— GOLDEN BOY.

[horatiomarchesi]

katarinadvpont‌:

There was nothing so hard-won and kept than Katarina’s affection. Certainly, the way she had removed herself from her own family was the first indication of how far she would go to be true to herself– and if her past of love that had failed her and subsequent loss of another weren’t enough reason for the cold persona she exudes in her daily life in Verona, one could look to her unforgiving career for the explanation of her iciness. But Hunter Marchesi had no connection to Verona. He’d met her after she’d had her heart broken and before she’d joined the mob, he’d met her in the spring when she’d finally decided to begin attending the exclusive LVMH events that she’d been shrugging off. And with him, the world stopped. As guarded as she had been, as many events and hours of his attentiveness as it had taken, he’d won her over. 

He’d won her affection. But, that was all. 

‘Is there anyone else?’ She can still remember his lips warm against her skin, can feel the low murmur of his voice igniting a thrill up her spine as his question made its way to her ears. No, there hadn’t been anyone else. There hasn’t been, still. While they weren’t an item, while they had no label, Katarina had no interest in looking for company from anyone else. Hunter was a safe, inconsequential choice in a lover who had no desire to claim or heal the jagged edges of whatever heart she had left.

Neither of them were after love, and that suited the both of them just fine. 

But she hasn’t seen him in months, and as his friend, that very fact pained her as much as her aching ribs– as had turning him away the day of her birthday when he’d seemed so excited, so insistent that they should celebrate. Katarina, however, knew that she’d been in no shape to fight off the exhaustion she’d felt that day and pleaded with him to postpone until tonight. Luckily for her, he’d indulged her in that request. Unluckily for her, two days hardly made a difference when it came to the worst of her injuries. Though her palazzo had been set right with furniture pulled from rooms she’d used less frequently to replace what had been vandalized while she’d spent a good part of her afternoon at a spa pampering herself, there was only so much she could do to appear more put together. And unable to shake that feeling of dread that settled in her stomach even after she’d finally settled on what to wear tonight, she sat distractedly flipping through an issue of Vogue Paris as she waited.

It disappears as soon as she sees him, delight colouring her expression in contrast to the tiredness that still marks her features. In this wretched world, at least she still had him. If even for a second, no matter how fleeting, it didn’t matter how incomplete it all was because stealing moments, having this breath of happiness was always worth it. Taking in the sight of him: from that ridiculous party hat that was ruining his hair to the happiness on his face there’s only one word to describe how she felt to see him– joy. “I’ve missed you, too,” She smilingly responds, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.. 

‘–one being myself,’ He says, and her good arm goes around him, hugging him to muffle against his shoulder the chortle of laughter that finds its way to tumble from her lips. She ignores the pain in her ribs that accompanies it. “Mon cher, you are a gift enough.” It is regrettably sweet of her to say so, knowing it will only add to his ego, but as she breathes in the familiar scent of his cologne she can’t bring herself to mind so much. Hunter was here. And as dangerous, as selfish as that was, she’s thankful for it. In another second, she’s turned her head to press a brief kiss to his lips, hand slipping to his jaw as she does so, and then Katarina steps away still shielding her left side– still smiling as she ushers him inside and locks the door behind them before walking further into her home. 

“But, can I have you without the hat? It’s a little bit much.” She jokingly reaches to pull it off of his head before she pauses, then her head tilts as she walks, eyeing what he’s carrying with him as her thumb turns a circlet on her ring finger. “What did you…?” Hunter’s company was all she wanted from him, birthday or not. But she knows him well enough by now that her birthday means his eye for detail called for more than just his coming over. “Do I need to find wine, or did you already think of drinks as well?” What she wants is to simply curl up with him. Maybe if she pouts she could have that instead of whatever he’s brought.

As a sigh escapes her, she reaches for him. “I am sorry I haven’t been able to see you. Did I miss anything good at the dinner in London?”

There’s a peace that settles in him as soon as Katarina’s arm winds around his neck. Despite everything that had happened the past few days, this felt like home -- she felt like home. It didn’t matter if they were in Paris, Milan, Rome, or Verona. Holding Katarina was catharsis at its finest, and any stress that had tried to dog him to her doorstep evaporated. He’s just reached for her when her lips find his, and fleeting as the kiss was, it offered just enough time for his hand to find her hip. It’s almost instinctual to try to pull her back in, but he’s all too aware that the light in his eyes has revealed enough about how long the past several weeks have felt. 

It’s only as she’s stepping inside that her words caught up with him, and he realized that maybe he wasn’t alone in his longing. And that’s the best word for it, isn’t it? Longing. Ever since they met, he had been chasing her. It was a game at first, bred of intrigue and a history of easy victories. She had proven to be a challenge, and Hunter had risen to it, each time just meeting her expectations before the rules would change again. Their relationship -- whatever it was -- changed with the cities, fostering something like romance in Paris before morphing into a friendly rivalry in London. Each brush drew them closer, magnetism an elusive constant as they began to learn enough about one another to brand the spark between them friendship, the evening flare going unspoken save for the night he’d dared to ask if they were exclusive somethings. They had never challenged the unspoken before, and he had no plans to delve into it tonight. Instead, he gingerly wrapped his free arm around her when she reached for him and pressed a kiss to her cheek. 

“It isn’t a proper birthday if it isn’t a little much,” he countered as he broke away and carried their supplies down the hall towards her kitchen. “I’ll ditch the hat,” he promised as he dodged her swipe with a grin. “But you aren’t getting out of dinner, which is precisely what I’ve brought. And as talented you are at wine pairings, it isn’t a proper celebration without champagne.” He placed the box of supplies on Katarina’s counter and began unpacking, seamlessly continuing conversation as he placed the boxes of carbonara and two bottles of champagne against marble. 

“As always, Elias got far too drunk far too early.” He glanced up at her, rolled his eyes. “By the second course, he had launched into a long monologue about all of his ex-wife’s transgressions, all of which we have heard a dozen times before -- except this time he did mention that her new fling was a Greene, which is interesting considering the Greene family declared bankruptcy just last month.” 

He stepped back, intent on finding plates for them, but found himself before Katarina against instead. He leaned in, pressed a quick kiss against the corner of her lips, and then set out to ransack the cupboards. 

“It goes without saying that I missed you.” It was somehow easier to say facing the china, and he took an extra second to take down the plates. “But I’m glad that you had tonight off, even if we are a couple days late. Which, before I forget...” He pulled from the box a meticulously wrapped square package and handed it to Katarina. 

She had always been somewhat difficult to shop for, and it had taken a couple months to settle on this particular gift. He’d been careful to avoid anything too romantic (they weren’t interested in love, and he had no desire to shift such a dynamic now), but a friendly bottle of wine or trip to the Coast felt too superficial. Whatever they were existed in an ill-defined foggy, gray area, and as such, Hunter could offer the only gift capable of defining such an elusive space: a collection of all their features in various tabloids, with notes scribbled in the margins of scrapbook pages detailing how he regarded the accuracy of each particular snippet of gossip. 

[horatiomarchesi]

henryzhxng‌:

whenever hunter wanted 2 come find him tbh la biblioteca di verona early evening | closed for @horatiomarchesi​

Henry is once again working late. Considering he has two extremely involved jobs, one running a multi-billion dollar international conglomerate and the other managing soldatos, it would be a wonder to see him out of the office without business to accomplish elsewhere. Now, as he makes his way back after re-shelving the volumes he’d wanted to reference through the day, he turns in the stacks and sees a less and less familiar sight. Two people in the stacks, an ambrosia deal gone wrong, and a knife in someone’s stomach.

Immediately, he springs into action. There are times he wishes death wasn’t so achingly familiar, but it’s omnipresent, even within these walls where they’re supposed to be professionals. Irritated, Henry takes the gun from the holster at his back and calmly places it against the addict’s temple, blood still dripping from the knife in his hand. ❝ I know ambrosia melts your brain out of your ears, but you rot at our pleasure. Not yours. ❞ He stinks of sweat and gore, and while they don’t have carpet in here, the blood will still stain if it lingers long enough beneath the corpse at their feet.

They stand at a crossroads for a moment, a whimper coaxed from the addict’s lips as Henry presses the barrel of his gun harder into his flesh. He probably should kill him. It’s likely what Damiano will order, considering the body belongs to someone familiar enough to be someone’s soldier. Not Henry’s. If it were Henry’s soldier, the man would already be dead. Instead, he sighs, pulling away to gesture toward the door with his gun. ❝ Go see the librarian. They’ll take care of this. ❞ 

❝ Thank you, Signor Zhang, thank you — ❞ His eyes say that he recognizes this as a mercy, but Henry isn’t done yet.

❝ They’ll also decide your punishment, ❞ he finishes, causing the addict to cower once more, flinching from the words as though he hadn’t just killed a man in a library, Montague headquarters or not. ❝ Now go, before I decide it myself. ❞

It’s all too much work. Henry can’t bother with this, not when he has a thousand other things to worry about. He looks down and realizes the viscera has gently grazed the soles of his shoes. Another pair ruined. This is his third pair this year to be soaked in blood. He sighs, longing for the pair in his office and turning to go change into them when he sees a figure emerge, clearly having watched from behind the stacks, maybe even in the empty space between books.

Henry trains his gun on them automatically. If they’re a witness he can’t control, they’ll have to die. He won’t test the bounds of his loyalty to the Montagues for this. The shadows move over his face, and when he steps forward, Henry’s eyes grow wide, everything forgotten at the sight of long familiar features.

❝ Marchesi ? ❞ he asks, confusion coloring his world in bleak shades of grey. He’s definitely a witness Henry can’t control; he’s never once been able to get a handle on Hunter Marchesi, after all. Still, it’s basic instinct to lower his gun, holstering it and stepping over the body without a thought for the gore between them. This is a dangerous place. What is Hunter doing here? He should be safe, in Rome, far from where Henry could have any way to hurt him. He shouldn’t be here, standing in the middle of a war zone, far too vulnerable for Henry’s liking. 

❝ What are you doing here ? ❞ he asks, then looks around to make sure no one’s listening. Still, he didn’t notice Hunter, did he? ❝ Wait, ❞ he cautions, ❝ let’s go to my office. We can speak freely. ❞ Henry leads the way, a thousand thoughts in his mind and no clear answer presenting itself to the mess of this situation.        

The combination of impulsive actions and deep-seated curiosity was bound to prove fatal at some point in Hunter’s life, but he hadn’t expected it to be tonight. Tonight, he had expected to be at the center Verona’s nightlife, but after a couple of drinks, the evening had proven to be far less promising that he’d hoped. He’d been scrolling through the contacts in his phone, names of those that lived in Verona jumping out at him like the neon lights of a burlesque show: Katarina, Maeve, Priam. He was weighing the pros and cons of calling each at such an hour when he reached the bottom of his contacts list. It was that very last name that became irresistible: Henry Zhang. 

It would be too easy to say that he’d nearly forgotten about his old professor. To fully forget was impossible, not when Hunter had spent three years utterly enthralled by the only person that had ever made doubt appear an asset, not when he had stayed up late each night trying to decipher the way Henry thought, not when he had felt so off when he heard that Henry was leaving Rome that he realized maybe there was something a bit more intense than professional admiration that had driven him to assist a professor in a program so perfectly opposite his own. But time had passed since then, and Hunter had learned to invest in new areas of his life. He had built up enough layers that Henry Zhang was buried deep beneath them, and only tonight did his name float to the surface and become so irresistible that Hunter set off towards the only suitable starting point: the library. 

He expected to discover the silhouettes of those studious enough to spend and evening laboring over texts and computer screens, but he’s met by soaring ceilings and vacant chairs. He walks past them as he wanders deeper into the library, eventually finding himself in the philosophy stacks. Led by nothing more than the feeling that this was oh-so-appropriate, he began scanning the spines for familiar titles. His steps are soft against the floor, a fact that he didn’t realize was important until he heard whispers so sharp they cut the air. Hunter froze, realized that they were only an aisle over. He knew he should stay still, should keep his position, should maybe even make for a quick egress, but morbid curiosity took ahold of him and he began moving slowly forward, looking for a gap between books. He stopped when he found such an opportunity, and not a moment too soon. As his stance closed, the pair on the other side of the bookshelf fell silent. The hush was short, one that suggested surprise, and it shattered with the gurgling of imminent death, the fall of a body that lacked the strength to cushion its own descent. Hunter couldn’t look away, even as the blood stained the man’s white shirt, even as it pooled beneath them. People in movies would usually vomit at this point, but Hunter felt strangely... numb. Maybe it hadn’t truly hit him yet, that he was only a foot away from violence that ended in murder, or maybe his curiosity was simply stronger than his repulsion. 

There wasn’t time to dwell on it, as a third voice joined the fray. It was instantly recognizable, even as Hunter debated the likelihood of him being here. The visual quickly stepped into view, erasing any lingering doubt. Confusion quickly slipped in, clouded his thoughts as he stared at the gun in Henry’s hand. Hunter was acutely aware that he should be afraid, should be working on exit strategy, but instead curiosity shifted to intrigue. He had never been afraid of Henry before now, and he had no plans on starting tonight, even as he towered over a dead man and a murderer. Authority draped him like a cloak, and it was with amazement rather than fear that Hunter watched as sinner turned repentant before his very eyes. 

It isn’t until the aim of the gun shifts towards him that Hunter is jarred from his role as a spectator. This wasn’t a show, which meant that he wasn’t the audience. He was a witness, and if he wasn’t dead sure of Henry’s fondness for him, he would have never stepped forward. His lips parted, a thousand greetings crowding as possibilities, but Henry’s the first to voice disbelief. Responding with a simple, “Professor Zhang?” felt out of place, and so Hunter opted for silence as he watched the conflict wage war in Henry’s eyes. He was in a precarious position, that wasn’t up for debate, and for the first time all evening, Hunter felt a slight trace of anxiety settle over him. After taking a few steps towards Henry’s office, he realized that anxiety was really just nerves. 

How pathetic. 

They weren’t able to speak freely in the hallway, but Hunter was compelled to fill the silence nonetheless. “I came to find you, naturally. Much like university, you remain my only reason for spending evenings in libraries.” It’s a quip, and it isn’t entirely true but it’s at least safe for public discourse.

He saves the more telling conversation for when they’re behind closed doors, and Hunter keeps his hands carefully tucked in his pockets lest his nerves decide to unravel his composure. “I would normally ask how life has been treating you since we last met, but it feels like a superficial topic of conversation after watching you assume control of a crime scene.”

[katarinadvpont]

HUNTER MARCHESI  — The Indulgent

“A man with charm is a dangerous thing.”

[horatiomarchesi]

paoladamasco‌:

Hunter reminded her of the same people Paola once envied. As if he was by God, the air around him glittered with gold; she could already see how effortlessly the world shifted and bent to please him. Every whim entertained, every wish granted — you would think that Paola would resent Hunter for all that he was given and all that she was not. But a knotted string tied them both together, leading back to the Montagues and whatever horrors that came with.

No, Paola doesn’t resent Hunter. Actually, she quite liked him. So many in Verona are haunted by their demons, whether they’ve chosen to run from it or fight it head-on. Hunter was a breath of fresh air, a glimpse of proof that even the best of them were not immune from Verona’s dark and greedy pull. When the two of them are together, Paola sometimes forgot about her own troubles and borrowed his own — which were far lighter to bear than her own.

She laughed at his offer, as if he needed to give anything to coax her honesty. “I didn’t realize this was an interview, but okay,” Paola agreed, playing along with whatever game he intended to play. She was, if nothing else, a good sport.

His first question surprised her, if only because Hunter seemed the type to receive everything he could ever want without ever asking. What reason did he have to doubt the world when it handed him all it had to give on a golden platter? Paola’s expression softened as she studied him, wondering if there was something she had missed.  Some insecurity or skepticism, some jaded piece of him that only revealed itself when under the light of kindness.

“Before I answer, I’m going to change the terms of the agreement,” Paola said, setting her own drink down to signify her seriousness. “I don’t want a drink for each answer, but I do want one answer of your own in exchange for mine. It seems fair — one question for a question.”

Her brows delicately arched, Paola picked up her glass again and held it out towards Hunter for him to clink his own against it. “Do we have a deal?”

          “What, are we speed dating now?” he asked, laughter bubbling to his lips like champagne as he tapped his glass against hers. There was little reason to shoot down her proposed amendment. He didn’t want to appear inflexible, and she never stated he he would have to answer honestly. “We have a deal.” 

A part of him was somewhat surprised that she cared to ask about him when he so readily appeared an open book. Pieces of his life had been scattered across tabloids and news articles, and a quick internet search could provide her with a preliminary image of just who he was. If she paid much attention to the gossip, she’d find evidence of three relationships he’d burned through in the past year. If she turned to more respected journalists, she’d find a philanthropist with a passion for the arts. Superficially, he was similar to everyone else that he knew who had been raised on diamonds and gold. 

But then, he supposed, those likely weren’t the answers to the sorts of questions she would ask. Those things defined his life before Verona, but they held little bearing in a city where the streets ran red. How you lived your life was less important than how you kept it. 

“My question still stands. Like I said, I’m boundlessly grateful, but I find it hard to believe that other initiates would be as welcoming. We aren’t officially a part of la familia yet, so you don’t owe me anything, and possibly serve to advance in ranks if you prove yourself a better recruit. In a city where power seems to rule everything, you’re still choosing to be kind. It’s a virtue that I wasn’t expecting to discover.” And he couldn’t help but wonder how it was perceived, if their superiors considered her kindness an asset or a liability. Knowing would help him decipher the values the Montagues held most dear; would ambition rule over loyalty? 

[horatiomarchesi]

alvafae‌:

Alva turned, their brows drawn together in momentary confusion. However, it didn’t take long for them to recognize the charmer: Hunter Marchesi. He was still Mr. Marchesi, to Alva, no matter how openly sincere and complimentary he had been. After all, decorum demanded that Alva try to be professional in some manner, even if Hunter’s words made them laugh, even if a wide smile transformed their face to the very picture of mirth. 

“Oh I think you could do with a little heartbreak, it might curb how many compliments you heap on my head.” 

The rebuke had no teeth, and Alva walked over to give Hunter the customary Italian greeting: a kiss to either cheek and a firm squeeze of the shoulders. 

“If you wouldn’t mind,” they said even as they linked arms with Hunter, “I would absolutely love to attend your afterparty.” 

Their initial meeting over coffee at Phoenix and the Turtle cafe was amicable. Alva learned Hunter was their age, wealthy, and a patron of the arts. He wasn’t much of a stuffy businessman, though. There had been many jokes made, a lot of laughter about things Alva couldn’t recall. It had been a lot like meeting a friend and agreeing to sing at his soirée. Except, Hunter had insisted that this was a business transaction and Alva could expect to get paid. 

The insistence was so genuine, it had charmed Alva more than their shared laughter, more than Hunter’s compliments. 

“I’m glad everyone had a good time. Was it how you envisioned? The event, I mean.” 

          There was something about the way Alva transitioned so easily from confusion to laughter that made Hunter feel at home. There was politeness but no pretense, joy but no brown-nosing. It was comfortable, and he knew that inviting Alva to grander festivities hadn’t been a mistake. 

“Break my heart and it’ll only bleed for you,” he countered just as Alva’s lips brushed his cheeks. He returned the gesture with ease, and yet again formality turned friendly as Alva’s arm linked with his. It really shouldn’t be this easy, yet even their so-called business meeting had been a jovial one. They had rapidly honed in on their similarities, and by the end of the day they had fallen into chattering in English. It carried forward even now, standing in stark contrast to the lulling Italian humming all around them. It made their conversation feel more private, though Hunter was well aware of the linguistic capabilities of his guests. 

Hunter hummed as he mulled over Alva’s question. Beside him, a waiter swooped by with a plate stacked with champagne flutes, and Hunter had to press against Alva’s side to avoid a collision. He cast Alva an apologetic glance, but regret never graced his tongue. “By and large,” he answered instead, pressing on with conversation even as music began to swell from the speakers. “There’s practically a formula to these things, just needs some mild adjustments for local tastes and artistic preference. Sometimes those adjustments ruin you, sometimes they make the evening. Much like you, really. You’re the first live singer I’ve ever commissioned for an opening. I knew the minute that I met you that it was the right decision. And if you’re wondering why I’m buttering you up so much, it’s partly due to your bloody siren song -- and maybe because I have another event in two months that could use a star.” 

He steered them towards the bar that had popped up in a corner that had previously housed an information booth. “Do you drink?” 

[horatiomarchesi]

ronanivarsson‌:

WHEN | MARCH 29, 2019 WHERE | OUTSIDE OF THE LIBRARY OF VERONA  WITH | @horatiomarchesi

ronan has better things to do than pay attention to every initiate that comes crawling to the doors of the library on hands and knees–his own sponsor was a weak man, obsessed with the gossamer thin pretense of immortality and divinity, and in turn easily done away with when the time came for ronan to take the man’s crown, his throne, even the name they had given him. he’s not interested in showing some upstart with bloody teeth and a vicious smirk the way through the geography of mafia life–and he’s sure as hell not interesting in helping that same upstart forge the blade they’ll eventually want to slide between his ribs, across his throat. not unless he can see future usefulness. a vulnerable portion of flesh that he can sink his claws into.

hunter marchesi is no exception–like a roman copy of a greek statue, it is difficult not to throw a stone among the populace of verona and not find a young man equally as gilded, raised to believe himself cherubic and angelic despite possessing the moral center of the worst kind of devils. a lifetime among the upper echelon has repeatedly proven that men like the so-dubbed horatio rarely have the stomach for the truths of gaining and maintaining power, are more interested in examining their reflection with the crown perched on their head–so he notes nothing more than the continued presence of the younger man, and moves on.

until hunter marchesi proves himself an exception to ronan’s rule, and manages to take ronan by the chin and force him to look.

he’s already late to a meeting with a (if her text messages are any indication) increasingly annoyed castora aguilar, when the young man sidles out of the library’s side entrance. even the darkness marchesi seems to have a kind of gleam, to radiate gold–ronan idly wonders if its the coloring of youth, or if its the glow of true self-assuredness, the deeply rooted belief that it is the duty of the rest of the world to move aside, to kneel. It’s enough to inspire ronan’s interest, to make him pocket the phone and take the offered bait.

“late night, for an initiate.” he says casually, raises one eyebrow. “surely there’s no one still here that could issue you an order.”

Power was an art; not only in the mastering of it, but in its presentation. The first time Hunter saw Ronan Ivarsson, he recognized a masterpiece. He’d been trained for years on how to properly appraise such pieces, and that was why he had made it a point to introduce himself the moment an opportunity arose. The occasion hadn’t precisely been thrilling (he’d had more fulfilling chatter on dance floors), but it had served its purpose: he was no longer a stranger. 

Hunter hadn’t fooled himself with misconception. He knew that Ronan wouldn’t bother taking  interest in him without intervention. After all, Hunter had heard several cautionary tales this week about initiates that never came to know the title of soldato. No one ever spoke of what ending became them, but it was easy enough to imagine the clinical demise following the union of spark with powder, or the rush of water flooding parched lungs, or even the sweetest of last meals prepared with a lethal dose of ambrosia. Regardless of their fairytale conclusion, initiates weren’t worth investing in unless they were either yours or strikingly exceptional. Considering his life and soul were already indebted to Henry, Hunter aspired to become the latter in Ronan’s eyes. 

He’d started the night they met by standing before him, proof that he could be every bit as golden as the rumors suggest. He’d planned to continue in the future by proving that blood only made golden hues shine brighter, but tonight he would settle for simply proving that the malleability of twenty-four karats was an asset ready to be exploited. 

“You’re still here, aren’t you?” he asks. He knows better than to ask why, even as curiosity nestled deep in his chest. Three months from now, he doubts that such a mundane occurrence would spike even the faintest interest, but tonight everything still felt fresh, opportunity blowing across him like fresh air. “Waiting for someone?” 

[rp-meme-glaceon]

Peer into my muse's memories

[offelipe]

rp-meme-glaceon‌:

❤️- A happy memory that makes them smile

💙- A sad memory that makes them cry

💛- A memory that makes them feel angry

💚- A memory that makes them feel guilty

💜- A memory about one of their loved ones, happy or sad

💔- A memory that leaves them feeling lonely

❣- A memory that leaves them laughing

💕- A memory about their significant other

💞- A memory about their children

💓- A memory about their friends

💗- A memory about a good deed they did

💖- A memory that made them feel special

💝- A memory that made them feel loved

💘- A memory that gets their heart pounding

💟- Wildcard!!!

[theleastuntrue]

[horatiomarchesi]

theleastuntrue‌:

Francisco Lachowski at the Third Annual Veuve Clicquot Carnaval; Miami, March 4, 2017

[horatiomarchesi]

📱 Priam ⇄ Hunter

Priam: Hello, Mr. Marchesi. Hope I didn't catch you at a bad time.

Priam: You wanking off to yourself in the mirror, for instance.

Priam: Seriously though, what's talking you so long, you twat. I need a drink.

Hunter: It's a better view than seeing your contact photo, to be fair

Hunter: And why are you in such a rush?

Hunter: The nearest decent scotch is two hours away

Hunter: Seriously, with all the influential and affluential in Verona, you'd think they would have at least one bar that serves Macallan 😒

[horatiomarchesi]

march 24, evening       katarina’s palazzo            @katarinadvpont

Hunter never missed a birthday. As soon as someone became even remotely important to him, an annual notification would find its way into his calendar. More often than not, the kilometers between modern friendships would limit the celebration to a quick text, but for a select few he would settle for nothing less than an outright spectacle. 

Katarina Du Pont was one of those people, yet he had to settle for leaving a call the night of the twenty-second. It wasn’t what he wanted, not when he knew that she was right across town, but her voice had a pleading edge to it that had given him pause. She sounded exhausted, and when she said that she felt unwell, he believed her. What happened? he’d asked, and the answer left a sour taste in his mouth: a skirmish a week before, an overload of work now. Katarina was strong, resilient. No matter how she tried to minimize it, for an injury from a week ago to be bothering still meant she was well and truly hurt. It only made him want to see her more, but she had insisted upon postponing. 

As he pulled into Katarina’s garage, he conducted a mental tally of all the ways he’d make up for the delay: a gift with a flare for the personal, enough carbonara & accoutrements for a family of four, a second bottle of champagne & flutes engraved with Katarina’s monogram, and an overnight bag. He left the latter in his trunk as he stepped out of his car. One hand balanced their evening’s supplies while the other sent Katarina the cursory arrival text: I’m here, too late to lock me out.  He slipped out of the garage, the automatic door purring closed as he made his way to her front door, and rapped his knuckles against it thrice.

Hunter has lived life in a near-constant state of satisfaction that many have mistaken for happiness. He would have agreed with them, except it would rob him of the most appropriate descriptor of the warmth he feels in his chest when he sees Katarina. There had always been something safe about her, even though they had never solidified a single moment between them. For nearly two years, they had been orbiting around one another, drawing ever closer -- until recently. He hadn’t seen her in months, and after a year of monthly getaways it felt like a lifetime. She’d been busy with work, so the excuses go, and knowing how much of herself the Carabinieri demanded, he hadn’t challenged her. He wasn’t her boyfriend. 

But he was a friend that was very intent on making the most of a belated birthday. He set his box of supplies down beside the door and withdrew a paper party hat that soon found a home atop his head. A moment later, the door opened, and a grin broke across Hunter’s face as Katarina filled its frame. 

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, diamante.” He recognized the dark purple mark of exhaustion beneath her eyes as not being entirely dissimilar to his own. More prominently, he noted the way her left arm guarded her side. It was difficult to ignore, so he decided to simply shelve it for the time being. He wasn’t here to resurrect the stress of the past few days; he was here to eradicate what burden he could. 

“Bon anniversaire,” he murmured as he pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I do come bearing gifts, one being myself.” 

[bostonpoetryslam]

I’m a moonless charcoal. A sour lover. Hidden teeth beneath the velvet. I’m here and your eyes lucky. I’m here and your future lucky. Ha. God told me to tell you I’m pretty. Ha. My skin Midas-touch the buildings I walk by. Ha. Every day I’m alive the weather report say: Gold.

Angel Nafis, “Gravity,” published in Poetry (via clizzy)

[horatiomarchesi]

march 22nd, late-night       the back courtyard of the marchesi art gallery           @alvafae

          The evening had been a roaring success. The newest gallery within the Marchesi empire had premiered under the bright lights of a new studio space and flooded with the wealthiest patrons within a fifty kilometer radius. Artists stood by their work, discussing the nature of muse and the impression of color to buyers more than willing to invest in a new piece of the world that would fit snugly above the mantle. Throughout it all, a voice as smooth as silk carried melodies that somehow served to accent every piece within the gallery.  Alva Fae was essential to the evening, and Hunter was thankful for everyone that had suggested the singer. 

As the event drew to a close and the gallery’s lighting dimmed to signal a transition from professional soiree to celebratory afterparty, Hunter made for the stage. 

“Hope you weren’t planning on running away just yet,” he said, bracing his elbows against the top of a nearby speaker as he glanced up at his costar of the evening. “After a night spent listening to a voice like that, I’m half in love. Don’t break my heart so early in the night.” He grinned up at Alva, the kindness offering a way out should Alva have other plans. “Afterparty for the artists starts now, and considering your work was complimented as frequently as everyone else’s, you’re as welcome as anyone. Maybe even moreso, considering everyone else was merely given a paper invitation.” 

[horatiomarchesi]

april 4th, evening       the two gentlemen            @paoladamasco​

          If you had told him a month ago that going out for drinks would one day feel strange, Hunter would have laughed in your face and suggested that such an idea could only be driven by someone who has already had one too many. Drinking at a bar or restaurant felt just as natural as sitting in class or strolling through an art gallery; it was simply one of the many stops one made as they progressed through life. For him, it was always a pleasurable layover. 

Tonight was different. This place looked similar to many others, popping a unique identifier every here and there to instill brand recognition, but it was the atmosphere was different. It was as if there were electricity in the air, sparking between individuals and keeping everyone expectant. It was his fist evening drinking at a bar that teetered so precariously at the edge of the earth, and perhaps it would have affected him more if he hadn’t already learned that this was simply the pulse of Verona herself. Whatever this was, it would become his new normal. 

Luckily, he wasn’t alone in his pursuit of adaptation. He’d met Paola over a week ago now, and he had expected a natural rivalry to settle between them. He had his own ambitions, and he was sure that she had her own — yet Paola had shown him nothing but the warmest welcome. She shared advice as freely as hellos, never asking for a whisper of thanks in return. Hunter was beginning to feel himself racking up a debt, and so he’d asked her out to drinks tonight. He wouldn’t call it a full settlement, not when he had aspirations to use this time to continue picking away at her thoughts, but perhaps it could be a downpayment. 

They’d already through greetings and small talk, and now that the carafe between them had donated to each of their glasses, Hunter decided to settle into important conversation. He did so by taking a drink, smiling afterwards as if it were the sweetest thing to have brushed his lips in years. Sunlight was vital to uncovering truths. “So, I have questions. I promise you a drink for each answer, but you have to finish them all tonight, deal?” He didn’t bother waiting for an answer. “Number one -- don’t mistake this as my being ungrateful, but why the hell have you been so willing to help me?”

[archiveddvrpg]

In fair Verona, our tale begins with HUNTER MARCHESI, who is TWENTY-FOUR years old. He is often called HORATIO by the MONTAGUES and works as their INITIATE. He uses HE/HIM pronouns.

Hunter was born to be a MASTERPIECE, a work of art designed to make even the angels weep. The son of a minor British noble and a Brazillian diplomat’s daughter stationed in Rome, privilege was a given, prestige the expectation as the golden spoon was tucked between his laughing lips. One might have expected him to be witless, on account of his beauty, but he was not. One might have expected him to be callous, on account of his fortune, but he was inclined to help when asked, diving in and out of the problems of others as he wove between theatrics and respite in his own life. He was not apart from the goings on of life, but he was not terribly affected, either. Good things seemed to come his way whether he wished for them or not. Hunter was Midas, and all things turned to gold, even thoughts, ideas, and ill-defined concepts. If he wore a crown, it was because it was placed carefully upon his head, though he wore it well, and it fit as though by design.

He made a name for himself in boarding school as the sort you wanted to stick with if you wanted to have a good time. Students ENVIED the boy who could float through classes and maintain his grades while still attending every single party, every sports event, even going on holiday to tropical, fantastical locales whenever he had a few days break. He was the sort you looked at and thought, ah, yes, he has it all. Perhaps he did. He certainly felt like it at the time, all the way through to university, where he attended the most prestigious school in Rome and felt… bored. Life had been a game his entire life, and he was sick and tired of winning. He signed up for a philosophy elective course on a whim, almost forgetting to attend before he popped his head inside. It was the first mistake he’d ever made which had unintended consequences.

For lack of a better word, Hunter became… enamored. At first he thought himself on the path to understanding philosophy, but under a different tutelage, it held no real interest for him. It was the professor that kept him intrigued, the longing soul beneath his cool exterior and how often he seemed unsure of the questions he nevertheless posed to his students. For all his life, Hunter has had the ability to hang his head on CERTAINTY. He has always been sure, each step he’s ever taken, and he’s torn between wry amusement and tenderness at how unsure a philosopher can be, how lost within the cycles of the mind and of humanity itself. He stuck out that class for three years before Henry departed the university entirely, focusing on taking over the Zhang fortune in the wake of his father’s death, and when he was gone, Hunter never went back. He focused on the field he was sure on, on the things he was good at, and thought he put his infatuation with indecision behind him.

Until. Until. It was chance that brought him to Verona, with only a dim understanding that the man he’d once admired built his home there as well. Work brought him there, but it was the draw of shiny, mysterious things that led him to his doom. He only meant to seek out his former professor on a lark; it was something fun to do on an off day, a way to blow off steam in a place where he hadn’t yet built his usual level of contacts. He never thought he would be walking into a gilded CAGE, stained with blood as it might be; from the moment he stepped into the wrong aisle of the library, from the moment he saw a man gutted and dragged through the stacks, from the moment Henry Zhang emerged from behind them and made all evidence of the violence go away without so much as a blink, Hunter was in chains. Becoming an Initiate was the only way to keep him alive. It should have made him feel trapped or terrified, entering this new world where none of the old rules applied, but Hunter had never met an environment he couldn’t thrive in. This was a chance to experience something new and VIBRANT, something that would challenge him to explore outside his boundaries. For the first time in his life, Hunter had to do hard work. Things did not come easily to him within the world of la mafia, and that which should’ve scared him left him thrilled, heart pounding, adrenaline soaking his veins. In Verona, he was not a car on a rail, traveling toward the same old same old at high velocity. In Verona, his ambition might finally be satisfied, his curiosity and hunger at last satiated. 

HENRY ZHANG: Sponsor. They call him that and pretend he’s nothing more, but Henry is as much his damnation as his savior. Seeking out his former professor is the reason he’s in this mess, but it’s also the most exciting thing he’s ever done. Hunter has always been curious to unravel the sometimes funny, sometimes dry, always interesting Doctor Zhang, and now he’ll finally have the chance. All the excuses in the world to be close and Henry still keeps him at arm’s length. It won’t do. Hunter’s never been denied something he wants, and he’s not about to start here, not after he’s come so close. He’ll coax the wild animal that is Henry Zhang to heel; for all he claims to be teaching Hunter the ways of the mafia, it’s not Henry that’s in control, here. He just hasn’t… noticed it quite yet.

FAUST CONTRERAS: Fellow-in-Arms. Despite their differences, they’ve joined the mafia at the same time, and for Hunter, that means he sees a kindred spirit. Maybe he comes across as annoying to Faust, a kid who doesn’t know any better than what he’s doing, but Hunter considers himself a good time, if Faust will let him be. He might not be the most loyal friend in the world, the most caring or outwardly compassionate, but he’s certainly got style. Besides, two people joining the mafia in the middle of an intense war have to stick by each other, right? That’s what Hunter always tells him, with a smile on his face that’s just a little too arrogant, a little too brash in the face of all this death. Hunter might get him into all kinds of trouble, and he definitely won’t take no for an answer without seeing a bit of force. 

BEAU RENAUD: Pity. Money is as money does, and in a town like Verona, money also talks. Having run in the same circles since they were children, European wealth all running closely together, Hunter pities Beau sometimes. Shackled to someone better than him in every way, he’s a path that could’ve stretched before Hunter were he a bit less intelligent, less cunning, less ambitious, just… less. A ghost of a shell of a boy, that was how Beau came across since his move to Verona, and Hunter has regarded him as a flower wilting in the intense heat of the sun. Sometimes he wonders if he should be charitable and try and pull him from the depths, but he’s attached to the opposite side, now. Does he really deserve the hand dipped in gold that Hunter would offer? Can he really say he’s earned that? Maybe not, but Hunter plans to try and pick him up anyway, so long as he can find something to motivate the fool. 

CASTORA AGUILAR: Distaste. She’s so new money she practically reeks of it, and while he’s not entirely a snob, some things are just too deeply entrenched within him to be overlooked. Low breeding will bear out, in Hunter’s mind anyway, and giving so much to a woman who comes from little will only go to her head. He doesn’t hate her of course; his family often deals in philanthropy, and he’s not without his own heart, no matter how encased in jewels it may be. Henry sees merit in her, so he can’t write her off entirely, but it’s a close thing, his dislike for people pulling themselves from the muck. What will Castora do with this new freedom? It’s too soon to tell, but in Hunter’s mind, it won’t be anything good. What a waste. 

Hunter is portrayed by FRANCISCO LACHOWSKI and was written by ROGUE. He is currently TAKEN by ALEX.

[theleastuntrue]

Francisco Lachowski for Liu Jo UOMO FW 2017/18

[horatiomarchesi]

— TAG DUMP.