TENDERNESS

heloise maksimovich. twenty. neutral. still, there is this terrible desire to be loved. still, there is this horror at being left behind.

[icried4you]

Sharon Alexie by Rayan Nohra

[angelpj]

Black Swan (2010) // Jenny Holzer // Black Swan (2010) // Lady Bird // Ugly, Bitter, and True by Suzanne Rivecca // Black Swan (2010)

[heloisem]

brutuskovrov·:

when: june 4th where: a cemetery who: closed for @heloisem

The funeral is a small affair. It is Giovanni’s family – his mother, his father, his two sisters, what might be an eclectic collection of cousins, the priest. And then, from afar, standing at another grave with the name newly polished (a young Swedish woman, he thinks), flowers bought a handful of days ago laid out across the slab, Boris and Heloise.

He’d been hesitant to tell her about the funeral, at first. It hadn’t taken much to make some calls at the morgue, make arrangements, contact the family. Right now, Giovanni – or Gio, as his nickname had apparently been – is in a casket in the ground, and his mother is bawling her eyes out. He doesn’t want to look at Heloise for fear she might be in a similar state, all shaken to pieces. He’s dealt with that already, doesn’t know if he has the will or the way to do it again.

But he’d set it up. He’d made the call. He’d told her. The words she’d said to him that night, it can’t all be for nothing, well, he hates to admit it, but they might have cut deeper than he’d expected. They’d dogged after him in the following days, leaving the faintest trace of metal in his mouth, grinding his teeth before he’d went to bed. She hadn’t texted him an overzealous amount like she usually did, which meant it all must have impacted her.

Watching the gathering as they pick up the pieces of themselves and work their way out of the cemetery, Boris sort of wishes he’d just put Gio’s body in the trunk of the car, buried the body, and then lied about it. That would’ve been the smart thing to do. It takes an hour of watching, smoking his way through an entire fucking pack of cigarettes, Jesus Christ, he needs to quit for the third time in as many years, and then it is just them.

Just Boris and Heloise. Attending a funeral for a man they didn’t even know, whose death hadn’t been their fault, certainly not Boris’, and feeling bad about it.

Well. She might feel bad. He’s not so sure about himself, yet. That’s still up in the air. He clears his throat. “Did you want to go look?”

Shades of blue touch the sky as a warm breeze ruffles her hair, and Heloise tucks a handful of flowers under her arm, careful not to disturb the petals. She isn’t well-versed in funeral etiquette, but she believes that Giovanni deserves to lay where the sun always shines and the sweet perfume of flowers saturates the air. He deserves vibrancy and beauty, even in death, so Heloise takes a peek at the yellow daffodils that rest beneath her arm and hopes that they bring him some sort of comfort. Even in death.

Heloise has never shied away from weeping, but her tears don’t fall, though she reckons this would be an appropriate time. Her heart seizes, a pain so potent that she struggles to give name to. A fresh wave of guilt eats her from the inside out, and she refuses to lift her head and take a peek at those in mourning. It’s hard enough being here, standing on her own two feet without crumbling to a million pieces, and she smooths out the hem of her dress to distract herself from the tears that gather at her lashes.

Did you want to go look? Her fragile heart longs to be cradled by gentle hands, but there’s an absence of warmth in Verona, and Heloise is spent. “Not yet.” The sand slips through the hourglass, it settles at the base, and with each passing moment, the perpetual fear that constricts around her neck lazily increases tenfold.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” A lump lodges itself in her throat as she struggles to string a simple sentence together. “Something awful happens, something terrible, something cruel, and you just….stop.” Heloise puts one foot in front of the other, and takes one step forward. “Everyone else is still going, but the world is crumbling around you, and no one seems to notice.” Her eyes find his, and Heloise tries to bear the eternal weight that rests upon her shoulders.

“It’s a strange feeling, isn’t it?” She tilts her head to the left as curiosity plagues her thoughts. “I only ask because I’m sure you’ve experienced it before. You’ve killed before, haven’t you?”

It’s a candid question, but Heloise believes that if Boris knew the sorrows of her heart, then she wouldn’t truly be alone.

[heloisem]

ofrosso·:

date: june 10th location: the library of verona status: @heloisem

Vivianne Sloane; she’d been an enemy, a curse, a yearning, and now — she was a command. That name, a heavy, weighted thing on the tongue of Genevieve Zhang, had followed them like a shadow, clinging to their bones and pressing ice cold lips against their marrow, whispering of shortcomings and doubt, for months now. Matthias will torture the Capobastone, they whisper back, trembling beneath the raw and open wounds of a shared past. Marcelo leaves the office with something near a smile worked into the hard downturn of their lips, feeding the news to the mouth of insatiable hunger. 

It’s only as they reach the bottom of the stairwell that it begins to falter. Heloise — their delicate albatross. Another name heavy and weighted, though for entirely different reasons. The sun has begun to lower in the sky, and shadows are cast over the few remaining readers yet she’s there, perched stubbornly along the rows of books, punishingly alive against the dust and death. They could pretend they haven’t seen her — they could — though, it hadn’t worked the first, second, or third time Marcelo’s optimism had gotten the best of them. 

Fuck it. It was rare that they surrendered, but Heloise was not a fight so easily won. Coming to a halt beside her, they motion to the exit with a curt nod, “heading out?” A sigh still rests leaden on their lungs, as if to punish them for the sheer stupidity of this small kindness. Marcelo could be on the street by now, walking away from a barrage of meddlesome questions, or existential theories, but where would that leave Heloise? Bird-boned, gentle, foolish Heloise that belonged to their soldato — and only her, they remind themselves. She wasn’t their responsibility, nor did Marcelo long to accept one such burden, but Brielle, in most ways, had grown to be. One sister already had been abandoned, and left to die, this year. The Montagues need not suffer another, no matter Marcelo’s growing temptation.

Heloise studies shelves and shelves of outdated textbooks, the tip of her index finger traveling down its spine as dismay clouds the loveliness of her face, mildly appalled at their poor condition. As she examines the wear and tear, she thinks of the person who spent endless days and sleepless nights putting their pen to paper, fine-tuning every word until it had been branded with the highest degree of perfection. Books are delicate things, easily broken and bruised, and Heloise believes they should be handled with care. She remembers keeling upon a blanket, burying her nose in spilled ink, and submerging herself into a world of fantasy, she and Maeve surrounded by lilies and lilacs along with the gentle caress of the sun. When night falls and the moon begins to rise, hopelessly still, Heloise thinks she’ll find her amongst the shining of the stars.

Heloise startles as Marcelo speaks, and she peeks over the book, wide-eyed and high-strung. “Ciao, Marcelo.” She closes the volume shut as dust settles between the two. “I was going to stay awhile, but if you’re on your way out….” Her words chime like the ringing of a bell, and she places the book upon the shelf with a meticulous touch. An ever-adoring smile blossoms upon her lips as she clasps her hands together, attempting to keep the words that fall from her tongue to a minimum. Marcelo’s never been fond of her rambling, but a multitude of questions occupy her mind, and Heloise doesn’t know how to quiet them.

“I haven’t seen you around lately. Have you been avoiding me?” Perhaps she shouldn’t be so forward, but Heloise thinks that the pink dusting of her cheeks and the sweetness of her smile makes up for it. “It’s alright if you have. I’ve been keeping busy myself. It’s better that way, isn't it? With everything that’s happened.” Heloise vaults the memory of a funeral march deep within her mind, plucks another book from the shelf, and waits for the red of her heart to stop bleeding. “Maeve’s funeral was the first one I’ve ever attended. It wasn’t easy.” Vision blurred, Heloise fiddles with the book's spine, unable to look Marcelo in the eye. “She was sweet, wasn’t she? I wish she hadn’t…” She struggles to find the right words. “I wasn’t aware that she felt so alone. No one deserves to feel that way.”

[katarinadvpont]

Heloise​:

Heloise seeks an immeasurable amount of remorse in Katarina’s eyes, but she only finds indifference, and it wounds her. She tries to keep her bewilderment under lock and key, but she’s mildly appalled, and she cannot help the frown that clouds the loveliness of her face. You’re a Montague’s little sister? Katarina’s words bite and Heloise loses herself in a sea of emotions. The waves threaten to swallow her whole. “Y-you don’t have to say it like that,” she whispers as her chest seizes, “like Montague is a dirty word.” Heloise does not wish to hurt her. She does not wish to add to the poison that has seeped its way into the red of her heart and infected the organ entirely, but she does want Katarina to understand. “I….I do not want to offend you, but it’s quite obvious that the Capulets and the Montagues are two sides of the same coin.”

Katarina Dupont will soon be a forgotten memory, this much is true, but it would be unfortunate for the two of them to part without Heloise saying her piece. “You all wear the blood of innocents. I understand that you have chosen your side, and I am not stupid enough to believe that I have the ability to change your mind.” Her words are direct, but she sweetens her tone, and it dissolves on the tip of her tongue, but she refuses to look Katarina in the eye. “But I want you to know something, and I truly hope you don’t take offense, because that isn’t my intention, but I believe it will do you some good.” The delicate flutter of her heart increases tenfold, but there is no cage to hold her, and for once, she does not falter. “You are no better than the Montagues.” Her eyes hold a great amount of sympathy as she gifts her one last smile. “And you are no better than my sister.”

Heloise thinks of her as the brightest star in the night sky, as the prettiest rose in the garden, but it seems as though Katarina has lost her way, and she walks a treacherous path, full of tangled thorns and sharpened knives. Still, Heloise loves her, but it is obvious that Katarina no longer shares those same sentiments.

Katarina does not think of her as the brightest star in the night sky.

Katarina does not see Heloise as the prettiest rose in the garden.

And the accusations she tosses her way only cements her suspicions.

She hardly recognizes her voice, and with all the strength of her riddled heart, Heloise’s eyes flutter to a close as she chokes back tears. She has nothing more to say, but Katarina doesn’t relent, so she buries her face against her pillow and tunes her out. The wind whistles through the trees and an onslaught of rain steals her focus. Silence hangs loosely in the air, and she wishes Katarina would stop insinuating and speak plainly. “Regrettably, Brielle and I aren’t the closest. I wish things were different.” Shame crawls up her throat and spreads throughout her chest as her words suffocate, and she feels as though she’s drowning. “I don’t know what you’re on about, but I promise you Brielle doesn’t know a single thing about you,” she cries, her eyes wide and glassy, “and if I’m to be frank, I don’t believe that I know you either.” Translation: You are not who I thought you were.

The minute hand of the clock ticks on and on, and the thunderous beat of her heart echoes against her ears. Heloise rubs at her eyes, a thousand words dying on the tip of her tongue. There’s not much left to say, so she settles for this: “Thank you for the gifts, Katarina. That was very kind of you.” She sniffs as she wipes away her tears. “I’m exhausted, and the nurse made me promise that I would rest, so….” Heloise avoids the fierce blue of her eyes. “Thank you.” 

Only the strongest would ever survive the most turbulent waves of the sea. Only those born from it would never drown in its depths and find themselves still warm. And if Heloise is to lose herself to the sea of emotions, Katarina is the storm that has found herself created from the same watery depths and has found a way to thrive in that same ocean and relish in them all. So she meets her attempt to reason with a response only appropriate with those sea-born: “A coin spins, doesn’t it? And when it lands, only one side faces upwards still— the other, to the ground buried.”

Heloise thinks these words will wound her. And, oh, how wrong she is. What she says, the words of condemnation paired with a smile and sweet sympathetic eyes do not reach her. Katarina feels only her revulsion, her anger, the hollowness in her chest at missing Delphine, in missing Lillian, and it is with a blanket of iciness and a cold tundra buffeting Heloise’s emotion-laden words, the blonde deigns her with yet another remark. “What you say does nothing.” It’s one wave, then another of icy water to drown these words and banish them to be forgotten. Kat shakes her head solemnly, gaze fiery and sure, her mouth warm and damned with her speaking. “I have never once claimed to be any better than them. I see what they do—” The girl in the hospital bed knows nothing of her or of what she knows, knows nothing of what she’s experienced. “—I know what I’ve done.” 

The blonde blinks once, twice. “And you know what?” She moves as she speaks, drawing her coat back to take her gun into her hand as she says: “I find that some very bad things, some very evil things are necessary in order to achieve some good.” Her palm is open and the handle merely rests there, almost as though she’s offering the girl her gun with the muzzle pointed towards the wall. Katarina can be a very good monster, sharp eyes and glittering teeth, ugly menacing truth tumbling from her lips. “Never in my life has there been a moment where my hand has been shaky while aiming my gun or when pulling the trigger.” She re-holsters her gun and closes her coat. Murderer, monster, a sea witch or better yet, syren ready to pull Heloise down to the depth of the sea and drown her in terror and sadness. She wants a monster? She will give her one. “I no longer count how many I’ve killed.”

The young woman before her is something delicate, something lost, someone who doesn’t deserve the cruelty of Verona and yet in her own way she supposes that she has found and learned it. A Montague as a sister. The tears, of course, may be genuine, but still, Katarina does not waver. She can’t. She will not. 

She does not speak again until Heloise has uttered her last ‘thank you’. 

“No.” Katarina refuses. “Thank you.” Thank you for teaching me that there are no second chances, for showing me that the sweetest flowers truly are as poisonous as foolish hope can be. “You do not know me. Just as I do not know you. It is, of course, best this way.” The sea has swallowed Katarina up, but she is at home here. And with practiced ease, as one learns after having been left so often herself, she leaves the devastation she’s created with her storm and does not look back.

—Exeunt Katherine.

[heloisem]

hermionediangelo·:

       [ @heloisem ]  17.05.2019. VERONA GENERAL HOSPITAL.

Clenched teeth were dutiful in restraining her hiss of pain, attempting to gift her with some semblance of a gentle awakening in spite of the shoulder’s protest while she turned over in the hospital bed. Harriet’s awareness stretches outward, tentative at first, like a skittish animal, prepared to bolt at the first sign of intrusion. It falls first on the almost imperceptible sound of the clock hanging above the door, opening an eye to glance toward it, resigning herself to the fact that sleep had left her in due time and that they would meet again in another couple of hours.

Her grunt of exertion devolves into a pitiful noise of pain as she pulls herself into a seated, then standing, position, her slippers offering a small comfort as her feet slide into them coupled with the succour of her dressing gown as she slides the robe of her shoulders. Gone were the purposeful strides of education officer Harriet D’Angelo, in their place emerged a slow shuffle that managed to see her safely from one point to another (in this instance, the bathroom and now the route back to her room) but her mind was ever present, registering a passing conversation only a fraction later than normal.

“… then Signora Maksimovich will need some food…”

It took focus, to wade through the depths of aching and emerge the other side a free thinker, but she reaches the clearing, putting together pieces that had been jolted out of place, turning in a slow circle to retrace the steps that the attendants had taken. Like following starlight she did not have much to go on and what little she had threatened to slip through her fingers, it was intuition that guided her as she drew to a stop at an ajar doorway; unsure which emotion would claim their place as forerunner first, each fighting among themselves once amber set itself on Heloise.

“Di tutti i posti possibili in tutte le città possibili… di tutto il mondo…,” the cadence of her voice is still heavy with sleep, knowing she did not want people to treat her with any degree of panic she tried to do the same now, but concern bled through amid the attempt at humour. “What happened, tesoro?” Are you alright? Her other question remains unspoken, swimming, evident, in an unfiltered stare. 

It’s been five minutes since Heloise has looked at the clock. Time continues to drag on, and intermittent sleep didn’t relieve her of the jumble of thoughts that trouble her mind. Heloise reclines on the pile of pillows, all alone in a bottomless pit of sorrow, the conversation she shared with her mother rewinding over and over on an endless loop. She’d done everything right: kept her pretty dresses spotless and pristine, buried her nose in an abundance of books, and made an effort to keep her curiosity under lock and key. The thread used to stitch her heart back together begins to unravel, and unwillingly, tears begin to gather at the corner of her eyes and dampen her lashes. She’d done everything right, but it hadn’t been enough.

A wrinkle takes shape between her brows as a dull ache cuts through her shoulder, and Heloise sits upright, discomfort quite clear from the expression in her eyes. She’s seconds away from ringing the nurse, eager to allow delirium to smother her and drift into a sweet slumber, but Heloise’s eyes find Harriet’s, and her expression softens. “Harriet? What are you doing here? Are you okay?” She shakes her head, a weak attempt at quelling her worry. “I’m okay.” The little white lie slips from her tongue as she smiles, her eyes twinkling with a familiar kind of warmth. “I paid a little visit to the Phoenix and the Turtle a few days ago.” Heloise begins, her words soft and slow. “Genevieve Zhang missed her intended target and put a bullet in my shoulder.”

A heavy sort of quiet blankets the room, and she lacks the vocabulary to explain the heart-rending sorrow that sits in her stomach like an anchor, so she studies the hospital room with a meticulous eye. “Everyone has been very kind,” Heloise notes, motioning towards the heap of flowers that perfume the room, the pile of get well soon cards that litter the windowsill, and the bouquet of balloons that float and sway. She frowns, her eyes full of tears, and she feels like a wilted rose, one with browning petals who has yet to catch a glimpse of the sun. “I keep thinking that things will get better.” Heloise confesses as she places a hand over her heart. “But it doesn’t, and I’m afraid that it never will.”

Heloise’s head hangs low as she wipes away her tears. “I’m all alone. I know I’m not supposed to admit this, not in Verona, but I’m scared.”

[heloisem]

paoladamasco·:

.

How can she — a woman who thinks so little of herself that she is contented with being invisible — be bristled by a child’s jealous barbs? Nonetheless, annoyance ripples through her, like the edge of a leaf touching the tip of still waters. It is a small thing; a comment made of ignorance and immature notions of fantasy romances. Still, it leaves a mark and poses a challenge that Paola rises to face. The edge of her words sharpen, become daggers and blades. “Some loves” — she uses the word intentionally, love, to draw the line between herself and a mere fan such as Heloise — “are too great to share with those who haven’t earned the right to it.”

“And you,” Paola says almost gently, a bare finger dragging a nail across the trigger button, “are only one of his many adorers. You might know his astrology sign or his favorite color from the magazines, but what do you know of his heartache? Or the time a little girl tried to steal his candy and became his best friend?”

Satisfied, she turns away from Heloise and refocuses her attention to the only thing in the room deserving of it. There is some truth to Heloise’s tender accusation: do you not have anyone else? Where the girl intends for it to sting, it serves as a balm to Paola’s loneliness. Though friend seems a paltry thing for the boy who made Paola believe in a family chosen by and for herself, Tomas is the only one she has. Of course she will protect him. Of course she will not let Heloise come close to this thing which she holds sacred.

“I have no one like Tomas,” Paola muses aloud, irritation softened by now, “but there are different kinds of friendship, piccolina. I’m here as a friend to Brielle, aren’t I?”

.

Heloise blankets her words in sweetness, soft and melodic, and she watches her with a meticulous eye. She proceeds carefully, but Paola’s expression sours, her eyes hazy with the chill of winter, and she has made it quite clear that Heloise has struck a nerve. Her inquisitive nature is sure to be her downfall, and there have been many attempts to shove it in a box and wrap it loosely with ribbon, but containing unbridled curiosity as persistent as her own doesn’t appear to be feasible. “I’m so sorry, Paola.” Heloise chokes on her words, nervousness rippling through her stomach as she blinks in bounties, wide-eyed and flustered. “I didn’t mean to insult you. You’re absolutely right, this is none of my business.”

She sits, almost motionless, wrist cradled beneath her chest as she peers at Paola through her lashes. “Just like my relationship with Tomas is none of yours.” She stares at her for a moment, doe-eyed and unassuming, and a faint smile blossoms lovingly upon her lips. “But we don’t have to talk about that if you don’t want to. I certainly don’t. Not anymore.”

Heloise decides that she doesn’t mind if Paola believes her desires to be merely fiction. What does she know of love? Does the one she yearn for weep in her absence? Does her heart skip a beat every time their eyes collide? “I suppose you are. Speaking of my sister, she’s been gone quite awhile, hasn’t she?” Heloise doesn’t wait for an answer. “I can help you with Russian until she returns if you’d like.” Now that a considerable amount of tension between the two had fizzled itself out, Heloise would like nothing more than to lend a helping hand.

She’s sensitive, and from what Heloise has gathered, a bit on edge too, so she offers concise sentences, soft and slow, so as not to provoke her. “Is there anything in particular that’s confusing you? When it comes to something like this, I think you’d be better off with me than Brielle.” Heloise lifts her chin ever so slightly and speaks with pride. “I’m fluent in three languages.”

                                                    — END —

[quotemadness]

I am too tired and I miss you too much.

Simone de Beauvoir (via quotemadness)

[heloisem]

ovomi·:

In THE DARK LADY, during the night of 2019 JUNE 13TH at 11:27 P.M., OLIVIA whisks away HERO for an inquiring chat. // @heloisem·

There’d been a lull in the steady flow of occupants, the dizzying atmosphere beginning to settle around them— leaving an opportunity wide open for whatever their heart desired, and what was desired was the presence of Heloise Maksimovich. Omi had long grown accustomed to Heloise becoming Renzo’s shadow, but the more recent discovery of her fixation with Tomas Sabello, which had been easy information to come by considering she’d uttered his name several times, seven or eight times—if Omi had been counting correctly— just in the time that Omi had been nearby. That must have meant her fascination with Renzo dwindled, meaning she would be an easy person to whisk away, and not only would Omi be able to make sure her conversation abilities remained sharp, but she’d be scoping out her potential, which could be of use for her if Calina’s intel had been correct. 

Silver Tom Ford heels gripped the floor with perfected rhythm and timing, Omi sporting one of her “between dances outfits,” a green deeply cut flowing jumpsuit, reminiscent of the one seen on Donyale Luna in the 60s, with her black hair slicked back in a similar fashion. The most noticeable addition had been the silver chain visible from behind on her lower hips. She had no particular way of knowing if someone’s eyes lingered on her, and so she acted as if they always were, as this was typically the case. As Renzo and Heloise grew closer in her line of vision, Omi’s lips teased into a coquettish smirk. 

“Miss Maksimovich,” Omi professed dreamily, standing directly in front of the pair of them. “Do you mind if I steal you away from Renzo for a drink? I feel as if it’s about time we got to know each other better.” She glides smoothly into the seat next to Renzo, close enough to nearly spill onto his lap, an arm coiling around his shoulder as her lips hovered only centimeters away from his ear. “I just need you to know how easy it is to take from you is all,” she whispers playfully. “So you remember who the head sparrow in charge is.” She pulls away to have a single good look at him, before playfully patting his cheek and standing up yet again. 

Omi looks over their shoulder in confirmation that the young woman was following her, not requiring any verbal confirmation as they made themselves comfortable in Omi’s frequented pocket at the bar. Caesar, the bartender, greeted the two of them moments later with a pair of tequila sunrises before they even had the opportunity to order. “Courtesy of the older the couple that’s sitting across the bar, for what they say are the most beautiful creatures to inhabit The Dark Lady.”

She turns invitingly to find the couple in question, before smiling and waving appreciatively, before urging her young companion to do the same. “Surely, if we are the most beautiful people that they’ve laid eyes on in here, then we’re quite deserving of the most expensive bottle you have, don’t you think Caesar?” Omi relays to him, in order for him to inform the couple. “It’s only fair that they know grand gestures are what attract our attention.” He walks away with a knowing smile, and Omi turns her attentions to Heloise with a grand smile. 

“Omi. Yamamoto Omi. To my knowledge, we have several friends in common. Calina, Tomas, and even Renzo on a good day.” She takes a polite sip of the sunrise, not usually one for fruity liquors, but not wanting to offend potential future customers of hers. “Tell me, Heloise, what is that you want? Think big.”

.

Heloise studies the establishment as her tired eyes glimmer with slight curiosity. Well-tailored suits, million-dollar smiles, diamonds and pearls that wink and glitter in the low light. The Dark Lady is drizzled in sin and the gentle whispers that occupy her mind encourage her to dive in, but she only seats herself upon the velvet sofa and settles under dim lighting. Uncertainty hangs loosely in the air, and in truth, Heloise doesn’t know why she’s here. Perhaps she prefers this, thundering voices and unruly crowds, as opposed to pervasive silence and the heaviness of a thousand words unspoken.  She carries enough grief in her restless heart to last a lifetime. Heloise’s eyes mist over and she wonders if it would be better to bury it, to pack it away neatly in a little wooden box, and turn a blind eye.

As the night descends, Heloise suppresses a yawn and blinks the sleep from her eyes. She has half a mind to leave, but before she’s able to depart, Renzo whisks her away for idle chatter. She doesn’t wish to be ill-mannered, so she rests her chin in the palm of her hand and sets aside her discontent, offering him a faint smile to cloud mild irritation. She’s eager to loll into a deep slumber where she sits under wisps of white clouds as the hummingbirds beat their wings against the tender breeze, where she rests amongst a garden of fragrant jasmine petals and sharp blades of green grass, where she dreams a little dream of brown eyes and a splatter of freckles that map the stars.

Her head begins to swim as her eyes flutter to a close, and she struggles to comprehend a single word that leaves Renzo’s mouth. She shouldn’t have come, and the recollection of feathered pillows and a plush duvet only pushes her towards the exit sign. Before she musters up enough courage to excuse herself, a familiar face does all the work for her. Do you mind if I steal you away from Renzo for a drink? Heloise settles for a stiff nod and smiles sweetly. Nice girls don’t make a fuss.

She settles into a bar stool and gifts Omi with the utmost attention. She takes note of the shade of ruby that stains their lips red, the way their words roll off the tip of their tongue, decadently dark with a hint of sweetness, leaving much to be desired, and how they glow like they’ve swallowed the moon whole. She smiles, and for the first time since nightfall, it’s genuine. The bartender gifts the two of them with cocktails and explains before she has the chance to inquire. Courtesy of the older the couple that’s sitting across the bar. Omi turns to acknowledge their admirers, and Heloise follows suit.

If not for the sorrows of her heart, she’s sure a delicate shade of pink would kiss the apples of her cheeks. “I know who you are.” Heloise tilts her head as her hands settle in her lap, interest piqued. “Everyone does. You’ve never paid me any mind before.” It isn’t an accusation. Just a fact. “I suppose I can’t blame you. You’re beautiful, and I’m sure you have a lot of people to please.” It’s hardly a whisper, but she doesn’t take her eyes off of them. “I’m afraid you’ve caught me on a bad day, Omi. I apologize for my insolence.”

What is that you want? Think big.

Heloise wrinkles the button of her nose as she ponders Omi’s question, though it doesn’t take much thought. Her tongue loosens as her deepest desires bubble forth. “I want someone to love. I want to return home after a long day and know that someone’s waiting for me on the other side of the door.” She sighs wistfully, her heart swelling three times its size. “I want heaps of money, so much that I don’t know what to do with. I want an engagement ring the size of a rock.” Heloise chimes, her voice sweeter than apple pie. She gifts Omi one last smile. “I want to be wanted. I want to be happy. I want to belong.”

[mushi-and-junior]

[heloisem]

katarinadvpont·:

It should hurt her. Or rather, the ever so dull ache in her chest should me more like a shard of glass piercing the beating muscle in her heart, brutal and unforgiving as it twists and begs to ply a wretched wail from her lips. She should want to plead with Heloise the same way she’d fallen to her knees begging Lillian to listen, to understand. She should want to embrace her and kiss her cheeks, wipe away her tears the way she had once done so to Delphine. And yet, she does not. Her heart does no more than thrum with a dull ache that can be cast away. Why? It is simple. For sake of survival beyond suffering, Katarina knows that she can not, certainly should not hold close someone so fragile and sweet— especially when they seem like they have already made their decision about her. Not when the young woman has already been harmed once: shot through the shoulder like La Principessa had been months ago. She’s sure to be hurt again, and she can’t allow herself to care so much. 

If she sees her as a monster, perhaps she can be a monster. 

Her mouth presses to a thin line as she listens to the young woman’s response, pale blue of her eyes seeming to freeze over with every word that Heloise manages to murmur into the quiet air of the hospital room. What she says is warm, insistent, so sweet and hopeful, and yet— “Heloise, it is.” Katarina has no desire to elaborate on why. She doesn’t particularly want to divulge in the gruesome details of her life, of her past, so she tries to put enough force between her words that she is believed with such a simple phrase. But, then she poses a question that brings back the memory of a promotion offer outside of Verona, prior to joining the mob— before she knew who was on which sides. “I used to,” She allows as a wary answer. “But, at the end of the day I am glad and thankful that I’ve chosen the side I have. I would have suffered more… Had I chosen differently.”

When she says Brielle, Katarina does not make the connection at first. Of course, she knows A Brielle. But as she continues, she starts to think that whoever Brielle is, she has some sense to her. Verona is dangerous. Then, Heloise admits to the connection herself, connecting the dots for the blonde in the form of a question, in the form of a damning accusation. And in response, her mouth immediately twists to something cruel, indignation and betrayal smother any sort of vulnerability there could have been. She’s crossed paths with Brielle a few times in the past, and the fact she’s nearly died once is more than enough. “You’re a Montague’s little sister?” It’s a swift blow to her gut before she practically spits the words, lithe fingers curl quick and tight around the railing at the end of the bed to steady herself before she releases them and takes a step back as the allegations continue and inevitably falter to a final question.

Katarina shakes her head before a single word falls from her lips: “No.” Simple, stubborn, and the blonde takes a moment to exhale a soft breath before she continues: “I had no idea you were so closely connected to a Montague, Heloise.” There is nothing gentle about the way she speaks, but perhaps there is a tinge of something— maybe, it’s the faintest hint of regret. “Truthfully, if I had known, I would have never invited you into my apartment. I wouldn’t have let myself—” An apartment she’s moved back out of, and thankfully, the young girl in front of her has no idea where her home is. Now, she takes the opportunity to ask a few of her own questions: “How close are you to your sister? Does she know that you know me?” Did she tell you about me? Did the both of you dig into my past and did you fashion yourself into a lie? Is your goodness and light but a farce, an act to deceive me and win my trust? “Are you as much a lie to me as I am to you?”

She can feel tears beginning to prickle behind her eyes. But, they aren’t born of sadness. No, they’ve bubbled up from frustration and anger, of disbelief and disappointment. Quickly, she blinks them back and swallows down the tightness in her throat, keeping her distance at the end of the bed. Once she has her answers, Kat promises herself she’ll leave.

Heloise seeks an immeasurable amount of remorse in Katarina’s eyes, but she only finds indifference, and it wounds her. She tries to keep her bewilderment under lock and key, but she’s mildly appalled, and she cannot help the frown that clouds the loveliness of her face. You’re a Montague’s little sister? Katarina’s words bite and Heloise loses herself in a sea of emotions. The waves threaten to swallow her whole. “Y-you don’t have to say it like that,” she whispers as her chest seizes, “like Montague is a dirty word.” Heloise does not wish to hurt her. She does not wish to add to the poison that has seeped its way into the red of her heart and infected the organ entirely, but she does want Katarina to understand. “I….I do not want to offend you, but it’s quite obvious that the Capulets and the Montagues are two sides of the same coin.”

Katarina Dupont will soon be a forgotten memory, this much is true, but it would be unfortunate for the two of them to part without Heloise saying her piece. “You all wear the blood of innocents. I understand that you have chosen your side, and I am not stupid enough to believe that I have the ability to change your mind.” Her words are direct, but she sweetens her tone, and it dissolves on the tip of her tongue, but she refuses to look Katarina in the eye. “But I want you to know something, and I truly hope you don’t take offense, because that isn’t my intention, but I believe it will do you some good.” The delicate flutter of her heart increases tenfold, but there is no cage to hold her, and for once, she does not falter. “You are no better than the Montagues.” Her eyes hold a great amount of sympathy as she gifts her one last smile. “And you are no better than my sister.”

Heloise thinks of her as the brightest star in the night sky, as the prettiest rose in the garden, but it seems as though Katarina has lost her way, and she walks a treacherous path, full of tangled thorns and sharpened knives. Still, Heloise loves her, but it is obvious that Katarina no longer shares those same sentiments.

Katarina does not think of her as the brightest star in the night sky.

Katarina does not see Heloise as the prettiest rose in the garden.

And the accusations she tosses her way only cements her suspicions.

She hardly recognizes her voice, and with all the strength of her riddled heart, Heloise’s eyes flutter to a close as she chokes back tears. She has nothing more to say, but Katarina doesn’t relent, so she buries her face against her pillow and tunes her out. The wind whistles through the trees and an onslaught of rain steals her focus. Silence hangs loosely in the air, and she wishes Katarina would stop insinuating and speak plainly. “Regrettably, Brielle and I aren’t the closest. I wish things were different.” Shame crawls up her throat and spreads throughout her chest as her words suffocate, and she feels as though she’s drowning. “I don’t know what you’re on about, but I promise you Brielle doesn’t know a single thing about you,” she cries, her eyes wide and glassy, “and if I’m to be frank, I don’t believe that I know you either.” Translation: You are not who I thought you were.

The minute hand of the clock ticks on and on, and the thunderous beat of her heart echoes against her ears. Heloise rubs at her eyes, a thousand words dying on the tip of her tongue. There’s not much left to say, so she settles for this: “Thank you for the gifts, Katarina. That was very kind of you.” She sniffs as she wipes away her tears. “I’m exhausted, and the nurse made me promise that I would rest, so….” Heloise avoids the fierce blue of her eyes. “Thank you.” 

[memoryslandscape-deactivated202]

Romantic obsession is my first language. I live in a world of fantasies, infatuations and love poems. Sometimes I wonder if the yearning I’ve felt for others was more of a yearning for yearning itself. I’ve pined insatiably and repeatedly: for strangers, new lovers, unrequited flames. While the subjects changed, that feeling always remained. Perhaps, then, I have not been so infatuated with the people themselves, but with the act of longing.

Melissa Broder, from “Life without Longing,” The New York Times (9 February 2019)  (via memoryslandscape)

[heloisem]

cleosokolova·:

///

Brie had no reason to join, Heloise intones sorrowfully, and Calina is reminded of her hand in convincing Ellyushka to leave her home to precede Faron and herself in Verona. The Sokolova woman clears her throat, brown hues drifting to the menu underhand to give the Maksimovich girl a moment to collect herself and reign in the tears that undoubtedly swim at her lash line. “Ellyushka hadn’t a reason to join, so far as you are concerned,” she corrects, careful to keep her tones dulcet and honey-coated for gentle Heloise’s sake as she scans the menu. “Just because she hasn’t explained herself to you doesn’t mean that she’s here without reason.” She’s here because of Faron, because of me, because of you, Marya, and Konstantin. 

But then, Heloise’s tells precede the tears that well at her lash line, and Calina resists the urge to roll her eyes. “Loshya…” she trails, voice adopting a warning tone as the younger woman begins to unravel in front of her very eyes. Pull yourself together, she wants to say, for God’s sake, we’re in a cafe and we’re here to eat, not to sob in public. But, she doesn’t give sound to these sentiments, deciding instead to unwrap her silverware and give her the napkin to her sniveling companion. “Wipe your tears.”

She trusts you. She trusts you, but she doesn’t trust me. Why do you think that is?

The Sokolova woman meets Heloise’s gaze with a steady one of her own, brown hues unwavering as she takes note of the hint of jealousy that flashes here and there in the younger woman’s expression. She resists the urge to snap, to jab at the younger sister with unforgiving words: What have you done, Heloise, to earn her trust? Where Heloise is weak, Calina is strong; where Heloise fails, Calina succeeds. It only makes sense, then, that Brielle trusts the woman who’s acted in her best interests as her chosen sister rather than one who’s done everything but. “I’m sure the things Ellyushka and I endured together have created the type of bond you see between us,” she says with a noncommittal shrug, “just as the things that the two of you have endured together have created your relationship.” It’s a pity, then, that the interactions between the sisters so often ends in dissatisfaction and detachment. It’s a blessing, then, that the interactions between Calina and Brielle so often end in comfort and satisfaction.

“Would you rather she kick you out, Heloise?” Calina replies. “Come now, don’t ask questions to which you don’t want answers.” Brielle allows Heloise to stay because she is a far better woman than Calina, who would have sent her home long ago. “You’d be better off spending time recognizing how well-off you are rather than asking why. Don’t look a gift horse in its mouth.” Translation: You’re lucky, Heloise, that she lets you stay at all. Don’t poke at her, lest you push her into changing her mind.

Muted displeasure evident in her expression, the woman says, “возьми себя в руки and stop crying. Are you ready to order?”

.

Just because she hasn’t explained herself to you doesn’t mean that she’s here without reason, Calina says, and her words cut like a sharpened knife. With fresh tears still glittering in her eyes, Heloise decides she would rather be anywhere else than with Calina. The older woman lacks social grace, she struggles to string together a handful of words that hold no malicious intent, and she looks at Heloise as if she’s of little importance. As if she has no sense of belonging. If not for her good manners and proper etiquette, Heloise thinks she would gaze into nothingness and allow her mind to wander. But instead, like any polite, well-meaning young girl, she rests her hands in her lap, posture pristine, and offers her utmost attention. “Has she explained herself to you, then?” Her voice is soft, melodically sweet, and she sells Calina her million-dollar smile for good measure. “Are you aware of her reasons, Calina?”

With her cheeks kissed pink and her eyes red-rimmed, Calina provides her with a napkin and Heloise whispers her thanks. She collects her thoughts as she dabs at her lash line, tangled in a web of sadness and uncertainty. “I’m sorry that my tears make you uncomfortable.” Heloise sniffs as her eyes find Calina’s. “You don’t cry, do you, Calina? You don’t seem the type. Is that why my tears bother you?”

Her heart shatters into shards of glass. Heloise disregards the tickle in her throat and blinks back tears, because she doesn’t wish to cause Calina any more discomfort than she already has. “Yes, well, I know.” She squeezes her eyes shut as she struggles to find the right words, afraid to ruffle any feathers. “Please try to understand, Calina.” Heloise prefaces, “It’s not the same. Brielle and I...we’re sisters.” It’s hardly a whisper. She smooths out the wrinkle in her dress and continues on. “The two of you have been through unspeakable things together,” Heloise acknowledges, desperately hoping that these words will soften the blow. “I don’t doubt that, but it’s not the same.” Her wounded heart sings a sorrowful melody, and she pushes the tears away. She doesn’t want to cry. Not now. “You and Brielle have created a specific type of bond, yes, but we’re sisters. Brielle is my sister.”

The brown of her eyes begin to sparkle as she smiles once more. “It’s not the same.”

Would you rather she kick you out, Heloise? She doesn’t answer her question. Instead, she informs the waiter that she’s ready to order, selects the first thing she sees on the menu, and crosses one leg over the other. Perhaps it was the smell of freshly-baked bread, or the soft glow of the warm afternoon sun, but Heloise’s heart felt significantly lighter. “I’m glad we’re doing this, aren’t you? I feel a bit better now. I suppose spending some time away from Brielle isn’t so bad.”

[archiveddvrpg]

In fair Verona, our tale begins with HELOISE MAKSIMOVICH, who is TWENTY years old. She is often called HERO and is NEUTRAL. She uses SHE/HER pronouns.

There are many broken little girls who bite the hand that feeds them, but Heloise has always been MEEK. Every moment of her life has simply happened to her, with next to no input from the girl herself. Too young to remember her old name or her old life, Heloise came to the Maksimovich household as poised and EMPTY as a porcelain doll, ready to be filled with the ideas and expectations of her new parents. Konstantin and Marya stuffed her with cotton until they were satisfied, and never bothered much to worry about her mind. LOVELY GIRL, that was what they called her, such a pretty, lovely little girl. Every man who came to buy a horse commented on Konstantin’s exotic daughters, making sure to pay special attention to the youngest, the most charming little gem. She would wave at them with her bright, buoyant smile, not stepping a single foot out of the house lest she muddy her shoes. She watched as her sister ran desperately after them, wanting to learn, wanting to ride, and felt nothing but mild confusion. Why would anyone want more in life, when what they had was so easy to love?

Everyone she knew was always happy with her. How could they not be? Heloise was so AGREEABLE, they said, nothing like her upstart peers. It was good she was kept at home, her father’s friends would murmur, and she would content herself with their assurances, knowing that school must be quite a dangerous thing, for her parents to so thoroughly protect her from it. Friends were pre-approved and cheery, as SHALLOW as her own life and with nothing in their hearts that might rock her from peace and harmony. She and her friends studied English so they could buy music and sing in their pajamas, studied Chinese because many of the men their families looked at for them traveled to China for business, studied Italian so they could sound smart and important discussing Opera beyond Tchaikovsky. All her education led her toward a singular purpose: Heloise would marry well, and secure the family’s fortunes as a result.

With all that riding on her, it was easy to see that a girl with such stars in her eyes would become enamored with ROMANCE. While her parents were strict, they couldn’t watch her one hundred percent of the time, and therein lay their foolishness, walking hand in hand with hers. All it took was one oligarch coming to buy a replacement for his prized stallion, and one oligarch’s son with eyes as black as midnight and a smile that filled her heart with hummingbirds’ wings. While his father perused the merchandise, so too did his son; Heloise was no match for the charm of a man’s attention. She had been told her whole life that it was to be the most important determination of her future, and thus, she had no warning bells in her head to pay attention to. He promised he would marry me, she told her mother three months later, tear-stricken and afraid, why would he lie? For the first time in her life, her mother did not listen. Her first and earliest lesson was that girls always lie, and it was only then that Heloise realized ‘girls’ included herself.

It was a devastating loss, her parents’ trust; Heloise had never lived a single day without it. She was aimless in the wake of her ruin, for what man of any respectable family would have her now, when the one who’d broken her heart had also told his friends the particulars of their bedroom? She was tarnished and dirty, and with her failure came all her parents’ hopes and dreams, crashing around them and crushing her beneath the weight. She was a LISTLESS girl for those next few months, helpless and useless and without anyone to validate those behaviors. Her doting parents had turned cold and angry, and without them, Heloise’s life began to unravel. No one was left to her. No one would understand her, no one could see how she’d been taken in and betrayed… no one, that is, except her sister. The girl she had once regarded herself as better off without, now became her only lifeline. She heard rumors that she was racing horses in Italy, and it only took a couple secretive calls to determine she really was still living there. Her rebellious, angry, CHARMING sister had the manners of a wild animal, but she was the only girl Heloise knew who’d made something of herself without securing the perfect marriage. With all other paths cut off, Heloise took the only one left to her: to follow in her sister’s footsteps, and perhaps find someone outside her small world who would consider making a wife of a tarnished woman. She still believed in love, after all. If the only way to that perfect happiness was through one mafia or another, Heloise was determined to take it. The thought of tempering a violent heart was like something out of a movie, and she knew, with every fiber of her being, that she could be that person. She would always be a hopeless romantic.

BRIELLE KING: Sister. For all that they grew up together, they might as well live worlds apart. Heloise doesn’t understand a thing her sister’s done, from changing her name to joining up with the mafia. Brielle might view her as a nuisance, but she’s Heloise’s lifeline, giving her a place to stay and clothes to wear and food to eat, all for a girl who never thought she’d need to work when her husband would take care of her. Heloise always thought Brielle was too angry, too rough, but now, out from under their parents’ thumb, she’s starting to think she doesn’t know her at all. They’re the closest they’ve ever been, but they’re still worlds apart, and Heloise wants to narrow that distance whether her sister approves or not. 

RENZO CAROZZA: Interest. Heloise absolutely adores the Dark Lady. It’s full of beautiful, interesting people all of the time, and all they want is to know more about her and maybe have a drink on her (or rather, Brielle’s) dime. She’s quite happy to talk about her life with anyone who might wish to know, and there’s no one she likes telling more than Renzo. He’s too old for her, she knows that, and he’s much too beautiful for her, but she doesn’t care. His eyes seem to hypnotize her into forgetting all about that the moment he sits beside her. His voice hums low in her ear and makes her want to spill every secret she has, just so he’ll look at her with that slight satisfaction, just so he’ll keep looking at her the next time she comes around. She knows she doesn’t have a chance, but she also knows she won’t get anywhere with anyone if she doesn’t try. She keeps throwing herself forward, no matter how often Renzo leans back. 

MARCELO ROSSO: Curiosity. She rarely saw them at first, and mostly when they needed to speak with Brielle, but that won’t stop such a romantic mind as Heloise possesses. She’s never seen someone so attractive look so angry about it all the time, and she can’t help but wonder what it would take to make that sort of person satisfied with their life. Still, every time she thinks about talking to them, she squeaks and passes them off to whoever they actually need to talk to. The intensity of their gaze is something she’s never had much experience with, and their attention on her feels sharp, almost painful in her chest. It’s the kind of pain she can’t help but investigate, a moth drawn to an angry, brightly burning flame. It will probably get her burned. They definitely don’t seem impressed with anything she can come up with to say. Still, Heloise can’t help herself; she wants to know what might, for a moment, put that fire out. 

REGINA DALY: Secret. Despite being one of the first people she was told not to interact with, Heloise has had a surprising amount of fun talking to Regina. They’re different from anyone she’s ever met, and whenever she can catch them, she asks them another thing she’s come up with to be curious. So long as no one’s there to tattle on her, she pokes as close as she can before Regina gets bored, then beats a hasty retreat, only to come back for more the week after. Heloise is a mess of emotions, and Regina seems to feel none at all; how can she stay away from such an impossible curiosity? She doesn’t know how, and her self control is thin, no matter how much danger it puts her in. 

Heloise is portrayed by SHARON ALEXIE and was written by ROGUE. She is currently TAKEN by ADRI.

[r-siken-deactivated20210531]

saying your names, richard siken

[lamprius]

[heloisem]

tomassabello·:

🎬Troilus & Hero, Scene II

Date: May 17th, 2019.  Time: Early Afternoon. Place: General Hospital of Verona Availability: closed to @heloisem·

The balloons in Tomas’ grip are rivaled only by the even more colourful bouquet of flowers sitting in the crook of his arm, as he knocks discreetly before shouldering his way into Heloise’s hospital room. 

“Buon pomeriggio, little lady.” He greets her, grateful to see that she’s looking better than she was two nights ago, and sitting up in bed. “I meant to drop by yesterday but my throat was killing me and i had the mother of all migraines from that tear gas… How are you? Are your eyes okay? How’s the arm?” The actor asks, leaning the bouquet gently on her lap when she forgets to take it, all whilst beaming up at him. 

He considers the balloons in his grip for a moment. They aren’t bundled as they were meant to be; a last minute choice when he’d removed the band while in the elevator. Now, his gaze flickers to Heloise before he unfurls his fingers abruptly, and each balloon goes bouncing, floating, dancing into the air. It’s hard to tell whether it’s Heloise or the older man himself who is more delighted by the sight, as balloons drift prettily around the bedbound patient.

“Wow… Always wanted to do that.” He grins, ignoring the various aches and bruises in his body that protest each movement as he eases himself into her guest chair. “So! What do you say? Wanna be my sidekick next time I shoot an action movie? I think you’ve got all the makings for it.” He teases her, hoping to lift her mood.

A bouquet of white daisies perfume her hospital room as Tomas makes his presence known. Heloise gifts him a smile accompanied by a brief hello while observing the flowers he placed upon her lap. They aren’t her favorite, white daisies, but she vows to treasure them all the same. He should’ve gone for red roses. They bleed an overwhelming amount of passion and hold little confessions of adoration in unfurling petals of red.

“You’re here now,” Heloise reminds him, holding the daisies in her grasp with meticulous care, her eyes peering into his. “I’ve seen better days, but I believe it would have ended a lot differently had you not been there.” Tomas cradles her delicate heart in his hands, and she hopes that he’ll be gentle with it.

The balloons drift high as Tomas releases his grasp, and they float around like rustling leaves in the wind. Heloise bursts into a fit of laughter as she studies Tomas with a watchful eye, and it dawns on her how lucky she truly is. He has an insufferable amount of charm, an admirable amount of courage, and a great deal of money, more than he knows what to with, she’s certain.

“Action movies are quite overwhelming, don’t you agree?” She places the bouquet back on her lap as she pats the spot next to her, motioning for him to sit. “What about romance? Long walks on the beach under the moonlit sky, fleeting glances, gentle kisses, picnics in the garden…” Heloise sighs wistfully, her heart in a frenzy. Tomas holds the bow and arrow, she the foolish heart, and Heloise wonders how long it will take for him to strike. “Don’t you just love the idea of love?”