank you, for stopping--by the way. it was kind of you.”

[benvoliosantodomingo]

when : april 10, 2019 where : cimitero monumentale di verona with : @odessasvernon

the gathered crowd begins to dissapate, once valentina is in the ground--the hole in the earth that bellamy carried her to. they move to go back to their lives, unchanged--but bellamy can’t bring himself to do the same. instead he settles on a bench, underneath a tree with limbs that reach far enough to cast him entirely in shadow, hide him from the world for just a moment--just long enough that he can focus only on forcing himself to inhale deeply, to exhale.

tell me, atlas. he clasps his hands together and wrings them, hunches over and closes his eyes in a kind of half-hearted prayer--even though he’s less certain than he ever has been that he believes in such a thing. tell me, because you’re the only one that could ever possibly understand. tell me the ache gets easier to bear, the longer it sits between your shoulderblades. because right now i feel as if i am going to be swallowed by the earth in the same way that she is now--my knees won’t stop shaking, my feet sink further into the dirt with every passing day. just tell me i’ll live to survive somehow.

he opens his eyes slowly, to find odessa slowly walking towards him. she could half be an apparition, for all he knows--a phantom conjured from the depths of his own sorrow, to convince him that there’s something left to fight for, that amid the violence and the bloodshed and the knowledge that everyone he holds dear will inevitably be made mockery of by some bullshit ancient feud, he should find a way to straighten his spine.

she sits beside him, but he can’t bring himself to meet her gaze, to reach out and touch her in the same easy way he always has. he worries his bottom lip between his teeth, drags a hand through his hair. “if i asked you to run away with me right now, how hard would you laugh?”

[benvoliosantodomingo]

evcravens​:

Santo Domingo — Bellamy — speaks with the clarity and peace of a martyr. Everett doesn’t know what to believe anymore. The Montagues words and his actions don’t align, speaking of protection and good will while approaching Everett with a gun clenched between his fingers. Do as I say, not as I do… Yet there’s a sincerity in Bellamy’s voice that peels back Everett’s determination to remain his adversary. It’s the very same sincerity that convinced Everett to listen to him in the first place, three days prior on a cloudy spring morning; the same sincerity that’s increasingly difficult to have faith in amidst of all the chaos and bloodshed. His already-tenable trust in Bellamy’s good intentions is on the verge of snapping.

“Do you fault me for doing the same?” Everett retorts warily, turning the question back on the soldato in front of him. “You’re not the only one with a family to protect, Bellamy.” Red or blue, gold or silver, death has no preference for its next victims, nothing but a raw, gaping thing that eats and eats and eats. So help me God, she won’t be one of them tonight. He doesn’t know how well Lucrezia is faring in her fight with Roman Montague, but he has to buy her time, he has to — or Mikael would never forgive him, and Everett’s not sure he’d be able to forgive himself. Fear thrills up his spine; he crushes the instinct to turn around to check on Lucrezia’s wellbeing. She’s a good enough fighter to hold her own, but against a fury-fueled man twice her size, Everett isn’t so sure that technique will be able to save her.

They’re the only family I’ve ever known. Please.

Everett’s mouth feels dry, conscience pricking him like a knife. How much would he sacrifice for his own family? How much has he already given up? Damn him. He must know that he’s an easy target for such talk, that of course Everett Craven, man with the bleeding heart, will step aside in the face of weaponized sympathy. He can see it now: Bellamy rushing past him, Lucrezia struggling against Roman Montague, the click of his safety and BANG — a red spot blooming on her forehead. Everett nearly flinches at the scenario. He can’t afford to trust a Montague soldier in the heat of battle, not when he’s been given so little reason to.

But at Bellamy’s plea, his resolve wavers, rippling through his otherwise mistrustful expression. “Let you through so you can ‘help’ them win their battles? Don’t think I didn’t notice the hand reaching for your pistol before I confronted you. I’m not as naïve as you think me to be,” he snaps charily, crushing the fear clamming up his throat. Everett’s willing to maintain their stalemate for as long as necessary, no matter how Bellamy attempts to lay siege to his defenses. Bellamy is no Greek; Everett is no Trojan. He refuses to bring about his own destruction by accepting the Montague’s poison masquerading as an armistice. 

in the eye of the hurricane, they say, time seems to cease passing.

for a moment you do not feel the violence of the wind, do not see the earth around you being ripped up from the root--for a moment, everything stops. for a moment, you come to a sort of peace. the clarity of one who has come face to face with an inflection point in their life.

you die, or you live, and god gives you just enough grace to make the choice.

time slows down just long enough for bellamy to come to several conclusions. everett craven’s determination to protect the people he loves is stronger than anything bellamy could say to him. bellamy cannot turn around and walk away from his fight, or the people he loves will die brutally at the hands of the people they’ve labelled enemy. he has only one choice to make.

he inhales and exhales slowly. he had thought that he would feel fear, when this moment came. but his heart beats steadily inside of his chest, and his mind is clear.

he slowly brings himself to his knees, and drops his gun in front of him, before raising his hands. an offering to whatever divinity might be watching over the two of them now--he will give his life before he makes the violent act. before he inflicts pain on another person. either everett craven will send him to that god, or he will let them both live to fight another day, to grapple with salvation longer.

“i cannot force you to believe me,” he says, clear above the din of noise around them. “i won’t force you to--your belief is your own. but rest assured i will go to my grave with the knowledge that i am innocent, that i never acted in violence towards anyone.” he looks up at the older man, says a silent prayer that whatever happens next, marcelo does not see it from their position of grappling with othello behind him. “you can kill me, here and now, ensure the safety of your loved ones. but you will make a martyr of an innocent man in their name, and do you truly believe that they will forgive you for that? that god will forgive you for that?”

he exhales a long breath, speaks only once more. “i don’t want to hurt anyone. you can let me by, and i can convince them to withdraw before this truly gets out of hand. or, you can kill me here. my only request is that you don’t make me suffer by watching them be dragged away or killed. do me the mercy of a quick death.”

he waits, watches each flex of muscle in everett craven’s hand. but he does not fear. 

[weltenwellen]

Wislawa Szymborska, from “The Century’s Decline”, View with a Grain of Sand: Selected Poems

[benvoliosantodomingo]

henryzhxng‌:

Of Henry’s close friends, Bellamy is one of the ones he knows was closest to Valentina Gallo. After his meeting with Isabella, it takes him a while to patch himself up enough to leave the house beyond the course of his normal business. Friendship takes a back-seat, because if any of his friends saw him like this, they’d know something was far too wrong. They’d do something… something drastic, he’s sure. So. He composes himself, and when he’s able, he goes to see Bellamy.

Something something no one should suffer alone. Henry feels as though most of his suffering is done alone, but that’s not what he wants for his friends.

He knocks. Something shatters inside, but it’s such a distant sound, it might just be something on the television. Waiting a polite amount of time, Henry knocks harder, refusing to let Bellamy stew alone. That’s not the kind of relationship they have, and being left to his own devices is not an option, so Henry won’t let him take it. 

Oh. The door is open, he can tell from the call from inside. Maybe he really is an idiot. Henry pushes inside, shutting the door and hanging his coat. When he enters the area Bellamy inhabits currently, it’s to see him rooting around on the ground, picking up what does seem to be a genuinely shattered mug. After a moment watching him, he goes to where he thinks he might locate a rag of some sort, returning with a dish towel by the time Bellamy looks up again.

❝ I’m not the barefoot one, ❞ Henry points out, but he gets down on his knees anyway, ruining the perfect pleat of his slacks as he starts to mop up the liquid in careful, even turns of the towel. Together, they’re able to clean up the mess, though it takes a moment of not-so-companionable silence. Bellamy must loathe the intrusion, but Henry can’t see a solution to his problems that doesn’t involve coming out of the tortoise shell someday. Better now than when Marcelo comes to do this.

Henry tosses the rag in the trash, just in case it’s picked up fine, sharp bits of glass, and waits on Bellamy to sweep. He leans with his shoulder in the frame of the kitchen, silent but present. It only takes a moment. ❝ I can buy you another, but it’ll say world’s sorriest mug of tea on it. ❞ He says the joke with such gravity it almost makes him smile, but there’s not enough energy for smiling in this place. Instead, Henry studies the worn line of his shoulders and thinks, hard. ❝ Let’s go for a drive, ❞ he says after another hiccuping beat of silence, dangling the keys from in his pocket. ❝ I’ll make it worth your while, and I can pretend to be mute if you prefer. ❞       

bellamy hangs his head, drags his hands over his face. he suddenly feels tired, older than his twenty four years by a long-shot--it feels as though all of the emotion that’s been lingering just underneath the surface of his skin since valentina’s death has begun to pool into a bruise, a constant ache, rather than just bleeding out of him quickly.  “i must truly look bad, if you’re cracking jokes to make me feel better.” he drawls, not unkindly. how many times have they done this song and dance with the tables turned? how many times has bellamy had to swallow down panic at what might be happening on the other side of his friend’s door? he must truly be at some sort of new low, if its come to this kind of reversal of fortune. “besides,” he tries to smile, tries to lean against his kitchen counter casually, as if his friend hadn’t walked in on him dissociating in the general direction of a broken mug. “you’d go for something more pretentious, if left to your own devices. turn up with something that had c’est ne pas un mug, or something like that.”

a drive, henry suggests. distance, between himself and the epicenter of his grief. after all, he thinks, hasn’t that always been your preferred method of dealing with things? running away and putting it from your mind? nothing eases guilt like distance and time--four years spent running from country to country in an effort to escape his family, his name, himself, had taught him that with a kind of crystal clarity.

“a drive sounds nice.” he manages, with a shrug of one shoulder. he chuckles, but the sound sounds empty and broken to his ears, as if he’s making it through a throat filled with shards of glass. “but i’m skeptical of your abilities in regards to being mute.” he tries to smile, makes a small upwards quirk of his lips in an effort to convey exactly how fine he is, and exactly how little henry will have to ask him about it, but it immediately feels contrived--more like a mask he’s hiding behind, than anything else.

he walks to his bedroom to shrug on his sneakers, to pull on a hoodie even though its beginning to be too warm for such a thing. he still zips it up to his neck, shoves his hands deep into the pockets where they curl into fists, each finger tucked tightly against his palm, leaving white crescent moons in the skin. he inhales and exhales slowly, in an attempt to force his body under the control of his mind, but the connection between the two feels weak, tenuous at best--his body is a leaking boat attempting to weather the hurricane of his grieving and guilt ridden mind. its not a combination that’s destined for success.

“besides,” he says as he emerges a moment later, gestures for henry to lead the way out of the door. “that’s not why you’re here, is it? you’re here to tell me that too much silence isn’t good for anyone, that i should talk about it.” he smirks, rolls his eyes. “i know the script for these visits like the back of my hand.”

[benvoliosantodomingo]

czarnichego‌:

He looks so unbearably sad for a second. He hides it well — in fact, she thinks he hides it better than anyone has any idea of — but the look is enough. Perhaps she recognizes it because it sings in her own chest, in Santino’s face after he finally falls asleep, in Marcelo’s rage at losing a friend so dear to them, but she can feel it as it passes through her. The next moment, the shutters return, and Bellamy is gentle but closed off. How many people must he interact with without ever letting them know? The hollowness she feels at the thought is unbearable, but she understands. Sometimes it is more terrifying to be known than to have no help at all. 

At least he takes the water, spitting it out on the ground. Strange, how similar it feels to watching Rafaella brush her teeth. The act of putting yourself back together vibrates at the same frequency no matter who is in the middle of it. ❝ It’s okay, ❞ she says, because it is. Santino is not the only one grieving, only the one bearing the most terrible brunt. Her brows draw together, her forehead crinkling with all her sympathy. Brielle has never been great at hiding from those she cares for, and it shows; she steps forward to put a hand on his shoulder without another thought.

❝ No, not awful. ❞ Brielle wishes her voice was strong and sure, here, instead of tiny and a bit scratchy from crying, but it will have to do. ❝ He took care of me, when Faron died. ❞ Now her eyelashes feel wet, but she won’t cry, not when she thinks it might tip Bellamy over some invisible edge. ❝ I will take care of him. Even, ❞ she says, pausing to yawn helplessly, ❝ even if I don’t sleep again. I can take this. ❞ Her thumb brushes his shoulder. ❝ Do you want to say ? ❞ She isn’t sure what she’s asking. Does he want to explain how he feels? Does he want to vent anything? Brielle squares her shoulders a little. She can take this, too. She can bear this. She has to, because if everyone is falling apart, they’re going to need people to be pillars.

No one ever relied on Brielle much in Russia. Here, she can make herself useful. She can matter, and most importantly, she can pick her friends back up, because she has friends to do that with. He thanks her in Russian, which surprises a grin out of her, gentle and fading fast. ❝ благодарю вас, you are very close, ❞ she admits, since he asked. ❝ относиться к себе любезно, Bellamy. This means be kind to yourself. ❞ An easy thing to say and a hard thing to do, Brielle understands, but she hopes he will be. Even just right now, for a second, alone with just her between him and the world. 

it’s okay, brielle says without hesitation, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. he wants to shrug it off, to snap his teeth like some kind of wild animal that’s suddenly been cornered--he wants to hiss through clenched jaw that none of this is okay, that he has begun to sincerely doubt that the reality of his life and the heart inside of his chest will ever reach a kind of equilibrium again. its a tirade that brielle doesn’t deserve, not when she’s just trying to be kind to him--it makes him suddenly wonder if this is what marcelo feels like all the time, like he’s suddenly been made aware of some kind of sad and vicious creature that’s been pacing between his ribcage without his notice this whole time, and he can’t seem to find a way to put the beast back in its cage without it scratching, constantly gnawing and howling.

no wonder they don’t listen to me, he wants to laugh. how could they? nothing i have ever said could soothe this kind of ache, douse this kind of anger.

“is anyone ever really even in verona? it feels like all of this shit just cycles back to us eventually.” he says, but then he sees brielle fighting the urge to cry as she talks about santino, about her mentor, and he feels terrible for it. he draws her into a hug--if he can’t offer any real words of comfort, the least he can do is make himself something solid to lean against. something to absorb the tears she wants to cry without spitting them back in her face.

she asks him if he wants to say something, and he feels pressure starting to accumulate behind his own eyes. he swallows it down hard, blinks rapidly. crying won’t bring her back, won’t force the planets and universe into alignment so that he can make sense of everything that’s happened. “i don’t know what to say.” he murmurs into her hair, with a shrug of one shoulder. “that’s the problem--people look at me, and they expect me to tell them something that will make all of this seem worth it, tell them something that will give them some kind of hope, and i just--” he chuckles, a hoarse and desperate sound. “i have nothing left to give. she died for nothing, what am i supposed to say to that?”

he keeps an arm around her shoulders as they walk, smiles when she tells him to take care of himself--even if its just a small quirk of his lips. “that’s rich coming from you. you’d fall asleep on the pavement if i left you to your own devices.” he exhales a long breath, shakes his head. “let me walk you back to your place, so i know you’re going to sleep, yeah?”

[benvoliosantodomingo]

@portiaphan asked for / actually friends au  mentioned / @romroses 

the apartment of jack hawthorne, oxfordshire, england / before

the sound of his phone vibrating against the nightstand rouses bellamy from sleep. jack makes a soft sound that might be an acknowledgement that something is happening, but might also be nothing more than an exhale of breath, and his hand tightens where it’s gently curled around the skin of bellamy’s hip, before it relaxes again. he smiles, and for a moment he is keen to ignore the instance of the intrusion--he closes his eyes again and focuses on the warmth of the contact, of the body pressed up against his spine, and for a moment he is lost to the memory of the night before.

i’ll be the first to admit that it’s cliche, jack had said, his lips and teeth stained by the wine. but i think you’re the most real and present person that i have ever met. bellamy had rolled his eyes and declared that such phrasing was cliche, and that someone with the level of education that his boyfriend possessed was capable of doing so much better--and then jack had smiled, in that way he always did. open and inviting, and yet somehow teasing--as if between his lips was the answer to every question bellamy could ever think to ask, if only he could conjure the correct phrasing. he had smiled and pressed his lips to bellamy’s jaw, followed the curve of the bone all the way to his lips. no, he had said. i think terribly real is the best way i could think to describe you. warm to the touch in a way that no one else is, at home inside of the cathedral of yourself. the sun in constant orbit, perhaps.

he feels the corner of his lips pulling up in a lazy smile, and he has a half formed idea that involves rolling over and seeing what else he can conjure out of the mouth of the poet, when the sound of the phone going off again begins to register. he huffs out an annoyed breath, and brings the screen close to his face, in an effort to assist his still heavy with sleep eyes.

three texts from marcelo, ten from roman, a missed call from odessa, one from paola and henry a piece, and two missed calls from pandora.

he drags a hand over his face and exhales slowly, before pressing a kiss between jack’s eyes and somehow managing to bring himself to his feet, and subsequently the kitchen. the sun, or at least, what passes for sun in england, is just beginning to rise as he fills the kettle with water and carefully places it on the stove, and he comes to the conclusion that it is far too early, relative to the amount of wine he consumed the night before.

he leans against the kitchen counter and presses pandora’s name on the screen. it's best to begin the process of healing whatever new wound verona has chosen to deal out with a modicum of truth--before he makes his way to whatever fantastic recollection his two best friends will inevitably share between them.

“bellamy,” she answers, and her voice is rough around the edges--tired in a way she doesn’t normally allow others to glimpse. “have you talked to anyone else, yet?”

“no,” he immediately starts to feel the familiar mixture of emotion in the pit of his stomach--something like survivor’s guilt, mixed with sadness and something that might be residual anger at the life they were all thrown into, at the city that brought them into adulthood exhausted, sharp edged in an effort to draw attention away from each tender bruise. “you were the first call i made--is everything all right?”

she is silent for a long moment, during which bellamy’s mind begins the process of coming to terms with about a dozen horrible possible scenarios. finally he hears the sound of a long exhale of breath, as if his friend is attempting to steel herself for something. for as long as he’s known her, pandora phan has been afraid of nothing--what could she possibly have to tell him that would require so much courage?

“are you sitting down?” she asks, and bellamy groans.

“just tell me--if something happened--” he huffs out a breath and worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “i’ll come home, i’ll help in any way i can--just tell me, so that we can get the hard part out of the way.”

she pauses again, before she speaks. “i wanted you to hear it from me, first. roman and i announced our engagement last night. or well--damiano, and my family, announced it to roman and i. bellamy--” there’s an emotion in her voice that he can’t quite place, that he hasn’t heard from her before--he’s not sure, he’s too busy trying to decipher the meaning of the sudden roaring in his own chest. “bellamy, you have to know that we had nothing to do with it. we can’t just say no to these things.”

i’m sorry, he wants to say. i love you dearly, but i can’t really process this information right now. for some reason, it feels like the floor, perhaps the earth itself, has suddenly given way underneath my feet. can i call you back?

i’m sorry, he wants to say. i love you dearly, but i can’t. not when it's him. you understand, right? no? i don’t really either. does it feel like the miles of distance between us has suddenly compounded in the center of your chest, as well?

i’m sorry, he wants to say, for reasons he can’t quite articulate.

instead, he chuckles, and he’s certain that the sound is the furthest thing from genuine. “panda--i’m happy for you, really. i’m glad that it's you.”

he notices then that his fingers are gripped tightly on the edge of the counter, that the tea kettle has been hissing steam and making noise for long enough to draw jack out of the bedroom, wearing a pair of bellamy’s pajama bottoms, his bleach blonde hair sticking up in odd angles that on any other morning, bellamy would gladly take the time to smooth out with a gentle hand.

“damiano is throwing a party, about a month from now.” pandora says, though bellamy has trouble processing the words--the sound of her voice suddenly seems at odds with the life that bellamy has constructed for himself here. his life that’s filled with books, the sound of rain falling gently against a pane of glass, laughter followed by the honeyed words of a poet--verona seems like it should be on an entirely different celestial body from that life, not on the other end of a red string, pulling on his wrist. “we’d both like you to be there, if you can make it. bring your english boy with you--i know everyone would love to meet him. i’d love to meet him.”

he can hear her smile on the other end--he can almost see it too. determined, all teeth, only sad around the edges if you know to look for it. “of course i’ll be there--you’re two of my best friends. i wouldn’t miss it.” he smiles in return, and hopes she can hear it in the same way, hopes maybe she’ll imagine it happier, than it is in actuality.

“it will be good to see you. take care of yourself until then, bellamy.”

“you too, panda.”

he sets his phone down on the countertop, before accepting the mug of tea that jack presses into his hands. warm, but not quite real, at this particular moment in time. “what was that about?” his boyfriend asks, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

he hesitates--taps his fingers against the mug. it's emblazoned with the logo of a play they’d seen together on the west end a week ago--it's been bellamy’s favorite, ever since. he sets it down carefully next to his phone, and shrugs one shoulder. “two of my friends from back home just got engaged. i’m thinking about flying out for the party.”

jack smiles warmly, gently rests a hand on bellamy’s shoulder, before it moves up his neck, cards through the short hair at the base. “that will be the first time you’ve been home in a while, won’t it? i can come with you, if you’d like.”

bellamy shakes his head. “i’ll be fine. i don’t plan on staying.”

the home of damiano montague, verona, italy / before

damiano montague towers over his guests, an image that is almost comically opposed to the glimmering crystal of the champagne flute in his hand. its clear to everyone invited that he is proud of his son, of the woman they’ll welcome into their family sooner rather than later, and it's clear to everyone invited that the young couple are a good match for one another--surely the montague empire will only flourish, once the uncrowned king and queen of verona ascend to their rightful thrones, once the mind of pandora phan is united in matrimony and purpose with the charm and energy of roman montague. it hardly needs to be said, and yet damiano still smiles, taps his knife against his glass, and declares that he would like to propose a toast.

bellamy takes the opportunity to wrap his jacket around odessa’s shoulders, and make a half hearted excuse about needing some air.

he steps out into the massive expanse of the montague garden, which has been strung up with an innumerable amount of fairy lights for the occasion. the night air is cool, as opposed to the oppressive heat of people pressed together inside, and the setting is almost beautiful--but he can’t un-know what’s happening inside, behind the door he now has his back to. he can’t un-know how he feels about it, either.

once, he had known the exact number of steps it took to gain enough momentum to push himself over the gate nearest to roman’s room. once, he had known the exact number of steps it took to get from the other side of that gate to the trellis that just to happened to climb just underneath his best friend’s bedroom window. it had seemed vital then, to know such things--now, as he wanders through the foliage, yet again trying to stay hidden away from view, it feels half remembered, unimportant.

why would he choose the boy who had been so desperate to be close to him that he had memorized every detail of the process, to the point of it being damn near muscle memory?

he throws back what remains of his champagne, startles at a hand on his shoulder.

pandora smiles, presses a kiss to his cheek. she’s holding both of her shoes, and wearing a black zip up hoodie over her dress. “i--wasn’t feeling well.” he tries to say, in way of explanation. “didn’t realize how much time had passed.”

“it’s all right.” she says, in a tone of voice that is kinder than it has any right to be, all things considered. “i can’t imagine how overwhelming it must be, to suddenly be back in the belly of the beast.” she leans her head on his shoulder. “i’m glad you came, bellamy.”

he exhales, a shaky release of breath that suddenly feels trapped and hard to draw. “of course--it’s not every day that two of your best friends get engaged, after all. what kind of person would i be if i missed this?”

she shakes her head, wraps her arms around his middle. “one with self preservation instincts, bell.” he hugs her in return, presses a kiss to the top of her head. her voice is quiet, meant for only bellamy to hear, in comparison to her usual concise and cutting manner of speaking. “i’m so sorry. i see how you look at him. i know how he talks about you. if he had a choice--”

her voice trails off, and bellamy bites down hard on his bottom lip, until he can taste copper on his tongue.

“i should be the one apologizing to you.” he murmurs, after an indeterminate amount of time has passed. maybe an eternity, maybe only a few minutes. “i wish i could stop--but i think--” he chuckles, though it’s a hoarse sound, like sandpaper rubbing against brick. “i think i’ve felt this way longer than i’ve known that i have.”

he inhales and exhales slowly, rubs a hand gently over her shoulder. “i’m going back to england tomorrow, you won’t have to worry about me.”

she pulls away, in an effort to meet his gaze properly. “don’t be an idiot, bellamy santo-domingo.” she shoves at him playfully, before she rests both of her hands on his chest. “i am always going to worry about you. but you should know, that until--i don’t know, whatever happens--i won’t hurt him.”

she hugs him again, and he rests his chin on top of her head. “just--don’t stay away too long, okay? he misses you more than you know.”

she laughs, and lets out a long and dramatic exhale of breath. “if we don’t get back in there, people are going to get suspicious of the wrong thing.”

her offers her his arm, and together, they head back in the direction of the house.

[benvoliosantodomingo]

when : april 9th, 2019 where: hunter’s place with : @horatiomarchesi

the pain is almost unbearable, in the days leading up to valentina’s funeral--bellamy gently packs away each of the items on her desk at work and hands them off to santino, stands as lighthouse, sentinel, immovable object as the other man weeps over each. he sees marcelo less and less as they lose themselves to the pleasure of torture, tries to keep roman’s head above the waters of his own guilt--it all leaves him feeling drained. drained of faith, that his friend’s death will mean something, that hers will be the last sacrifice offered at the altar of cruelty and bloodshed. drained of any kindness he might have felt towards those on the other side of the bridge, those who took a place of sanctuary, a last bastion of human decency, and turned it into the stage for a perverted passion play. drained of all of his surety that those who doubted his cause had been wrong, had been blinded by greed and their own baser instincts to the possibility of something better.

he feels as though someone has taken a pencil eraser to all of the details that had once made him who he is, handed the drawing implement over to someone who wants to sketch him in in blacker, harsher lines.

luckily, there is someone in the bleak expanse of this god-forsaken city who possesses a copy of the original bellamy santo-domingo, the better version.  

hunter opens the door to his flat without hesitation, doesn’t ask what has brought bellamy there in the first place--he doesn’t have to. there’s an unspoken understanding that exists between them. i will be here, whenever, for as long, as you need me to be. they are each other’s temple, each other’s holy sanctuary, in the landscape of this city that wants to turn them both into something other than what they are. the only apology hunter makes is for the state of his flat, and the lack of food inside of it--as if it weren’t already palatial in comparison to bellamy’s own, as if bellamy has ever given a damn about where the food they shared together came from.

hunter, and the friendship they have, are the only things bellamy has ever been selfish about--and in times like these, he doesn’t really care about reveling in that for a while. in hiding himself away from verona at large, from the rest of his friends--he has nothing really to give to them, anyway.

instead he drinks in every one of his friend’s grins, his unabashed laughter as he recounts a story about something that had happened at his gallery that day--if he cannot produce any happiness of his own, any faith of his own, he’s glad that he can at least bask in the comfort of someone else’s, in the surety of the faith hunter has in himself. he grins in response, he laughs and it starts to feel as though maybe the sound isn’t as false as it has been.

“thanks for letting me stay.” he says as his second day in his friend’s flat begins to draw to a close, passing hunter a bottle of some outrageous european craft beer that probably cost more than bellamy makes in a day as a police officer. “and for--not asking.” 

[benvoliosantodomingo]

when : april 12, 2019 where : lillian’s place with : @litanyoflight

bellamy is no artist, and he’d be the first to admit to that particular truth. he’s just--moved by things sometimes, in a way that he can’t possibly hope to articulate. his preferred method of encapsulating his feelings in a more permanent amber than memory will always be words, first and foremost--but since returning to verona, since this process of seemingly slow drowning began, language as a method for describing beautiful things, deserving moments, seems distant from him. he can’t pick up the pen and describe the way the late afternoon sunlight cuts through lillian’s kitchen windows--he doesn’t think his language is gentle enough, anymore. there would only be knife strokes across the marble, light pouring from panes of glass like blood. he’s been drawing, instead.

one of santino’s tattoos, the way it curves around his friend’s shoulder, as seen from the back as bellamy stood behind him at his sister’s funeral.

the curve of hunter’s stupid half smirk-half grin, during a bilissful few days spent in sanctuary at his friend’s flat.

the dark bruises underneath marcelo’s eyes, the way roman’s eyelashes fan across his cheekbones, as seen from his position laying next to them both in both their beds.

now, from his position on her couch, in sight of her as she prepares dinner for them both, he sketches lillian’s hands. in pencil he tries to commit the way each of her long fingers seems to curve with the same delicate arch of the neck of a swan, the way each seems to flow effortlessly into the bones of her wrists, the way they get just a tinge of red in the tips as she holds them over a pot emanating steam, stirring a wooden spoon in easy circles. its an injustice to the real thing, and it feels incomplete without the rest of her--her warm gaze focused on him, the way the corners of her mouth flutter like birds wings when she speaks, her dark hair gently rustling like blades of grass with each of her movements.

he finishes it anyway, tucks it between the pages of one of the books on her coffee table like he’d always done with her letters when they had both been out in the world traveling. it will make her smile, later on--preferrably in the presence of her horrible fiance, who will hopefully fume with jealousy and confusion in equal measure.

he moves to join her in the kitchen, hooking his chin over her shoulder even though he’s a good deal taller than she is. “can i ask you something?”

[kafk-a]

Mary Oliver