( RAFAEL )
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It was something out of a Shakespearean play; the spoiled-rotten Prince and the deserving heroine. A tale of combating forces, that led to the Prince’s undoing. Many looked upon the Seraphim and Dominion, and saw it in flesh and bone. They wanted to believe in the simplest view of things. Some, even, going so far as to encourage the supposed-rivalry. But there was nothing poisonous or resentful between Marcus and Rafael. Try as he might to grow contentious of Marcus’ obvious talent, he could not. He had felt nothing but love and respect for him, since they were in training wheels and Velcro shoes. Marcus was the best of what a Femenias could be, and he did nothing but protect Rafael’s worst instincts. Beyond that, he heard the words that Rafael dared not speak to anyone else. And so, he allowed himself to love his cousin, regardless of the threat.
There’s a creak in the door into the gilded bathroom. A gut-instinct told him it was Marcus, before his mind could register the fact. War’s Seraphim had finally stepped out of the bathroom, reeling off of a high and the intensity of their last exchange. It wasn’t smart to speak of such terrible things. But too much had happened, and the overbearing power of cocaine seemed to bring out the worst in the Seraphims. Rafael walked into the stall, dipping the last of his cocaine onto the back of his cell phone. When Marcus broaches his gaze, there’s a gnaw in the pit of his stomach. As if he was seen, not simply for being irresponsible, but for the reasons behind it. “Nah, the old man hated Escobar. Wouldn’t dream of making him sit through a skit. And anyways, we didn’t have time to get Ravi an exact replica of his mustache.” Rafael quips, cheeky as he attempts to shake off the ire from his last conversation. He was brimming with energy, but Marcus’ presence allowed him to feel more settled. “Want some?” He offers sheepishly, as if he was sharing his favorite candy with a young Marcus, while they ran haphazardly through the Femenias estate.
He doesn’t put up an immediate fuss, though the instinct is certainly there. Instead, he merely places his phone back on the counter, allowing whispers of the white powder to slip off. “A little right now, instead of a lot later on?” He tries to appeal to Marcus, offering a wry smile even as he felt his body quake with euphoric energy and spite. “Ravi did a great job with the party.” He pats his cousin’s shoulder, attempting to quell him out of his concern. “Are you having a good time?”
For a second, Marcus considered taking Raf up on his offer, if for no other reason than to keep him from using anymore himself. "I’m good,” he said. I think you are too, went unsaid. It hurt to care about someone more than they seemed to care about themselves; to know that no amount of advice or lectures, or trying to chain somebody down, could ever stop anyone who didn’t want to stop in the first place. “Just take it easy," he said. Please, went unsaid. Marcus and Raf used to use together, but somewhere along the line ( there were a few pivotal moments to recall ) things had started to shift and somewhere along the line cocaine had moved from special-occasion party treat to weekend party treat for his cousin. What’s more, Marcus would sit and listen to him trying to rationalise it, ‘why couldn’t a simple weekend be a special occasion? For that matter, why couldn’t any day at all?’
“He did,” he said with a slight nod, unable to stop the proud smile that followed, “he really did.” When his uncle had revealed Ravi and Raf would plan the night together, it went without saying that one would be doing the planning and the other would be personifying the together angle of it all. Marcus had to hand it to his cousin, though, he knew when to be lazy; that done correctly, it was an art form that benefitted everyone. “Look... It’s a beautiful night, but I’ll level with you mate, I just want it to be over.” Though he tried to hide it, Raf was clearly high, exceptionally agitated and likely struggled to follow the conversation already. Looking down, tiny white particles swirled their limbs like pixie dust, as though gravity had no way to make it fall to the ground.
A moment of weakness could have convinced him that taking Raf up on his offer would have been a good idea, to hover over thin white lines and reach his level. He settled on a cigarette instead, knowing like any other posho who had been forced to attend fancy dinners throughout his adolescence that the toilets and bathrooms were the one place in hotels without smoke alarms.
“What about you?” He reached out towards Raf’s face with his free hand, wiping off traces of cocaine. “Find it hard to believe you’re in here celebrating, so why aren’t you out there? Other than, you know, rolling notes with Remus Warden.” When he’d seen the War Seraphim leave the bathrooms, he hadn’t expected to find his own still in there.














