marcelo carmine rosso as mercutio xxvi | they/them (or he/him) montague (stable)
captain (stable)
health (unstable) there is a fire within you, raging without remorse
taking no prisoners but consuming everything in sight
carmine tongues threatening to eat you up alive shield your eyes, kid, don't let it get to your core collect the ashes of your heart for one day they may be your guiding light
date: September 6th
time: 3:40 pm
location: capital library of verona (montague headquarters)
status: closed to @oculumprooculo
Yes, this is what Bellamy’s resorted to: organizing the shelves of the library, his nose buried in the business of books rather than that of mob work. He’s not well-versed in mob work, even less so since his hiatus. But books, well, those he knows better than he knows himself. Alphabetical is far too simple, too typical. It’s a disservice to this grand wealth of knowledge, and Bellamy simply won’t stand for it. By genre, yes, that’s a given. But then by author. Not by initial. By how intellectually stimulating their diction, syntax, and themes are—by just how much they make Bellamy think.
Is he aware Marcelo is conducting business on the top floor? Absolutely not. Had he been at all aware, he would not be stacking rows of books upon the expanse of shelves on the main floor.
Not because he’s avoiding Marcelo. No, avoiding is not something Bellamy would do to his best friend. His family… yes. His duties… only every so often. Any problem he cannot confront without feeling a significant amount of discomfort… yes, sure. But not Marcelo. Never Marcelo. He’d simply been ducking out of their sight whenever they came towards him, declining their phone calls, opening but not exactly answering their texts— Okay, yes, avoiding.
Whether it’s to avoid the scolding lecture or the subtle encouragement—the gentle push, or shove, in the direction of violence and destruction—he isn’t sure. And stacking these books is another way to avoid being confronted with the burden of having to figure it out.
That is until he turns on his heel, about to begin on another shelf when he catches Marcelo out of the corner of his eye, looking square and rigid as if refusing to be ignored.
Bellamy doesn’t flinch, no, he squawks at the pitch of a parakeet, long legs scrambling and tangling underneath him until he’s falling back, down, cursing his height as it takes long, grueling seconds to crash to the floor. “Fodasse! Ah…” His eyes bob up, steadying as his mouth gapes, frozen in a silent hiss of pain. “H—Hello, Marcelo,” he says lamely, sitting himself up with a grimace. “I—ow…” The fall is not at all comforting to his still healing wounds. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
As the flames had begun to ravish whatever was in their reach that treacherous night, their fiery hue on the horizon a constant reminder of the spark they never failed to reignited within the dried up remnants of their heart, their mind had begun to work overtime in a similarly feverish fashion. Granted, they might have gone a little too far that night, their rage serving as blinkers of sickeningly exquisite quality, but their own fate had rarely been of Marcelo’s concern. What kept them up at night, a restless insomniac by default, was always solely the fate of others: of those they cherished who had already experienced it in all its cruel glory and of those they cherished and could still be looking out for all the same.
As far as Bellamy was concerned, they had come to an obvious solution rather quickly — making it appeal to him, however, was the real issue to ponder here. Subtelty was, truth be told, all but their strong suit and so, after another session of long and hard thinking, they resorted to their usual methods: more or less aggressive attempts of making contact and getting their point across. By now, Marcelo had learnt to at least try to soften their approach with every failure, as hard as it was from someone so skilled in the fine art of brashness, but to no avail. Not a word back from the project of their worries. Thank Goodness they didn’t care about more people the way they cared about Bellamy or their very existence would be en route to unbearableness.
Their wits were required for other pressing matters today and had been put to use since about noon, successfully so, they hoped, more than ready to call it a day by the time the clock’s hands snuck closer and closer to 4 pm. Down the stairs they dashed, mentally still so preoccupied they had nearly forgotten about Project Save Bellamy — until they spied him with their little eye, right there, messing about with the books. An audible exhale of torn emotions. At least he wasn’t at risk of getting into any more trouble with this sort of activity but it certainly wasn’t going to help him out of any unless he planned on staying a recluse for the rest of his days either. What mattered more than any of this, however: Ostensibly, this was the perfect time for them to strike.
They slithered through the corridors like a snake, silent and unseen, straight to their target where they quietly took up their position, waiting to inevitably be noticed. Patience was rarely associated with their name but, alas, if exceptional circumstances called for it...
Bellamy’s reaction was, in fact, just a bit more than they had bargained for yet hardly surprising — if anything, further proof that Marcelo had a point. “Oh really?” They failed to refrain from playful mocking as they extended an arm to assist the fallen. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”
Hazel eyes scan their surroundings, as though they were only now becoming aware of the purpose of the shelves engulfing them. “So is this what kept you too busy to shoot me even a quick little text back?”
“What? You don’t believe me?” Castora said, all false innocence and icy charm, the corners of her mouth daring to quirk up at Marcelo’s laugh. “Is it really so impossible that I could just be here for a drink?”
Not alone she wouldn’t be here just for a drink, but Ramona was God knows where and Valentina was, well, she couldn’t be seen drinking absinthe with a Montague, now could she?
And Castora wasn’t alone; she was with Marcelo, a person she could tentatively call…something. She had known them too long for Marcelo to be nothing; the relationship was equal, two opposite but equal forces pushing together.
“Merc - if you’re going to do small talk, at least let’s talk about politics or the obituary column.” She tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “At least then we can get into a polite debate that turns ugly really fast and use it as an excuse to never make small talk again.”
It was moments like this Castora enjoyed in earnest; it was when she forgot to resent them for the debt she owed. She owed Marcelo the most priceless commodity in Verona: her life.
“Drown your anger? Have you ever considered all you’re doing is teaching those damned bastards how to swim?” Not that she was one to talk about wrath; that and pride were her fatal flaws. “But hey, I’ll definitely be your life vest.” It’s the least I could do - an unspoken sentiment but well understood.
“Can’t say that I won’t join you. It is tradition, after all.”
“Well...” The shrug that accompanied their response was of utmost nonchalance and yet spoke more than a thousand words in its exaggeration. No, they didn’t. Not a fibre of their being took Castora to be enough of a lone wolf to be an active solitary drinker. Hell, not even they enjoyed the treacherous weight of nothing but their own company whenever they attempted to temporarily numb their senses with some sort of devilish brew. “I guess I never took you to be the type to go out for a drink without an entourage. To me, you give off a much more popular, more social vibe than, say, I do. Which is probably a good thing, by the way.” Probably. Perhaps it would benefit them to widen their closely knit circle just a bit — but alas, one would have to be less plagued by perpetual mistrust to happily oblige that notion.
At least they didn’t feel the need to shelter themself from encounters like this; superficial delights with like-minded beings they could conveniently keep at arm’s length, just far enough to feel safe, a cheap knockoff version of comfort maybe, without causing offence. Marcelo laughed, partly at Castora’s suggestion, partly at the irony of the words about to leave loose lips in light of this thought process just passed: “Oh God, if I was actually out here trying to debate with people, I’d have an even bigger list of enemies and even slimmer list of friends with nothing in between anymore. But we can try it — if it’s so important to you, that is.”
Who knew, after all? Perchance getting to know more about someone who was connected to them in such an eerie way would be surprisingly stimulating. If one wasn’t usually expected to also share one’s deepest, darkest thoughts in return, they might make really getting to know people their new hobby but under the customary circumstances, it just didn’t seem worth it whatsoever.
The final drag before the filter was at risk of catching a spark and tarnishing the smoke’s controversial aroma with a sharp, unwanted note. “Who? My inner demons?” They chuckled softly as they flicked the cigarette butt into the shadow of the night. “I’ve never been very fond of that metaphor but to stick with it: I’m afraid they never had to be taught.”
A quick glance at the time prompted them to straighten their posture. “Ready to get started then?”
She had told herself that she would behave. She had promised herself that she would be good. But promises were easily broken, their fragments swept under a rug of stubborn resolve. So, despite the protests of loved ones insisting that a couple weeks of rest were not enough for her to properly heal, she donned a hoodie and made her way to Measure by Measure under the cover of night. Weeks of rest be damned. She longed to exorcize her demons by purging them in the form of sweat and blood, to forget all the mental anguish that has been haunting her for the pain and agony that brings her an odd sense of clarity.
Which was why she greeted the smell of sweat and blood in the catacombs of Verona like an old friend. The cacophony of heckles, jeering, and grunts filled the other in tandem with the raucous cheering of a crowd half-crazed. She let her hood fall, a grin already forming on her features as she shouldered past the patrons of blood and war; hounds with an insatiable hunger for violence. There was no shame when she admitted to herself she was one of them.
And then she saw the crow waiting for her.
Her lips twisted into a toothy grin.
She would not only get to exorcize her demons tonight. The consigliere of the Capulets would be blessed with the god-given opportunity to bruise their muscles and tear their limbs with her own two hands. And to think, her family had wanted her to rest.
Pulling off her hoodie, she tossed it onto the ground, striding over to him with the leisurely stride of a lion that has already snapped the neck of its prey. Of a god that has had its fill of blood sacrifice. The crowd parts before her, keen for a fight that promises nothing but ruthlessness, devoid of any notion of mercy. “Has the sweet, sweet ‘celo come to pick a fight?” She croons as she flexes her knuckles, testing her wrappings. “My dear Capulets, it seems like the tragedy of the Montagues wants to give a show.”
And so she came, approaching them as predictably as a moth would the brightest flame of the night no matter how big the risk that it might leave it broken and burnt to a crisp. Over the course of time, tenebrous years that had passed since they had last labelled one another with the hard-earned title of ‘friend’, Marcelo had allowed themself to revel in a decent number of scenarios, figments of a vivid imagination fuelled by abandonment, all revolving around things they’d like to do if they were to encounter Rafaella in various different settings yet a fight at Measure by Measure had, strangely and ironically perhaps, never been among them. So much for life imitating art...
It couldn’t have taken more than ten seconds for her to reach them. Ten seconds, filled with flashes of visions, visions of their triumph, their chance to have the upper hand and make her feel what it was like to be heartlessly trampled on by someone you trusted not to hurt you — well, for her to still trust them would be exceptionally foolish but, alas, to an extent, this dream could at least still come true (it might just be the first one). Oh, what a night...
They stood unmoved, a giant exquisitely carved from marble until their lips blew their cover, curling up in the notion of a sly grin. If she wanted sweetness she could have it, so much of it that it would sicken her, dripping from their teeth in decadent abundance ready to infect, to torture, to overtake like a snake’s venom. “Only if you’re willing to take up the supporting role of the night’s biggest defeat. I’m afraid you’re used to more extravagant parts,” like that of the traitor, the remorseless friend turned foe, the cruel sudden anti-hero in their story’s most unanticipated plot twist; they shrugged: “but a little variety surely can’t taint your repertoire.”
where: mont friendly gym
when: sept 1st. too early to count what hour it is but god awful early.
who: @oculumprooculo
“I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to think about it. I want ― “
What Valentina wanted was impossible. There was too much in her blood, boiling up to a point where it was threatening to spill over with every passing glance in a mirror and realize how little control she actually had over her life at the moment. Between Santino getting hurt, one of her many secrets getting out and into the hands of a Capulet ― too much was beyond her grip and the tighter that she held on, the worse it was coming undone.
There had be a point where enough was enough !! leaving her with a desire to take some of it back, whether it be by force or otherwise as her words came out in more of a growl than a purr. A shortened fuse, a temper that couldn’t be contained. and a face that was made for her fist to hit ― Valentina sought to get what she wanted by any means necessary as she finished wrapping her hands. A precaution that she loathed for the time being, wanting to feel the sting of her knuckles busting open with every swing and hit that connected to the burn that would travel up her arms and remind her that she was still ALIVE.
“I want to hurt.” Her words were guttural this time, eyes flashing with an intention to pull back as she assumed first position before raising her hands into a defense that wouldn’t stand up to the nightmare that she’d put herself through. Not just the other night, but the ones before when she could recall with a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach at the gun pressed against her brother’s temple. One wrong word. A missed move. And she would have lost the only person that mattered to her ( your weakness, a voice hissed in the back of her mind ) as red started to color the edges of her vision as she set her lips into a thin line. “You only get once shot. Make it count.”
This was foreign terrain to them, their nocturnal routine of seeking dissipation one lone wolf’s neverending pursuit. They’d let their rage consume them, chew up a tormented shadow of themself and spit out an icy-veined warrior, glistening skin giving off steam as their frozen shield began to thaw, threatening to reveal all that should never unravel if they didn’t ensure it wouldn’t — and they ensured it with the utmost dedication.
Marcelo had learnt to embrace their own company in the very instant when realisation hit them unforgivingly, spelling it out for a shivering child that the night sky was to be its only guide tonight. The resulting rage they had carried inside their battered ribcage for so many years by now had never been best shared — they’d let it out on unresponsive leather in sedating solitude or on a stranger’s laughably incapable body in Measure by Measure, two equal vessels to them in terms of emotional attachment.
With Valentina, however, it would be different.
They had the means to fulfil her request, to make her hurt until she was either filled with relief or regret, but they couldn’t lose control the way they normally allowed themself when their punches were aimed at kin, at a fellow Montague looking for distraction in destruction, now, could they?
By the looks and sound of it, tonight’s opponent had not gone through the same thought process as them while prepping themselves for the showdown, a more or less clear signal that holding back was not in the cards for this pairing.
“Just one?” A devilish grin flashed at an unholy hour as they positioned themself. “Alright then...”
Silence, their stare venomous as a snake’s bite. Everyone who knew of their impulsive nature expected them to go in for the first punch without anything as much as resembling tactics, a fatal flaw of those who thought them to be predictable by any means. Fake it with the right, go in with the left. If Val was to see them through, this was bound to be a promising night. Their right fist rose upwards, seemingly aiming for her face with a headstart of barely half a second, while their left aimed at her last row of ribs.
Make it count, she had said, and they sure hoped it would.
Castora almost smiled when Marcelo started talking, the corners of her lip threatening to quirk up. But her shoulders remained tense.
“Don’t get existential on me.” She exhaled a cloud of smoke, “I’m doing nothing. Just here for the absinthe.”
And watching. Castora was watching. It was a restless, wandering, absinthe sort of night - and Castora did not have the patience to drink and dance the night away alone.
Not that she should be fighting; her wounds from the trial were not severe, but the bruises were fading and she would rather not adorn her face with purple blots right now. She would need her strength soon.
Besides, since the trial, she wanted to be outside, breathing clean air. ( Yes, Castora was still smoking as she thought this - but she would not be worthy of the name Aguilar unless she was full of contradictions. )
“Small talk? I thought we were past small talk,” Castora said. “Was there ever a time when we were at small talk?”
“Of course you are,” Marcelo couldn’t help but chuckle before smoke filled their lungs again. It had never been like them to be the existential one in a group, although, in theory, they had plenty of reason to be the philosophical one. The one who had barely escaped death’s dooming grasp, the one who had lost everything within the blink of an eye and built up a new existence from scratch long before they were even allowed to legally do... anything, really. Yet here they were, a creature of impulse, amused by the mere notion of dwelling on existential thoughts. “The absinthe really is a big selling point, I can’t deny that.”
As much as they seemed to avoid going too deep around most people, they did in fact dread small talk, that much Castora was spot on about. “I doubt it but maybe we should try it? Something along the lines of...” they paused, as though in deep thought, “how do you feel about the weather today? God, suddenly I’ve got this stale taste in my mouth — is that what it feels like to have absolutely no personality or interests and be forced to resort to small talk?” A faux frown. “Disgusting.”
They had never been at the small talk stage but that at least meant could be talking to Castora on a more serious note without having to fear immediate regret. “All jokes aside: I guess I’m just here to drown my anger in some absinthe and by now I very much expect your moral support in this endeavour.”
She never let her eyes stray from their face as they threw their words at her; darts filled with poison, arrows tainted with blood. There was nothing to stop her from comparing these against ones that she had once associated with him. They had lavished her in words meant to coax out smiles and laughter, they had made her feel treasured with words that had reminded her that the western side of the river was her true home. But no one had ever told her that her parents weren’t going to become half-shells, shadows of love and laughter that had rotted with the taste of drugs. No one ever told her why. So, here they were, staring at one another and letting the wounds of their words cut deep.
It was there on the tip of her tongue. A request for mercy. A begging of forgiveness.
But then it turned to ash on her tongue, expression hardening as they continued on, the fault in the word giving way to fissures – the fissures giving way to canyons. Rafaella stepped closer to him, chin raised and eyes challenging as their face twisted into something dark, bitter, and foreboding. A crow threatening to pluck her eyes out, should she stray too close with her eyes wide open. She took her bottom lip between her teeth, trapping it in consideration as she watched their expression; the quirk of their brow, a twitch of their lip – once they had been able to read them like a book. And now?
“Everything looks a hint more pleasant in red,” she agreed with a murmur, head canting to the side in consideration, as she tested the tumultuous waters between them. “You were the one who taught me that. All the wrath and anger I have at the tips of my fingers?” Rafaella’s finger tapped against his chest. “All of it is thanks to you.”
It was an admission. A contrast against her former words. An acknowledgment of theirs.
“Me? Heartless? No, my darling, I have a heart. It is a brutal and unforgiving one.”
If inquired upon, Marcelo would be quick to claim that there was nothing of mortal descent, no promises of a fatal fate that they feared to face; nothing that they were actively avoiding for the sake of peace, even that of their mind. In truth, however, they had been doing their best to prevent a confrontation with Rafaella, slyly but steadily on the lookout and always ready to disappear just in time, secretly running from her like they were running from most baggage of their past other than that which they intended to avenge. Too badly stung the thought of having lost someone not to death’s unforgiving claws, grasping at so many whom they held dear with the utmost cruelty, but to a conscious, free-willed decision said person had made to abandon them and the odd little family they had established over the years, an illustrious group of hopeful, bright-eyed children living through the hopeless reality of their lives.
They had learnt to love this act of avoidance, hiding from her just as they hid from the concealed stash of long since unused emotions they worried she might set free within them. Seeing their plan fail at last on a night they had dreaded more than anything was almost too ironic but it hardly lessened the blow.
Behind the black feathers, their saving grace tonight, they flinched at her touch, at the unwelcome onset of nostalgia her words had triggered, treasured moments on the verge of morphing into unpleasant shadows of better times. “It’s nice to see my little life lessons haven’t amounted to nothing,” Marcelo could not refrain from admitting, inhaling sharply, “but that success would taste a lot sweeter if you were employing them for the right team.”
It was all too much for one night, especially for such a night of restraint and mockery. Once more, they straightened their posture, serving as their invisible armour only to cock their head ever so slightly to the side.
“Well then, suddenly I’m no longer sure what’s worse: not having a heart at all or nurturing that of a traitor inside your rotting chest.”
A dry-sounding observation but truly a statement that all but overflew with their current feelings towards her whom they would have sacrificed their all for.
Wasting not even a second, they leant in to whisper their parting words: “I hope you have a good night among your new, fine peers.”
The ghost of a pat on her back, their hand barely grazing her shoulder blades as they spoke and they moved past her, hoping to once more find refuge from their demons in the sheltering darkness of the night.
Weren’t they all full of surprises? Anyone who wasn’t ― they often weren’t the ones that others found themselves intrigued with or bother to think about them at all. Valentina knew that better than most, having found a way to keep out of the minds of those that circled around her brother and herself when they were younger and stuck living off the streets. They could have easily been taken up and in somewhere, separated and destroyed out of the goodness of someone’s heart or the depths in which their pockets were when they could see the money roll in for taking in two kids.
Whatever the case might have been, it took everything to be inconspicuous and without the surprise that many felt when they learned the truth of their origin which was exactly why she didn’t share it or any part of her surprises. They were better off served to no one in particular, keeping them from being able to hold anything over her head as the leash around her neck was already weight enough to struggle beneath as a low growl emerged from the depths of her chest. At least it sounded like a chuckle this time. “Disgustingly mellow,” she repeated with a touch of awe to her voice that was placed there with every intention to sound as such.
“You speak for them but have yet to speak about yourself, that you choose this to not inconvenience them but shouldn’t they choose you for better or for worse? Even at the worst of times?” Her own words were pathetic as they were cloaked in a concern that was lacking as much as it strove to dig a bit deeper beneath the other’s surface if they sought to rise to the challenge in her words. “I never would have thought you to have that much self control.” A surprise, for sure, but one that wasn’t amiss in a place such as this with so many eyes that could lay on them in a moment’s notice, see what shouldn’t be seen, and then disappear back into the crowd of masks and costumes.
Too much was on the line for Valentina to scratch the itch that was growing as the clock ticked forward, the release was harder to attain when the only way was to cause more of a problem for herself in the future. Not to mention seeing her brother in the crowd, keeping distance for the time being, until many more succumbed to the drinks that were free flowing throughout the dance floor. When they didn’t notice her disappear into the shadows, then she’d find her place by Santino’s side which was exactly where she belonged rather than knee deep in the war that had sucked them both in. “I wonder how long it’ll last and if it will be worth it in the end.”
How ironic it all was, her observation about the unforeseen amount of self control they were exhibiting for it surprised them just as much, if not more than it did her. They revelled in turmoil, in hasty reactions motivated and signed off by thoughtlessly made decisions, in trusting their gut and allowing their voice of reason to sit this one out, just this once more but even the greatest rebel, with or without a cause, might be lucky enough to know how to fake it until they made it. In truth, they were thoroughly lacking in the addressed department, their average amount of self control reminiscent of that of a toddler amidst an inexplicable temper tantrum, their temporarily increased willpower thus far sponsored by a first full of cigarettes, two drinks and a generous dose of ambrosia as well as the desire to not let their friends, their family, down, albeit the latter alone might have failed to fuel their mission efficiently enough for it to turn out successful.
Marcelo had only dwelled on the subject briefly before but now, on their best behaviour and in conversation with Valentina, they couldn’t help but wonder how a woman of her temper was capable of controlling herself to such an extent that she could walk among the Capulets as though she did not dream of their downfall. If they had had the chance to be in her shoes, the amount of mysterious yet brutal Capulet deaths would have increased so rapidly within such a short timespan that their little undercover endeavour would have blown up in their face in no time, presumably along with their brains. As much as they hated to admit it, there was a certain strength in being capable of exerting restriction, although they would not lose sleep over in what dire need of improvement their skillset in that regard happened to be.
Val had a point, there was no denying that. It wasn’t just for them to so often be forced to tone it down but alas, being a personified inferno came with a heavy cross to bear which they shouldered with ease. “If there’s something that I’ve learnt about family in my time, it’s that it’s all a big game of giving and receiving and considering the greater good.” The similarity of their words to those of a foolish priest had them inclined to roll their eyes. “No debt ever goes unpaid between us, no matter how small it might seem.”
A beat. The thought of tonight’s outcome had been one they had dreaded, doubting that it would be truly satisfactory for them either way. Leave it to the Witches to take the fun out of something as a thrilling as potentially administrating punishment. “I doubt it will be,” Marcelo finally sneered, grimacing. “Compensating me for this drag of a night might just be impossible. Or do you happen to have high hopes for the end of this farçe?”
task 01 ❧ click the graphic for a taste of what the Rosso household sounded like!
❧ What does family mean to you? Who do you apply that label to?
Trust. Security. Loyalty. The kind of deep connection no ordinary stranger could ever be deemed worthy of, the kind that rushes through stuffed veins and reignities a spark in you you had thought to be extinguished for good.
Although Marcelo differentiates between two rather different sets of families, namely their bloodline and the Montagues, they crave to give and receive the same sentimental values from both.
The deceased bloodrelated part of their family remains just that and so much more, their motivation, their drive, their reason to wake up at night and fight until their muscles give in, those who shall be avenged to grant them an unfamiliar sensation of inner peace.
Still in the realm of the living, their family now consists of a selected group of Montagues (albeit, to an extent, they do consider every Montague they deem worthy at least a distant relative): they love Damiano like they loved their father, an easy transition between two men cut from the same cloth, and adore Roman and Bellamy like the brothers they never had, a haphazard replacement for their dear late sisters whom they bonded with instantly, ever the content middle child, and would protect with all the passion and force they wished to have used in their sisters’ aid. There were others worthy of the title, others that shall not be mentioned for a traitor’s name stings on such a faithful tongue.
❧ How many members does your family consist of? Describe each one.
They come in groups, once more, as appears to do everything in their life, connected by tight grips on clammy hands. A group of four await them patiently at the gates to the underworld, with wet eyes and ashy cheeks, yearning for their completion.
Their father stands the tallest, as is the custom of Gastone Rosso, one of Verona’s finest, a man who only misses his only living child’s impressive height by two, maybe three centimetres, the very definition of tall, dark and handsome, despite his years on Earth’s attempts to take a toll on his physical appearance. On the outside, he seems tough yet smooth, all shell and impossible to crack at that, a man who generously overhears your protest for he has long made your decision for you and his word is the only one of relevance. On the inside, their core might be gooey, sticky and soft for all they know for, shielded by another shell as thick as that of a walnut, one would rarely get a taste of it — but when they did, its sweetness, amplified by its unexpectedness, bordered on sickening.
Beside him shines their mother, Maurina Rosso (née Alfonsi), half Sicilian and half Spanish, with one of her signature beaming smiles that could illuminate their darkest of nights, her remaining children pressing to her sides like moths to the flame. Even in the afterlife, she remains all glimmer, glitter and shimmer; sunlight, morning dew on sunkissed leaves and the eerie peacefulness of the surface of an undisturbed lake, a soft croon on a summer night. The last time she saw them, Marcelo did not yet tower over her and for once they wish to be small, a tiny imperfect clone of the boy they used to be so she could wrap them up in her arms and assure them they are worthy, they are forgiven, they are doing their best and she knows.
To her left, their big sister, Gianna, (named in honour of the unbreakable bond between the Rossos and the Montagues) with the same daring gleam of defiance in her cerulean eyes they admired with all of their being, eternally stuck in time but seemingly older, wiser, than she was nonetheless. If she was in their place, Verona would lie at her feet and beg on its knees for her good graces for as its demons extinguished her flame, they robbed it of a weapon of mass destruction, a natural born ruler of the damned — that much they had already recognised in her even with the innocent eyes of a beloved child.
Finally, to the right, their little sister, Fabrizia, angelic features hardened by the heavy cross she has had to bear so long before her time, having just started school before it all came to an abrupt end. Her tiny frame holds enough kindness, generosity and gentleness to feed all of Verona yet her bones vibrate with concealed vigour they fail to grasp, then, still and perhaps forever.
But, alas, their time has yet to come. Not so soon, not much too soon like theirs had.
And so they turn around back to the land of the living, back to their present family who has become so much more than just a mere substitute for the ones who have passed on, despite an ironic array of parallels between the members. They’ve found parental consolation in the form of Damiano and Gianna Montague the second they opened their doors to them, tucked themself in with the familiar characteristics they recognised in their new guardians warming them like the fuzziest blanket, the potential loss of their new mother figure weighing heavier on their blackened soul than they like to admit.
They’ve found their Gianna all over again in Roman, the brother they never knew they longed to have, their partner in crime, their confidante, their blood despite biology’s strict constraints. A glimpse of Fabrizia they spied in Bellamy, the voice of reason that has so often been their saving grace, the tenderness they’ve scrubbed away with relentless force, the younger sibling they have decided to trust with every fibre of their tortured being. They would sacrifice themself for either of them on a whim, obsessive as that may seem. They have never been one to live without purpose, without the extremes.
There used to be one more, a girl they loved like their own sisters, a girl they attempted to protect with all of their childish might; the one that slipped away between braided strands of her soft hair that reminded them of home, between shared lunches, shared secrets, shared vows of eternal friendship, now broken, bruised and buried. Her brand new last name has transformed her first name all the same, degraded it to a curse on the devil’s tongue — but even the devil mourns such a pure love now lost.
❧ What role does each member, including you, play in the family?
Roles they had found to be fickle constructs, easily interchangable and capable of evolving, since the days of their mother bringing sunshine with every step and every song on red lips and their father adding the required composure and strictness to her softness.
Now they form a dysfunctional yet surprisingly functional triumvirate, Roman, Marcelo and Bellamy, a trio of Gods, complete with all divine vices and virtues. Albeit they deem one another equals, they would happily bow before Roman once his time comes, always having accepted him, the eldest and only Montague by blood, as their future leader and thus happily declaring him the head of their little family even now. Happily returned to their natural born title of the middle child, Marcelo seems themself as the catalyst, the one who grabs a hold of every little spark they are offered and turns them into a wildfire in the name of their loved ones — and in Roman’s company, all too often in the name of fun. With these two destructive to handle, Bellamy naturally takes on the role of the saviour, the most caring of them all. While both Bellamy and Marcelo openly show their love for their little group, it seems they display it in very different ways, the first through soft rationality, the latter through their rage.
❧ Describe your relationship with each of them.
The love they got to experience at their mother’s hands remains unrivalled, her demise the one they struggled to cope with the hardest. Her love seeped right into their bones and lit them up from the inside, lifting them into spheres unaccessible on their own. To this day, they are only capable of listening to one single song she used to play, Scarborough Fair/Canticle, for the others still sting, still burn their skin and bring tears to their eyes, breaking through tearducts long petered out. She once was a true love of mine.
Their father had been their guide, having chosen to instruct them, his only son, early. While their mother encouraged their softness, since lost in the flames, their father praised their ambition, their energy, the wrath they always carried in their heart, locked up safe and sound behind their ribcage until the day. They often think about what else they could have learnt from them, still longing to know so many more of their father’s tricks he had promised to share and ever wondering if their mother’s influence could have made a different person out of them, had they been exposed to it longer.
Their sisters loved them and they loved their sisters, simple as that. Envy had been a foreign word to the Rosso siblings, a team of heirs driven by a hunger to rival their father’s successes, a loving bunch of mere children who, the occasional conflict between siblings aside, always had each others’ back — mayhaps, the first rendition of the Three Musketeers.
The Three Musketeers have been reassembled with two new additions to the cast but their relations remain the same. It sounds like they are exaggerating, it always does coming from someone as cold as them but Marcelo truly does love both Roman and Bellamy as though they were their brothers by blood, happily overlooking their faults in a way only true family would and always putting them first — even before their craving for vengeance, if they must.
❧ What is your family life like? Describe your average day among them.
Routine is all but a feasible concept these days, an average day damn near impossible to fabricate but not a day goes by on which Marcelo doesn’t at least attempt to check up on them. If all three of them do manage to get together, there will be hardly any room for woes and worries unless they are plotting on behalf of the Montagues, the company of your loved ones eternally one of, if not the best cure for a mind in need of ease.
❧ How would your parents describe you? (aka if the dead were watching over us & addressing us as though we could hear aka i just had to try & make it emotional didn’t i)
“Tus verdes ojos con la luz del amor,” A familiar voice sings as she had so many times before, the same line she had always addressed at the only one of her children who donned a flash of green in dark irises, long before they would associate the shade with envy and greed, her singsong topped off with a blissful giggle echoing through the sphere. “Oh, pequeña nube, it feels so good to know you are well and know who you are now — you’ve always been such a confused little thing, deep down, even though you’d deny that straight away if you heard this now, I know, figlio, I know.” A heavenly sigh, slender fingers running through raven strands of perfectly coiffed hair. “You’ve always had so much love in you — for your sisters, for the world, for nature and all its phenomena — so much light, such softness and, Marcy, I’d be concerned if I couldn’t see that it’s still in you, right there, where you refuse to look for it.” A pause, concern lifting from her features again. “You are so brave, my darling. So strong. So reckless even, unfortunately,” Maurina rolls her eyes. “There’s no need for you to be afraid of feeling.”
“I couldn’t be prouder. We’ve had so little time yet I’ve taught you well, it seems,” Gastone announces in his signature tone solely reserved for his softer side, the one that dishes out praise once the rules have been followed. “You’ve shaped yourself into all I’ve wanted you to become: a warrior, ruthless and invincible, and as loyal to the Montague name as I could have never even hoped.” A shake of his head, palm pressed to his forehead as he settles down again. “You could do great things, Marcelo, that much is for sure but please, figlio, do me a favour and use your goddamn head every once in a while, will you? You’ve got too much in there to constantly be relying on instinct and pure rage.”
❧ Do you think your family played a role in shaping the person you’ve become? Why?
There’s no denying it: their family (both families, truly) has played an utmost crucial role in shaping the person they have become, though their part has been a rather passive one considering their death was what truly manifested Marcelo’s current personality. Would they be a entirely different person if their family hadn’t died? No, by no means could that be accurately assumed. They wouldn’t see themself as a heartless human weapon whose elixir of life consists of such delicacies as violence and destruction, vengeance their permanent goal in life. They’d be more balanced, maybe, actually capable of living out emotions other than all-consuming rage but their allegiance would remain unchanged, loyalty to the Montague mob far too neatly instilled in their upbringing, the very core of the Rosso family. In many ways, they would still be who they are now but new and improved, free from all childhood traumas, all the torment and inner turmoil that has hardened a tender soul.
❧ Has your relationship with your family changed over the years?
Ironically, it hasn’t. Their family itself has changed, cast a whole new set of protagonists, some of them have come and gone, but how they felt about them has remained set in stone, irrevocably so lest a crime so severe would be committed against them by a family member, they had no choice but to shatter it to pieces. Marcelo has always adored their family, always dedicated themself to their well-being, their prosperity, their justice and this cannot be easily, if at all, changed. It remains their driving force, their motivation to keep fighting regardless of potential consequences. As much as they remain a Rosso with every fibre of their being, they are a Montague just the same.
❧ Have you begun your own family?
No. Not unless you count to an extent picking and choosing the members of their living one.
❧ If not, do you ever want to have a family of your own someday?
Realistically, they don’t. Having experienced firsthand how dangerous it can be to be loyal to the mob while trying your best to maintain a picture-perfect family, Marcelo would not want to risk putting a child or even a spouse in the same position they had to find themself in so young and so helpless. But there is an idealistic part of them, wrapped up in the beauty of utopias and illusions of brighter times that will never see the light of day, that would like to continue the bloodline, seeing as they are, in fact, the last living Rosso, a name they carry with excessive pride.
Good was not something Regina was. While she appeared good, always well-behaved on the outside, her mind swirled with chaos, the shadows constantly reminding her that she was one of them. She just happened to be patient, not morally aligned. She could bide her time and be on her best behavior and seem quiet and polite — all of that made her even deadlier. Who would expect the young woman quietly reading the morning paper at the table beside theirs to be their demise? Who would expect the lithe body of Regina Daly to inflict the kind of damage that it did, let alone even notice it as she followed them?
No one ever did expect those things; no one ever realized until it was too late.
Marcelo was in no danger, at least as far as Regina would be responsible for — not at this moment, not tonight at least. Her kills were slow, and not always in the manner in which they were conducted (there is no such thing as a slow death as she places a pistol to the back of someone’s head). They were slow in the manner in which she haunted them, an omen of death people did not know to heed, a sign their eyes did not read. They were slow in the way poison worked. They were slow as the pressure of strangulation was released and reapplied. They were slow in the way that you should have seen her all along, yet did not notice until it was much too late to stop her.
Though, that did not mean that Regina was not in danger at the hands of Marcelo, judging by their change in demeanor. They were a dog on a lead, ready to strike should the chain come loose, taking every step they could before it ultimately tugged at their neck. Regina did not fear danger, and certainly did not fear Marcelo. She did not come at them with venom in her voice — the venom was not so easily detected, not at first. But she also did not feel the need to defend her tone, for she did not care what they thought of it. “Don’t worry, that was not my goal. I do not care if you place a hand on me, but you must know that the consequences will be of no one’s fault but your own.”
Every once in a blue moon, an utmost rare sensation occurred: Marcelo Rosso, proud defender of the fine art of acting on a whim, wished for the glacial temperament of a pitiful creature whose enamorment with cautious, logical thinking demanded of them to even care to consider potential consequences. That tonight was one of those few designated nights should remain its least surprising turn of events for this was living hell, a tempting trap meticulously crafted for those who knew neither mercy nor remorse; for those cut from the same cloth as them. The last vivid recollection they possessed of them bothering to fleetingly consider the consequences was a pastel-coloured scene starring a much younger version of who they used to be and their mother’s favourite vase, shattered and unrecognisable at a reckless child’s guilty feet. Briefly, they dwelled on whether they should pretend they weren’t at fault or whether honesty was the best policy — their decision, however, was made for them by their mother’s premature return.
If only these were still much simpler times, someone already locked and ready to make their decision for them. Who would have thought that in the two decades that had since passed them by, they hadn’t taken a single lesson regarding this rather simple topic to their nonexistent heart?
“Charming of you to assume I might feel threatened by a concept as ridiculous as consequences,” they scoffed, a sudden but earnest hint of amusement illuminating hardened features. “It takes a little more than that to frighten me. But say,” Marcelo carried on, the faux calmness of their voice consuming every ounce of their laughably small supply of self-control, “don’t you reckon a generous portion of these so-called consequences should also be the provocateur’s to face? Or are you just as foreign to that other very ridiculous concept — morality — as I am?”
date: september 20th
time: 12:04 am
location: measure by measure
availability: closed // @rafaellacapulet
Being a creature of habit was a revolting thought, a concept rejected by every fibre of their being and yet here they were, having returned to familiar waters with the precision of impeccably crafted clockwork. A beast’s bloodthirst could never be quenched with artificial replacements, silly playfights that concluded just prior to climax or the laughable feel of tanned leather attempting to replace human flesh with all its comical might — and, by God, were they thirsty tonight.
Two of their favourite things about Measure by Measure:
one, it served up more or less worthy opponents on a silver platter, requiring little effort on their part for nothing about their debaucherous adventures was more exhausting than actually finding someone to fight out on the streets of Verona whenever they had an itch to scratch;
two, a large number of patrons, understandably, happened to be Capulets, making their usually victorious encounters all the while sweeter, more intoxicating and more satisfactory.
Could there be any better way to pass the time for someone with their agenda?
Doubtful.
And thus, Marcelo worked their way through their usual routine, scanning the crowd with an iron gaze, preferring to sieve through potential opponents beforehand to avoid wasting precious times with too many weaklings unworthy of being schooled by a master of the craft. One could say what one wanted about their values but no one could accuse them of having low standards without breaching the eighth commandment.
At first glance, the night seemed to hold only disappointments in store. Ready to settle for someone they considered just about bearable enough to even bother, they stopped in their track as their eyes met a familiar pair, one engraved in their memory like a mocking idol cackling cruelly at times long gone they had dearly treasured.
Locked stares weighing heavier than the musty air, their silence deafening as they contemplated their next move. One sign from her and they would be ready or so they hoped, blood having begun to boil at the mere sight of this shadow of their past.
Perhaps they would meet their match tonight, disguised as an old friend gone awry.
They couldn’t let down the family. No, they couldn’t let them down or anyone else — not when the livelihood of her brother depended on it while her own life, it didn’t matter as much as his. ( he might have had a differing opinion but it was simply that — an opinion ) Still, her temperament was stilled only by the presence of Marcelo. They knew what to say when her entire being ITCHED and CRAVED to release the stationary position that she’d taken up since arriving, keeping to the shadows as easy as the costume would allow.
Carved into the palms of her hands were the marks of her nails, weighed down by watching both sides interact with an washed out ease that wouldn’t last and she couldn’t wait — not for much longer before it would be too much to bear. The falsities. The bravado. The peace. It left a bitter taste on the back of her tongue, swallowing it down with a twitch to her lips at the other’s own grimace of disgust at playing nice with others.
“You heard me,” she tossed back for the other to take with the spark in her eyes that was hard to ignore, much less the rest of her get up that flashed brighter than the whites of her teeth or the fury in which her temper would rage at the drop of a hat. It was quieted down, carefully tucked away to play nice with all in attendance as her presence would walk the line between both families while one believed her to be more loyal to them than the other. ( how foolish ) “Marcelo and wise were never two words that I would put together in the same sentence. Neither would I put Marcelo and following the rules.”
Her jest was one of two who both were biding their time and instincts to keep the peace. There were too many eyes to lose all the leverage that she’d gained, resting her gaze on the other as her head tilted off skew. “Who was it that got into your head tonight?” Santino was in hers.
Albeit, the way others perceived them had never much concerned Marcelo as long as a quiver of fear remained their name’s steady company, Valentina’s words were surprisingly worthy of the title food for thought.
Wisdom was, without a doubt, a virtue that could not be easily assigned to the majority of their endeavours, impulsive acts of haste and urge but to argue that they thoroughly lacked it would be a terribly unjust oversight. Oh no, Marcelo undeniably possessed the capacity to be wise but it was one they employed exceptionally rarely and sans mentionable motivation — for, oh, what a drag it was to resist one’s instincts even as they begged on their knees for a mere drop of your attention, to be a nothing more than a dull holier than thou caricature of one’s self. It was a virtue they valued in others (though only those who knew how to employ it well, meaning spectacularly) yet one that could bore them to death with excruciating ease.
Following the rules, on the other hand, was no more than an ordeal, a concept they had struggled to grasp since they had taken their very first steps on this planet’s rotten soil. It seemed as though a taste of anarchy’s turmoil had begun to curse through their veins with their heart’s first ever pump, a fact that had gotten them into more kinds of trouble than a mortal soul could fathom but also one that was just as much responsible for their being alive today. A wild-eyed child, forbidden from leaving the property shielded by the raven wings of the night had rebelled against their instructions and found themselves on their own, the sole survivor of a cowardly but lamentably sufficient attack.
A faint hint of movement of their tall frame, more specifically a slight shake of a head lost in thought.
As if following the rules could ever lead to anything good.
“Well,” they grinned, their attention, at last, redirected to the realm of the living, “perhaps I’m full of surprises.” Arguably not too far-fetched of a statement, taken into consideration their disdain for sharing anything akin to personal details.
They could just about imagine whom Valentina was thinking of tonight and for once their answer was easily released from otherwise secretive lips: “Always the same two, I guess,” a dismissive roll of hazel eyes. “I wouldn’t want to further inconvenience Roman — he’s struggling enough on his own I’m sure — and Bellamy would be terribly disappointed if I couldn’t exert at least some self-restraint, although it certainly requires a lot more than just some of it for me to be this disgustingly mellow.”
date: september 12
time: 11:56 pm
location: lamberti tower
status: open
Music roared in the background, loud, thumping, revelrous. The kind of music that makes your ears ring.
Castora stood still as a statue near the front door of Lamberti Tower, thankful to be outside that the music was only din, so that she could watch the people coming in and out of the tower with relative ease. An unlit cigarette hung between two fingers; she debated whether or not to taint the fresh air with smoke.
Castora eventually decided on the corruption, digging a light out of her pocket and flicking it a few times - click, click, click - until the bright orange flame appeared. The soldata exhaled a puff of smoke.
“Why are you here?”
They’d crept to the entrance like a shadow, a habit acquired on countless nocturnal prowls through the city’s most dimly lit streets, silently, but, by the looks of it, not unnoticed. It was by no means a hard question to be faced with, voiced by someone sure to be more friend than foe, yet Marcelo struggled with the answer more than they would like to admit. The Lamberti Tower could indeed find them amongst its patrons with a certain regularity, sneaking it at five minutes to midnight to happily down their shot of absinthe as the clock struck twelve and prepare themselves for more stimulating (according to their very own definition of the term) wonders the night would hopefully have to offer — but tonight, they were still to stray from their usual routine.
Their hazel gaze lost in the spirals of smoke their own cigarette omitted, Marcelo glanced up only once addressed, seemingly forgetful of the fact that they were, in fact, not invisible from head to toe no matter how silent their steps. “Why is anyone here, I guess? To blow off some steam, pass the time.” They shrugged nonchalantly, ash mingling with the darkness surrounding them.
To keep their temper in check, to keep themselves from nightly outbursts of rage that would make their knuckles bleed again after they had just recovered, to at least attempt to find release in anything other than violence.
“Why, what’s your ulterior motive?” Who knew, perhaps they could take a liking to small talk. Unlikely but worth a try.
