Ivan bares his teeth, sharp and willing to rip them to shreds if they’d so allow. How many before them already had? Eager bodies contorting toward their reach, placated to be anything at all to the man. Not Marcelo, competitive as they are. They will not settle for just any of Ivan’s wicked attention — they demand all of it. He has so much to give, after all; distinguished by lurid eyes and coaxing fingers. They want to punish him for such interest, they want to breathe more into him, they want to see that pained engrossment mounted to his shifting gaze. Maybe because a part of them knows to lose it, is to lose a favored playmate. One whose knees they can bloody, and nose they can bend, and he will never abandon their ritualistic brutality. Never out of fear, but perhaps out of boredom.
It flares in Ivan, now. That incessant need to prove to the other that they are the best, and that because of it they are necessary. Good. Let them both circle, not each other, but the attention they so desire, the reactions they so deserve. Demanded in poised fists, and snarling teeth, to give more. It is as if they are two Gods, sacrificing themselves to one another again and again, desperate for the divine touch of the other, no matter how brutal. Because, make no mistake, Ivan, carved from marble and decorated lavishly, is brutal. Perhaps more so, even, because of it. He is worth the venture into enemy territory, he is worth the split knuckles and bloodied lips, he is worth their anguish. To the masses, they are lions, proud and prowling, yet to each other, they are the enduring lion, and the sacrificial lamb, both. Always wrenching their debt free from the other before offering their own, growing at the others’ hand only to be stripped frustratingly bare, again and again.
I think, Ivan says, as if he doesn’t already know. As if Marcelo might be the one to correct him if he’s wrong. A part of them loathes that they can’t. That Euripides has no place in their mind, no place in their heart — another point cleaved loose for Ivan. They know intimately of wrath’s hurt; of the way it settles within them like a poison, infecting their bones, their tongue, their mind, and they hate that Ivan knows it. That he sees their agony, and waves weakness in their face as they dare turn from it. Teeth clench, and fingers flex at their sides. “I hate to agree, Rahal” Marcelo smirks, twisting the meaning of his sage warning carefully in their fist, “never was I so inspired, so lethal, before it. It is a shame so many mortal men had to learn of it the hard way, but I can assure you each were, in fact, inflicted the greatest hurt before enlightenment. Never again will they be so foolish to look Wrath in its eye.”
They see a glint of scarlet, reflecting regally from the cut of Ivan’s ring; their own ichor draped across like a hard-won medal, like their toll for reaching out and striking the divine. His tongue rolls, something meaningless dressed up as gospel, before they beat it back into his throat. A twisted insult banished, tailored just for them, and left to die instead in the darkness that forged it. He has no shortage, they know, and the burial of one blooms the thorns of another. Their own name spat from Ivan’s mouth like broken glass. If they look closely enough, Marcelo can nearly make out the abrasions embedded in its wake; deep cuts within that the man reacts to, loudly, and they can’t settle the wicked turn of their lips at the sight. His usual purr of entitlement clipped, that ever intrusive mask of expectation drowned by sudden, vicious, anger.
Marcelo gives him a breath to explore the bent slope, to bathe in Ivan’s outrage of it. “Consider it a favor, tesoro. Now you finally have an excuse to work on that ghastly thing you call a personality,” they breathe, raggedly, still light on their heels as they wait, and watch. When he speaks of their hands, of their gilded weapons, a brow rises. As if he might be quick enough to capture them, courageous enough to hold two ticking bombs in the palms of his hands. Then he lurches to the left, and confusion registers as Marcelo dives from the coming impact. Why their face? Ivan was a man of many words, yes, but you could find wealth in each if you dug deep enough. To speak of hands, only to mottle their nose, was perhaps a tactic, but a lousy one at best. It clicks a beat late.The exact moment Marcelo feels their weight stolen out from under them, jaw tightening for impact as they land solidly on their back. It knocks the air out of them, just a second, plenty long enough for Ivan to stab a heel against trembling fingers. A nose for a hand. Hazel eyes train themselves deliberately on the man, anger, and nothing else in each dark pool.
What purpose would your Romeo have for you if you couldn’t fight his war for him?
Marcelo tries to clear their mind, to focus on the roiling anger building inside of them, instead of the finely sharpened words that cut deeper, still. They didn’t have the temperament for emissary work, no patience for politics. They could never be happy in a position of guidance, alone, with no action, with no immediate gratification. More so, they could never leave the battlefield, their heart and soul tethered as much to its hectic violence as to Roman, himself. They have none of Bellamy’s sensitivity, his wisdom — they weren’t the friend to the heir they once had been, either. Would he pat them on the back and send them away like some wounded veteran? Might he find a place for them? Without the war, could Marcelo salvage any of themselves at all, or would the end finally reach out to them with open arms, calling them home, to where they were needed?
They pause too long, too transparently, and they know Ivan’s caught it; that tremble of doubt. It etches itself in the rapid blink of Marcelo’s eyes, in their fingers unconsciously flexing beneath a weight suddenly unbearable. “You don’t believe that,” they retort, finally finding their voice. It’s always been Bellamy, Marcelo, and Roman; the deepest cut to one, is the pain of another. All of Verona knows their gravest weakness, the way to their bloody heart, Ivan is no different. Still, it creeps its way into their thoughts, jagged and misplaced. Roman had found love for the human in them, the hurt in them, the weapon they’d hardened into. But could he love a shell? Shrapnel that hissed and burned pathetically at his feet, begging for relief no man could give? They don’t know.
Their left fist jerks out, angled for the back of Ivan’s knee. Marcelo is almost sure he expects it, is ready for the strike that will buckle what pins their writhing anger in place, but they throw it, nonetheless. With teeth bared, and a growl ripping through their throat, they turn their body at the same moment their fist is to land, enough to roll from his reach upon impact.
Fighting with Marcelo is... Hm. He doesn’t know if he has the words to describe it, which, frankly, is a first for Ivan.
It’s a little...magical, fighting with Marcelo. Or maybe not magical, because that sounds too childlike for something of this nature, but... No, it is magic, and to call it by any other name would be a disservice to Marcelo and their uncanny talent for bloodshed. Ivan can tell that this isn’t just another round of hand-to-hand combat to them, no; it’s much, much more.
Ivan suspects that Marcelo treats each of their opponents with the same unique care that an artist treats each of their paintings. Every stroke, every color, every line is chosen by the painter as thoughtfully as Marcelo chooses every blow dealt, every step taken, every fist thrown. Each execution of each art form, the painting and the fighting, is tailored to suit the canvas, and it dawns on Ivan that Marcelo has tailored this fight to suit him. Not suit Ivan’s advantage, but to suit his tastes. To engage him, tantalize him, enthrall him.
It’s cat-and-mouse fight, slow and sensual, a little theatrical—just how Ivan likes it. Push and pull, give and take. It’s nearly...intimate, the way Marcelo fights. Like everything they have is being poured into this single moment. Like every drop of sweat and blood is a gift given. Like this version of Marcelo is the truest version of them, unencumbered by duty or civility. It makes Ivan feel strangely...special—honored, even, to be the subject of Marcelo’s undivided attention in this state. Ivan’s no stranger to fighting, but this? It’s unlike anything he’s ever experienced, and he understands now why Veronesi on both sides of the Adige are hesitant to go toe to toe with Marcelo Rosso: they’re horror given human form, breathed to life in beautiful, vivid strokes of a wardog with nothing to loose and everything to prove.
And what a sight they are. Even on the losing end of this battle, Ivan can see with precise clarity the beauty of it all—he always has. He’s never shied away from Marcelo’s brutality, and he can’t imagine he ever will. It’s what first drew him to them, and it’s what keeps him coming back for more, time and again. Marcelo is anarchy incarnate, and every time the two of them meet like this, a clash of fists and foul mouths, Ivan can taste that buzz of chaos on his tongue, sweet like ambrosia. It’s a high he’s happy to chase far into enemy territory, because this, he thinks, is something rare, something that makes him feel alive, real. Every bruise Marcelo leaves on Ivan’s skin, every bone they break, every time they draw blood, Ivan is reminded that he is, in fact, alive. It’s a terribly vulgar way to go about curing his boredom, but for a man like Ivan, whose spirit is not easily moved to action, such extreme measures are often necessary to make his black heart beat fest. Here, with Marcelo, walking death’s fine line, he feels gut-wrenchingly alive.
Marcelo is Ivan’s not-so-guilty pleasure, and he’ll put a bullet in their head before he gives up their company. It’s a convoluted companionship, yes, but what else is to be expected from such a pair?
Never was I so inspired, so lethal, before it. “And yet you fight it still,” Ivan murmurs, the soft, low timbre of his voice at odds with the violence of their exchange. “All of that potential,” he sighs wistfully. “Imagine what you could do—who you could be—if you stopped pulling a the reins.” Like here. Like now. Like the way you are with me. No holds barred. No leash, no muzzle—only the wilderness of wolves. “You could run this town, Rosso. They could bend a knee to you, all of them.” He means it. Marcelo could run this town, if only they cut the ties (or the heartstrings, rather) that bind them. Marcelo wears a coat of armor not for protection of self, but for protection of others; to dull the edges of the power that writhes beneath so that anyone who might bump up against it won’t get cut too deep. It’s a stupid mistake, in Ivan’s not-so-humble opinion, to neglect a God-given gift the way Marcelo does. A creature steeped in violence, and with no inclination to use it in any real way. “What a waste,” he sneers.
Now you finally have an excuse to work on that ghastly thing you call a personality. Ivan chuckles heartily. “Well, if my social graces were any better, lover,” he purrs, digging his heel hard against Marcelo’s hand, “I’d be mobbed day and night by doting admirers. Can you imagine? This face and a winning personality?” He scoffs, as if the prospect is ludicrous. “There wouldn’t be anyone left in this city for you to fuck, Rosso—they’d all be lined up at my front door.” He leans down to pat his hand against Marcelo’s right cheek. “Be thankful I lack congeniality. Consider it a courtesy.”
You don’t believe that, Marcelo says, and Ivan’s eyes widen with surprise. He’d known he would hit a nerve, but he didn’t think he’d hit a fucking bullseye, and he certainly hadn’t expected Marcelo to cede so easily to his blow. But the heart’s a fickle thing, he supposes, and Ivan knows that he can always count on Marcelo’s to bleed in the name of Roman and Bellamy. Idiot. This is what Ivan’s trying to warn them about—the harness created by heartstrings. Marcelo shouldn’t be chewing their lip and trembling with self-doubt right now; they should be giving Ivan a lashing he won’t soon forget, immune to digs about purpose and belonging. “Doesn’t matter if I believe it or not, darling,” he drawls coolly. “You do.” And so do they, he doesn’t say. So does Roman, so does Bellamy, so do they all.
He expects Marcelo to strike the back of his knee. They do, and he lets them.
Let Marcelo remember what it feels like to tear into the meaty flesh something. Let them take their heart and bleed it out, weaponize it. Let them strike a match against their fears. Let them shed the shackles of heartstrings. Just like that, Ivan lets Marcelo loose, and he hopes later tonight, when they return to their little pseudo-family, they remember this feeling of sheer freedom, of violence and power untethered.
His left knee buckles, and he stumbles into an awkward kneeling position. He throws a right hook on his way down, but Marcelo rolls out of his reach too quickly, and Ivan’s fist collides with cement floor. A sickly crunch rends the air, and he mutters a curse as he shakes out his right hand and uses his left to push himself back up on his feet. “Show me what those hands are really worth, cazzo,” he hisses. Let go, let go, let go. “Do your worst.”
