(iconic) elements that underline fazal’s character: leather (for leather jackets) / rings (for his silver and white-golden rings) / discipline (for being formerly meticulously trained as a sicario) / luxury (for enjoying the finer things in life) / mind games (for enjoying crawling under your skin) / forbidden romance (for jessica reyes) / loyalty / bloodthirst (hard to ignore when you’re so used to the color red) / whiskey (for whiskey being his go-to drink)
whomst; fazal khan @darkromeo
when; july 17 (pre-votes)
where; the stables
Any time all the gangs gathered Apollo got antsy. They weren’t meant to interact like this. It didn’t work for Chicago and it didn’t work for New York, and it didn’t work when they’d all recently been very willing to off each other. Not having weapons made it all better and also so much worse.
Surely, Fazal would understand his unease. Jaemin was wonderful, the best man in the world, but he trusted far more quickly than Apollo ever did. With Fazal, they came from more of an evening footing. Apollo had faith in Milo’s judgment, but the others? Not as much.
“I don’t like this.” He told Fazal once they were alone with the horses. “The more we get together the more things get shitty fast. This isn’t going to bring Michaela back.”
–
Fazal Khan could appreciate some time off - away from others. He threw a glance at the rest before stepping out of the party and closer to Apollo. Leaning himself back against a wall (or a fence, perhaps), he nodded with an itch to light a cigarette and smoke. He was just as on edge as the other man, just as wary. “Right,” he nearly smirked at how everything was unfolding and what a discomfort everything was. “But at this point, I find it more difficult to tell I’m surprised.” Rightfully so, considering how many times the tabletop turned and not in Pestilence’s favor at that.
“What do you reckon happened to the Horsemen? Another stunt?” His eyes were locked on Apollo until he looked as though he was staring right through him, involved in his own world. Musing, maybe. “I wonder how we’ll find out.”
They are slow to go to their room, dwindling around the rooms of the manor, feeling the late-summer air on their cheeks in the rose garden. Some rose leaves end up between the pages of their notebook, to dry, staining meeting-notes. And eventually, they make their way to the third floor, hoping dearly that Fazal Khan has already passed out in his bed. But of course, luck could never be so kind. His eyes fall on his back, then on the gun he’s placing on the bedside table of the bed he has presumably claimed.
“You’re not threatened by me, are you?,” their voice pipes up, Wren closing the door behind them, very aware that this statement is ridiculous. They look for a key, then look back at Khan. There’s another gun on his body, they see it; the outline of it, where his back should dip a little. It’s not like they’re not armed ( the knife they carry had once sunk itself into one of Khan’s Angels ) but it’s hard not to feel unsettled. It doesn’t intrigue them as it had, months and months ago, before the first Truce had broken and they had spoken to Fazal at the races. Now, they know there’s little to be intrigued by: violence is violence, danger is danger, blood is blood. No fucking poetry here. They try not to show it, though, that fidgety unnervedness, and so opt for humour once again, “Do you snore?”
────
Fazal Khan had lost enough sleep over the past few months that he needn’t care about the change of scene. He needn’t care about the person he was assigned with to share a room that was smaller than he had grown used to. He ran a scarred hand - thank you Kashvi - through the front of his dark hair, his jaw set. Sleeping with two guns tucked into yourself was uncomfortable, so one had to go onto the nightstand.
You’re not threatened by me, are you? His back still turned to the familiar face, he hid an ugly, perhaps even condescending, smile. “What’s there to be threatened by?” He took off his jacket and threw it onto the nearest armchair before his body made a half-turn toward Wren. “No,” he responded to next question and then sat down on the bed, his back once again turned to the other. “Do you? How’s your life been anyway?” Not that he cared, but he supposed a little dose of small talk could potentially make Wren feel more welcome in his presence.
Little did Jessica Reyes know, her self-proclaimed boyfriend had men document and report her whereabouts to him for the past month. How else would he know when to strike best? And as planned, on her birthday, Jessica Reyes left her apartment early.
Fazal Khan and his men seized the opportunity of her absence to decorate her interior with large bouquets of crimson red roses. Next, her main interior was filled with barbie pink balloons - most of which were left floating on the ceiling especially in the living room and bedroom, and some of which were left covering the floor almost entirely. On the dining table, a generous box of donuts covered in pink glaze. There is a handwritten note in the inside of the box from none other than Yours Truly: “If there are too many donuts for you to eat, call me. I’ll help.”
The first proper gift is found in her bedroom among more bouquets of roses and an overwhelming amount of balloons. It is an invitation letter from Dior for an exclusive i.e. private shopping experience, with the thought that Fazal Khan can act as Jessica Reyes’s credit card and company for the slot.
The second gift, he offers to her at her party when everyone else is distracted. He draws her away from the crowd and outside to the driveway. Asks her if she likes the vintage Porsche parked among other cars, if she wants to ditch the party and take it for a spin. Ten minutes, he convinces her. Just ten minutes. No one will notice.
He lets her take the wheel.
And when they return, he admits that, thanks to some arrangements and strings pulled, the car - that was once auctioned for five million dollars - is hers. He leans over to her, arm propped against the shoulder of her driver’s seat, smiling, “Happy Birthday, Miss Reyes.”
Ikki leaned back in his chair at the table, looking at his phone. He shakes his head, not looking back over in Fazal's direction after indicating where he is, and that he knows where Fazal is. There is something a little too... reminiscent to past truce balls, even if his intentions aren't anything beyond ... chatting. He could let Rafael know later, but not this very moment.
ikki: Well, what is the point of being married if you do not use the opportunity to discuss business in missionary?
He hesitates briefly, before sending about five minutes later.
ikki: Everything spiraled away from anything I ever expected to happen, and I didn't know what to say.
***
His grin faded like a smothered flame at Ikki's last message. There was a moment of silence. A break, until his screen automatically dimmed.
fazal: Would you be interested in keeping the alliance?
Ikki is dressed as sharp as he usually is. A black tux, with a simple black mask that doesn't do much to hide his face, but he's not interested in hiding who he is from anybody. So, when he sees Fazal glance around, he raises a hand in a subtle wave when the other man's eyes glance over towards the tables where he's sitting. He glances down towards the phone, and looks mildly amused at the response.
ikki: That is fair enough.
ikki: Would you like me to give you my new business card? It has been updated from the one I gave you previously.
***
/Of course/, Ikki Nakamura made no effort to disguise himself. Easy to spot, easy to tease. Fazal bit his bottom lip, holding back a grin. Game over for himself, he supposed. It was hard to play clueless with the many opportunities to jab the other.
fazal: You surely do make it difficult to play strangers, Nakamura.
fazal: Status change from wanting to discuss business in missionary to happily married?
It was almost as though the melody was inscribed into her bones, orchestrating her fluid movements as she danced with serpentine grace. He, reduced to a watcher from afar, needn’t look around to know that he wasn’t the only one. Even if she, too, didn’t pay them any attention, surely she knew she was above average. Invited to move from one partner to another, she was lost to the crowd every now and then. And it beckoned him to move closer, pursuing an semicircular path with plenty of distance remaining in between like a hawk to a crow.
She continued to float around, the feathers of her skirt iridescent, and eventually — seemed to look away from her current partner when they got close. That was when their gazes first locked into place, Fazal’s face difficult to make out provided the mask that was covering most of it. And even if she couldn’t see him properly, he hoped she would feel him on her at least. The way his eyes caressed the curves of her body. The natural pull invading the mental space, an air of enticing familiarity that hovered over his body. A tension so thick, it was difficult to breathe — especially if one was dancing. Everyone else faded into the background as the energy surrounding them crackled in the air.
Chemistry.
Her partner swirled her around and the spell was broken.
And despite his attire, Fazal Khan did a good job at hiding himself from her sight from the moment on. Orchestral music was a reach from his comfort zone, but he was a fast learner and a more-than-good observer. He snaked his way closer, with a footing that almost mimicked the rhythm of the orchestra, once she was guided to dance with her back to him. Again, she spun like a ballerina, and he — Fazal — seized the opportunity to substitute her former partner. At once, their fingers intertwined while his other hand roughly pulled her in by the waist, instantly engulfed in the rich scent of her perfume. The color of his eyes matched that of his mask, reflecting her perfect, concealed face so close, with a taste of his own arrogance.
Like at most parties, whether raucous engagement parties, or fancy masquerades Ikki was bored, and disinterested. He spent most of his time sitting at one of the tables, on his phone. Though after glancing around the party and spotting Fazal Khan he hesitated a moment. He debated the best course of action, which was probably not to speak to him, then decided to text him anyway. Why not? They were supposed to be at peace now, right? Maybe reconnecting was not a great idea, but... Ikki had never had many great ideas when it came to Fazal.
ikki: Hey. It's been a while since we've talked.
ikki: I realize I'm the one who stopped talking to you.
ikki: You look nice.
***
This Truce, Khan spent less time sitting around and more blending in with the crowd - though appearance-wise hardly so. He was perhaps one of the few, if not the only one, wearing so much vibrant, deep red. Yet when he felt his phone buzz, he took a moment to step to the side.
The name on the screen was a surprise. Despite the long-nosed mask covering most of his sharp features, the body language was just enough - he visibly slowly raised his head and allowed his stare to roam the space.
If Ikki wore a mask in that moment, then it would've been a difficult feat to pinpoint him among others - but not impossible. If there was no mask, then... well.
The edge of his mouth creased when he looked at his screen again.
Dressed as the apocalypse himself, how arrogant. Or, perhaps, how fitting. A long blood-red velvet coat for a blazer, a turtleneck, leather gloves, and the good old-fashioned red bottoms to match the upper-body. Everything else is black. The star of the show is the long-nosed Venetian mask to elevate the look of a (worried? mocking? cocky?) plague doctor. Even the ride he chose, a 1969 Ford Mustang Boss 557, has an old charm to it.
Are you stalking me, he asks, and Ravi’s smile pinches, turns into something mildly annoyed. This is part of their usual interactions, of course, some odd in-between from old acquaintances to deadly rivals. He doesn’t know why he holds this fondness for Fazal Khan, but there’s something there, about how the man had met a highly broken nineteen-year-old Ravi and offered him some kindness where he could’ve taken advantage. Knowing this makes Fazal a far less intimidating person. There is a moral compass under all that poorly constructed bad boy façade.
“Don’t act like you weren’t eyeing me up from the moment you walked in,” he mocks, just for the sake of being a nuisance. His chin tilts up, eyes squinting as they look up at the man. It was rather rude to not take the seat offered, even if Ravi doesn’t expect manners from Fazal. “You know, some of us don’t have to actually tower over others to feel superior. Just sit, dumbass.” Despite the harsh words, his tone is still light, smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Scared I’m gonna bite? I’m a married person, I don’t go around biting people anymore.”
────
His dry smile seemed to grow meaner by the second, stretching inch by inch. Both brows arched at the other’s words, he slid into the seat across with a low-toned “So you feel inferior?”. Coffee set on the table, he leaned back with one arm draped over the chair’s lean back. For an outsider, the two probably looked like they were drawn from completely different worlds. One, fashionable, nearly delicate, colorful. The other, monotone, death impersonated, with an aura of bad news. And yet, they came from a single world after all.
Lips parted and tongue pushed into cheek with a lopsided grin, he listened. “I imagine the only time you’d bite would be in bed and that’s not something I’m interested in.” His other hand was resting on the edge of the table, the ring Jessica Reyes gave glistening under light - at least more than the rest on the remaining fingers. After all, it was a chore to wash remnants of blood and skin out of the rings’ dents, thus surprising no one with how dim they had become over time.
“What do you want?” The question was accompanied by a slight flick of the wrist, eyes set on Ravi Reyes like a target. “I hoped at this point you’d know I’m not the one for small talk.”
[The side. An image flashes in her mind of his hand clasped to his side, stained red, and she inhales, closing her eyes to replace the thought with that of him at home, wound neatly bandaged.]
JESSICA: Only you would say a gunshot wound doesn’t hurt mere hours after you got it.
[At his next words, she raises her eyebrows but gamely lowers her voice to match the insinuation in his.]
JESSICA: Oh, you’ll get a lot of rest. When I’m done with you.
JESSICA: No, of /course/ not, Fazal! You have a /gunshot wound/ in your side. You and your one-track mind. [She's clearly grinning, warmed by the smile in his voice, and glad to be distracting him from whatever pain he's feeling, even for a while.]
JESSICA: Hmmm, we can watch a movie, I'll order in... [She chuckles, remembering the first time she visited.] Something healthier than pizza.
JESSICA: [Then in a stern voice that's far too stern to be real:] If you haven't chosen a movie by the time I arrive, you'll have to watch Love Actually with me. Or Notting Hill.
///
FAZAL: Me and /my/ one-track mind? As if you wouldn't think the same at the invitation.
[There's some sudden discomfort with the way he's laying so he shifts and immediately regrets his decision. The wound feels like a nightmarish monster pulling tendons apart from inside. Audibly, he's normal. Food sounds good at this hour, he's been so distracted that he barely ate. In fact, he slowly finds that his throat is parched so he leans over for a glass of water. The ice had melted already.]
FAZAL: [He nearly interrupts her threat with Notting Hill.] How about old-fashioned horror?
The man’s eyes came to Fazal’s. They were brown, lustrous and wet with anger. Or was it fear. His forehead glistened with sweat and he drew a handkerchief from his overpriced suit while mumbling incoherent thoughts. Every now and then Fazal noticed how his gaze dropped to the gun tucked into his side. The Dominion’s hand itched to grab it if only to silence the murmurs. “So it wasn’t you on a ten million worth yacht with models, blaring music and getting high?” His voice started off like silk, soft enough to pull answers out, but eventually adopted an edge strong enough to wrap around a victim’s throat and choke. He clicked his tongue and waited for a reply with a condescending stare. When he spoke next, he sounded theatrically disappointed. “The ten million you owe me.”
“I can explain!” The man exclaimed, the lines of his face twitching. Can’t they all.
The Dominion tilted his head, eager to hear more but showed him no smile. He reached out to grab the back of a chair and twirl it around in place to sit on. Chest against the chair’s back, he folded his arms over it, words drawled, eyes on the prey, “Go on, Neel. I’m listening. You know I always do.”
The screech of metal against concrete turned Neel’s blood cold. Incomplete sentences stumbled from his lips then, all while being unable to back away – much like a deer caught in the headlights. The man could practically feel the corners of Fazal’s mouth curl. It was one inch for every lie that managed to slip from between his so-called explanations as to why the money he meant to return today was, in fact, gone. Foolishly so. And the deeper he dug his own grave, the greater the urge became to flee. It was only him and Fazal, after all. In an abandoned warehouse, in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps the odds were in his favor.
He ran. Like a prey, he twisted his body and ran.
For a moment, the room was filled with nothing but desperate footfalls. The wolf sitting did not move, except for allowing his tongue to visibly drag over his upper side-teeth. “I’m not satisfied, Neel,” his voice reverberated from behind, as hoarse as it was loud. A warning, followed by a gunshot and a bullet rammed into the back of Neel’s knee. The man, sent tumbling downwards, cried aloud in agony.
Among his whines came another set of footsteps, a different kind, Fazal’s kind. Slow. Heavy. Ones that made the room feel smaller, the closer and louder they got. “You said there’s more to the story, so let me hear it all,” he continued with arched brows, moving the gun like an extension of his hand for gestures. Impassive. Insidious. “I have time.”
Despite the pool of blood underneath, Neel decided he would rather make use of the gap between them and crawl. The smell of blood filled his nostrils as a reminder woven from what he was told prior to stepping into this deal: Actions have consequences. Whatever you do, do not upset Fazal Khan.
“Please…,” he begged with the tiniest bit of pathetic courage he had left. But the footstops never seized. There was no hurry in them either.
Another gunshot rang. Second leg shot and suddenly, all the crawling became a difficult, if not an impossible, feat.
“Now that you can’t run from me,” Fazal called with a tone as smooth as ice shifting prior to starting an avalanche, his body ever so lazily eating the distance. Eventually, he caught up with Neel, who turned out to be too weak to continue to drag his limp lower-body forward, and crouched down in such a way that the man could get a perfect, good look at his executioner. The gun glistened in his relaxed grip.
The Horsemen winner of the ‘most likely to run a gang IRL’ award goes to DOMINIC… your running up categories appointed by your fellow writers can be found below!
[Jess' lips curve up into a small smile, unable to find it in herself to be sorry for awakening him. She leans back in bed, gazing up at the ceiling as he speaks, his voice scratchy with sleep.
At his realization, she lets out a low, sardonic chuckle, rolling her eyes.]
JESSICA: [as sternly as she can] You should have. Called me right away. [voice softens] I couldn’t sleep. I was worried about you.
JESSICA: I’m alright. They didn’t even let me /get/ on the boat. [sighs] Probably for the best. I had to keep an eye on things from farther away. And if I’d been there I would've looked for you.
[She’d said it lightly, but the twinge in her chest is an all-too-real sign that it’s true. The last time they'd seen each other in public, she had stood next to him; he'd touched her hand, carefully, carefully—how would she have been able to stay away if she'd seen him hurt?]
JESSICA: [pauses, then changes the subject] Where exactly did they get you? [with a smile in her voice] And how much does it hurt, on a scale of I-don't-feel-a-thing to come-over-and-make-me-feel-better?
///
[Fazal shakes his head, the tiniest of smiles prominent on his lips. He lowers his upper-body again until he's lying on his back, a hand still stuck where the wound hurts the most like a magnet. His voice, unrefined.]
FAZAL: The side, but don't worry, it isn't bad. [More like, he would never complain.]
[After a moment of silence, his head shifts to the side. Amusement sets his features alight. He cannot see her, but he can tell that she's smiling, too.]
FAZAL: Sounds like you want to invite yourself in. What does "coming over and making me feel better" entail, exactly, Jessica?
[His lips pull into a sharp, lazy grin.]
FAZAL: I feel like I won't get any rest with you around.
