never forget what you what you areāthe rest of the world will not. EASTON CRAVEN, 26. edmund. bastard. Capulet - Stable / Captain - Stable / Health - Stable
odessa: it's not so bad, for every four teenage fans that despise me for being spotted with you again there's probably one that thinks we're a cute couple
odessa: i know, caro. i didn't mean for it to sound like i'm blaming you, i'm not. i just
odessa: i get the feeling this is easier for you than it is for me? and i wish i knew how to approach it the way you do
odessa: i'm not sure i really know what i want
odessa: wait no, that's a lie. i know i want to keep
spending time with you, easton, and i want us both to get what we need out of this, and i want to make you proud when we dine with your family later
odessa: and i think i want you to kiss me tonight, please
odessa: [UNSENT] whether it's as my friend or fake boyfriend is up to you
easton: a 25% success rate isn't much to boast about, dolcessa, not that i'd consider your sample population to be particularly trustworthy
easton: [UNSENT] no, you're right to
easton: that's not it. sometimes the way you talk makes it sound like you can't breathe
easton: it's not easier. just so you know
easton: [UNSENT] well for starters, you can tell your PR team to go fuck themselves
easton: tell me how to help and i will
easton: i want you to do what you want to do, not what you think i want from you or what you think anyone else expects of you. you're already halfway to where you want to be
easton: [UNSENT] you won't need me, soon enough
easton: i see
easton: do you want a pot to go with that, or just the musical rattle?
āWell, how would you put it then, carino?ā, she responds, her smile as saccharine as itās been before, but now accompanied by the hint of an amused sparkle in her emerald hues, as she slowly, just merely noticeably cocks up one eyebrow. Under the circumstances and conditions, they usually meet, Celeste would rarely dare to be this cocky and cheeky. But on a social event, on her territory? This is the least she could do and Easton is bound to find that out first hand sooner rather than later.Ā
A part of her wants to kick him at his question, wants to do something to wipe that fake expression of his (admittedly handsome) face. While sheās never been somebody prone to violence, Easton brings out this side in her that she doesnāt really like, that she sometimes doesnāt even recognize. His impertinence and audacityĀ are simply without equal. After all, he knows better than most what her real name is. How could he not,Ā considering that her change of name has been one of the main things allowing him to blackmail her for the past two years? After all, if sheād still been Celeste Duval her late night visit to Isabellaās place wouldnāt have been proper grounds for being blackmailed, as the freshly wed Celeste Sabello, however, well, what a difference this small change in name could make, sheās experienced first hand in the last two years.Ā
Nonetheless, she forces the sweet smile to remain on her lips and takes a huge sip of champagne to calm her nerves. She figures sheāll need much more than just one glass if she wants to get through this evening with Easton by her side, but at least she can be sure that there will be no shortage of champagne coming her way, her friend would make sure of that.Ā āCeleste Sabello, naturalmenteā, Ā she answers, now itās her turn to play, faking a surprised, slightly confused expression,Ā āIāve been married for over two years now, after all.ā She says it as if the past two years have been the best of her life - they both know they havenāt.Ā āI wouldnāt have taken you for the forgetful type, though, but maybe the promotion has gotten to your head, si?ā The smile already gracing her lips grows a bit bigger.Ā āFrom what Iāve heard congratulations are in order. Last Iāve heard you made capodecina.ā She pauses, an unreadable expression finding its way into her green eyes.Ā āHow does it feel to finally step out of your brotherās shadow?ā
"It suits you," Easton concedes. It suits her in a way that has never suited him. He's willing to admit that much, but nothing more. Celeste knows the answer already, after all: he can read it in her smile, sweet enough to rot a tooth to its core; glossy with veneer so thick even a diamond would be hard-pressed to scratch it. Two years. Had it really been so long since he'd stumbled upon them together that night? So much had happened since then, and not nearly enough. In any relationship, two years would have been considered steady; it would have been enough to be considered going strong. Two years is longer than he's cared to keep in touch with anyone for a long while. How ironic for Celeste, of all people, to have escaped that threshold where no one else has.
For two years, lies and self-preservation have fed the living creature that has bound them together, the same poison that eats away at the foundations of her marriage in the dark. Would it have done the same for Gabriel and Margherita, had his mother not conceived him so soon? āYou're right,āĀ he acknowledges. His words trail off at the ends, but he does not offer them thoughtlessly. Easton presents her with a smile that is worn thin before it is fully made. Threadbare and faded, his true intentions lie somewhere else, distended, not quite present, not quite fully there. "Congratulations." She will have to squint at that to figure out if he means her marriage or something else entirelyāor perhaps someone else entirely, one who stands much closer.
For once, he thinks of Everett before the conversation turns to his brother, as it always does. Easton doesn't bother correcting her. He hasn't stepped out of Everett's shadow so much as wrapped it around himself like a cloak. It's cold; slick against his skin, but he is colder still. The devil lies in the details. As far as Celeste is concerned, however, they're probably irrelevant. His eyes flit back over to her, his gaze steady but inquisitive. "News travels fast." There's a question nestled in her pointed praise, and Easton smiles wider, choosing deliberately to ignore it for just a little longer. What now?
"How about this, Signora Sabello," he muses. "I'll tell you how it feels, if you answer my question first." In a sense, have they not always been this way? The backdrop may have changed, and he's always had to twist her arm to get it, but this is nothing she hasn't heard before. Things will be different without her being forced to endure him. A part of him finds that more difficult to accept than the loss of any intel, and yet their hour together is almost up. "Why do you choose to suffer rather than go after your own happiness?" Was that simply the fault of the human condition?
march 29thĀ
flying to verona, first class cabin
morning / closed to @machiavillains
Ā Ā Ā Ā If not for the nerves she feels about the gala, this could just be any other flight. Brielle slides the sunglasses off her face and tucks them into her purse, taking a moment to unbraid her hair; itāll be lumpy if she decides to lay down on the flight, after all.
Ā Ā Ā Ā Sheās almost done as someone comes up to her row, clearly vying to get past her and into the window seat. Brielle briefly wonders if theyāve been standing there too long while she was looking the other way to get at the braid, then decides it doesnāt matter; theyāre stuck together, anyway, so best make a fresh start. ā Sorry ! ā She pulls her knees up and rests her chin on them, leaving the aisle in front of her clear for him to squeeze by. He looks familiar, but she canāt quite place his face; it happens a lot in these cabins, running into celebrities and the like. She still doesnāt consider herself in the same category. ā Hopefully I wasnāt too in your way,Ā ā she says in her Russian-accented English. Her Italian is far more rudimentary, but generally sheās been able to find people who speak English most places she goes. It would be her luck to find the only person who isnāt fluent just when she wants to apologize.
She looks at him a little bit funny, and for a moment, everything goes south.Ā Easton's jaw sets. All other things considered, three hours isn't too long for a flight, but it's still more time than he would prefer to be spending around anybody, especially after an equally long layover. On a worse day, he might have snapped at her; said something along the lines of, if you didn't want to be in my way, you wouldn't be here at all. Instead, Easton looks at her levelly, his expression stoic and yet still tinged at the edges with equal parts exhaustion and equal parts relief. She doesn't know him. Of course she doesn't, he thinks. Some people have better ways of spending their time than watching bad television.
"You're not," he responds curtly, before taking his seat beside her. Perhaps Dark Side could be credited with that much: his American English was passable now rather than poor, even if it only happened to be from the perspective of a supernatural hybrid who lived on the moon. The mere thought of it makes his lip curl. What was it that his PR manager had said? People love a bit of vulnerability, especially where they expect it the least. Hadn't that been why he had agreed to the farce with Odessa in the first place, because it might, without paraphrasing, "broaden his scope"? "You don't seem Italian," Easton notes, perhaps a little more bluntly than warranted. "Are you headed to Verona for the Gala?"
odessa: having to block teenagers on instagram, for instance. or being asked what you're like in bed by tabloid journalists. or being told by the pr team that i should save a photo of you as my phone lock screen and leave a piece of my underwear in your car
odessa: i guess i'm still coming to terms with how clinical and orchestrated it all is. i've never really dated anyone before, let alone dated for publicity
odessa: i know
odessa: but this is for the best, for both of us and for the projects we're working on. montague management think so too and i'm sure capulet would agree
odessa: what i want is to be known, east. if holding your hand and pretending to have kissed you helps me get that, then it could be far worse
easton: and that's interesting but not difficult? alright, i'll play along. how...optimistic
easton: i'm not the one asking you to do those things for me, odessa. if that's your impression, something has to change. i didn't agree to this so i could be the source of your misery
easton: in case you haven't already noticed, that seat's taken. i'm too selfish for that
easton: anyway
easton: it's like you said. we're in a fake relationship, not a fake marriage. i don't intend to get in the way of what you decide you need or want for yourself
easton: [UNSENT] do you really think i ever wanted to be known like this?
odessa: please don't let it be a publicity stunt engagement ring. fake dating i can do, but a fake proposal? that would be a step too far, regardless of what our PR teams might say
odessa: you don't make things difficult but you do present... interesting challenges
odessa: i'm not nervous
odessa: ok maybe i'm a little bit nervous
odessa: but only because if he thinks we're actually dating then he's going to be expecting me to act like a proper girlfriend. it's fine, i just need to pretend it's a film role
odessa: please let me make first moves though, caro. i want to be in control
odessa: green. maybe i'll wear that colour instead then?
odessa: oh. we spent the day in a secluded chalet in the alps which is why there are no paparazzi photos. we roasted marshmallows over the fireplace and got drunk on champagne. and there was a hot tub. we didn't bother with presents.
odessa: how does that sound?
easton: no, see that wouldn't make sense because i'd need to get everett's approval for it first
easton: that was a joke, by the way. actually, it's supposed to be for your first movie
easton: sounds ominous. care to elaborate?
easton: make all the moves you need
easton: but just we're so clear, you don't have to pretend if it makes you uncomfortable. that goes for all of this
easton: you know that, right?
easton: no one's forcing you to do anything, least of all me. so do what you want, dolcessa
odessa: oh? is it a surprise or can i have a clue?
odessa: hmmm i think i can just about manage a sensibly turning heads sort of outfit
odessa: something like that, caro. amongst other things
odessa: understandable. no, no, it's fine, i guess we just need to make sure that he doesn't notice that we're not actually together?
odessa: what if he asks me what your favourite colour is? or asks me if we're planning on going somewhere together this summer? or wants to know what we did for valentine's day? or whether we kissed on our first date?
odessa: is your favourite colour blue?
odessa: green?
odessa: silver?
easton: you can have a guess, but not a clue
easton: that would be too easy, and how else would you know it was me if i didn't make things difficult for you?
easton: also, he's my brother, not a biopic. in fact he's probably twice as boring so don't get your hopes up i doubt he'll be wanting the sappy details
easton: don't tell me you're nervous about meeting them?
easton: that's cute, dolcessa, but not necessary. give yourself more credit
easton: if it makes you feel better, my favourite colour is green
easton: tell me what we did on valentine's day. it can be anything you want it to be
Everett inhales, ash crumbling from the edge of his cigarette. He plucks it sharply from his lips.Ā āDonāt be an idiot, Easton,ā he bites coolly. His features still remain neutral and bone-weary as ever as smoke curls against the smudged dashboard window, briefly obscuring the view. He hates it when Easton makes those sort of jokes, dead humor thatās all lips pulled taut over white teeth, as if heās goading him to laugh along with the rest of the world. Eastonās never believed that laughing never was an option Everett wanted to take. Not now, twenty-six and thirty-six. Not then, two and twelve.
It isnāt Eastonās fault, the way he was born. That isnāt to blame for the chasm between him and his brother. What is to blame is the blind eye Everett had turned when they were younger. What is to blame is Eastonās stubborn derision whenever Everett had attempted to piece together their crumbling relationship. Their history is littered with broken kites and flaming chapels, jail cells and a totaled Maserati, a fractured thing cracking more and more every year. The saddest thing, Everett thinks, is that was never quite whole in the first place.
But it almost was, once. A warm, tight feeling in Everettās chest as he repressed a laugh; hands mired in dough much too sticky for the cannoli recipe they were attempting to follow;Ā Eastonās smile, fresh and bright with flour all over his cheeks.Ā
Did your self-righteousness finally mutiny?Ā It changes, a jarring radio buzz over an innocent memory, and now itās bleach-white skin and red dripping from Eastonās temple, glassy eyes glaring lifelessly as black pools around his head on the pavement.Ā Everett forces the image from his mind, inextricably linked to the unforgiving cut of cold metal around his throat and the thud of a bullet sinking into flesh. He wonders what Easton would say if he knew that it was a threat to his safety that pushed Everett headlong into the blood rage simmering under the surface of his skin. Everett decides itās better not to tell him.
āGrace decided to have a bit of fun.ā The answer slips out after a few seconds of silence, cold amusement mingling with a hint of bitter regret. The primal rush of power singing through his veins in those few moments terrifies Everett. It was the same thrill as cliff jumping, the same heady adrenaline pounding in his temples, the same rude, cold shock when he finally reached the end of it. Heās felt the effects of its withdrawal ever since, dissonance underlying the detached frost etched into his features.
When Everett calls him an idiot, Easton barely shrugs. In a different tale, the scorpion had shrugged too. It danced on the back of a drowning frog while they sank into the muddy waters together, as if it owed the frog nothing for carrying them across the river. "I can't help it," Easton drawls finally, drumming his fingers against the wheel. "It's in my nature." They're treading time, but they might as well be treading water: stuck out here, in enemy territory, it's not inconceivable, he thinks, that the both of them could drown. Who had been the real idiot of that fable? Was it the scorpion, for thinking it could be anything other than it was, or was it the frog for trusting him? Easton pulls over and sets the car into park, turning his head away from the plumes of smoke. He's by no means a stranger to bad habits, but as far as he knows, Everett has only ever had one, and he's never been able to break it. His half-brother clings onto his ideals like a dying man clings to his last breath. His weaknesses don't seem to be an exception to the rule. Men may die easy, but their habits die hard.
Somewhere, Easton thinks, someone is watching their predicament and laughing. Here lies the one and only Everett Cravenābleeding out in a ravaged Impala, stuck with no one but his idiot of a bastard brother to keep him company. And to think that none of it would have happened if Everett hadn't followed him across the bridge. He has never understood why Everett has stuck around after all these years, not after he turned his back on the world that had reared him (or was it maybe the world who had turned its back on him?). It was never about his half-brother, not really, and yet Everett clings onto that idea too, as tightly as a boa constrictor clings onto its prey. The more Easton tries to free himself, the tighter he holds on; the harder he refuses to let go. It's then that the thought crosses his mind, as quick and fleeting as the beat of a moth's wing.
Maybe the only way to sever that hold is to stop trying.
Easton slumps back against his seat and looks at him. Grace decided to have a bit of fun. For a moment, he mulls over the sentence without speaking. Something about the way Everett says it sounds off, like a bone set at an awkward angle, only to heal all wrong. So she had been true to her word. He and Grace have been at each other's throats since they were childrenāthe worst of two volatile compounds thrown into the same roomāand yet, somehow, it had always worked. Fuck off to your bar. You've ruined my mood. He'd watched her leave that night with a mixture of spitefulness and satisfaction. Now, he can't help but wonder if the way they left things had any part to play. "Grace has more than her fair share of fun," Easton corrects, somewhat dubiously. "What's different now?" He remembers her yanking the crowbar from his hands; the scowl on her lips as she stormed off in the other direction. No, Grace hadn't changed; she was the same as she'd always been. What, then, did that say about him?
She looked a mess. Purple splotches and red slits and yellowing burn marks peppered her skin even up onto her face, thanks to the heat of the blast that burned some exposed skin on her right side. It made her look unbearably human, vulnerable and mortal when her ghostly self often looked nothing of the sort, caught somewhere between this world and another. She was a void, a black hole, something that did not show anything upon its faceless form, only now shown to be something tangible with the marks she sported, the reminder that something had affected her, even if it was for just a brief moment.
Itās Eastonās movement within her field of vision that gets her to look at him, not the sound of him entering or the scraping of the chair against the floor, little signals ignored by someone who was once so effortlessly honed into them. She did not expect to have him as a visitor, though he was not an unwelcome surprise to hollow eyes that watched him sit, unable to make out the soft words he spoke. Though sheād stayed in the background while he and Grace were more than happy to take center stage in their era of growing up, she watched him enough to believe she knew him, to know later on in life that darkness he carried, that chaos he could bring, and to know that it was a common thread they shared, something that tied them no matter how loosely or tightly the knot was created, and no matter how aware of it he was.
Regina took the amber into her bandaged hand, fingertips brushing his in the process. She opened her palm to study it, to turn it over, completely missing the words his lips were forming in the process.Ā āI believe now is as good a time as any to tell you the bomb has stolen my hearing from me for the time being. Writing will make this easier on the both of us.ā She has no idea what heās said, and still, conversation appeared to pick up where his statements left off, her mind having trailed in the same direction his began to tread in.Ā āThis is certainly different from the flowers.ā Sheād grown tired of the already dying plants, anyway.Ā āWhy such a gift?ā
So she can't hear him. It's strange, Easton thinks, that her injuries don't seem to bother her. It's strange having the freedom to say whatever he wants without there being consequences, not that he has much to say that's he worried about Regina hearing at all. Easton reaches for his phone and begins typing. Does it hurt? It's more curious than concerned. After, he thinks that the more appropriate question would have been to ask not whether it hurt, but how much she felt it. He can see the wound creeping up past her bandages, the way they crisscross along her cheek in a mosaic of scar tissue and scabs. It's as gruesome as it is ghastly, and yet Regina looks almost as if she's severed herself from her injuries; as if her body is still recoiling from the shock of the event, but she refuses to pay it any mind. It's this thought that intrigues him. Perhaps he should trust her more with not mistaking his true intentions.
Craven was born on June 24, 1992 in Verona, Italy to English film producer Gabriel Craven and American cinematographer Beatrice Westfall (a former production assistant). Though his birth sparked controversy as a result of his fatherāsĀ existing marriage to critically-acclaimed film actress Margherita Cavinato, he was raised alongside half-brother Everett Craven before eventually being sent to boarding school in Milan at the age of ten. Craven graduated from St. Louis and majored in Economics with a minor in film theory at UC San Diego (Westfall's alma mater), during which it is also presumed that he attempted to jumpstart his acting career without much success.
Career
Craven has previously cited the major influence of Cavinato's films on his career, along with that of directors Wong Kar-Wai and Alfonso CuarĆ³n; however, this information tends to be disregarded in light of his current work. Dark Side of the Moon is Craven's first major role as an actor. After reluctantly auditioning at the behest of his brother, he obtained the role and was propelled from obscurity to stardom overnight.
DSotM has been pitched by the creators of Mackenzie Falls as "Teen Wolf meets the OC meets the 100 meets Vampire Diaries meets Gossip Girl meets 90210 meets...[fifteen minutes of various listed teenage dramas]." Despite first airing in 2017 to extremely poor critical reception, it became an unprecedented worldwide commercial success and is now often referenced as a household name in popular culture.
Personal Life
Craven is currently estranged from both Westfall and his father. He remains on good terms with his half-brother Everett, who manages his career, and served as best man at his wedding in 2009. Craven is also suspected to be dating actress Odessa Vernon after meeting her on the set of Line of Duty in June of 2018. He has often been criticized for apathy regarding the actions of his fanbase, who have gone so far as to harass other cast members and fans of the show online.
SOMEONE IN THE CROWD // WANTED CONNECTIONS
and to think that if it wasn't for you, i would have never learned how to dance ( open to a journalist/talk show host/PR/management ). like mirrors, the two of you start in the same place, bound by something deeper than the eye could see. you cross paths sometimes, exchange a few words in a yellow woodāand then you watch him leave, headed back down the brick road from whence he came. sometimes, you still feel the tether. maybe that's how you know, because deep down, you're the same. you know he hates it; that he's scared he'll never amount to anything better because it's not what he deserves. so you'll twist his arm, prod around to find his achilles' heel. you know once you do, he won't be able to get back up. it's not revenge, to ruin him like this: but the thought of it is just as sweet.
what is the most resilient parasite? ( open to all ). you think you loved him, once. no, loved was the wrong word. you were starstruck, obsessed with the idea of him, and to some extent, you still areābut in the flesh, he was only a shade. you caught him on a bad day, and he rebuffed you like you were nothing. for that, you never quite forgave him. but you don't regret the months you've spent poring over him. dreams can be turned into weapons; it gave you ammunition. you're everywhere and nowhere at once. you'll bide your time, show the world what he's really like. given enough of it, you'll destroy him from the inside out.
without you, today's emotions would be the scurf of yesterday's ( everett ). you're the only family he has. you look out for each other, and he knows he owes you everything. so why doesn't he make it easy on you? you bicker constantly over the smallest things; the scripts you leave on his desk mysteriously show up in the trash a few days later. you can sense that there's a part of him he won't share, that he keeps tucked away, as if he has bones made of glass. despite it all, you still remember your wedding like it was yesterday: him at seventeen, giving your best man's speech, the faintest of smiles gracing both of your lips. you love him fiercely, and he loves you back. in this story, it's enough.
i forgot how it felt to be held by you ( odessa ). the rest of the world only gets glimpses. a hand around your waist; lips pressed up against your hair. they make their own assumptions, but you see it for what it is, which is nothing more than a PR stuntāor do you? he shows you a side of himself he's never shown anybody, and both of you are fine with calling yourself friends. something about it feels right, like you've seen this all somewhere before, like it's circular: there's more than one way to communicate, and sometimes actions and feelings speak louder than words. it's there, don't you see? clear as day. if only you could decipher what it all means.
we'll always have paris ( rafaella & one other ). you bump into him inevitably when they hire you to help out with dark side of the moon. the three of you knew each other, once upon a time. you bond during off-hours over the ridiculousness of the showāthe snap of a lighter, the clink of a beer, your fingers covered in white soot. things were different back then, and the memory of it remains something precious; something untainted. look how far you've all come now. sometimes, you still think back on it fondly, but you've never understood: why did he up and leave without saying goodbye that one day ā or was that maybe you?
**Always open to other ideas so hmu if you're interested but don't see anything you like!! :)
His throat is dry. His head is stuffed with cotton. His mouth is full of smoke, velvet cancer that blurs the hungry appetite of the pain devouring his torso. Everett takes another drag. To be quite honest, he canāt find it in himself to give the slightest damn about anything at the moment, any last spark of energy squeezed from his marrow the second he collapsed into the passenger side of a stolen car. Itās a shame, really. Between Eastonās work on the starter wire bundle and his blood seeping into the leather seat, theyāve royally trashed the carās value. Everett would feel more guilty if he hadnāt crushed the trauma of the past eight hours under an icy sheet of numbness.
He meets Eastonās jibe with indifferent silence, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a response. Their last phone call still rings in his ears. Donāt flatter yourself, big brother. Youāve never done anything.Ā And why should you? Because our dad couldnāt keep it in his pants for one motherfucking second?
A heavy exhale. Everettās eyes flicker to the dismal street blurring outside the window, fractured shop windows and red-splattered plaster melting into a grey-red mire. Heād rather think about anything else at the moment ā except for the topic which Easton has so conveniently brought up. Surprise ( or the ghost of it ) kindles his curiosity; Everett shifts, fixing green eyes on his brotherās profile.Ā āYou were there.ā Memories rewind like a movie tape, an attempt to remember what Easton could have seen. Halcyon rushing to embrace him, the anxious relief written across her face, the hiss of pain as he unsteadily leant on her as they limped slowly back to her flat. Vulnerability. Affection, too.Ā
āStalking me now, are you?ā Thereās a lack of bite in his tone, irritation mitigated by a cold that seems to pervade his entire body. His hands are clammy and heās almost certain heās ripped the stitches that Halcyon had so carefully placed in his back mere hours earlier, but Everett holds his composure, taking another drag from his cigarette as if he isnāt bleeding through his expensive shirt.Ā āIn any case, thank you for not announcing your presence so Iād still be wondering whether you were lying dead in a ditch.ā
Stalking me now, are you? The suggestion is so preposterous that it makes him laugh, and yet so distinctly Everett that it quells his laughter before it even has a chance to take flight.
If only he knew, thinks Easton.
If only he knew, he thinks, how hard he had tried all these years to leave their family behind, only to have it follow him without mercy; without peace. As if it meant to say that, despite everything, it wasn't finished with him. As if, despite everything, he still didn't have its permission to leave; as if it would go so far as to follow him to the ends of the Earth, if only to mark him as one of its own.
And for what crime?
What had he done to deserve such a fate, to be so unwanted and condemned and still forced to remain among the shadows, forever tethered to his past? His brother was alive: he sat next to him in the flesh, bleeding and broken in all his golden glory, but he was, and very much so, alive. There were no stones. There had been no sacrifices. As far as he was concerned, he had made too many of those already; had given so much of himself away that the creature that had grown to take his place was unrecognizable, that it wasn't him at all.
It doesn't escape his notice how quickly Everett switches gears, how frustratingly transparent he is even with the rift he has intentionally placed between them, even after he'd gone out of his way to make it clear over the last phone call where they stood. Now, neither of them have the strength to stand. You aren't fooling anyone, big brother. "Think about it," he replies, a grim smile creeping up at the corner of his lips. "Would that really be so bad?" He lets Everett ruminate on the possibility, if only for a moment. No brother, no responsibility.
"Look, we both know this wasn't your kind of scene," Easton says in reference to la purga. Though he speaks with careful disinterest, it strikes him as strange that Everett was out that nightāthat he wasn't holed up somewhere with Milton in one fucking hand and a glass of Chianti in the otherāand why had he been? "Don't tell me. It was," he pauses for dramatic emphasis, "divine intervention." What had been different this time? "Or did your self-righteousness finally mutiny?"
What had set the stage for Everett's inherent disadvantage, to the point where it had forced him into saving his brother's life?
date: november 10th, 2018 november 2nd, 2018
time: 8 pm 12 am
location: outskirts of verona montague territory
availability:Ā @evcravens
He's been down this road many times before and also never at all. It doesn't mean that he wants to see it. The city falls behind him, giving way to vinyards and the open night sky, free of rust and ruin. Easton blinks. Suddenly, he finds himself behind the wheel of a different carāan old black Impala they stole off the side of the street. The smell of smoke and congealing blood hangs thickly in the air, the aftermath of ground zero still ringing in his ears. He remembers angling the rearview mirror toward himself and glancing up at his face, prodding gingerly at his swollen, bruising jaw. "You look like shit," he manages to grind out, despite the pain.
There's no reprimand about the hotwiring. In fact, there isn't anything at all. Any conversation they had died with the men they left back at the lot. "More so than usual, in case you weren't already aware." Easton breaks the silence with obvious effort. His words drag their feet, regrettably depleted of their usual sullenness, and he turns to see Everett on the passenger side with a cigarette between his fingers, exuding a suspicious amount of calm for someone who's been battered within an inch of his life. It's as if he's already forgotten that he nearly died less than a half hour agoāeither that or he simply doesn't care. Where was all that laissez-faire attitude when the bridge had gone up in flames?
Irritation pricks the back of his neck like whiplash, rearing its head at being forced into a position he never wanted. "I passed by Halcyon earlier," Easton adds, a hand resting against the steering wheel. It's supposed to be snide. Instead, his jaw feels stiff; his voice comes out as resigned. "She was dragging you home like she wished she'd brought a body bag with her." Another half-truth. There'd been something intimate in the way they stood there beneath the streetlights, and he'd gone out of his way to avoid them instead of confronting him there for reasons he hadn't quite understood. But as he recalls the memory now, he can't help wondering if they might have fared better otherwise.
If Catherine were sober, sheād have grown somber at the words, at the pleasure in being profane and vehement against il Dio. All were unholy to some degreeāherself includedābut very few so openly chose to be, so eagerly accepted the stamp of disobedience. But, the haze of her trip with Katarina still clings to her mind, still makes her tongue thick, still finds humor in such troublesome words. She chuckles softly, a slow shrug lifting her shoulders and then releasing them.Ā āAnd why do you choose to be?ā she queries.Ā Was it truly ever a choice for the Craven son born out of wedlock?
The blonde continues to twist her wrist, continues to pull at the rope to escape and sheās almost got itāuntil Easton offers her cruel questions: What is it that you need Him for? To convince yourself that youāre a good person?
Her jaw flexes in vexation, the emotion so quick, so hot compared to the honey-slow warmth that sheās been swaddled in.Ā āIām not this way because I want praise,ā Cat explains, face scrunched with unhappiness.Ā āI donāt need Godāā the admittance is sinful, but feels so rightĀ āāto tell me Iām a good person. Trust meāthe disdainful looks I get from other Capulets or Montagues says enough.ā Sheās sure the Capulets and Montagues only knew how to reward those who blinded followed rules, those who killed without so much as a passing glance, so much as a breath of moralityānot those with a spine of integrity and a shield of righteousness.
Does Everett not do that for you enough?Ā Ā
āEverett does all he can.ā He does more than youād take the time to know. She swallows the retort for something less pointed. āHe tries to do it for you too,ā she murmurs, voice taking on a defensive edge.Ā āThe only difference between you and I is that you willingly lash out at the one person who cares about you most.ā
And with that, Catherine gives one more sharp yank and her right hand is free.
"Why?" He echoes. A number of answers run through his head, from scorpions and frogs to the ease of rising to meet low expectations. In the end, he settles on none of them. Choosing to be good, choosing to be unholyāare they really all that different? "Maybe I choose to be," he says, "for the same reasons as you."
Finally, there it is: a flicker of annoyance. Distress. Emotion, he understands; virtue, he does not. "Then you don't really need him at all, do you, Catherine?" Easton muses. "This saint in the forest hath not yet heard of it, that God is dead." His lip curls. God is dead, and we have killed him, you and I. "How shall we comfort ourselves?"
Though he prods at her with his words, his remarks become toothless, as if placated by her irritation. "You're a lot less insufferable when you're all hot and bothered," Easton gibes, but as it turns out, he's spoken too soon. Everett does all he can. Her tone is one he's heard many times before. Of the three Daly sisters, Catherine has always been the farthest from his reach, and it is this moment that reminds him of why he has never tried to close the distance. "Play happy family with him all you want," he replies, his voice distilled into an uncharacteristically detached level of calm. "But you should be careful about poking your nose into places it doesn't belong."
It isn't about Everett, he almost growls.
It isn't about Everett, and yet, somehow, it always is. The similarity is striking. He hears him in Catherine's voice and sees him in her unyielding nature. That alone tells him she could never hope to understand. Perhaps the curse of being unholy is never being able to escape it; to have it follow him to the ends of the Earth and still leave him with nothing, not even his own name. If this is his curse, so be it: he will stop at nothing to break it, even if it kills him.
Easton ceases his efforts, watching steadily as Catherine slips out of the ropes. "So what will you do now?" He dares her silently to leave him hereāto surprise him by proving him wrong.
Ā Ā It was like realizing that she had been holding her breath, a half-dead thing only given life by all things macabre and rotten, workings of the devil if ever there were any. NiccolĆ² was a dear friend of mine, the lie was beautifully wrought, bespeaking of trepidation and despair, an act of charity rather than one of savage indifference. She does not bother to hide the light of intrigue that dances in her blue hues, gaze idling towards the sparkling, dark water of the Adige ā a mirror vision of the sea of souls that Charon ferried those to be judged across. It was with no small amount of amusement that she wondered if Easton had thrown hisĀ ādear friendā over to search for the soul that he had lost. Perhaps, if Rafaella had the intent to, she could find the remnants of her own in the turbulent waters as well.Ā
Ā Ā āItās a wonder, then, how you can step into il duomoĀ at all, Edmund,ā she muses, words quiet, as though ā if she listened ā she might hear the cries of a man condemned. But the Adige eats everything up, bodies, souls, the cries of all who linger; a river as gluttonous as the city it twines through.Ā āWith the storiesĀ that you manage to tell, it is a wonder how a man absent of any grace in his heart manages to stand within the house of God,ā there was no use in acting as though what she had witnessed could be anything other than Easton crowning himself as judge, jury, and ā most notably ā executioner. The word sang and echoed, its tune reaching a sweet melody the longer she looked at him, fingers thoughtfully trailing along the cold metal of her umbrella. If she trailed her fingers along his heartstrings, she wondered, would it be just as frigid?Ā
Ā Ā Ā āUna tragedia,ā she remarked dryly, lips pursing as though the tragedy were rooted in the inconvenience of it all. What a tragedy it was, to waste such energy on a man unworthy of it. What a tragedy it was that he had not saved them of the effort.Ā āPrega, tell, was it because you were such a belovedĀ friend of NiccolĆ² that you knew of his shortcomings?ā Her gaze lingered on the outstretched palm and, delicately, she took his hand and tucked it into her arm, as though the two of them had met under the dark skies, beneath the pouring rain, to do nothing more than take a stroll, comfort found in the company. Two Veronesi, arm and arm, beneath the faint lamplight, caught in the rain. Discussing the intricacies of murder.Ā āOr was it something you observed because you cared for him so?ā
"Some might call it a miracle," Easton replies. Of course, he doesn't believe in miracles. He doesn't mention that she isn't the first to have these thoughts: he'd been forced into confession so often as a child that he'd run out of things to say altogether, and from there, it had merely been a matter of collecting them the way other children collected stamps or coins. How strange that there were so many things one could be sorry forāuntil the outcome became that he wasn't sorry for any of them at all. She is right when it comes to the stories. A long time ago, he'd loved one of them above all others. "Maybe the doors still open because He waits for us all to come home. Even when he knows we won't." It was more than could be said for his own father.
A man absent of any grace in his heart, Rafaella says, and at first, he still thinks of Gabriel and agrees. So she is here to condemn him, he muses. The realization is no less amusing. "I suppose that means there is no saving either of us." Easton lowers his eyes, lashes still damp against his cheek, and yet, he sheds no tears. "Does that sadden you, Consigliere?" He asks both for herself and for him, knowing full well that few people will care when he dies. In a way, being condemned to damnation is a comfort. There is freedom in acceptance, in rising to meet the occasion, and he still remembers the moment he let it wash over him like a baptism in reverse; the way he'd said his vows at the altar, how they had tied him down to rather than freed him from his original sin.
Easton lets her take his arm, appraising her all the while. "Do you interrogate all the soldati this thoroughly?" He smirks at the sheer ridiculousness of the thought. A part of him preens at the possibility of being granted special attention. He'd craved that, once; starved for it. Then it had driven him mad. And now? He walks with Rosaline in the rain, letting her lead him into the unknown. Still, he remains guarded. He's seen her in the news with Everett enough times to be wary, although he isn't quite foolish enough to believe their relationship is exactly as it seems. He wonders what it is she wants from him and glances at her sideways, the unspoken question heavy in his eyes. "If it's my motivations that you're after, I'll save you the trouble." A test, perhaps. This time, Easton smiles. Una tragedia, indeed. "You won't like me when I'm psychoanalyzed."
Some people might complain that charity galas and other social events like brunches thrown for a good cause could get quite exhausting after a while. After all, even in aĀ city like Verona where the upper class was bigger than in other cities, it was still small enough so that youād always run into the same people. Sooner or later (most of the time a few closely spaced evenings were already enough) there was no small talk left to make for it seemed like everything had been said already. It could get exhausting having to make conversation with strangers, mere acquaintances at best. And yet, that was precisely where Celeste Sabello - even after two years, this new name still felt weird to her from time to time - thrived. You could force her a room with the same people night after night, as long as there was champagne and she could wear fancy dresses, sheād still have the time of her life.Ā
Tonight was no exception to that rule either. Sheād shown up about one hour ago, beautiful as ever in her extravagant golden gown that had already attracted countless admiring glances, and if it was up to her, the evening could go on forever. Ā This attitude didnāt even change when she discovered Easton Craven in the crowd, even though it should be perfectly clear by now that he was her least favorite person in the whole world, hands down. Ā But sheād already expected to see him here. After all, tonightās event was hosted by a mutual investor so seeing him didnāt pull the rug from under her feet. Not to mention that this was her territory. Here he didnāt have any power over her, here was setting she felt most comfortable in. In fact, instead of ignoring him, she decided to seek him out, take the initiative.Ā
Her lips curled up into a little, amused smile, she headed straight towards him, her head held high. After all, in here she wasnāt the stupid girl heād been blackmailing for over two years, no she was Celeste Sabello Duval, famous for her extravagant, successful charity events, even with her young years one of the socialites who got literally swamped with invites to all sort ofĀ eventsĀ and interviews. āEaston, caro mio, what a pleasant surprise to run into you hereā, words accompanied by a saccharine smile as she looked him straight in the eye, her head slightly tilted to the left,Ā āI hope youāre enjoying the evening so far?ā She might not be the hostess, but that wouldnāt stop her from trying to imply that she belonged here more than he did - even if it was only by subtle hints.Ā For a moment longer, she looked him straight in the eye, smiling, before she put her flute down on the tray a waitress passed by with and exchanged it for two new glasses. āChampagne?ā
Easton doesn't miss the galas. The mingling auras of nouveau riche and aristocracy dredge up less-than-fond memories from a duller time, one tainted with the vestiges of undeserving shame and a desire for belonging. Tonight is a necessary evil, a last-ditch effort to talk Noschese away from pulling out, so he dons his best and steps back into a rather incongruent imitation of the life he left behind. Now he walks among them, and he feels little. A change of heart after his wife's death, he'd said. A desire to do better by her. It's a laughable sentiment. How they longed to pretend they were better than him, as if their hands were clean because they hadn't drawn the knife themselves; as if they could compensate for their misgivings with money when blood demanded blood. All men die the same, and he itches to prove it, even as he searches for their beloved host in the crowd.
Celeste stands out like a beacon, glittering in a way that tells him she wants to be noticed. There is a time, and a place, and he has decided that this is not itāat least not until he sees her striding toward him out of the corner of his eye. Caro mio, she says, so easily, so confidently, as if they are old friends and not something far worse. He's almost impressed by the boldness of it. For all that they know of each other, Easton supposes it's not unwarranted. āCeleste,ā he acknowledges, coolly returning her smile. "That's one way of putting it, I suppose."
Lost in thought, his eyes flicker down to the trim of her dress, golden and fleeting. Where does this all end? They've been doing this so long that he's memorized the cadence of her voice. Reconciling it with the way she looks up close, however, is a different story, and he searches her face for a microcosm of the situation, wondering if she knows she's at the center of all this trouble. It's a refreshing change of pace, the way she carries herself here with newfound vigor. It intrigues Easton enough that he decides if she wants to play, he'll indulge her. He takes the glass from her hand and inclines his head in thanks. "Remind me again," he says, feigning forgetfulness. "What is it that you go by now? I can't seem to remember."
