Horatio

I am more an antique Roman than a Dane — Hamlet; V, 2, 3999 Hector Sawiris, twenty-seven Montague

[horaetiyo-blog]

pandoraxrhee:

Pandora groaned as she collapsed on the couch, she was beyond sore and had a pounding headache from the awful blow Theodora had delivered just hours earlier. The ice pack she had wasn’t doing much to help with the pain and as she popped in a couple pain killers, she flipped on the TV. Nothing particularly interesting was on, but she needed something to just numb her mind.

For a woman, with a new busted lip and black eye, one might have imagined she had lost the fight, but it had ended in a tie, as Pandora was able to deliver enough blows, even with her still healing bullet wound to maintain her own.

Pandora lived alone in her apartment. The place was rather large and the entire property was beautiful- a showcase of the best Verona had to offer- one of the perks of coming from money. Although she made her own money now, she had never had the heart to sell the place. Too much had happened there for her to part with it so willingly. Her eyes flickered back to the TV, and she sighed heavily as she heard the faintest of knocks.

Assuming her mind was simply playing tricks on her due to exhaustion, Pandora ignored the noise, figuring no one would be at her place at this time, especially with all the chaos that had occurred earlier. As she heard another knock she did her best to push herself out of the comfy couch, and hobbled over to the door, quickly noting an equally bruised, but familiar face.

Unlocking the door she frowned (which only made her face ache more), “What are you doing here? You should be at home resting- nevermind, just come inside,” she quickly adding stepping inside so Hector could enter.

“Sit down,” she insisted, as she closed the door behind him, “You do not look good. Did you see a doctor?”

“I wanted to make sure you’re alright.” Hector stepped into Pandora’s apartment, absently rubbing the bruise that had bloomed across his hand (concentrating under his own ring).

Hector offered Pandora a small smile, his lip protesting just that little bit. “I’m terribly sorry for not checking in on your injuries before now— the one from the masquerade and all.” At her command, Hector gingerly sat down on one of the seats and tried to not jostle his ribs (which were hurting more and more the longer the day went on), or press on any bruises.

If blood wasn’t doing a good job of blocking his nose, Hector might have snorted at Pandora’s rather blunt statement. “I’m sure I don’t look too well, and, no, I’ve not seen a doctor — I’m not hurt that badly.”

— that sounds like a lie even to me.

Hector decided to rephrase his statement. “Others are hurt worse; they’d need the attention more than me.” He rolled his shoulders up in a shrug, wincing as he did the movement.

“But how are you?” he asked, “Your eye is bruising quite deep— did you go to hospital and get it checked?”

[horaetiyo-blog]

Date: 14 January Time: 12:03pm Location: Hector’s place Closed: @h-godrej

Hector was puttering around his flat, ribs protesting with movements more and more. He was in pain but it was nothing compared to what some of the other Montagues were dealing with — nothing compared to what some of the civilians were dealing with.

— don’t be selfish, Hector, so many people have it worse than you.

The thought was sharp like the stab of pain in his torso when he stretched to grab a glass in the cupboard above him. Filling the glass with water but setting it down on the counter, Hector glanced at his phone.

It sat, screen unlocked and bright, open to a text chat with Hiran.

[dec.31]

i made lunch if you want some pls dont work too late tonight we’re going out remember? so come help me eat this food holy shit i made too much i need help it’s ur faaavourite

[jan. 1]

how’s your head? mine’s HORRIBLE.

[jan. 13]

hiran im sorry please im so sorry

There was a message typed out but not sent, one that had been typed, and deleted; typed again, and deleted again. Hector wanted his best friend to have some peace, wanted to comfort him, wanted him to not be hurting.

But was Hector even allowed to be a comfort to Hiran anymore?

Was he allowed that privilege? After he fucked the enemy? After he decided that loneliness was a worse offense than losing his best friend’s the love of his life’s trust? After causing pain and making Hiran suffer?

Hector could feel the prick of tears in his sore eyes — bruised from Lucrecia almost breaking his nose with a strategic punch to it with her rings on — they burned from the salt, and from the lack of sleep that had been plaguing Hector. It wasn’t just guilt that kept him up, but the pain his body was in. Sore skin, healing cuts, broken ribs — none of those things made for an easy sleep, or even an easy day. Moving made his breath hitch in pain, sharp intakes betraying each stab of his ribs.

The lock on his front door jostled.

“Hello?” Hector couldn’t think of anyone with a key that would be visiting him. “I’m not taking any visitors,” he said, but the lock had already turned, and the handled twisted for the door to open.

[horaetiyo-blog]

santinosebastian:

@horaetiyo

Guilt was a monster that roared within him. He’d known. He’d been told something was going to happen at the Pallo, that they needed to take precautions. And he had said nothing. It hadn’t just been Capulets that had been hurt. It was not just civilians, but even Montagues had come out of the encounter scathed, not just emotionally but physically as well. Tiberius had almost killed Valantina. Brielle King had been taken to hospital, and Hector… his blessed friend Hector had been beaten by Lucretia Falco.

Today, Santino was attempting to make up for the kindness Hector had shown him after the masquerade. He couldn’t cook well enough to bring food, but he offered something else, something a little bit different, and when Hector finally appeared, Santino reached out to hug him with a gentle touch that belied his strong arms, kissing him on each cheek then cupping him behind the neck.

“I’m so very glad to see you, my friend.” And he meant every word with almost implausible sincerity. “I hope what I offer you can compete with the comfort you gave to me when I was in your shoes, but if it does not, you must forgive me.” He lifted his head, gesturing toward the sign they were standing under.

Verona Animal Rescue & Shelter

“I volunteer here sometimes, and today… well, today felt like the kind of day for it. Will you accompany me? There’s rarely a peace that competes with walking and feeding homeless puppies.”

Hector wanted to rest, but his own antsy energy — almost like the adrenaline that had coursed through his veins during his fight a few days prior was still hyping him up — wouldn’t allow him to sit still, wouldn’t allow him to rest and heal. Santino’s invitation to go out was a welcome distraction. It gave Hector an excuse to leave his flat — not that anyone was telling him that he couldn’t — but it also gave him an excuse to stop staring at his phone.

A text to Hiran typed out.

Deleted.

Typed out.

Deleted.

Hector almost didn’t bother to bring his mobile with him. But that little voice at the back of his head, that one filled with anxiety and doubt, yelled that if Hiran needed him he’d call, and if Hector didn’t pick up what sort of friend was he?

The thoughts of failing Hiran again occupied Hector’s thoughts until he rounded a corner and saw Santino. The hug, initially, made Hector stiffen in the expectation of pain from his cracked (broken? Hector still hadn’t bothered to get it confirmed) ribs, which made pain stab him anyway. A hiss of pain escaped Hector, but he returned the gentle hug, and the pair of kisses.

The hand on his neck was a welcome weight.

“I’m glad to see you as well, amico mio.” Hector smiled, the scab covering a good portion of his lower lip and a small cut into his upper lip above it stretching and threatening to open again. Santino seemed to radiate sincerity; kindness. Hector wanted to hold him safe and keep the dirt — the blood — that saturated Verona off of him. “And never worry, your company is a great comfort.”

A gesture to the sign above them.

Hector looked up.

His smile widened. “Of course I will accompany you. It will be nice for there to be some peace in the world.” Hector pulled the door of the shelter open, holding it for Santino. “Though, my friend, I may have to forgo walking a puppy — they pull and I’m sorry to say my ribs are protesting simply from standing. Are you alright though? My apologies for making this all about myself.”

“However there are few things more comforting than the company of a friend.” Hector had a flash of Hiran’s face — hurt; upset; angry — play in his mind. Looking at the puppies all excitedly wagging their tails — some wagging them so much that their back ends were shaking them almost off their feet — Hector asked, “Who are you thinking of walking this time?”

[horaetiyo-blog]

Date: 13 January Time: 2:15pm Location: small, hole-in-the-wall café; Montague side Closed: @romanmontague

Hector sat in a corner seat at one of many hole-in-the-wall cafés — a small space, only three tables inside, with most of its seating on a patio outside (though currently closed except to those that dared brave the colder weather) that when the weather was agreeable, had flower boxes lining the wrought-iron half-fence — that lurked in Verona on the Montague’s side of Castelvecchio. Demitasse cold and his bruised hands shaking, he hadn’t been bothered to drink his coffee while it was hot, positioning his fingers to hold the small cup made his hands ache but that wasn’t why he’d left his coffee alone.

He’d heard news of what had happened to Hiran.

Stomach in knots, nausea twisting and stabbing and wringing. The burn of bile sat in the back of his throat. Hiran had been hurt, this was Hector’s fault. This was all his fault, all his fault. It could have been different. It could have been worse—

— could it really have been worse? Hiran was injured. It’s my fault. There isn’t anything more grave an offense than that.

Hector swallowed, the lump forming in his throat feeling like a boulder obstructing his airway. His hands shook. His eyes stung.

A deep, measured breath. A throb of pain that stabbed him in his ribs; that pulsed in his wounds and bruises and scabs on his face. Tears pricked his eyes — bloodshot from lack of restful sleep — and when he glanced up from staring down at his cup, the sheen of tears made his eyes seem an even deeper green.

“Hey,” a quiet acknowledgment, cracked and pained, but still an acknowledgment. A sharp intake of breath as he shifted and agitated his cracked (broken? He didn’t know) ribs. “How are you holding up?”

[horaetiyo-blog]

Date: 9 January Time: 10:45pm Location: Pandora’s Place Closed: @pandoraxrhee

To say that Hector was sore was a gross understatement — he was in pain, every breath hurt, which he suspected was from a cracked (or broken) rib or two in addition to his near-broken nose. Though Hector refused to get his ribs checked, he figured if he didn’t have doctor confirmation that they were cracked or broken then he didn’t have to admit they were. He wanted to check in on Pandora though; he needed to.

He went to knock on her door, but stopped when he saw the brilliant purple and blue, with a mottled green accent, bruise that had developed across his knuckles in the hours since his fight with Lucrecia. Instead, he decided to bang on the door with his palm — it still hurt but not nearly as much as striking his bruised knuckles would have.

“Pandora, please open up,” his voice sounded wheezing, like it hurt even to talk, and a little bit stuffed up from all the blood dried in his nose. He felt on edge still, hands vibrating still from the adrenaline rush from his fight with Lucrecia, it was dark but that glow of dust still was settled around much of the city — that was the thing with bombings, they always left such a mess.

Hector absently caught his lip between his teeth, immediately regretting it when the torn, scabbed-over part of his split lip shot sharp pain in protest.

— please don’t bleed, please don’t bleed, please don’t bleed.

The thought repeated and repeated, he really didn’t want to have to try and wash more blood out of his clothes today. Everything hurt, he didn’t want to do more hand-washing, and he certainly didn’t want to have to replace his clothes.

“Ugh,” the noise slipped out as his lip throbbed, “please just open up.”

[horaetiyo-blog]

h-godrej:

The redness of Hector’s cheeks had been impossible to miss. It was the same color that greeted him during those endless moments of laughter, the ones where Hiran would tease his best friend, waiting for a reaction or rebuttal. Except … this wasn’t a laugh; and that color was meant for someone else ( the mere thought enough to make his blood boil ). To associate Hector with that – that FIEND had been maddening. And yet, the evidence couldn’t be denied.

“I know because you fucked him,” he hissed. The truth had been like ice water, cold enough to burn. And there was so much anger submerging from the depths: fury at Hector, Orion, HIMSELF. Hiran always thought his best friend could never do any wrong; and perhaps that belief shattering made the situation even more appalling. 

He trusted…

…  and inevitably got betrayed. 

As if Hiran’s suspicions weren’t bad enough, now his head was spinning with the possibilities of something more. Hector – capable of lying – capable of deceit – capable of HURT ( capable of murder? ). No . . no, no that, couldn’t be; his father had cared for Hector. They were inseparable growing up, constantly in need of the other’s company. They were … not like this. 

Suddenly, Hiran’s heart felt heavy, and his mind craved for a sense of peace. None of which would be easily given to him, for his hands shook with the urge to FIGHT and break; a feeling that was never supposed to be directed towards his best friend. 

“ – my mother, Hector. She - she was in the hospital for days, and you - how could you?” How could his best friend tangle lips with the man responsible? Had he not cared? Had Hiran not mattered? Had his mother not been significant? He took a few steps back, shocked to verify the truth that slipped from the Capulet ( even more scared to learn the answers of his remaining questions ). 

“ – you’re just sorry you got caught.” The words tumbled without a second thought, his fingers itching for the door. For even running wouldn’t stop reality from biting his ankles. 

( “I know because you fucked him” )

The words made Hector wince. He hated them, he hated Orion, he hated himself — because who else to blame for this whole mess but himself? Hector whispered another apology after Hiran’s accusation; after his statement of what Hector had done.

The shame Hector felt, heavy and thick; viscous and sticky, coating everything — everything — in its path in a cold, ruined mess, made him blink tears from his eyes. Hiran didn’t deserve this. He didn’t, he didn’t.

— I did this to him.

The thought was quiet, but it felt as if the weight of the world was carried in it. At Hiran’s mention of his mother — of Giya, who Hector respected (does Hiran really think so little of him now?) — and the hurt tone to Hiran’s voice in his accusation made Hector feel like he’d been stabbed.

He’d done this to Hiran. He was the cause of Hiran’s pain — it would be simple to pin it all on Orion, make the man the focus of the- the-

— the betrayal.

Hector couldn’t finish his thought. But all at once it tumbled down on him.

— I betrayed Hiran, I betrayed him, I betrayed him.

“I didn’t sleep with Orion after Giya was put in hospital, Hiran, it was before the masquerade. I- I just- it was a mistake,” Hector’s words sounded canned even to his own ears. He knew he was telling the truth but what does it matter? What does it matter if he’s telling the truth when Hiran is so pained? When Hiran has been so wounded with it? Hector has always meant to protect Hiran; keep him safe; keep his trust. But how could he now?

He doesn’t deserve to have Hiran’s trust, or love, or friendship.

Hector wanted to cry.

“I’m truly sorry, my friend. Please, please believe me on that.” Hector bit his lip and continued, “It was a mistake.” He sounded defeated, a slight shake on his voice that was low and quiet. He wanted to react with anger, wanted to accuse Hiran right back — but for what? His vices? Them being as bad as they were was the fault of Hector — if he’d been better, if he’d been more attentive to Hiran, then they wouldn’t have such a hold over his best friend.

This was Hector’s fault.

This was all Hector’s fault.

“But I-” did he really want to venture there? What else was there to lose? “I didn’t lie to you. You never asked. I didn’t tell you an untruth. I simply didn’t share the information so freely.” Hector set his jaw, and stared Hiran down. “I didn’t lie to you.”

[jilyislife]

Reblog this with your -astrological sign -mb personality type -Hogwarts house

I want to see if I can find a perfect match (and for other people to find their matches)

[horaetiyo-blog]

h-godrej:

“What’s happened?”

Such a normal question, much like the way Hector reaches for him. An instinctive touch, one that belongs to a friend – and yet, Hiran can’t seem to return it. His arms stay limp to his sides while his mind rages with the possibilities of something more. The wicked words echo from the fresh memory, replaying over and over again like a broken soundtrack. 

“ –  he wouldn’t lie to you. Would he?” 

There is a doubt, forming inside his head; doubt against his best friend ( and Hiran hates it, wants to free himself from it ). He steps into the apartment, the cozy familiarity doing nothing to appease the way he stands so tensely. Hiran is not here for comfort; he is here to seek the truth ( for the truth seems to have a way of hiding itself from the Montague ). 

“Do you know Orion Massetti? Because he seems to know you very well,” he hisses the name as if it almost burns his mouth with disgust, “birthmark on your right hip? Scar on the left? Is this true?”   

Hector couldn’t help the sharp intake of breath at Hiran saying — spitting — Orion’s name; he’d never intended for Hiran to find out about him and his mistakes. But at that thought — at him admitting that he had every intention of keeping something from Hiran — Hector felt the all-too-familiar feeling of shame (thick, muggy, choking) settle on his chest. “I- I…,” Hector tried to talk, but Hiran continued; it’s not like Hector knew what he’d say to the spat out name — what could he say? No? Would Hector really lie right plain to his best friend, who was so out of sorts that he found himself at his flat in the early hours of the morning?

The description of his body — so foreign coming from Hiran (who Hector was sure would never know those details of him) — made Hector flush. Whether it was from embarrassment, or anger, or a combination of the two, the deep red was accompanied with wide eyes and a gasp. “How- Hiran, how do you know about those?”

Then it clicked.

Orion.

“I don’t know what he said to you but—” Hector didn’t want to lie to Hiran, and that was right where he was heading. “I mean, he just— he—” Hector couldn’t find the words he wanted, the words he needed.

He just wanted to soothe Hiran, not make him more upset. What sort of friend — what sort of best friend — was he in this moment? Hanging onto information that will hurt Hiran more, knowing that if he lies that Hiran would be hurt far worse, but still wanting to lie? What sort of person was he?

He hung his head, and whispered, “I’m sorry, Hiran.”

[horaetiyo-blog]

h-godrej:

time: around 2am ( after THIS ) loc: hector’s apartment  closed: @horaetiyo​

“Why don’t you ask him if you still don’t believe me?”

That MONSTER’s words still ringed throughout his ears, almost in disbelief. Hiran had only wanted a sense of peace, to return the favor for the injuries caused upon his mother ( he couldn’t lose her, not after the sudden death of his father ). He shook his head, all thoughts racing while that sweet voice inside his mind whispered,

                          Hector is the sun; but even the sun can burn. 

There was only one way to seek the truth, to hear it from the mouth of someone he trusted. It seemed almost ridiculous, to fall victim of something that could have easily been a lie ( in which case, there wouldn’t be anything to worry about … right? ). The Montague Captain found himself walking down a familiar path, one that seemed like home. Up the stairs to an apartment that he visited frequently, to the occupant that wasn’t supposed to – hurt him. 

NO, how could he? Hiran knew Hector, he knew his best friend. Even if his knuckles banged harshly against the front door, completely uncharacteristic of how he usually entered. There was a slight desperation, as if the truth couldn’t come any sooner ( as if the fogginess of his mind craved to be lifted ). 

“ – Hector, open up, now. Please.” 

The banging on his door made Hector jump up from where he’d been dozing — finally — at his kitchen table. He’d never been one that had sleep come easy to him, simply from feeling like he needed to be available at any hour of the day for Hiran.

Hector was wary of the banging until he heard Hiran’s voice — tight; hurt.

The stumble towards his front door was urgent, and the unlocking and opening of it equally so. “Hiran. Hiran? What’s wrong?” the sleep in Hector’s voice was quickly expelled when he saw his best friend’s face.

Quick as a shot, Hector grabbed for Hiran — to pull him in for a hug, to pull Hiran down into him so he could hide from the world, if only for a moment. Resting his cheek against Hiran’s hair for a moment before releasing his friend, Hector said, “Hiran, tell me, what’s happened?”

“Inside, inside.” Hector gently pushed Hiran further inside his home. “What has you- why are-” the right words weren’t coming to Hector — he wanted to ask what happened that was having Hiran barge into his home so early in the morning.

[horaetiyo-blog]

santinosebastian:

Sometimes it was nice to be reminded that there was still beauty in the world. Sometimes it came in the form of the sun setting over the river, in the form of a father playing board games with his children on the balcony, or like today, it could come in the form of another human being’s heart.

He felt so out of place in the mob that he was surprised at the number of people who had taken the time to visit him. Hector wasn’t as much a surprise as Roman had been, for they’d always got along well, but going so far as to prepare an entire mean for him was the kind of gift Santino couldn’t fathom. He and Valentina had been alone so long that the notion of anyone else caring about him was almost entirely foreign.

But it felt nice.

“I’m a firm believer in the fact there are as many ways to be Italian as there are to be masculine,” he said with a smile, though he couldn’t have guessed Hector wasn’t much of a drinker based on the amount he’d consumed at the ball. Perhaps that was why he wanted to abstain. “You can have water, juice, soda, even warm milk, if it pleases you. I don’t judge. And warm milk can be utterly fantastic.” He remembered one night where, no matter how hard he’d tried, he couldn’t sleep. A mug of milk warmed in the microwave, like the way the nuns at the orphanage had done it, and he’d dozed off like a baby.

Santino couldn’t deny that he was hurt. Physically, he’d rarely felt worse. His whole body ached, but it felt like complaining to say it out loud. “I still don’t know why they attacked me other than ‘just because’,” he said with a shrug. “I had a drink with one of them - they call him Orpheus - at the bar earlier that night. It was a pleasant conversation. But foreboding, I suppose. It just goes to show how things can change when the masks come off. But the food is the best thing that’s happened to me today, so thank you.”

The look on Santino’s face — something that Hector couldn’t quite place but welcomed from the softness of it — comforted Hector. Santino was what some of the others in the mob would call soft; too soft; far too soft. It was unfortunate when someone so soft and caring was subjected to such terrible choices.

Hector’s first instinct was to try and protect him from the horrors of being a soldier for the Montagues. Hector wanted to save someone so kindhearted from the evil that may very well creep into his heart.

Though it had yet to gain any purchase in Santino.

If Hector was able to show this soul, this fellow bleeding heart, this fellow family (because weren’t all those in the Montagues family?), that he wasn’t alone in his kindness, and that Hector would gladly return it; gladly take the burden from Santino and put it upon his shoulders while repeating reassurances.

It’s not too heavy; I don’t mind; let me help you; stay soft, stay soft, stay soft.

Hector looked down, touching his forefinger to the tip of his nose for a moment, before another smile broke out on his face. “Yes, of course. Of course there are many, many, ways to be Italian, and to be masculine, and to be both at the same time.” A puff of a laugh escaped Hector. “Of course it is finding the way that suits you best that is the difficult part.”

Waving his hand, fingers relaxed but palm open, as well as giving Santino a short shake of his head, Hector said, “No, my friend, I will drink your offered wine. But only one glass; maybe even half.”

“Sometimes people are cruel to be cruel.” Hector’s answer was simple, and he didn’t want to believe the words he’d said, but he couldn’t deny them. If he did, it would only be a short time before the times that Hector himself had done or said things simply to be cruel would flood his mind. “I had my fair share of pleasant conversations that would never have happened without the anonymity of the mask, though there were certainly some clipped conversations as well; uncomfortable ones.”

Hector grabbed a forkful of the tartiflette and blew on it as a precaution. “And I’m glad you’re pleased with it. It’s just a recipe that I like to attempt every-so-often. I hope it sits well in your stomach — sometimes such a heavy dish doesn’t. I don’t think this is one of Hiran’s favourites, he never seems to come over when I’ve made it.”

[horaetiyo-blog]

everettcraven:

There was a subtle intimacy that could be found in the loneliness that persisted even when surrounded by a crowd of people begging for potential friendships. Everett rarely engaged in the conversations thrown his way by a stranger in a bar, finding the entire experience tedious for a far too sober mind. Perhaps if he were to lower himself to the same drunkenness that allowed for their limbs to fall loose and their mouths to run wild, Everett would manage to find a friend in the crowd of strangers surrounding him. But he knew he would never do such a thing; it was unbecoming. Instead, Everett would be content to remain an observer in the careful chaos that surrounded the drunken actions taking place around him.

The soft tap on his shoulder flooded him with an unintended annoyance. Knowing it was better to entertain whatever fool yearned for conversation than start a fight, Everett turned to address the offending limb’s owner. Facing the familiar voice but unfamiliar face, Everett narrowed his eyes in a considerate glare. He knew the man before him, but he could not find a memory to assign such recognition.

You’re not Easton.

A flash of gold, lost in a recollection Everett would rather forget, brought a realization as to why he knew this man. This man was the reason Everett’s body was littered with bruises, remnants of an anger only Easton was allowed to inflict. It was under this stranger’s drunken insult that Everett had felt his defenses rise with unforgivable offense and caused the rift between him and his brother to grow tenfold.

“Yes, you would be correct,” he said. “However, you might consider learning someone’s name before you attempt to address them in… unfriendly territory.”

“Then consider this my bid to learn someone’s name. And it’s only as unfriendly as you choose to make it.” Hector measured his response, making sure that he wasn’t using the wrong tone; not using one that would offend. “And I was, honestly, unaware that such a place was unfriendly. I’m… I’m simply looking for someone.”

Hector figured it was easier to tell the truth, or at least part of one, to try and apologise for whatever slight he’d caused against this Not-Easton.

— what was the other Craven’s name again? Easton doesn’t really mention him….

“You seem out of place at a place like this,” Hector chanced, “but I’m out of place as well. It’s not common for me to frequent bars; I’m, again, looking for a friend of mine.”

Hector would not say Hiran’s name, knowing that there would most likely be far more recognition in Hiran’s name than Hector’s own, simply through their positions within the Montague family.

“If you even care to be less than strangers, I may as well start with my name; it’s Hector.” He extended his hand to the other man, the angle a little bit awkward but not enough to be explicitly so.

Hector didn’t want to get into the habit of rubbing elbows with more Capulets, but he was on their side of Castelvecchio it seemed. And that meant that he must be at least civil to any that he encountered — at least until they proved themselves hostile.

[horaetiyo-blog]

orionmassetti:

Clumsy hands scrabbled for purchase, fingers curving like claws around the contours of his shoulder. And Orion turned to make out the man who’d accosted him in the dimly lit hall leading to the men’s room. Tasteless. Couldn’t a gentleman have the privacy of taking a piss without–

A pause. And recognition settled into the upward curve of Orion’s mouth, sparkling in the fond glitter in his eyes. “Hector. Darling.” Here was the forbidden Montague fruit he had the pleasure of sinking his teeth into. But it seemed the sweetness had rotted into something bitter, something sour as Hector spat venom and hate and an accusation–what are you doing here?

“Aren’t we asking the obvious questions this evening. And here I thought we were beyond wasteful, small talk.” A sigh. “Enjoying myself, of course.” And Orion clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Tsk, tsk, tsk. “Though the same can’t be said of you. My lovely Hector, you’ve worked yourself up. Drowning in self-deprecation again are we?“

Orion wrapped a hand around Hector’s wrist to pull the man’s hand off him. “Now–are you here to blame me for your mistake? Spreading your legs for a Capulet? I seem to recall you did so willingly.”

His expression was mild, his voice insidious. “Don’t forget you begged for it.”

Hector felt shame was over him like waves in a storm, but there was also the fire of broken pipes — Orion’s tone grated on his nerves, but the sound of his voice, of the memories that were attached to that same voice.

Oh, the memories.

And, of course, the frustration that was attached to that voice.

Hector swallowed, a scowl still gracing his features, he could feel his heart start to beat faster — whether from the memories that were flooding his mind, or the frustration that he was setting his jaw, he didn’t know. Oh, how he loathed this man.

But, oh, how he wanted him.

It wasn’t something that Hector ever wanted to admit to himself — that he wanted to have something more than just a quick tryst with the likes of someone like Orion. That, sometimes, when Hector was feeling particularly lonely, he would entertain the thoughts of having someone so extravagant, so attentive to his wants, so— forbidden, all to himself. To be able to be flaunted; shown off; taken pride in; wanted.

Ripping his wrist out of Orion’s grip and shoving Orion in one swift movement, Hector found himself pressing a kiss to Orion’s mouth — rough, and desperate, and steeped in the hate he felt for both himself and the man he was kissing.

[horaetiyo-blog]

clarksgodrej:

Hector’s hangover was painfully obvious, and Clark almost felt sorry for him. It must have been quite a night for him to be taking refuge in a church. Part of him wondered if Hector had even managed to go to bed yet. His eyes looked red raw and painful.  His eyes had always looked too big for him, especially when he had been a lanky teenager.

He wasn’t sure exactly what to say to him. The only reason he had stuck up conversation was that it would have looked awkward not to. Clark nodded shortly at Hector, a quick assurance that he didn’t require any further explanation. Hand-waving was good enough for him. The people chatting behind them had gone quiet, and the silence was welcome. But now there was the heavy presence of Hector next to him that he now how to deal with.

“Considering,” Clark agrees with something almost like a smile. Hector was always a good kid, always tried to make conversation with him when they were in the kitchen each waiting for Haresh and Hiran. He’d never really bitten, always been coolly polite. The internship had almost been an apology. He hoped it had helped with Hector’s job prospects – but he didn’t care enough to ask.

“Good night, was it?”

If Hector wasn’t feeling as run ragged as he did, the awkwardness that was creeping in on him would have felt stifling — he hoped he was saying the right things.

— this is still Hiran’s uncle, Hector, he’s known you for a long time. It’s only as awkward as you make it.

The thought wasn’t as comforting as he intended it to be.

— just listen to him, he’s talking to you

Hector jumped a little when he got out of his thoughts, giving Clark a wide-eyed look. “I- um, yeah I guess it was. It really depends on what you consider a good night.” Hector had flashes of the night play through his mind — Hiran and him having a deep conversation on the nature of blind hate, and then one of blind love, the singing, the dancing, the yelling as the new year was brought in. Things that were expected when celebrating a new year.

Drunken adventures weren’t on the top of Hector’s list of ‘good nights’ but at least there was no deaths, and at least he got to celebrate the birth of a new year with his best friend.

“I mean, yes- yes it was a good night. Drank a bit too much, sang — well more yelled — danced, just had a fun time. Hiran and I had some good conversation, and he crashed on my couch yester— well, early this morning.” Hector closed his eyes for a beat, scrunching his face, and had a wave of nausea hit him. He swallowed, and wet his lips, opening his eyes wide to try and combat the sick feeling. “I’ve not slept yet, and I’m sure it looks it. But, how was your New Years Eve?”

[horaetiyo-blog]

santinosebastian:

He’d had so many visitors over the last few days that he’d barely known what to do with himself. His body ached in a way he’d never felt before and he could barely bring himself to even go out for groceries. All he could say was thank for god home deliveries and takeout. Hector though, bless his heart, had saved Santino the trouble.

His heart soared when he saw Hector standing at the door just based on the virtue of seeing a familiar and friendly face. This wasn’t a visit out of obligation. It was one based on friendship, and Santino would have been thrilled to see him even without the food in his hand. “You’re a friend indeed,” Santino greeted, bringing Hector into a gentle hug, both due to a combination of not wanting to knock the food out of his hand and the aches in Santino’s bones.

“I’m sure you’re cooking is amazing. It smells great.” He gestured for Hector to follow him inside, leading him to the spacious kitchen area and bringing out two plates and a bottle of wine. “We’re Italian,” he said with a wink. “It’s never too early.” And so he poured them each a glass, taking a seat at the table. “You weren’t hurt the other night, were you?” he asked, trying not to kill the mood but realizing he had lost track of Hector amidst all the chaos. Hector didn’t look injured, but looks could be deceiving…

Hugging Santino back with a matched gentleness — he knew that Santino was likely still hurting, and the last thing on Hector’s to-do list was to worsen his pain — Hector rested his head softly against the curve of Santino’s shoulder.

Hector beamed at the compliment to his cooking, of course it was polite — as they always were before the eating of offered food — but Hector was just confident enough in his cooking skills to take the compliment. He followed Santino inside, setting the bag that he’d not-so-carefully used to transport the container of tartiflette he’d prepared on the table.

While Santino poured the wine, Hector unpacked the food he’d brought. He let out a breath of a laugh at Santino’s comment about the wine. “I’m a sorry excuse for an Italian — I’m not much for wine, or for drinking, though my past actions may say otherwise.” Hector sat at the table when his friend did, he added, “Though I will not say no to a single glass, just as long as you don’t mind if I take my time to drink it.”

Uncovering the container, the beads of gathered water from the heat of the food inside falling when they were disturbed, Hector answered Santino, “No, not in any way that you should concern yourself with, my friend. You are much worse off than I am.”

“How are you feeling? Hurting, I’m sure, but how badly? Is there any way I can help?” Hector had a soft smile on his lips, and the tone of his voice matched the softness of the smile — he didn’t want to sour the mood either, but this was the first time he’d gotten to see Santino since the events of the masquerade. “I’m sure that warm food — warm, home-cooked food — will help.”

[horaetiyo-blog]

Date: 30 December Time: evening Location: bar; Capulet side of Castelvecchio Closed: @everettcraven

Hector had been making the rounds — looking in the bars for his dear friend. The night had come far too fast, soft blues reflected off cold surfaces, while being chased away by the warm golds of the interior light spilling through the windows to the uneven streets.

Hector wasn’t sure which side of Castelvecchio he was on anymore, having crossed it so many times in the evening, and, given what had happened in the week prior, wasn’t exactly a safe or smart decision on his part.

Ducking into the first bar that popped up on the street he was on, Hector shivered from the sudden warmth. He liked winter, but sometimes it was nice to chase the cold out of your bones.

Carefully navigating around the crowded tables to the bar — hoping for something warm and not alcoholic — Hector recognized one of the people in the crowd.

— is that Easton?

Hector made his way to who he thought was Easton, and tapped the other man on the shoulder before realizing his mistake. “Oh- oh, sorry,” he stammered out, “I thought you were someone else. You both look quite alike.”

Narrowing his eyes just a little, Hector chanced, “You’re not Easton, so you must be the other Craven, am I right?”

[horaetiyo-blog]

Date: 3 January Time: 10:30pm Location: The Tempest Lounge Closed: @orionmassetti

Hector’s eye caught the movement before he registered who it was tracking. Once he realized, however, the anger grew — smoldering charcoal being upset — how dare he show his face near him; how dare he be so bold.

A scowl wormed its way onto Hector’s features, his mouth screwing up in a hardly suppressed frown. But he couldn’t seem to stop his feet from taking him to where he’d seen Orion disappear off to.

What did he want from the man? Certainly not the mockery of affection they’d played at in their last one on one meeting. Hector was disgusted with himself. How could he have allowed someone like Orion know him in such a way; allow someone like Orion to have such power over him? The thoughts were bitter, and the shame he felt coupled with it wasn’t something that Hector enjoyed — no matter how common the feeling was.

Hector should really have expected to find Orion at the Tempest — where else would this have happened? Hector should have stayed with Hiran. He should have stayed in the proximity of his best friend, and he shouldn’t go looking for trouble during a time of such heightened tension. While not agreeing with the mindless violence between two families, Hector was still a Montague and Orion a Capulet.

His feet had taken him to Orion, and his hand was already rough and grabbing at Orion’s shoulder; words being spat out before fully thinking them through.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

[horaetiyo-blog]

nonsexual acts of intimacy - select from the following for my muse to respond to:

♔ : Finding your muse wearing their clothes

♕: Holding hands

♖: Having their hair washed by your muse

♗: Your muse falling asleep with their head in my muse's lap.

♘: Cuddling in a blanket fort

♙: Sharing a bed

♚: Head scratches

♛: Sharing a dessert

♜: Shoulder rubs

♝: Reading a book together

♞: Caring for each other while ill (specify which party is which)

♟: Patching up a wound

♤: Taking a bath together

♧: Your muse playing with their hair

♡: Accidentally falling asleep together

♢: Forehead or cheek kisses

♠: Your muse adjusting their jewelry/neck tie/ etc.

♣: Back scratches

♥: Your muse crying about something

♦: Slow dancing