white noise

[fletchergrxy]

GIGI.

It was hard to preserve that tiny flame of human vulnerability, though necessary in an effort to make herself warm and genial, even if the want to snuff it out grew stronger everyday. Harder still when tension lines her shoulders, Fletcher’s vitriol in conjunction with the sudden change of tone raising goosebumps along her arms, willing herself to relax while her gaze remains fixed on the Pestilence Power through the mirror behind the bar. 

“It’s a few months old,” she nods, feigning casualty, ignoring the rigidity in her jaw beneath the touch of his hand. When Gigi looks at him, it is with manufactured confusion, brow knitted together with deliberate movements, “Hamlet’s my favourite Shakespeare play.” It wasn’t. It was Macbeth. The tattoo had been something she’d learned to ignore once it’d healed, the memory of the steady buzz of the needle on her skin still made her feel queasy months after the fact.

The facade drops then, useless given their proximity and the way she knew it looked to anyone else, puzzlement melting from her expression, supplanted with a slight lift at the corners of her mouth. “What did you expect to hear?” It falls from her, barely above a whisper, rather than giving anything away it felt easier - safer - to ask (even if, deep down, she already knew the answer) and cherry pick the bits she’d confirm and those that would be conveniently ignored.

     She’s lying, a malicious humor glinting in dark irises as he stares back at her, and he almost asks if she thinks he’s stupid, because if anything, it’s a real shite coincidence, and one he isn’t willing to bank on the good word of others. It’s electric, his rage, sizzling through his nerves as he recalls Genie’s pain, Ricardo’s death, the loss of their labs, and every other hit. All at the hands of masks and tattoos. Cowardice. Gigi never struck him as a violent type, and he wonders what’s in it for her, because that’s what it’s always about, isn’t it? The win. The prize. 

     “I expected t’hear that ya ain’t the sort to build your success on bein’ spineless. In fact, thought ya were the opposite all these years.” He reaches over with his free hand to tap her jawline lightly, a stark contrast to the tight grip his other arm has to hold her. “You realize, of course, I expect t’hear of your resignation as one of our most beloved actresses.” Fletcher’s tone is spiked with mockery as he leans in a bit closer, the corner of his mouth curving in the slightest, “The theatre is off fuckin’ limits.” He doesn’t expand on why; that much is obvious, and the grip he has on her is enough to tell what the punishment will be if he sees her there. “And trust me, all the right people are gonna hear who you’re sharin’ a fuckin’ bed with.”

[fletchergrxy]

MONICA.

The proximity to which Fletcher leans, breath against the underside of her jaw, has goosebumps pricking her arms, the back of her neck. Her stomach turns in a familiar way, a way of want – of need. She draws back just as he does, a wall drawn between them for the sake of friendship, of preserving what they have now. To cross the boundary, to give in, would it be as good as where she is now? Thinking, but not doing. She’d never been great at withholding, but here, in this moment, she feels it necessary. Emotions high to all, the buzz at the back of her head, both with the situation as well as the alcohol, a recipe for disaster. She smiles instead, knowing and vindictive. “I appreciate that,” Monica says, and she means it. Because Fletcher’s opinion of her has always mattered, even if she pretends it didn’t. 

“Ugh, don’t even get me started on him.” She doesn’t speak his name, embarrassment coating over the chill that’d come over her due to Fletcher’s movements. She stabs the crown she holds against her arm lightly, one poke, two poke. Enough to remember that this is real, that the anger she feels is only temporary. “There are a couple of people I’d like to see put in the ground from that side.” She rolls her eyes at the thought, her own anger a burning rage, better left untouched if she knew what was good for her. For anyone. 

“Oh, god, no.” She shakes her head, turning to face Fletcher fully. She misses the look in his eyes, too caught up in the frustration that he’d be in the same room to begin with. She hadn’t seen him, nor had she sought him out. “I think he knows what’s good for him, staying far from us.” She prods the inside of her cheek with her tongue and lets out an exasperated sigh before continuing, “it’s exactly why I don’t believe this for a second. How are we supposed to forgive and forget?” After finding out about Jack– or at least, the full extent to what Michaela had divulged, she’d washed her skin clean a hundred times, scrubbing and scrubbing, ridding herself of his filth, even if it had happened years ago. “You’re not going to go and seek him out, are you?” Monica is grateful for the distraction from Charlotte.

     How are they to forgive and forget? “We aren’t,” he answers, watching Monica, his own mask hanging from his fingers, and he debates putting it back on, except what’s the point? “We’re supposed t’play nice cause that’s what our Horsemen are askin’ of us.” A pause, a chuckle, and he’s willfully squinting at Monica, amusement tugging at the corners of his lips, “And I don’t think Jack ever knows what’s good for ‘im.” Fletcher never had a good relationship with Jack; they were assholes who ignored their differences whenever the liquor was flowing. He could be fun, and wasn’t that always his appeal? Wasn’t it Fletcher’s? They’re only different in their loyalties, Fletcher unable to be swayed so easily from those who’d changed his entire life, showed him a piece of the world where he wasn’t an outcast. Jack had spent his life sitting pretty and Fletcher is almost positive he knows nothing about true dedication.

     His brows bounce up in surprise, his grin going crooked with a shake of his head, “Nah. He ain’t got shit for me.” Glancing toward the entrance, Fletcher thinks about those inside, and makes a further conclusion, “I don’t think anyone in there does.” He’s leeched what he can from the event, filled to the brim with pointless conversations born out of a merger for peace. Not that Fletcher doesn’t like poking around a bit.  Browns fall back to Monica as he pushes off the wall, and in a rare form of gentlemanly behavior — because her dress is hardly made with the elements in mind — he shrugs his coat off his shoulders to hang it around Monica’s, an arm draping over her shoulders to pull her into his side. “Y’seem about just as done as me. C’mon, lemme take ya home.” 

END.

[fletchergrxy]

MILO.

“Y’act like I don’t know you’re an idiot.” The blonde retorted with a smirk. “But you’re my idiot. So humor me and drink a fuckin’ glass of water, yeah?” Milo knew as well as anyone who’d been in Pestilence or the distribution game for a decent length of time, partying was a common occurrence. Especially when the best places to sell were where the party was. He knew Fletcher could party hard, and hell, Milo didn’t mind joining him from time to time. What he learned to do, was work just as hard (if not harder) and it was what he wanted to continue to instill in his friend. When it mattered, Fletcher always came through and that was important. Now he needed him to be a leader and take extra initiative. Which Milo had no doubt he could do. 

Throughout the night, the two men do what they do best- drink, strategize, bounce ideas of one another, throw shit at the other, and ultimately come up with a game plan for the Truce Masquerade and the dog. At some point, Milo brings up Genie and her response to the very public Priscilla disposal. He is concerned but approaches the topic delicately, as delicate as Milo was capable of at least. If it was Yas, Milo knew he would be on the defensive side and his aim wasn’t to get Fletcher riled up on a good night that was rare amongst the chaos of the past year. As the night goes on, and the bottles drain, things move from business to random conversation. After all is said and done, Milo ends up crashing on Fletcher’s couch. Strangely enough, it was the best six hours of sleep he’d had in weeks. 

END.

[fletchergrxy]

KITTY.

“Fuck you, I meant hook up with them tonight and you know it,” Kitty responds, but it’s good-natured, spoken through a grin that she’s struggled to hold down — even if it draws eyes and questions towards them. She laughs, again, at Fletcher’s offered bow, the formal and blindingly polite gesture jarring to witness on him. He wears it well, all the same. Still exhaling the tail end of her laughter, she’s dragged back towards him like flotsam and jetsam on the tide. The fluid motions of dance slow, barely moving from the spot as she remains in his embrace, stretching her arms over his shoulders with a fond expression. “I’ll come racing with you.” She doesn’t need to be ensnared in a bet to do it, either. Kitty almost says so but her words are stolen by the subsequent surprise shepherded into the hollow of her mouth at the news that he’d already succeeded in winning Astrid’s attention in the past. “Fucking hell, that’s— she’s not someone I would have put on your list.” Hesitation lingers for a handful of heartbeats, knowing she could mention something that wasn’t in any way, shape, or form her place to be voicing. And yet she does, voice dipping to a murmur. “I think she could do with your warmth. If she doesn’t hate your guts, that is.” She shoots him a look. I know what you’re like. “It can’t be easy to be surrounded by your dead lover’s family all the time. And you’re so fucking far removed from being the sort of people they are. It might be good for her, you know? Some fun.”

His attention shifts to the party beyond the sliver of privacy they’ve carved out through dance and Kitty can tell the sand in the hourglass is coming to its final few grains; that he’s ready to chase something else, ready to seek out the next thrill. The topic of Genie is one he responds to defensively, despite him being the one to bring it up, and she half wonders if this is close to looking in a mirror at her own family-fuelled ferocity. “There’s only so much you can do to protect her,” she tells him — and it’s half in warning. He can’t let himself be consumed by his sister’s decisions. “As long as you’re there for her, no matter what. That’s all that’s important, right?” Taking a small step backwards, she untangles herself from him. For the sake of their gangs, she cuts the vines of youth that hold them together with the knowledge that they always seem to manage to grow back. A knuckle is knocked gently against the edge of his mask. “I’ll see you around, Fletch.” 

END.

[fletchergrxy]

KITTY.

In the frosted glass of Fletcher’s goggles, Kitty’s reflection dances occasionally: a flash of gold or the looming black of her own mask. But in the right light, at the right angle, if she looks hard enough, she thinks she can make out the dark of his gaze glinting with amusement. It’s mirrored by a roll of her eyes, a fond laugh rising from upturned lips — similar to the countless ones that had once rolled through the interior of his car, her feet propped up on the dash as he makes his latest drop, tinny music rising from the radio speakers. “Do you want to make a game of it?” she murmurs, voice rich with passion because isn’t this what she does? Turns life into something worth competing for. Maybe the danger and the hardships were worth it when there was a prize waiting for you at the end. “I’ll give you— three options. And if you manage to hook up with one of them, you win. Prize is your choice.” 

Her mouth splits into an impish grin, devious in her choices for the sake of pursuing her own secret agenda. “First option: Cemile Sadik. Do you know her? War Virtue. Hot until she starts talking.” Selfishly, Kitty hopes that if Saint’s best friend is distracted he’ll be forced to stop acting so distant. “Second: Gwendolyn Goldsmith.” It takes no small amount of control to keep herself from spitting her ex-lover’s name out with venom, still licking metaphorical wounds from their run in. “Something to do with Death. Owns that shitty pub, The Pale Stallion.” Fletcher would very much be barking up the wrong tree but she can only hope it’d cause a hint of drama between the black sheep of an ex-heiress and her wife. “Third option: Astrid Hunter.” Difficult. Potentially unfair. Definitely not risk-free. Yet, with the past month spent under the same roof, Kitty couldn’t be certain when the last time Astrid had even been given so much as a hug. “Your call, playboy. Want to take the bet?” Caught in the momentum of the spin, fluid in their motions as easy as breathing, she leans back into his chest and scans the clusters of people with them under the yawning mouth of the abandoned tunnel for Saint’s mask. “I guess you’ll just have to keep wondering,” she replies, glancing up at Fletcher with smug look.

Kitty thinks little of his comment on her own words, too loyal to ever consider that there may have been another path through life for her. Famine was in her blood, black and viscous, and she’d never found much that she was good at beyond crime. His following quiet tells her more than the expression on his features that she can’t see, talk of his sister evidently snagging in his chest. It’s foreign to her, the idea of keeping kin away from Famine’s open jaw. But she supposes there’s a lot less certainty when you don’t share a name with the Horsemen you serve. The hushed confessions shared are chewed on for a moment, responding with the same private quiet. “So you want to help her get out?” She isn’t certain he’ll go as far as to answer such a poignant and risky question so poses another. “You ever wondered if she’s safer this way? Better protected? I mean— if there are people out there who want to hurt you, Fletcher, then there’s always going to be people out there who will hurt her.”

     “Manage. Ha!” Of course, he always wants to make a game of it; Fletcher loves games and Kitty was always so good at them. Competitive, like himself, and even better, she thrived off it, whether or not she was actually competing. Famine, through and through. Often, they were just like this: a dare of sorts. Sometimes, quite literally just that. And then the prize. Sometimes he isn’t sure he’s playing for the win; sometimes it’s all about the anticipation and mystery. While he isn’t all that fond of the masks, he is more fond of the fact that everyone else here can’t see the tenderness that softens his features when he looks at her, the spark in his gaze when she elicits a laugh. It’s none of their fucking business and he doesn’t need anyone using it as ammo to force his hand. He’s having fun, feeding off every devious grin and cheeky glimmer mirrored in her eyes, and there’s that pang of grief — of missing her — that strikes his chest and Fletcher isn’t sure there isn’t a grimace on his face beneath the mask, dying as quickly as it arrives. 

     He’s back to wishing she can see his face because the look Cemile brings to the surface is that of appalled humor, eyes widening and nose scrunching, all while his lips twisted into a grin, unable to be contained by how absolutely ridiculous and appealing the option is. He lifts a hand off her waist to cut it through the air between them, shaking his head, and then she arrives at option two, one of which Fletcher isn’t opposed to, except that he’s pretty sure it isn’t an option. Then three… and oh, now he’s truly grinning, ear-to-ear, his hands ascending as they poked along her ribs, “Oh, I’ll take it. Now…” He holds up a finger, stepping away from her with a minor bow, “In your little rule overview, I didn’t hear nothin’ about when the hook up had t’happen, yeah? Just that I had ta. So… I already win!” He knows it’s cheap but isn’t he? Then his arm reclaims its position, curled around her waist to pull her in close.

     “Prize is ya come with me racin’ sometime. Like the good ol’ days. ’n since I’m not a total cunt, I’ll still play… betcha Astrid really missed me.” He winks, forgetting its hidden from view, a light snicker falling from his lips because he’s revealed a bit of gossip from their past that’s remained under wraps, as far as he knew. They were teenagers, and while some could’ve attributed what Astrid did to him as the why and how he is who he is, Fletcher’s never blamed her. Well, not anymore, anyway. Some bitterness lingered for a few years, until life got bigger, and youth became smaller. His fingers dance over the delicate folds of her dress, gaze raising above her head to look around for the woman in question. When he spots her, his mouth presses into a line and he recalls what she’s dealt with as of late: Juno and now, a party with her murderers. 

     Astrid and Juno, then Genie and Priscilla, the two formers being people he never imagined would get involved in this business, and the latter the deaths that broke their hearts. Or so he hears. Astrid doesn’t walk around with wings made of fire like Genie, batting them with such ferocity she’s burning up everything around her, reality warbled from the heat, crackling and all-consuming. Astrid retains elegance, frost clinging to her eyelashes and painting her lips, every move calculated and purposeful. It’s not hard to remember why he’d been attracted to her in the first place. It makes sense to see her like this when he thinks of her retaliation. Kitty asks about Genie and Fletcher tears his stare away from the rest of the party, dipping his chin as he refocuses it all on her, jaw tensing as a surge of protective adrenaline amps up his pulse. “Yeah. I have. Why ya think I didn’t send ‘er off th’second I found out? But…” He peers past Kitty briefly, searching out his sister, before it returns to the brunette before him, “There’s these fuckers about and I don’t need one of ‘em whisperin’ in her fuckin’ ear.”

[fletchergrxy]

APOLLO + GWEN.

Her pub, her land for misfit toys, her intel-gathering-headquarters, her home — from the moment MORTEM happens, Gwen knows that things will grow precarious. An Angel is placed behind the bar, muscles taut and large, and Enzo helps to up security. It takes a while, but she can’t say she’s surprised when Fletcher Gray and entourage of one enter the pub. He blows a kiss at her and she can’t be too mad at him, really considering how she’d sat in PEST, gloating, with Vincent on her side. She’s still mad, though.

But, they’re allied. If they’re here to gloat and impose, so be it. Gwen shoots a look towards Conor, and returns to the order she’s working on. Soon enough she’s done, wiping fingers on her jeans and abandoning her station, painting a smile on her face that she had practised in childhood. Antagonistic yet easily mistaken for friendly. “Gentlemen. Brilliant of you two to step by.” There’s unrest crawling under her skin as she remembers the boat sinking, May’s pale face as she recovered, her own injuries. Her neck still bears its scars. “What will it be?” As if it was completely normal they were there: she wasn’t going to smack their faces into the dark-wood table and hope to crack their noses simply for showing face, here. 

​

Now that it’s certain May will pull through, now that there’s time between them and the event, Apollo’s sympathies have completely dried up. He didn’t need to feel anything for Gwen any longer, other than distaste and mild annoyance. She’d gone right back to being the enemy and it was frankly relieving. Emotions were such cumbersome things.

He pinched Fletcher in the side as he gave May a broad and mostly fake smile. “It is brilliant, isn’t it? The place could use a bit more local flavor.” Apollo hummed loudly, eyes dragging over the hired muscle behind the bar. “Is he on the menu? Because that is quite the look.” Not really. He was certainly no Jaemin. “Is it too late or too early for Bloody Mary’s?” Or Mary’s to bloody. Har har.

@fletchergrxy​

     Apollo doesn’t even need to approach the bar and here comes Gwen, Fletcher just beaming when she arrives. He lets his Virtue do the talking, though glances at him when he orders Bloody Mary’s and Fletcher’s lips turn down in distaste, brows drawing together. “Bloody fuckin’ Mary? It ain’t the mornin’ after a fuckin’ gettin’ fuckin’ legless,” he rags, humorous disbelief sharpening his syllables as an elbow props itself on the table between them and Fletcher aims his index finger at Apollo, “Fuckin’ geezer.” 

     With a bat of his eyes, he’s looking back at Gwen, and that toothy smile is back, browns dipping as he gives her a quick once-over, “Whiskey sour. Top shelf, love.” Before he even finishes ordering, his attention is drifting over to the other patrons and if they’re here to distract, what better way than causing some trouble? And what good are bars if you can’t start a fight in them? He’s already clocking a few options, eyes narrowing with mischievous intrigue on a particularly burly guest, shored up at one end of the bar. On the opposite side, a rowdy group who punctuates their shots with fists banging on wood. More the merrier. Bigger the better. 

@gwensgold​

[fletchergrxy]

MARCUS.

it’s not so easy to fall into a pit of irritation when fletcher comes to the edge with a big grin and an easy way out, serving his mischievous nature with enough of the right type of humour to make fletcher’s choices in life sweet enough for marcy to come back for more. a smile breaks out, and marcus leans back, parting his legs and fiddling with the button of his trousers. “hey, if you wanna suck me off, don’t let me stop you,” a smile turns into a grin, a grin turns into a laugh, but it still doesn’t take the edge out of his stare.

“should have known, shouldn’t i? has to be all about fletch,” marcus laughs but it’s higher in pitch, a show of genuine amusement even if it’s quickly cut off by another reason to glare harder. “maybe you’ve just never seen me smile like that because you do my head in. ever considered that?” marcus frowns as the phone taps his forehead, but waits patiently to feel smooth glass back in his hand. “wasn’t so hard now, was it?” he taunts playfully, the corners of his lips pulled up in a grin.

“you’re reading too deep, man.” marcus slips his phone back into his pocket, keeping ravi safe (and all to himself) as he shrugs. “not everyone’s made for it, right? look at you. and me. results so far indicate i’m not built for it, but i’m not saying i’m ruling it out,” he says truthfully, even if he’s still too hesitant to impart the knowledge that there’s a human being that he sees everywhere, at work, at the club, in bed, but that time spent together still isn’t enough. he’s traversing unknown lands, trying to keep his composure, as if his mind isn’t spinning. marcus keeps those thoughts locked away, letting fletcher take over his attention, not even waiting for the waiter to leave. “baby…” marcus leans over, reaching out and following his thumb with his eyes as it catches on fletcher’s bottom lip. his fingers trail down to fletcher’s chin, forcing his friend to look him in the eye, and marcus smiles wide, leaning in close. “i’ll blow your mind any night of the week, darlin’. what kinda friend would i be if i didn’t offer to fuck your brains out, mm?” the grin remains bright as marcus slinks back with a low, rumbling chuckle. “nah but, seriously, man. you’re never getting head as good as i can give it. that’s just the a sad truth you’re gonna have to find a way to live with.” 

     “All about Fletch. Sounds like an award winnin’ show right there.” He bats his eyelashes at Marcus, donning the largest shit-eating-grin he can muster, “‘Course I considered it. One’a my best talents, ‘f I do say so m’self.” Most people are intimidated by Marcus and it isn’t as though Fletcher can’t understand why, though the man sitting next to him has never stirred up such an emotion in Fletcher. His entire life has been spent around more questionable types and he finds himself more comfortable in their presence, in the absolute knowledge that they can give, so it doesn’t matter whether they can take. It’s the knowledge that they’re as dark as he, if not more, and that makes the landscape far clearer than those who require politeness. As much as Fletcher’s reputation is that of a messy asshole, he’s capable of holding his own, and there’s a hunger for violence that runs deep, snapping at any offers that pass over its gaping maw. 

     Both brows bounce up when Marcus admits he’s not ruling anything out, amusement stretching over his features, then more, his smile climbing all the way up to shimmer in his gaze when Marcus presses further. Baby. A snicker tumbles from his lips and he’s matching Marcus’ dare by puckering his lips in the most obnoxious display, emitting a loud mwah sound when his friend settled back in his seat. “Seriously, man, you’ve never spent a night with that bird from Tramp. But I’ll take ya word on it. Y’can put your skills up on th’table next poker game, ay?” With a heavy sigh, Fletcher pours them both a drink, leaning back as he lifts his own, speaking loud enough for at least a handful of the surrounding partons to hear, “To me sobbin’ my eyes out every night I spend without your mouth on m’cock, darlin’! You’re one of a kind.” 

[tsnbrainrot]

Vincent & Theo Van Gogh 

Hannah Gadsby in Nanette (2018) // At Eternity’s Gate dir. Julian Schnabel (2018) // Loving Vincent dir. Dorota Kobiela & Hugh Welchman (2017) // Vincent Van Gogh in a letter to Theo Van Gogh (1880) // Almond Blossoms by Vincent Van Gogh (1890); painted as a gift for the birth of his brother Theo’s son named after him

[soracities]

“It is not immediately obvious which of Zadkine’s figures is Vincent and which is Theo. Like all who relieve the suffering of others, Theo—in a process that is the exact opposite of a blood transfusion—has taken some of Vincent’s pain into himself. Soon, however, it becomes obvious that while the sky weighs heavily on both figures, one, Vincent, feels gravity as a force so terrible it can drag men beneath the earth. From this moment on you are held by the pathos and beauty of what Zadkine depicts: despair that is inconsolable, comfort that is endless. One figure says, “I can never feel better,” the other, “I will hold you until you are better.”

Geoff Dyer on Ossip Zadkine’s sculpture of Vincent and Theo Van Gogh (from “Blues for Vincent”, Otherwise Known as the Human Condition)

[fletchergrxy]

MONICA.

“Because maybe it’s your company that I like to keep.” Monica bumps him teasingly, careful not to knock into his cigarette. The last thing she wants to do is leave singed, at least in a way that’s unbecoming of her. It’s half the reason she quit– arms too long, fingers too languid, dropping burning embers onto her lap, never quite fast enough to wick away the smudge of grey that they left behind. “Or maybe it’s that you’re not quite as boring as everyone else who’s in there.” She tilts her head towards the entrance, the sound of conversation still drifting in and out. 

“I’m sure they’d try, given the chance.” Monica presses her tongue into the side of her cheek, gaze following the smoke as it lifts above their heads, mimicking the halo that she’s taken off of her head. She taps it against the side of her hip, diamonds glittering beneath the low light, still visible enough to show off any amount of extravagance. “I’m not sure what to make of it. I’m new to all of this, but I know my family, and I know PEST. Those are the things I’m familiar with, and I’ve seen people try to tear it down.” There’s a heat that coils in the pit of her stomach, and it spindles, shooting off like stars, all the way up her throat. There’s irritation in her tone as she speaks, Charlotte’s name burning her mouth like a kindling fire. “Whatever it is, I hope Michaela takes care of it. Because I know that if I’m left to it… well…” 

Monica shifts the crown so that she’s holding it upright instead of at her side. “She left us. Charlotte made the decision to leave us, so why would I help her?” Monica tilts her head to the side, gaze searching Fletcher’s as he watches her. There’s something there, and Monica wonders if he worries for her, or if he’s worried for what her answer might be. “She can rot, for all I care. She’s no longer family. The moment she decided to leave with them…” Monica shrugs. She knows that the only reason she was brought in was due to Charlotte’s departure from Pestilence, and maybe a part of Monica blames her for that, too. She can’t be sure – filtering through those feelings with liquor in her system would lead nowhere. “What do you think I should do?” Monica asks, curious. 

     Her admission floods him with another burst of warmth, satisfaction and affection, and Monica is doling out the compliments tonight, unleashing her own fondness in such a genuine fashion Fletcher almost wonders if she wants something. He’s always been the one providing something and it’s become instinct to translate graciousness with trying to garner favor. The length of time he’s known her and their familiarity let him know it isn’t the case — even if Monica does utilize what he’s there to offer, and it isn’t just the drugs. She has to know, he thinks — he’s thought, on more than one occasion — and if she wants it… 

     Fletcher bends toward her, tilting his head down as if he’s going to tell her a secret when she glances toward the entrance, tenderness loosening his smirk, “You ain’t as borin’ as everybody else either,” he professes, daring to lean in further for an instant of sincere intimacy: nudging his nose against her jaw. Then he straightens, looking forward as he pushes his hands into his front pant pockets, letting his back fall against the wall of the station. Now, he’s listening, feeling the hot pinpricks of her rage as embers spit off her tongue, her expression oddly serene despite the topic and circumstances. He nods in agreement about Michaela, though he knows he won’t lift a finger without word from above, because in the end, it’s about survival, and he’s comfortable sitting where he is, even better if it’s higher up, and he isn’t about to risk tumbling back to the bottom. Because I know that if I’m left to it… A knowing, devilish glimmer lights up his eyes when he glances at her, a grin tugging at his lips once more, and a different type of warmth at the memory of what she’s capable of. 

     “I think ya should do what ya wanna do.” His shoulders lift in a casual shrug, hands still in his pockets, his head turning to look at her when he speaks further, “And I think I’d be on th’same page as you if I were you. Ya said it, she decided t’leave with ‘em. She and fuckin’ Jack…” Now it’s his turn to spout venom, their old ally’s name said with bitter sharpness, “Always knew he made stupid fuckin’ decisions, but I didn’t think they’d be that fuckin’ stupid. Givin’ me a run for my damn money.” It’s a joke, because Fletcher always has plenty, but it’s well known he never takes kindly to traitors, or snitches, his youth molded around the words of others and their consequences. “Y’seen him?” He doesn’t know why he asks when the topic is worse now that Jack sided with Death. He and Monica had spent time together, Fletcher knows that much, and as much as it makes him seethe, he asks, because hasn’t he always been a bit of a masochist?

[fletchergrxy]

RAVI.

     Navigating the tense atmosphere while also trying not to get smashed drunk tonight gets old pretty fast. As much as he adores the new title, he often finds himself holding his guard up too tightly to have any real fun at these events. Maybe that’s just how it’s bound to be from now on. Either way, it’s not the end of the world – he still has his husband by his side, and he’s going to force Marcus into a dance before the night is done, so he pretends this is nothing more special than one of those boring charity balls and moves on with it. In reality, he has no desire to mingle much, no desire to bite his way through a dozen picture perfect smiles, but the truce brings some peace. He cares about his family, and now his family no longer has a giant target on their backs. It’s simple like that. Ravi is good at compartmentalising, always has been. It’s a nice little surviving tool.

     Excusing himself from Marcus, he takes a trip to the bathroom in hopes to relieve the dryness of his eyes with some drops – white contacts looked good, but at a price. He’s been a nobody at a hundred horribly underground clubs and bars before in his life, but he’s never been more disgusted to touch a handle than he is now, on the entrance to the station’s bathroom. Taking back every judgement he’s ever made about germaphobes, he nudges the door open with his foot, instead, and walks in to find a figure just standing up straight from snorting a line. “Ah, look at you go. Easy to recognise as ever, with the rolled up dollar bill and white on your nose.” He offers in greeting, and there’s no bite to his words, his lips curling into a friendly smile. 

     The comment about his new crown gets nothing more than an agreeing hum, though his smile turns into something prideful as he moves over to one of the propped up mirrors by the sink. “Everyone is highly tickled, these days. There’s a lot to celebrate, hm?” His own commentary is vague, in hopes to not bite whatever bait Fletcher is trying to throw with his teasing. He fishes in his clutch purse for the bottle of eye drops, but pauses to glance at his companion with a humorous chuckle. “We are allowed, but you know that’s more Marcus’ thing than mine.” Nothing personal, really, he’s just never been a fan of the white lines. Historically, Ravi hasn’t been an avid Pestilence customer, with the occasional exceptions for dumb moments in his youth or big parties where he’s not responsible for anything. He tilts his head back, eyes up to the ceiling, and carefully drops some relief into his eyes. “Though I will say, I kind of miss a Fletcher-level of rager. We should set up a date for a proper party sometime. Take advantage of this new Truce while it lasts, right?”

     A brow raises in dry, curious humor, looking at Ravi as he straightens and tucks away the money, swiping a hand over the surface to wipe away any stray powder. “Ain’t got shit on m’nose, I’m a pro,” he winks, clicking his tongue against his teeth as he points two fingers in the Seraphim’s direction, “’n I ain’t sure what we’re really celebratin’. Bella’s promotion? Yours? Or is it that we’re pretendin’ to all be sittin’ pretty with each other again?” He takes a step back, hands splayed as he aims his fingers at his body, bringing them down in front of his torso before his arms stretched at his sides in a flourish. “Or are we just workin’ an excuse to look this fan-fuckin’-tastic?” 

     Fletcher turns, stepping back to let the small of his back lean against the sink, watching as Ravi administers eye drops. His fingers twitch toward his jacket pocket, instinct and addiction urging him to light a cigarette, and who’s gonna notice someone smoking in a shite bathroom? Only, for now, he’ll wait. The mention of Marcus has browns darting to the entrance briefly, and Ravi is right, it is more Marcus’ thing, and Fletcher finds himself wishing it’d been their husband who came strolling in. It’d been a bit since they had the opportunity for a good time. “Where’s he at, anyhow?” He pushes off the sink, taking a step toward Ravi with a cheeky grin, “He owes me a dance.” Whenever Fletcher would see Ravi back in the day, it was always under the pretense of Famine. Work. Fun. Marcus’ date. He’d never been a real customer and he’d never been the type to crawl the floors of PEST, refusing sunlight, refusing time, looking to lose himself in the sway of glittering skin and neon lights, pulse commanded by deep bass and mind by tablets printed with the promise of a smiley face. 

     “Doesn’t everyone?” His grin broadens at Ravi’s reference to Fletcher’s parties, and it’s been a while, the broken truce sucking up most of his time as his gang hustled to regain some control they’d lost. There’d been other parties and boats and bombs and stolen dogs and rats and traitors and zombies and fuckin’ fuck all — Fletcher almost forgot there was a time when he’d used to be a hub for a good time, and it wasn’t just because of what he was carrying. “Really committin’ with the whole…” He swirls his index finger around his eyes, glancing back at his own mask, still resting on the sink, forgotten momentarily.

[fletchergrxy]

BELLADONNA.

Seeing the other was always fun, Belladonna often seeking him out, less so in the past months as the loyalty they both held was at odds. It was probably easier for him, his business depending on contact like her, but loyalty ran deep in her veins and the meetings she has for her partying habits had been done in private as much as possible. But with the sinking of Death’s boat and they way they all worked together, the lines blurred. A neutral ground was permitted, somewhat, and it was enough for Bella to make an event out of this, like she did of most of her time spent in clubs. It was far from their first time partying together. The two of them seemed to be cut from the same cloth at times, the carefree attitude. More than anything, she loved their understanding of keeping everything casual. The woman was not without morals, and some of her actions were less than ideals, something she chucked to the alcohol and drugs. Still, she knew he was with someone their first time together and she had helped him hurt someone else.

Maybe the booth and bottle service was a bit much for what should have been an ordinary drug deal, but Fletcher knew the invitation would be for more than that. It was rarely a simple transaction with her, taking the fun of the drugs a step further. More than everything, she was avoiding buying from Milo, things already complicated enough between them. Bella laughed at his words, the carefree attitude she had now being different than how she had been before the attack on Death, focused on the task. There was pressure with her new rank and the stress of the past weeks was making knots in her body. “They are,” she said with a bright smile. “Got a shiny promotion.” Maybe bragging about it wasn’t the best thing to do but she wanted to have fun tonight and celebrate. Her promotion had been overshadowed by some internal family tension, or so she thought, considering that Marcus had seen his spouse rise to Seraphim only to stay behind. Fletcher knew he had the goods and Bella couldn’t see a time when Pestilence didn’t have the biggest part of the drug markets, which suited her fine as it meant she wasn’t the one dealing. Deep down, she wasn’t sure where her bad habits would take her if she had easy access to what Fletcher had and a part of her was thankful she didn’t have to find out. “You know you guys have the best stuff. “And I desperately need someone who knows how to have fun.” Fletcher never deceived when it came to that and she knew he would jump on the occasion. “How are things on your end? I’m sure business is blooming, so let’s not talk about work tonight,” she said leaning closer.

     “That we do ’n that I am.” He’s about to light the cigarette when he remembers they aren’t in PEST and he doesn’t have the rule of the roost, where certain laws are overlooked because of who they are and where. Bella doesn’t take one and he’s slipping his own from his lips, tucking it back into the case, the case into his pocket. “Promotion, ay? Look at you. So celebratin’ it is. Does that mean you’re buyin’?” A cheeky click of his tongue lifts a corner of his mouth, “Besides th’obvious.” Fletcher pours another round, not waiting this time to down his drink, then plucks a slice of lime from the bowl paired with the bottle, making quick work of sucking out some of the juice before he tosses the rind aside, back on the tray, and fills his glass again. 

     Belladonna always comes with the reminder of temptation, though he doesn’t blame her at all for his actions. He doesn’t see it as her taking part, since she was restricted by no one, and it had been up to him to pump the brakes. Of course, he hadn’t. And from it came a handful of trysts, because then Fletcher wasn’t restricted either, and Bella’s gorgeous; most of all, she knows how to have a good time. Fun, she’d said, and isn’t he just the perfect candidate? “So…” He licks his lips as he relaxes, remnants of tangy citrus clinging to his skin, and Fletcher’s arm drops from the cushions to land across her shoulders, lightly drumming his fingers along bone, “What’s on the menu tonight?” It’s a question that asks two things, because it isn’t all about what’s on his: what’re you ordering and how much fun are they getting into. Fletcher partakes as well, and he selects based on activity. Plus, he’s hardly going to let her have all the fun, certainly not when she’s specially ordered his variety. “After all, we have a new… Virtue in the house? Better be goin’ big, yeah?”

[fletchergrxy]

KITTY.

Where Fletcher might think it’s the high he craves — scratching an itch with a pill on his tongue or a split lip in the midst of a fight — Kitty wonders if it’s the temptation that he really seeks. A twitching hand grasped around a gun, knowing you could shoot at any moment. Electric, but not in the same way as a climax. Instead it’s a low simmering, teasing and taunting, keeping everyone on their toes. The chase, not the victory. She can feel it in the way fingers press between her ribs, barely a sliver of space between them. Because nothing has ever happened between them, and nothing ever will, but wasn’t that part of the charm? With her, he didn’t need to worry about the comedown if he never reaches the high. And she doesn’t need to worry about giving her whole heart to someone who wouldn’t have the patience to hold onto it forever. A grin forms, or widens ( she can’t remember if she’s already smiling, too caught up in the moment to have any real focus ), caught in a spin that makes her as giddy as the champagne she hasn’t been drinking. Settling back close to him, a low laugh slips from between her lips. “I find it fucking hard to believe that you need a lesson. Who are you planning on taking home tonight?” Gossip follows Fletcher like a particularly loyal dog, the pursuit of women almost synonymous with his name. “I’ll tie your wrists to the bed and then leave you there while I raid your kitchen for something to eat, how does that sound?” 

Kitty’s gaze drops from the glinting visor of his goggles, glinting with fire-light from the tunnel’s candelabras, as his curiosity winds its way around her. “I don’t know,” she responds, but it’s a lie, a placeholder, searching for the answer lodged in her heart. “Because— it would distract me. From Famine.” She’s never really known how to forge a life that doesn’t have its roots planted firmly in her family’s illicit business. She fiddles with his collar, slowing with the music. He’s selling dreams like he sells drugs now and it only makes her shake her head fondy, glancing back up at his hidden features. “Maybe one day. Not now. I’ve got enough going on to keep me busy.” Only a mild hint of understanding is shared as he gives away a small piece of himself. Kitty’s spent most her life only knowing Genie by name but had her own run in with the youngest Gray sibling this year, although she keeps that fact beneath her tongue. “Have you asked her? If she wants to go to uni? If she wants to leave Pestilence?” It’s a careful query, asked with intent. She’s been on the receiving end of a family member wanting to control everyone’s safety, ending in enough hurt that they’ve been stitching themselves back together ever since. “You can’t make those kinds of decisions for her.”

     Always so expressive, Fletcher’s mischief is hidden tonight when she asks who he’ll take home, and where some might think there’s secrets to be found in the quirks of his lips or twitch of his brow, more often than not, it’s an act. A finely tuned performance he’d been practicing since he was a child, ingrained into his every movement, because theatrics and flair always serve to distract, and even if there’s nothing to disguise, Fletcher retains his execution, playing off mindless instinct. Delightful charm to sweeten the sour, cushion the fall, a shiny bow to deflect from the genuine, tucked into folded corners only few know to peek under. Kitty does, because Kitty witnessed some of the acts being written, polished, and she’d always been capable of drawing out moments of authenticity, the curtains dropping as he finally lets himself take a breath. Tonight, it’s hidden, and while some may be thankful for the cover, Fletcher never has anything to hide, and if his mask wasn’t so fucking cool, he might be a bit more miffed that his prize-winning smile is shadowed by promises of a truce, decorated with themes like masquerades, and does any of it really matter? Aren’t they all waiting for their own curtain drop?

     “Haven’t decided yet. Th’truce really opens up options, y’know?” He breaks eye contact to let his attention sweep over the party, recognizing a few despite their attire, and a sly, secretive grin pulls at his expression as he leans in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “Got any suggestions?” For once, Fletcher isn’t thinking about who he’s going to spend the night with, perhaps because he’s never lacking in options; only tonight his concern lies with his sister, Monica, Mitzi… and a few others he probably shouldn’t admit to. Like Kitty. Jessica. Marcus. And while each one is capable in their own way, Ricardo had also been. Juno. Priscilla. It’s no secret Marcus is moving slower than normal. But he’d rather not think about what ifs and maybes, a light chuckle sailing on an exhale as he lifts their arms to give her a puckish spin, her back landing against his chest in a way that reminds him of the night on the boat. He doesn’t ruminate, doesn’t sink into a hole, because they’d settled it outside, and Fletcher isn’t the type to dawdle. “Sounds like a right bit’a fun. Wonder how far ya’d get before I got free. Three course meal or are your rope skills in need offa bit’a work? Not that ya’d find enough at mine for all that.” 

     He’s whirling her back around, canting his head as he pulls her back into him, his hand fitting itself back on her waist, and there’s a twinge in his heart at her answer, a string being plucked free to punish him with a sharp pinch. “Distract ya. Right.” Fletcher thinks of dreams dashed in this world, Kitty’s and Genie’s, of the webs being spun all around them, practically invisible in the right light but restricting all the same, trapping and arranging them until the spider wishes to play. To act. To eat. To claim. He wonders about the freedom that comes with the name Femenias or Warden or Pinkett, and maybe there isn’t really any freedom at all. Maybe Fletcher Gray, abandoned and imprisoned, had more than he’d ever really known. He knows his sister did. Genie. Genie sobbing with regret. Fear. What freedom can he really offer her now that she’s stepped into the spider’s den? What revenge can he use to fuel his fire when Priscilla is already dead? And he knows the answer before he even needs to ask the question. Sex. Booze. Drugs. Fights. Because it’s himself he’ll extract revenge against, just like he has for nearly a decade. Maybe by now it was over one. 

     Fletcher’s clamping his teeth before an answer can leave him, unsure if he’s already given too much away, unsure of who’s listening, because Genie didn’t have to say she wants to leave Pestilence outright. Not after the month before. Trapped in a war I don’t even fuckin’ believe in. I’m not free. Why am I even here? Her trembling voice ricochets around in his head, desperation yanking at syllables, and for a split second, he feels his own pang of desperation, helpless in the face of Genie’s pain, and ponders what it’d be like to kiss Kitty, to be tied up in a fucking bed, at her disposal, worries fading behind pain and bliss. He thinks she’d slap him if he tried, nearly lifts his hand to touch the phantom of her earlier strike. He ponders retreating to the bathroom to make use of the cocaine in his pocket, and maybe taking someone home tonight isn’t the worst idea. “Didn’t really need t’ask,” he speaks softly, not elaborating further when there’s eyes and ears all around them, “But I ain’t ever gonna think I can make any decisions for ‘er. She’s already shown me it won’t make a lick offa difference.” Despite his apprehension, he pulls a final, fine strand from his center, gleaming with sincerity, voice dropping just below a murmur, “If it’d been up t’me, she wouldn’t even be here.” 

[livelovecaliforniadreams]

[fletchergrxy]

GENIE.

It probably wouldn’t surprise anyone to know, but Genie isn’t an optimist. Yet she craves hope with the desperation of an addict going through withdrawal – as though it were something she’d let become an essential component of her body’s chemistry, and then abruptly, ruinously deprived of it. ( She’d been there, too—her body cramping and cold-sweat-slip and her abrasive mouth whimpering for a fix—enough times to be ashamed of it, though that was psychological trauma best dealt with another night. ) Maybe it was the case. Somehow, Genie could allow that it might be the case. Only, it would leave her to grapple with a reality far more devastating: she cannot remember hope. She cannot fathom the bright, warm tart-sweetness on her tongue, like the Dreamsicle on a boardwalk she dreams it akin to, being a staple to her. It is an ideal, to Genie; one she can never, ever seem to reach, no matter how far her splayed fingers stretch. It was—is—might remain forevermore damning: What is life without hope? What is the world? She believes in the notion. Instead of hope, she brims with poison inside, still.

Fletcher’s words fall like pinpricks against her; a thousand minor violences all at once. He tucks himself close to her, wraps her into his side, envelops her like a blanket on a cold night in a bitter world, and Genie loves him, she loves him, she loves him too much to tell him she does not believe a word. She is too tired. She is too broken. Broken enough for a part of her, a too-large, too-conniving part of her, to see black fire in the twin crystal balls of his gaze rage in a prediction of potential pandemonium, and crave it. A part that hears avowals of love and loyalty and protection from the only family who’s wanted her to be family, and need to test him – need him to prove it, for her mere existence was proof that words meant nothing without action to back them. A part that has watched too many films—action, and horror, and mystery—to not poetically fixate on the significance of what makes a hero a hero, though it is never happiness. 

Twisting into his sideways embrace till her face is buried in his sturdy shoulder, she feels so keenly how much weighs on this set of his. How much loving her could cost him, if he means the words he says. He doesn’t know that Fazal suspects her slippery hands already. He doesn’t know the look on Gwen’s face every time she looks at Genie. Fletcher is not a happy person and he is not a good person and he is not an embodiment of hope or light. He is still the person who has loved her best, and always truthfully, and never at the expense of her own self. It might be at the expense of himself. He shares her roots, no matter the directions their branches grow towards. It would destroy her, for him to be destroyed. By Death, or Fazal, or anyone else; Genie would not survive it. She could not. 

Her arms wrap around his neck in the closest thing to an apology, and she sighs a sigh pregnant with sour, potent grief. “I don’t know anything,” she says a second time, her head shaking where he must feel the motion.

“Doesn’t matter tonight. I’ll take somethin’– stronger than a joint. That’s what you can give me now.”

It is enough. 

Isn’t it?

It has to be.

— 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐃.

[fletchergrxy]

MONICA.

“Yeah, but at least you wouldn’t stink.” Monica scrunches her nose in the interest of dramatizing her feelings towards his habit. If she hadn’t given it up so long ago, then maybe she’d be in the same boat. Savoring the burn, letting the embers fly as she flicked it against a surface that had no business being marred with cigarette scars. “But I guess it’s easier to figure out where you are when you don’t smell like either of those things. Granted, I don’t believe anyone smokes this brand. Or if they do, they’re hard to find.” She can see the pack of cigarettes hanging out of the top of his pocket. If she weren’t in this gown, and if she hadn’t been attached to the promises she made to herself, she’d pluck one out of his pocket and bring it to her lips, insisting he light it with the one that hangs from between his fingers.

“I think I mentioned this to Victoria, but it’s more of a funeral.” Monica rolls her eyes, “felt like it was ours the moment we walked in, but it seems like they’re interested in it this time. Only a matter of time before it crumbles though, right?” She looks at him, gaze searching for answers she doesn’t have. Monica wasn’t stupid enough to believe that this could last, but it being a temporary thing… that could mean some breathing room – the kind that made sure Victoria, Fletcher, Iniya, Mitzi– that none of them got caught in more crossfire. “Find any what?” Monica asks, the scent of tobacco and liquor heavy in the air. “Relationships worth rekindling?” She thinks of Jessica and Saint. “I was friends with some of them prior to all of this, but knowing I won’t be burnt at the stake for interacting? Mm, it leaves a bit of breathing room.”

     “If I stink so bad, why ya always standin’ so close?” Fletcher bends closer, brushing his shoulder against hers, “Let alone lookin’ for me.” He remembers the days when Monica would be stealing from his pack, features aglow with the ember of his own as leaned close to light it. He remembers parted lips as smoke drifted out from between them, hazing the light gloss of her lipstick, and doing very fucking little to curb the strong urge to kiss her. It’s always there, anyway; every time she’s near. Even inside, when she wasn’t even in his line of sight, he could feel her magnetic pull, browns occasionally lifting off his dance partner or drinking buddy in search of her golden peaks. And there’s no one else who’s ever done that. Not in the same way Monica did. Fletcher searches for Genie too, the steel lining his bones becoming calefactive with protectiveness — and there’s enough distractions present that he can forget, for intervals, the image of her crumpled on his kitchen floor. 

     “Didn’t we already have one of those? Who died this time? Our pride?” He scoffs, tilting his head back as the crown of it perches against coarse stone, taking a drag he exhales high into the air, above the both of them, wisps separating as they soar toward the atmosphere. “Yep. Only a matter’a time. Maybe if Death wasn’t involved, but they can’t come in knockin’ down fuckin’ dominos and expect a little truce to patch it all up. Say what ya will about the other two, but they never went outta their way to destroy anyone. We all have our lanes; we stay in ‘em. They don’t. I ain’t gonna crack on with any’a those fuckin’ wankers.” His eyes narrow as a thought comes to him, lazily rolling his head to one side to glance at her with a piqued brow, “Yeah? ’N how much breathin’ room we got with Charlotte?” Personally, he’s never going to breath easy around the eldest Pinkett; she’s hollowed out an untrustworthy grave, the dirt forever stirred, no longer solid and compact. “Ya think she’s gonna come cuddle back up with us? Can’t imagine it’s an easy choice even if she wants ta. Once a traitor…” A final drag and he’s dropping it, crushing it under the toe of his boot as he pushes off the wall, the sole of foot scraping against the cement as he spins back to face her. “Ya gonna help keep her head from bein’ caved in? ‘r… I guess her neck from bein’… injected? Some’a us are real poetic-like.”

[fletchergrxy]

GIGI.

She watches the interaction that unfolds between the two through the mirror behind the bar, an unwitting audience, but one that knew enough for subsequent recognition to part her mouth. “I didn’t realise you were working,” she intones the last word like it was something sinful, teasing while returning the hug, though the admittance was still partially honest. The revelation unsurprising, having once relied on the Pestilence Power for her own gratification until she pulled away from the recreation. Fragments of memory snag in her mind, prompted by the thought, washed down with the drink presented to her by the bar tender.

“What can I say?” Rhetorical, the question is spoken while amusement tugs on one corner of her mouth. “I’m a generous person.” Devilment flashes in her gaze, like a single firework lighting up the night sky, as she continues, “When I want to be.” The addendum is punctuated by a wink, Gigi turning to offer a glance over her shoulder toward the group of actors chatting at the table they’d claimed upon arrival. Her colleagues were nice people, even from an objective standpoint, but sometimes she wondered if she really enjoyed their company or that it was just convenient acquaintanceship; a means to an end. 

“I’m sure you know some of them though,” she muses, attention returning to Fletcher, on the cusp of being a question. The answer didn’t matter, but she was unable to deny her intrigue regarding just how far the eldest Gray’s network extended. 

     Her expression is glowing with geniality — and he’s never known her not to — and it’s a beautiful mask to disguise the mischief he knows lurks underneath. When she wants to be prompts a smirk that mimics her roguery and his gaze follows hers to a crowded table he assumes is keeping her company tonight. He scans their faces quickly, a second when she mentions he might know some of them, and he does, because actors are some of his biggest clients. People always like to escape an occupation that more often than not calls them a failure. More often than not, it’s about looks. Too short. Too old. Too this. Too that. And after hours and hours of critique, they’re eager for a distraction, clinging to bottles and pills and the fits of laughter the concoction gifts them. He’s not unfamiliar; his father isn’t a soft man and he’s always been ready with a criticism, jabbing at every corner until one is forced to bring themselves down in size. If there’s ever anyone who makes Fletcher want to use, it’s his father, and his hand drops to the bar-top so his fingers can drum against its surface, antsy in the face of a desire he’s forced to stave off. Not yet. Not here. Later. Alone. 

     Browns depart from the table to drift along her profile, the smile simmering on his lips flattening when his attention lands on one very specific problem. A tiny skull tattoo, behind her ear. A fucking skull tattoo. His jaw tightens as a rush of heat heaves against his ribs, billowing into his chest as his grip on her arm strengthens. He holds her against his side, turning his head to murmur close to her ear, and from the outside, it’s a flirtatious exchange, but the growl in his tone and the firmness of his touch is enough to tell Gigi otherwise.

      “Nice tattoo, dollface.” Anger boils in his gut, splashing scalding droplets that scar and harden tissue, and he fucking hates those masked cowards. Hates even more that they’re hiding among them, even on their territory, even in their fucking businesses. It’s bad enough they’re being forced to let them mingle in the VIP area of PEST; his country, his estate, and he’s chewing over the idea of eradicating every single skull marked asshole he comes across. Delicately, he reaches over, laying his index finger along her jaw as he uses it to tilt her attention in his direction, his voice still low, “Is it new?”

[fletchergrxy]

GENIE.

He sinks down to her level, meeting her where she chooses to be, and it isn’t fair. The unflinching care to his courtesies aren’t fair, not when she is all too well aware of their rarity, the inherent specialness of the bristled tenderness he extends to her and only her. She falls back in the face of his crouch; her spine jostled by the dull thud she hits the kitchen island with, her sniffle wet and her huffed “Oof!” emphatic enough to flutter a stray strand of unkempt blonde against a ruddy cheek, like a leaf lost to a vicious gust of wind. Desperate arms wind spindly legs to her shaky chest, squeezing close, holding tightly, tucking herself into a corner like a secret she had been born to be. It’s an old habit that’s never died, no matter how many parts of her have over the course of her life. Simultaneously, she is splintered to an array of dimensions stretching across the years, scattered in all and belonging to none: curled up under their parents’ bed to feel close to a mother that was hers and still wasn’t whilst she slept, memorising the rhythm of breaths like lullabies; huddled underneath their fathers’ study desk, where they weren’t, under any conditions, allowed to be; hunched behind the bar at PEST nightclub when she’d begun tending bar for the first time in twenty-seventeen, breathing colours in with the sharp, staccato beat of the music, centring herself amidst neon madness. 

He had warned her, was the thing. Perhaps what undoes her so completely is that single, irreconcilable truth.

Fletcher had warned her, and she hadn’t listened.

If she’d listened to anybody, she’d listened to Priscilla, instead. Electric, magnetic Priscilla, who’d painted a picture of the person Genie Gray could become; what she could have, and embody, and impose. The ways in which she could be a part of something. Where she would never have to shatter herself to pieces she’d cut her hands bloody upon, miserably rearranging towards a perfection she could not attain. The ways in which she could be someone. She could matter. Genie had wanted so badly just to matter. Fletcher had warned her there would be a price, and Genie, who lived in the now, too much past weighing on her to ever consider a future, had thrown a challenge in his face and played it like a game. It’s hard to believe these days, that her involvement with this world had begun as just that: fun and games. It isn’t fun, now. Whatever game this is, Genie feels herself losing, over and over, never quite graduating to the next level. The walls are closing in. The walls keep closing in, and if she doesn’t do it, if she doesn’t step up—climb the rungs of their ladder—then she’s just gonna get squashed, isn’t she? If she’s not a rat, then she’s a roach. Slippery, and quick, and quick to disappear into cracks in the foundation. Just a bug who could survive an apocalypse, and just as easily be stomped out of existence, innards oozing in gluey goo splattered on the ground as all the mark she’d ever leave in the world.

How long can he protect her? How long will he want to? He stands by his reprimanding assurance, and her hands splay over her face, failing to shield it any more than she can muffle the cry that bursts from her with a hiccup in ineloquent response to words he hands her with control that escapes her all over again. Genie’s hands shake. Her heart bleeds, overflowing, brimming and brimming till she tastes its sour metallic tang in her mouth – till it stains her coarse words, “I don’t know anything about anything.” 

Dejected, she slumps as though melting; her head against the island’s wall, tears rolling down her cheeks in fat blobs that riccochet into palm-cradles, accumulating pools of paine salt. “Does it even—” What? Matter why? He wouldn’t ask if it didn’t. Her head shakes to herself, dismissing herself before her lips shape a truth of her own. She tells him the only thing she knows anymore, haphazard spillage interrupted by sporadic sobs: “I’m so fucking– I’m scared ‘n I’m sick ‘n I’m tired of being– I’m not free. I’m just– just caught in this fuckin’ war I don’t even fuckin’ believe in, ‘n I’m pissed, ‘n I miss my mates. I miss Zach ‘n– I miss Wren. I miss breathing, I miss– I miss Pris. Khan’s gonna kill me, or one of these Deathies will, ‘n I don’t… Why am I even here? Why am I even fucking here? Why did she tell me I’d fucking belong?”

     This is what a breaking heart feels like, he thinks, the plate protecting his tender organ cracking with every one of Genie’s sobs, every whimper, every gasp and tear-choked confession. There’s a faint sting along the bridge of his nose and he bites down, denying the sensation as he lets another thunder of rage shake the ground he kneels on. Why did she tell me I’d fucking belong? Fletcher wishes he’d been the one to shoot her, bitter venom dripping down his throat as he watches the pain Priscilla’s inflicted on his sister with her betrayal. How many had she said the same to? Did he even care? No — because it didn’t matter who else she’d coaxed into the serpent’s den, none of them mean a thing except for Genie. His sister. His. And Priscilla had snatched her right up, dangling her in Fletcher’s face, a threat whether she’d known it or not. How could he fuck up when they held Genie in their clutches? Now, here they were, with Genie in a war she doesn’t want to be in, trapped, led by Priscilla’s broken promises. 

     “Khan’s not gonna kill ya,” Fletcher sighs in assurance, shifting so he can sit next to her, bending to fit under the island at her side. This is what a breaking heart feels like, he knows, when bone snaps and fierce, molten loyalty spills out inside of him. The air is too cold for a heart exposed, a harsh contrast to the fire burning within, and it steals his breath, forcing him to hold it in his lungs for too long, and when he lets it out it feels unnatural. “Doesn’t matter why you’re here, anyway. You’re here,” he tilts his head toward hers, “’n I’m here with ya. Deathies are fuckin’ cowards who ain’t got shit on ya. Y’handle Khan ’n Apollo, right? Y’think any of ‘em got shit on them?” He jabs her side playfully with his elbow, “On me?” Then he’s throwing an arm around her, pulling her into his side, fingers working damp strands off her cheek to tuck behind her ear, “Wanna smoke a joint and watch some shit? I’ll let ya steal all my cigs and have full remote control.” He squeezes her bicep, nestling her closer as he slowly inhales, trying to still the quake reverberating through him. “It’s gonna be alright. And… I’ll get y’out if ya really want.” Fletcher’s eyes flutter closed for a moment, willing her to feel the love seeping out of him, to feel what he sometimes fails to speak, because, sometimes, the words get lost in an uncontrollable flood, washed into the gutters of his heart. He never minds it; not unless it comes to Genie.