HALF DEAD. BARELY ALIVE.

Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing. Felipe Castro. 28. Neutral.

[juliawvicker]

[offelipe]

paola;

His grip is gentle around her wrist. Once, his touch sent a tickle down her spine, a feather against her skin to remind Paola of what a delicate and fragile thing love could be. She tries to feel it now, because it would be so much easier to love him again. This is Gabriele risen from the dead — did it matter so much that he has a new name? Isn’t it enough that he’s here and that his touch grounds her to the earth?

She knows those eyes. She knows the warmth of his skin and the timbre of his voice. It was real, he insists. Maybe it was; maybe it still is, maybe that’s what the pounding of her heart and the heat rising to her cheeks is trying to tell her. That somewhere in her traitor, con artist heart, Felipe has taken root and he will not let her go.

“Haven’t you done enough?” she whispers between her teeth, each word a half-hearted stab in the dark. He will break her; she’s never been more certain. “Didn’t you cast me aside first?” She will never be free of ghosts. From Gabriele to Felipe to the Paola who loved with abandon, she will always be haunted. She bears the weight of it like a prouder and stronger Atlas, who would rather be burdened by the truth than freed by yet another lie.

“You know I love you.” She spits out the confession, given as if each word drives a dagger deeper into her stomach. “For nine months, I tried to give you a grave.” Her voice is an ocean, cresting and falling like the tide. “I tried to remember you. I carried your death like it was my own, and it felt like it was.” 

He brings his fingertips to her eyes and Paola turns her face away. She lets his fingers enclose her wrist, but she does not forget the noose he’s tied around her heart. With one pull of the rope, she might lose herself to the madness. So she must cut it herself. If she has to break her bones and use the shards to create a knife, Paola will do it.

But what will it take for Felipe to let her go? He looks and sounds and talks and feels like Gabriele. If they are one and the same, then he will give her a good and proper fight. After all, he’s risen from the dead; and as godless as Paola has become, even she understands that it is no small miracle he survived. It took cunning and wit and patience — and despite the thick bitterness that seeps into her blood, Paola takes a moment to acknowledge it. Recognize it, admire it — dread it.

For yes, Paola loved Gabriele, but she fears Felipe.

“This is real.” She pulls her hand from his grip and rolls down her sweatpants, pulling it down until he can see his name — his false name, the man she loved and the man Felipe killed and replaced — in angry, scarred bumps. “They did this to me because you have been my greatest weakness. You made me weak.”

She gingerly rolls her sweatpants back over the scar, ensuring the fabric doesn’t rub against the wound. “If you want to know me, know I won’t ever be weak for you again.” Paola doesn’t believe it, not yet. But she says it as if it’s already true, because it must be. She doesn’t want the ugly details of why Felipe hid from Verona, and why he has returned now. She won’t give him another chance to play games with her heart and make a mockery of her sacrifices.

Above all, she won’t give him another chance to hurt her. She will set fire to the Paola who dreamt of a simple and quiet future with someone she loved. She will ravage its home and lay waste to its comforts, until all that remains is Perdita. Perdita, who Felipe does not know and cannot love; who wears her scars like proof of all that she’s survived and the vulnerable, open wound she will never be again.

But first.

Let Paola be weak for another moment.

Before he has the chance to steal this decision from her, Paola presses her lips against his. She is careful not to touch him anywhere else, wearily keeping her hands at her sides and her body safe from his.

She pulls away before he has the chance to respond. When she does, her cheeks are wet again. “Leave Verona,” she warns, “before I make you.”

    He had never really known what it was to ache -- to ache for someone other than himself, for something other than his own ambitions. But Paola, ruthless as she was, seemed determined to sink her fingers into his chest and grab his heart, her grip tightening until he was sure that it might stop beating. Her words pierce him, and he does not bother to hide it, visibly flinching at the tone that she employs. Why should he hide such reactions from her now, when he has already divested so much of himself? She deserved to see this; him at his most pained, him at his absolute weakest. 

    Absentmindedly, he notes the way that the moon shines against her hair. How her eyes sparkle and glint with the hints of rage that she withholds. This is her taking mercy on him, isn’t it? He knows she could be far crueler than merely laying out his sins before him. Abandoning her, leaving her for the cold, prioritizing his life over her own. But...he hadn’t though, not really. He had just needed some time, was all. And perhaps this was his fault but his sins and transgressions had been committed before he met her. 

    That had to be taken into account, didn’t it?

    “I didn’t cast you aside,” he corrects gently, his voice imploring. “Paola, if you are to walk away from me now and be left with anything, know that. I wanted to be able to live for you --” Felipe cut himself off sharply. That was far too revealing. He wanted to say more but something within him shuddered at admitting such a potent truth when his mouth had grown accustomed to the sweet flavor of lies.

    He rubbed his hand over his face. What he wanted to feel was anger. He wanted that sense of derisiveness and disdain to descend upon him because he knew how to deal with those emotions. They were far easier for him to swallow than this. This feeling of guilt that settled heavily onto his chest. There were things that he could have done to mitigate this of course -- perhaps, if he had looked hard enough, he could have found someone to get a message to her. An email. A text. Something. 

    “Nothing I can do will make up for what I did to you, Paola,” he said quietly. He had never apologized to anyone before. He wondered if he was doing it correctly. “The months that I spent dead, I could have found a way -- any way -- to let you know that I was alive and I didn’t, because...because I thought only of how I could remain alive. Myself. And there is no excuse for that and there never will be. But I have been look for a way, any way, that we -- you and me -- can make it out of here alive. Together.”

    She pulls away from him as though his touch burns. He remembers when she used to shift into it, how warm her soft, pink cheeks would feel as she would smile into his palm and kiss it. For some reason, it hurt just as much as her pulling away from him did and he doesn't have the time to dwell on why. He’s too distracted by the mutilated skin on her hip. He thinks of all the time that he was beaten in the name of the Capulets or Montagues. How many other mobs had sought him out to make a trophy out of them -- and oh, they had tried. 

    “You can’t live here without being marked by the city in some way,” he says quietly, fury quelling everything, save for the blood that rushes into his fingertips. Felipe had nearly forgotten in the wake of his death what potent, reckless fury felt like. But then he realizes something far worse -- her words make him as furious as his name on her skin did. The image of a knife piercing her skin flashed in his minds eye. Her words ring in his ears. Again and again and again. They cycle in an endless loop. 

    He looks at her as though he doesn’t know her -- and perhaps he doesn’t, not anymore. The Paola that he had known would never have thought of their devotion to one another, their love, as something that would make them weak. It was something that she would have fought tooth and nail to protect -- and in that, she would have found strength. He recoils, taking a half-step back as he looks at her in confusion. 

    Then she does worse.

    She casts him away. Like an unwanted toy, like a torn rag, like a dog that had outlived its usefulness. 

    And she had the audacity to cry. 

   “Make me?”

[xslowly]

[offelipe]

HEADCANON 003;

Felipe is a natural at chemistry. He enjoys it and probably would have gotten a career as a chemist if he had continued his education instead of teaching himself, but he finds the structure of academia boring and tedious. Learning topics at his own rate is far more preferable and allows him to consume things at his own rate – although he does find himself writing what he learns in journals. In these same journals he practices different styles of penmanship so that, should anyone read the books, they’d think it was passed between multiple people.

[offelipe]

date: april –2017

time: 10:00 AM

location: cathedral

status: for @ofhugo​

    Felipe could pull off just about anything. Stripes, clashing patterns, everything except the color royal purple. No, okay, that wasn’t true -- he could pull off royal purple, no problem, it was just that he preferred not to because the eye always shifted to the deep hues rather than going directly to him. So it’s really no surprise that he can make a priest’s cassock and vestments somewhat sensual as well. He had picked a more fitting cassock than priests usually do, so the sleeves were a little tight around his arms and chest, but when he strutted around the different churches posing as someone from the archdiocese to gather intel on potential sinners he had noticed a number of eyes stray his way. 

    Maybe he had taken advantage of an empty confessional. Or two. 

    He looked at himself in the reflection of the confessional’s stained glass, an impressed smile painting itself across his lips. I really should do this more often, he thought to himself, combing his fingers through his hair and mussing it up more than it already had been. Perhaps God really was on his side because not only had he eluded two potential confrontations, but he had firmly laid them to rest so that he might keep on like this for a couple months more. Maybe even the rest of the year, if he played his cards right. The moment was cut short however, by the confessional door opening and...well, slamming into his face. 

    “Is this God’s punishment for me posing as a priest?” He groaned, laughing while rubbing at his face. 

[offelipe]

lillian;

There was an inimitable buoyancy to Lillian Wen’s existence: the languorous, husky syllables of her speech, the silken sprawl of her gait – it was there in the crux of her presence, the permission to take time. It was not exactly surprising, then, that no one seemed to uproot the fact that Lillian, at every turn, seemed intent on occupying her time, even as exhaustion began to creep in at the edges of her consciousness.

That day was no different. It found the emissary-woman drifting from task-to-task; the absence of an assistant, with her heart not quite ready to scavenge up a replacement for Paola, making her ever-brimming schedule a touch chaotic to navigate – but who was Lillian Wen, if not a woman up for a challenge? She took to it, with that same ease she took on all else, and with the day creeping from morning to midday and closer to dusk, it was far from exhausted that the warm caress of afternoon-sun against bronzed flesh found her.

It hadn’t been long enough since the affected purgatory of Cosimo Capulet’s construction for her to not glean light from every bit of good she could wring out of her weary bones. She had spent hours already, on her feet from soon after she’d awoken, journeying from shelter to shelter with supplies and guides. She only paused for a cup of gelato her stomach yearned for in the thick of spring’s heady warmth, her already-loose stride slackening to an amble to dawdle, the wild tendrils of raven black curls hanging in a heavy curtain down her back, swaying with her steps.

Too many people, too often, in too much of the world mistook being busy for being caught in a hurricane of tasks that kept one from being present in one’s life. Lillian feared ever making that mistake – of ever taking the journey of existence for granted, and ever wasting her time instead of utilising it.  Wandering the streets of Verona, it was luxuriating that occupied Lillian, and it was no less necessary to her than anything else she had done that day thus far.

And after-all: would it not have been the most miserable of pities, if being wrapped up in to-do list tasks kept her attention too occupied for her gaze to land on the man it did?

“Felipe Castro!” she called out from quite a ways away from him still, brows arching expectantly. Eyes gleaming with tenderness that beseeched: come to me.

    He heard his name called from the crowd and he turns, eyebrows raising as a grin illuminates his face because surely he must have mistaken that voice. Dark eyes scan the bobbing heads, mundane people with their mundane existence, when, finally, he catches sight of the lovely visage of Lillian Wen. Hopping off of the rock, he makes his way through the bodies that might keep him from getting to her, from lavishing her in who-knows-how-many months of affection that had been lost to them both. 

    As he passes some fruit stands and barrels full of treats, he lets his hand dip here and there until the pockets of his pants were laden with stolen goods. All the while, still snacking on his clementine. He had made the note to grab some blackberries along the way, remembering a particularly unforgettable memory of Lillian’s lips being stained with their dark juices while sighing his name in the most enchanting fashion. There had been many mistakes made in his past, but she was perhaps the one thing he had ever done right. As he stepped closer, her face shining in the light, he only become more assured. A rarely-seen warmth blossoming in his heart. 

    “Lillian Wen,” he huffed, popping a slice of the clementine into his mouth. “Y’know, tesoro, maybe everything has fallen into place so that the universe could bring me back to you.” The smile on his face could have brought the sun itself to his knees, bright, shining, and unapologetic. Hopefully, she wouldn’t see the paleness of his skin for having hid himself in the shadows and corners at night. Hopefully, she wouldn’t notice how tired his eyes are and how his bones seem heavier from having touched Paola -- and consequently being ruined by her. No matter, though, he’d do it again in a heartbeat. 

    Holding out a slice of clementine for her, he cocked a brow. “Don’t you wanna know what I’ve been up to, darlin’?”

[offelipe]

paola;

Felipe Castro. It was an ugly name — it didn’t suit him, not the way Gabriele had. But maybe that was why he had chosen it at all: a new name, a new woman to believe his lies and accept his heartache as her own, a new life in which who he was did not matter. But it mattered to her. It mattered, because Paola had thrown the pieces of her heart onto the altar and let Verona swallow it in flames. It mattered because the name carved onto her very body was not only a taunt of all that she had lost, but a lie.

She had come to Verona for the truth, and this was it: unforgiving, merciless and ugly. As ugly as Felipe Castro, the man who thought he was remaking himself into a better man and, all the while, let her become a ruined woman. 

Paola thought to take a step back, but her hand would not pull away from his. Even now, her body betrayed her. It longed for him, ached for him after months of mourning. She cursed it, this part of her that she could not kill. She thought she had let him go. With Pandora as her witness, Paola had sworn to leave him behind and choose life.

But life had other plans. Life had Felipe Castro, who not only resurrected the image of the man she loved and lost, but the parts of herself Paola thought she had abandoned.

Gabriele had always been a tricky man, a slippery man. Paola had loved him for the parts that stuck. The way he would whisper words like honey into her ear, how he could make her smile mid-kiss until she was laughing against his mouth. The smile that knew he had sinned and still asked her to love him, like there was no better part of living than this: to devote her heart and her entire being to him without question. And she had. Like an idiot, Paola had not thought twice before plucking her heart out, dropping it into his palm and closing his fingers over it.

She wanted to curse. She wanted to cry. She wanted to run.

When Paola spoke, her words lacked any emotion at all. Showing feeling was more than she was capable of, with her insides knotted up and a viper squeezing whatever lay beating in her chest. He had already taken from her all the feeling in the world; Paola did not have any of it left to give him, this man with a familiar face and the soul of a stranger. “No,” Paola said, “No one died at all. How can someone who never existed be killed?”

Was her hand even attached to her body? She watched him kiss her skin as if she was completely removed from the situation at hand, watching from some deep and mysterious place inside of her that saw everything and felt nothing.

A thief at her core, Paola could understand trading secrets. She could understand keeping a few coins inside her own pocket in exchange for her troubles. In this, she had no leg to stand on. But she had always been Paola. Even when the Montagues assigned her a new name, decreed her to be Perdita, Paola had only accepted it as a mere extension of her.

How many times had she longed to do exactly as he had — forget who she was and choose a new story to tell? A different life, a different name, all better than her own, with sins that did not weigh her down and mistakes that she no longer had to carry. 

The worst part of this was that Paola understood him. But she did not know him. She could hear the door to whatever love she carried for him slamming shut, windows locked and curtains drawn. Somewhere, the apartment they shared in Rome was burning down. The memories flung itself off the walls and died on the carpet. Every laugh, every kiss, every kind word hanged itself.

There was no life after this. There was only Felipe, who bore the face of the love she thought was worth giving up all hope and reason; Felipe, whose false name she used as a desperate, if foolish, reason as she broke hearts and abandoned friendships and ran from anything resembling hope in Verona; Felipe, who stood before her now and asked her an impossible question: Would you rather I stayed dead, Paola?

She hated that he was using her name. She hated that he had known it from the moment they met, and she was only just finding out his. Felipe Castro. It was a wretched name, belonging to a beautiful man, with a heart that may glitter under the sun but gave way when touched.  Felipe was a rotten fruit with an alluring veneer.

Paola could dig her nails in and leave her mark on his chest; didn’t she deserve that? Just as his false name now lived on her skin, didn’t she deserve to live on his, too? But those eyes deceived her; they enraptured her, cast a spell on her so that she could not bear to think of seeing him bleed. “I’m glad you’re alive,” she whispered, honest with him though he had never been with her. 

If there was any bit of Gabriele inside him, then she wanted him alive. She wanted him to be happy, even.

But she also wanted him to be as far away from her as possible, too. She was not ready to be uprooted yet again, everything that Paola stood on shaking free and letting her fall through a gaping hole. She was content with her lot in life. Morals and ethics were for those who grew up with a hand to feed them and arms to hold them; they were not for Paola, and she had accepted it. Her life was to scrape the bottom of the barrel and find a home in the ashes. With Gabriele, she might have had more. But only Felipe was left, and she could not love him. She could only blame him.

“You need to leave.” Paola looked around, realizing for the first time that someone may have seen them. “Not just here — you need to leave Verona.” As if she just recognized his touch on her skin, Paola ripped her hand from his and gripped her own chest with it, fingers bent as if she was trying to claw her heart out. “You don’t belong here. I belong here, now. And you and I… we were never real.” Right? Paola doesn’t ask.

“I loved Gabriele.” Tears sprang to her eyes, but they clung to her lashes and did not fall. “But I don’t know you. I’ll keep your secret, if you leave. It’s the last favor I’ll do for you, ever again.”

Without giving him a chance to respond, Paola turned on her heel and walked away. Only then did she let herself cry.

    It’s like staring at the sky all night -- making oneself familiar with the patterns of the stars, so much so that you forget the rosy-hued light of dawn that swallows everything else in a bid for continuing the mundane cycle of the world. The moment he had heard her voice and laid his eyes upon her, all he could think of were the constellations above -- and now the heated wrath of the sun was infringing on whatever joy he had grasped for. Quickly, briskly, cruelly; he felt his euphoria begin to slip away. 

    Her revulsion comes in waves, slowly making itself known to him. First, it’s in the coldness of her eyes. Then, in the harsh downturn of her mouth. Then, in the frigid tone of her voice. It would have been less painful if she had stuck an icicle in his heart and watched it melt in her grasp.   It had been one of the reasons he had loved her all the more -- that wicked penchant for cruelty, for making others ache as she did. In those rare moments she had let him bear witness to that side of herself, he had always been left breathless.  

    How could he not be when she illustrated how fractured a creature made of light and warmth could be? His lips settled into a contemplative line as he noted the dip in her voice, the hard edge to it. Were it anyone else, he would have let such her emotions roll off his shoulders, breaking upon his hard back like water against stone. 

    But she had changed him, had slipped her blade of love in the chinks of his armor. He needed to hold onto this pain that she caused him, lavish in it so that he might understand a fraction of what she had suffered. She was right in front of his fingertips, he wouldn’t let his own apathy and selfishness get in the way of the future that they could have together. So, if he needed to suffer as the first step of showing him how deeply he cares for her, then so be it. He would bear it a thousand times over. A million times over. Just let him hold onto her. 

    “Someone did die,” he murmured to himself, gaze flickering between hers. “For you, at least. But I’m still here: me, Felipe. Your Gabriele. Who are you to say which of those is actually me? What makes Gabriele more or less alive than Felipe? Felipe was the one who was shot, Felipe was the one who died -- but Gabriele? Alive. Breathing. Standing in front of you.” 

    If he said it aloud, he could gauge the reactions of her face, the small details that would give him a glimpse as to whether or not there was a chance for redemption. Although, it didn’t matter. He would try and be a man deserving of her attention, of that place in her heart he had stolen, regardless of whether or not he had been evicted. 

    Their love had been true. 

    Which meant that it was just as dead as he was. That it had as much of a chance for resurrection as he had. I’m glad you’re alive. And like that, the arduous road to redemption is laid out before him, so clearly. At the end of it, all that can be seen is the warm doe-eyes that were hidden by dark, thick lashes. A warm, run-down apartment covered in the lapsing rays of the sun. The press of her lips against his, a half-kiss marred by her grin. Even as she pulls away, even as she stutters her excuses and her sad explanations for the inevitability of the death of their love, he holds onto it still. 

    Her hand fell away from his and his fingers twitched -- as though in pain, from the loss. She turned away from him, as though she couldn’t get away fast enough. But a handful of minutes wasn’t enough. Her words washed over him, choking off the little air that he had. They echoed in his head. We were never real. Did she not taste that lie on her tongue? 

    There had been so many times where he had lied, blatantly. To men, women, whoever had the misfortune of bending their ear his way. But Gabriele had been the most honest he had ever been. Felipe and Gabriele were the same -- one was merely suffering for his misdeeds while the other would never know the meaning of the word consequences. That was the only difference. He knew that Paola felt this in her bones. She was a con artist, just like him. She should know the difference between counterfeit and original, between lies and truths. 

    Maybe, he thinks foolishly. Maybe she can feel it in my touch. In my breath. In the way I ache when I say her name. “Paola,” he beseeches, catching her wrist with his hand, gently enough that could pull away if she wished. But he hoped she wouldn’t. “It was real. All of it was real.” Felipe could address the more pressing matters, lay out in greater detail how he had died just to save their future. But any explanation paled in comparison to the truth that he needed her to understand: he loves her. And he always will. Not a single moment in Rome had been fictitious or shaded in gray. He had loved her and there was truthfully nothing more important for her to understand.  

    “Please, don’t leave,” he asks, his voice quiet. What he wants to do is pull her close again, tight against him until he could feel the beating of her heart. He wanted to comb his fingers through her hair, press his lips against her until he could taste nothing but her. But he made himself still, though it caused him great pains. Aching pains. Pains that racked him. “I love you, Paola. But I don’t know you either -- not anymore. And I want to. I’m not going to leave until I know you and you know me. Properly, this time.”

    He wiped the tears from her eyes, blessed, beautiful things that they were. Glowing in the moonlight as though they were gifts from the moon herself. “Don’t cast me aside, Paola. My darling. My love.”

[rp-meme-glaceon]

Peer into my muse's memories

[offelipe]

rp-meme-glaceon‌:

❤️- A happy memory that makes them smile

💙- A sad memory that makes them cry

💛- A memory that makes them feel angry

💚- A memory that makes them feel guilty

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

💔- A memory that leaves them feeling lonely

❣- A memory that leaves them laughing

💕- A memory about their significant other

💞- A memory about their children

💓- A memory about their friends

💗- A memory about a good deed they did

💖- A memory that made them feel special

💝- A memory that made them feel loved

💘- A memory that gets their heart pounding

💟- Wildcard!!!

[connerys]

This Gun for Hire (1942) dir. Frank Tuttle

[offelipe]

 date: flashback -- TBD

time: 11:32 AM

location: multisala rivoli 

status: for @hazelaccardi​

    There were a couple of perks that were afforded to him -- quick, relatively easy cash, new toys, shiny cars, but the one that he valued the most were the number of connections that were offered to him. At the drop of a hat, he could have a model tucked under his arm, the ear of a politician, or an overlooked little blonde whose talents were sorely underappreciated. The Montagues didn’t realize what a useful, clever angel she was. She could offer a thousand different lives to one person -- she could make him a lucrative business owner from France, a poor man from Spain, a nobody from England, a student from Brazil. The possibilities were endless and they didn’t even see the treasure trove that was marked right within arm’s reach. 

    Which was fine by him, it left him to figure out the best way to utilize Hazel for his own devices -- okay, well, that made it seem as though he didn’t have an agenda when he did. He had far too many. There were a couple of prescriptions he think he could really make use of, as well as a couple of birth certificates, passports, IDs...he could even have a successful side business selling fake IDs to underaged kids. Standing in front of the theater with his hands in his pockets, he waited for Hazel Accardi to make herself known, having been informed prior to the meeting that he should be looking for someone that looked like no less than an angel. At least, that’d be what he would tell her. Gotta lay it on thick with the saccharine sweetness so that the bitter pill he was about to deliver might be easier to swallow. 

    It’s not an easy thing to tell someone and explain to them that they’re likely going to be indebted forever to a powerful mob whose reach is pretty much neverending. Rubbing at the back of his neck, he grimaced. It was very rare of him to feel this pitiful pang in his heart, but in this case it was almost inescapable -- no one really deserved to be in this sort of predicament but she must have done something to earn her this kind of debt. Maybe one day she’d tell him what. 

    He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned about, a grin on his face. “Hazel, is it?” This time his accent was American. Make her feel a little more at home and like she has a companion -- Felipe and Hazel ( and her forgeries ) against the world. “Okay, don’t -- I’m not this stupid that often -- only kinda often -- but I read the times wrong and now we’re probably going to have to watch a horror movie...unless you’re willing to wait a bit longer? We could grab some gelato. My treat.”

[offelipe]

paola;

For a moment, she was free. The stench of Verona rolled off her, leaving only the faint smell of citrus and old books and home — home, which she had only felt when she was with Gabriele, skin against skin and soft words filling the room with a peace that she had forgotten until now. She might as well be looking into the sun for the way heat rose to her cheeks and warmth flooded her at the sight of him. He held her, and Paola forgot the pain. She forgot the lonely and unmarked path she had painstakingly followed, burning trees and turning rivers to ice so that no life would find her.

Death, and death only, had loved her — until Gabriele returned. The stars aligned, the planets in sync, the world was righted again, and Verona’s troubles no longer seemed so great a beast. All could be forgiven, if Gabriele was there to hold her just like this. Just like this, his lips and his hands everywhere.

She fell to her knees with him as if in prayer, a pose that never felt right until she was here, praising every living and dying thing that brought Gabriele back. A million questions waited with bated breath, but Paola held them back. Gently, with a heart that loved too much to bear loss another moment more, Paola reveled in the moment. It could be not be taken from her; it could not be harmed.

Not yet.

It was a relief to hear his voice; it hardly mattered what he even said. No matter that he spoke of clients; it only matters that he called her darling. She wanted to beg him to say it again. Call her darling, say her name, tell her he loved her. It had been months since she had last heard his voice. The only memory she’d had was of Viola.

Viola, who was dead. Viola, who had not even recognized the name Gabriele.

She pushed the thought away. She wanted to revel in the moment. It couldn’t be taken from her; it could not be harmed.

Paola covered both hands on the side of her cheeks with her own. Proof, she just needed this proof that he was there. Not a phantom or a ghost, not a dream. “Darling,“ she said, “I don’t care about appropriate. But if it makes you more comfortable…” Rising to her feet, Paola held his hand for dear life — because that was what this was. Dear life, returned to her when she least expected in. Though she was caught in the smoke of war and lost in its lawless violence, she had been found.

She knew she still may not be saved. Gabriele or no Gabriele, she was now a Montague; they did not let go so easily. The questions she had kept tightly sealed resurfaced as she followed Gabriele. Had he stayed in Verona because of a relapse? Did he have no means of contacting her? Her nose wrinkled as she considered the possibility. She knew those who worked at the facility, as well as those who lived here; Gabriele would have had the freedom to reach her, if he so wished.

So had he not wished?

Her heart, once as light as a feather and warm as the hearth, began to pound anxiously in her chest. What was happening? The world began to spin on its axis, until she felt as if she were a spool of thread unraveling. When he told her to call him Felipe, the world spun faster. Her heartbeat rose to her throat, lodged so tightly that Paola couldn’t find the words to respond. Who was Felipe? Why had Gabriele changed his name? Was he on the run, then? But if so, why would he come to the facility and risk being seen?

She said nothing; she wanted for him to explain before she had to ask. She wanted someone to offer her the truth from the beginning. She wanted to stop running after it, chasing it like a raw round waiting to be taken advantage of. She had given Gabriele up already. Hadn’t she been used enough? Ivan had taunted her with it, carved his name into her hip as a permanent reminder of how foolish and desperate she’d been.

It was why she had dug her heels deep into the Montagues’ world; it was why she was selling ambrosia to addicts. But how could she explain it to Gabriele — Felipe? How could she tell him without pinning the blame on him? You left me and I have been left with the jagged pieces, and I have sliced my heart to pieces with it.

She couldn’t.

“Ga—Felipe.” It felt wrong on her tongue. It bubbled and boiled like acid, and it scorched her throat as it went down. Her voice sounded hoarse because of it. She forced each word out as if it pained her to say it, more than it might to hear it. “I’m a Montague. Only an initiate, but… So many things have changed.” She looked down and watched her hand lace between his. “I know it’s awful.” Her hand squeezed tightly around his. “I know it’s wrong. But,” Paola tried to say the next words gently so it would fall like a blanket and not a knife pointed at his throat, “I lost everything when I thought I lost you. I didn’t care anymore.”

She brought their hands, intertwined with one another, to her lips and pressed a kiss to the back of his hand. “Why are you going by another name, Gabriele?”

    Good Paola, sweet Paola, heavenly Paola who held paradise within her heart and had been foolish enough to let him slip past the pearly gates that guarded it and make himself at home within it. It was almost too much to comprehend, the way her foolishness had infected him, had made him sick with the need to hold her. To have her and press his lips to her skin as though that alone could make reparation for the ruin and heartache he had caused because, in that single press of her skin against his, it was apparent that she tasted of sweet, disastrous ruin. Was it wrong of him to think that she tasted all the sweeter for it? God, how he wanted to go drunk on it, wanted to whisk her away to Rome this very night, drag her into that shoddy little apartment that they had called home and make reparation for all he had done by worshipping her until she bid him to stop. 

    His throat grew parched at the very thought. His fingers wrapped tighter around hers at the possibility of it being so close, yet so very far away. 

    Glancing around him, he crowded her against the wall, tucking her against him so that her face might be hidden from any prying eyes. A tree covered them as well, the moon bleeding through its leaves, shining and catching Paola’s wide eyes with its silver light. Hesitantly, the back of his hand brushed across her cheek, his breath stilling for one beat. Then another. There had been a plan in his mind, see. One that would test his patience, sure, but one that would make it all worth it in the end. One where he would be smart enough, clever enough, to wait until he had secured a new identity for them both, where they could make new names for themselves without Felipe having to glance over his shoulder at every turn. One where they could have the world to themselves to explore, where they could grow old and know the pattern of each other’s skin as well as their own. 

    One where he could wake up to her every day and fall asleep with her tucked against him every night. 

    But the problem with that was him. He was not a patient man and he had mistakenly thought that nine months had somehow magically taught him that -- and it did, for a bit. But then he had heard her voice, the whisper of ambrosia on her lips, and something within him had snapped. Broken. Dissipated. Perhaps it had been nothing more than a dream to begin with. Part of him suspected that Paola had sensed him, taken whatever patience he had, pressed it to her lips and swallowed it whole, likely punishing him for thinking that he might have had an ounce of patience when it came to her in the first place. 

    He pulled her tighter against him slowly, as though testing if she were real and not a mirage concocted by whatever remnants of drugs were in his system because he could never truly be sure they had ever gone away. 

    Darling, she had murmured. “My darling,” he whispered as he pressed his thumb beneath her eye, following the artful curve -- showing devout reverence for once in his blasphemous, heretical life. She pressed her lips against the back of his hand and he swallowed down the groan of defeat, the groan of disappointment. A terrible idea. Truly horrid. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to regret it, not quite; could he ever really regret anything that brought her this close to him? 

    He quieted for a moment as he thought how to explain himself to her without letting her know he was the villain in this whole story. Tipping his forehead against hers, he closed his eyes, feeling his heart beat at every point where his skin touched hers. Reminding him that, though he was dead, she brought him to life with nothing more than a sigh, a glance, the sound of his name on her lips. Felipe, she said. It curled unfamiliarly on her tongue and he couldn’t blame her for the confusion that tainted it, as though it sounded wrong. 

    But it never had been. Felipe was Gabriele and Gabriele was Felipe. The only difference was that one had a clean slate and the other still had to make an act of reconciliation for his sins, if not completely purge them from his being, from his soul. Before he could answer her, though, a question popped into his mind -- and he had to bite down on the tip of his tongue before he loosed it. If he were a more selfish man, he would have asked it with no reservations, but she didn’t deserve such scrutiny. She didn’t deserve any of this. A rueful huff blew past his lips as he indulged in their closeness a little longer, in the solidness of her body against his, in the warmth of her breath, her voice, her glance. 

    She was making him a better man. 

    She was making him stupider, too, and he hadn’t thought such a thing was possible. 

    Then again, she had taught him to love too, so maybe revealing the world of impossibilities was another one of her talents -- along with making every single person who was fortunate enough to meet her, fall in love with her too. “My sweet darling,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead, eyes closed, making a prayer in his heart to a God he wasn’t sure he had ever believed in. If there was a God out there, he prayed that there be mercy given to him. Placed upon his soul in the case that it was ruined within the next few seconds. 

    “Felipe is my given name. Felipe Castro -- but I’ve gone by many names before that. And I called myself Gabriele because I wanted to remake myself better, for you. The sins of Gabriele were far fewer than that of Felipe.” He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, smoothing it over, pressing the ends between his thumb and index. So many things about her were different. So many things were the same. Felipe wasn’t entirely sure which was worse. “But both Felipe and Gabriele had to die for what I did.” Now came the difficult part. Pressing his lips against her hand, as she had done with his, he glanced down in embarrassment -- because fuck was this embarrassing. “I may have...been trading secrets between both mobs and skimming money from the top for both of them.”

    After a brief silence, he shifted his grip on her hand, pressing her open palm against his heart. So that she might feel how it raced because of her touch, and her touch alone. “Would you have rather I stayed dead, Paola?”

[offelipe]

brielle;

Brielle, too, is on her way back from the market when she spots him. In an excellent mood after having visited the flower stand, she turns as soon as she sees him in the distance, gold-kissed and apparently drunk on it with how he sways atop the ruins. Felipe, she is sure, would call the move a swagger, but he can’t admit if anything he does is uncool. It simply isn’t in his nature.

She watches the display from the ground behind him, listening to him announce his presence to the world and knowing something magical or awful must have happened to poke him out of hiding. Concerned but not overly worried, considering he’s littering ( he’d probably say he’s composting ) and shouting at the universe at large. Brielle, lacking other ideas, comes about halfway up the same ruin and sits down, dangling her legs over the edge. It used to terrify her, coming back here, but she’s forced herself to enough times that she can be at the ruins without thinking about all the blood leaving her body.

Mostly.

She looks up at him, squinting as though gazing into the sun before she has the sense to shade her eyes. ❝ You go outside now ? ❞ she asks teasingly, studying his face and assuring herself that he can’t be entirely deranged. As long as he retains most of his sanity, she won’t panic. ❝ I thought you were new people ? Person. Did you say you move by needing so much attention ? ❞ She pulls out her phone and pretends to check the time. ❝ It was lasting… three days ? ❞

Brielle pretends to sigh in disappointment, making a show of looking through the massive flower basket in her hands before pulling out a yellow parrot lilly and holding it upward for Felipe, if he wants it. ❝ Conde - canto - condolences, ❞ she says, stuttering over it and blushing fiercely.

    You go outside now? The little titter calls for his attention and he can’t help but grin at its source, knowing that the girl didn’t have it to hold a gun to his temple, much less pull the trigger necessary to blow his brains out. There were worse people to be surprised by, but far less could be counted as better. He tilted his face up towards the sun for one second more before settling next to Brielle, long legs stretching out as he sat next to her, more or less reclining as he propped himself up on his elbows. It was easy for him to look the part of a man who was content with his life, invigorated by it, even. But it took a special sort of person to note the small details that gave his nerves away: the way his eyes flickered about the crowd, the slow clench of his fingers into fists, the outline of the knife tucked into the waistband of his jeans. 

    “I do, dolcezza,” he replied, canting his head towards her with a charming smile. “The tides of fortune have changed and the world has placed itself in the palm of my hand. It’d be stupid of me not to carpe diem, y’know?”

    He takes the flower, plucking it from her fingers before switching to her mother tongue as easily as changing the rings on his fingers. Perhaps even easier than that. The Russian made his tongue heavy and thick, but he did not mind all that much -- placing the flower behind his ear with a grateful smile curling the edges of his mouth. [It was more like nine months, princess,]  he explained with a careless shrug, as though nine months of hiding, plotting, and living like a vampire in fear for his life were more or less a walk in the park. [I made some very powerful people very angry, but thanks be to God -- God being me -- I think I have them in my crosshairs now.]

    Holding out a piece of the clementine to her, he cocked a brow. Though he had been light and playful, there was no mistaking the cutting edge that lay beneath the silken tone. Yes, he had made his mistakes but he had been so close to tasting the peace and love he had been longing for that having it ripped away was a crime deserving of nothing less than utter decimation. And he was more than willing to do what he needed to to make sure that those who had stolen it from him had died a death far more permanent than his own. [For your own sake, it’s probably better we don’t dwell too much on it. Don’t want you guilty by association, do we?]

[offelipe]

calina;

date: may 2014 location: vladimir prospekt ‘salon’ / st. petersburg, russia status: closed to @offelipe​

There are perks to being Madame Kamenev’s favorite girl: the best, most luxurious garments; the nicest room in the salon equipped with a small bar, a plasma-screen television, a tub large enough for two–three, really, should the need arise–and more; and, of course, the sophisticated clientele.

The Sokolova woman knows nothing about her next appointment, save for the fact that she’ll be making twice as much tonight because she’s been booked by a pair–lovers, business partners, exhibitionists, it doesn’t matter; she’s never one to disappoint or shy away from her line of work. No matter how badly she wishes to, just sometimes, lock herself in the suite and turn down any and all appointments, she can’t; no matter how badly she wishes to leave Madame’s brothel, she can’t–and she knows better than to bite the hand that feeds her or to burn the already-rickety bridge that keeps her in a room rather than on the streets.

Calina shakes her head, curls bouncing in her reflection on her mirror; she hasn’t the time to dwell on things that, at least in the foreseeable future, won’t change. What she can and does dwell on, however, is her appearance. She applies mascara to her lashes, gloss to her lips, a bit of blush upon her cheeks. As she primps and preens, it’s easy to see why Madame Kavenev favors her so; all it takes is a coquettish tilt of the head, a well-practiced curl of her lips and she’s unidentifiable to herself–an actress, truly, with a penchant for doing what needs to be done. What’s expected of her.

She slips into a sheer babydoll set as though it’s a second skin, the black fabric leaving little to the imagination; then next, her heels. Calina gives herself a quick once-over, pleased with what she sees–a breathtaking woman, despite the fact that she barely recognizes herself. A glance at the clock tells her that her next appointment will be arriving at any moment and she exits her bathroom and enters the main room, decidedly draping herself over the burgundy velvet chair that’s in the direct line of sight of those who enter.

“My, my, my,” she croons as the door opens, a kittenish smile overtaking her visage. Once she’s sure they’ve seen her perched on her makeshift throne, she rises and saunters closer, a mischievous glint in her brown hues. “I’ve gotten lucky tonight, it seems.”

    Okay, so, maybe he enjoyed taking clients out a little more than he should -- but it’s why he made the perfect emissary. Whenever he closes, they are left thinking that life with the Capulets will be nothing less than a party...although, now that he was thinking about it, he wasn’t entirely sure who he was supposed to be poaching this person for. If he was more honest with himself, he’d admit that he didn’t really remember the client's name and that he was guessing more than anything. It was an exceedingly boring name, that much he was sure of. The type of name that suited him and his bland face, his predictable wants, and he a rather mediocre lifestyle that often came with those who were born into money but thought it was necessary to make more of it. Matthew? Matteo? Mark? Mark. Now he remembered -- 

    He had laughed when he had been handed his assignment by the Montagues because his mark was a Mark. 

    The mark named Mark had a strong holding in Russia and preferred to conduct his deals on territory that was more familiar to him rather than traveling to the unknown land of Verona. While he didn’t mind traveling, Felipe couldn’t help but be a little annoyed. Italy was beautiful this time of the year because this was when tourism began to climb, especially in Verona. Young, beautiful American girls stayed there for the summer for their study abroad trips and other Europeans liked to admire the beauty, history, and decadence of Italian summers. Russia, however, wasn’t a total bust. There were beautiful people everywhere, but a somberness to their attitudes that made him want to see what it would take to get them riled up with that veracity for life. 

    What better way to explore that than by treating his client to a night -- or multiple nights -- at a salon? 

    He was more than content to sit out and wait while his client enjoyed himself on the Montague’s -- or Capulet’s, he still had to figure that out -- dime. These sort of businesses weren’t much to his liking, anyway. He liked to know that people adored him because they enjoyed his company and adored him for who he was, rather than be persuaded into doing so because of how deep his pockets went. A drink found its way into his hand and he tilted his head back and sighed, trying to gauge how long he’d have to wait for the mark named Mark to finish up. Ten minutes, tops, he bet himself. If it’s any longer I’ll owe myself two more shots. But then a gentle coo caught his attention and suddenly, he didn’t quite mind if he the mark named Mark took an hour or so longer. 

    “You sure about that, darling?” He challenged with a roguish grin, the English accent curling off of his tongue all too easily. What would his name for the night be? James? “Think you might be a little quick on the trigger with that one. All my bedmates tell me I only know how to cause trouble.”

[offelipe]

HEADCANON 002;

When fighting, he tries to knock people out rather than kill them. Though it makes things slightly more difficult, he loathes robbing anyone of their life. One would think it would get easier each time, but he has found that it gets more difficult every time he does it. There is a routine that typically follows the act: his hands begin to shake uncontrollably and the next day he finds himself incapable of leaving his bed. After the 24 hour period he buys a rose and throws it into the Adige. So far he has bought 6 red roses and 1 white rose.

[offelipe]

paola;

As if she were clay, Verona molded Paola in its likeness. Once a web she could not escape, crime had become a map that she knew how to read and how to follow. Had she stumbled for longer than a moment when she learned of the Montagues’ plan? She couldn’t remember anymore; it felt like another era, in which she had not cracked and opened herself up to whatever lurked in the dark, just beyond her.

It was what pain did to you: with each bruise and every incision made on her skin, every monstrous thought and feeling took root inside of her. It entered her bloodstream, and she could no longer escape it. She had become a witness to evil; and so, evil was a witness to her. It knew her, and no longer had to twist her hand for Paola to give all that she had. Like she had been redeemed, Paola ran to the alter and willingly sacrificed.

The last sacrifice to make was the rehabilitation clinic, and the months of finding pride and peace in helping those who suffered just as Gabriele had. Once she had seen the evidence of the Montagues funding the center, the next step was inevitable. Paola would take the hard-earned love of its residents, and break its neck. Bring it to its knees as the city had done to her, striking blow after blow until Verona devoured it whole.

This was her life. Paola felt regret pooling inside of her, but it didn’t matter; this was her decision. Her choice was made, the die was cast; and Paola would push drugs unto the residents of the clinic and secure newer, wealthier clientele for her new god.

“Tell me about the desire. Let me walk you through it,” she said softly, holding the hand of Antonio — a resident who had taken an inappropriate liking to her immediately. If she was going to ruin their lives, she would at least choose those whose lives ought to be ruined.

“It sounds like ambrosia. Have you tried it before?”

“No,” Antonio’s eyes widened, as if the clouds of heaven had parted to let the light shine through. But it wasn’t the light of the heavens; it was Paola, and she would descend only to destroy. This was her lot in life; she would quietly and humbly bear it.

“I had it not too long ago.” Paola lifted her eyes to the ceiling as if trying to recall the memory. “It felt like I was floating outside of my body, a little bit. Every emotion was sweet, every sensation pleasant… Life was so easy.” She patted Antonio’s hand, as if comforting him. “Isn’t it what we all want, for life to be easy?”

His voice trembled as he whispered, “Yes. Yes.”

Paola was about to dig deep into the kill — not of the body, but of the soul’s last chance at redemption — when she heard her name in a voice that made her heart leap to her throat.

Gabriele?

She was frozen. By terror, by fear, by hope that had wrapped its skeleton fingers around her neck again as if to remind her, with increasing pressure, that it would never leave her. This paralyzing, spirit-crushing hope, the only monster Paola could never outwit. Antonio let go of his hand, sensing something was wrong. The absence of physical touch, even from a pervert such as Antonio, gave Paola a brief escape from her fear — enough to turn around and see…

“Gabriele.” His name tumbled from her lips like a prayer she had never let herself confess, Like a wish on every single star in vain, an offering placed before a burning bush with a simple and desperate and impossible dream.

But it wasn’t a dream. It was Gabriele, and Paola didn’t know what to believe. Her heart wanted to run towards him, touch his face to convince herself that he was real and alive, flesh and bone and blood unspilled. She could feel it now, the rush of tears and laughter caught in her throat. Gabriele was alive. It was better than any hope or dream she could have had —

— which was precisely why Paola did not run to him. She had hoped with every bated breath, dreamed with every stupid inch of her heart; but she had not dared to even think of this. It was impossible; not in the way that everything you ever loved and lost came back to you, but in the way that the world ended with thunder and lightning.

Something was wrong, and Paola was missing a crucial piece of the story. Because if Gabriele had not died, why had he not found her? Why had he not called her phone, the same one he should have saved? She had called him a million times after his death, leaving voice message after voice message in vain.

Antonio forgotten, Paola rose from her seat and moved towards him, every step slowly and carefully placed. Like if she moved too quickly or suddenly, he might run. Or worse, disappear. Again.

“Gabriele,” she said again, this time like a question she was afraid to have answered. Her hand trembled as it lifted to touch him. To press against his lips, his brow, his nose… In the end, she could only bear to put a hand on his chest, as if searching for a bleeding and beating heart beneath. She could feel it; steady and faint with his clothes muting its thump.

At the confirmation of it — of him, alive and breathing in front of her to touch and hold — the silent tears rolling down her cheeks become insufficient. A sob burst from the dam and Paola leaned forward, resting her forehead on his chest and trying to have every inch of his body touch hers. Alive, alive, alive. His body was warm, it was solid, it was everything it shouldn’t be.

She didn’t care. There was time later for understanding. Right now, Paola was a witness to a miracle, a resurrection. Her body shook as she continued to cry, steady and slow. For all the things she had been wrong about, for all the things she had given up without knowing that somewhere, Gabriele was waiting for her to return home to him.

Paola looked up at Gabriele, still avoiding the question that desperately needed to be asked. Instead, she said, “Please tell me this isn’t some sick dream.”

    There wasn’t a right way to do this, was there?

    There wasn’t a handbook that detailed, step by step, the correct way to reveal to the singular love -- the greatest love in their life -- that they had faked their death to save themselves for a future where they could be happy and in paradise. At least, with Paola that’s how he had seen it. A paradise that may have been built with someone that went by another name, but it had been his to build and his to take. Until a phone call and a snitch had taken it all away from him, thought him undeserving of a life lived well and of relative peace. 

    He wished there were a book so it could tell him what to say. What to do. Perhaps the book would tell him to take her in his arms and hold her close, to press his nose to her hair and breathe in the sweet scent that had haunted his days -- waking or dreaming it did not matter. It was inescapable, regardless. Maybe a book would tell him to wait for her to come to him so that she might slap him. Beat her fists on his chest. God, he craved it, because then if she shoved past him and ran away he would have the bruises to remember her by. 

    Felipe could already see himself pressing on them so he might relive the moment her skin touched him. 

    Fuck he was pathetic. 

    And so fucking stupid. He should have waited, he should have fucking waited -- 

    Gabriele, she said, and by God he wished she would say it again. Call him anything, any name and he would know it was meant for him and him alone. She was so close now that he could reach out and touch her. He had never been one to practice temperance, so he indulged. He let himself remained rooted in the space, uncaring of the audience that was only a couple of strides away. His vision narrowed and it was consumed by nothing else but the wide, brown eyes that were filling with tears.

    A sob burst from her lips and he found himself, pulling her closer, tighter against him -- a shudder running through his body as the universe righted itself, as his soul quieted and found peace in this woman’s frame. 

    God, he was fucking stupid. 

    So incredibly fucking stupid. 

    Stupid enough to press a kiss atop her head, then tilt her face upwards so that he might kiss the tears that fell from her heavenly face. Unworthy of it, but still reckless enough to incur the wrath of God for touching someone so holy, all the same. Before he realized it, he had dropped to his knees, kissing every salty trail that was left, adoring and helpless to do anything other than adore. 

    He half-hoped that a Montague or a Capulet might step out from the shadows and put the barrel of their gun against his head. This was how he should have died. After so many months, this is the first time he remembered ever having lived. Not with ecstasy on his tongue or white powder clouding his brain -- no, it was when she combed her fingers through his hair in the ungodly hours of the morning, when she let him be privy to the beautiful bouts of emotion that possessed her in this way. 

    But as he held her, there were serrated edges. There were thorns that would no doubt draw blood. She was beautiful, still, but in a way that whispered of Verona’s touch, as though it had remade her in its name. He pulled away, just enough to clear his head, enough to seek what was best for the both of them. Safety and privacy needed to be assured, and it never could be with an audience watching.

    “Darling,” he murmured, brushing her hair back from her face, glancing between those doe-eyes, full of tears. “I know you were in the middle of closing a client, and you might be overwhelmed, but this conversation might be more appropriate somewhere else.” As he spoke, he took her hand, eyes flickering towards the bruised and ruined parts of her. Who was to blame for this? He held her face in his hands, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips as he looked at her. Drank her in until he realized his head was dizzy from breathlessness. “Absolutely intoxicating.”

    He got to his feet once more, for both their sake’s, and took her hand in his, pulling her back the way he had entered. Covering her face from the surveillance cameras, his body effectively blocking hers from any eyes, both man and man-made. As they walked, he glanced at her over his shoulder. “It’s Felipe, by the way. That’s what they know me as here. Felipe.” Hesitantly, he took her hand and kissed it, as if in apology. He shouldered the door open and they stepped into the parking lot, the moon shining above, but nothing in comparison to the face he glanced down at. “Why were you selling ambrosia to addicts, Paola?”

[offelipe]

date: april 26th, 2019

time: 11:00 AM 

location: castelvecchio ruins

status: open to ALL

    He hadn’t slept since he saw Paola and it shows. Well, it shows to him, to everyone else he probably still looked glorious. And to be honest, he probably felt better than a man who was about to throw himself into a den full of lions and pray that they don’t eat him. Just because it happened in the bible he knew that miracles were few and far between. God smiled kindly on those who were faithful to him and Felipe was most decidedly not. Ah, well. He’d blacked out for a number of nights consecutively and still somehow managed to live through to tell the immemorable tale. 

    Peeling the skin from the clementine he had filched, he swaggered about the market that surrounded the ruins, tourists and locals alike gathering to look at the once-great site laid to waste. The smell of the citrus stained his fingers and, not for the first time, he felt a little thrill at the ability of being able to eat the fruit so openly, beneath the warm April sun. He tilted his face upwards, breathing it in for a moment. For all the wrongs he had committed in his life, it seemed that the stars were weighing the scales of justice in his favor. 

    Or perhaps he was simply cleverer than whatever forces worked against him. 

    He tossed the rind over his shoulder and stood atop a rather large ruin, naturally drawing eyes towards him. This would be a lot more satisfying if Cosimo hadn’t stolen his thunder by crucifying Valentina, but what was to be done. Paola had stirred within him an impulse that he could no longer ignore. The information about the Montagues, the Capulets, and the brewing storm was placed in Lucien’s capable hands. If ever there was a time to arise from the dead, now was it.

    “Ciao, Veronesi!” Felipe cried, chewing on his clementine. “It is good to be back again.”

[offelipe]

date: april 25th, 2019

time: 11:43 PM

location: montague-funded rehabilitation clinic

status: for @paoladamasco

    The window for Felipe to step outside of the Dark Lady was a narrow one -- it was when the moon was setting and the sun was rising, it was when the whole world was silent in that blessed space in between. If he missed that window then he had no choice but to spend hours in the Dark Lady and that place was slowly becoming his own personal hell. You’d think that there would be quiet hours, but it seemed like the customers rotated in and out consistently, morning, noon, and night, all hoping to get the smallest taste of affection because they didn’t have the confidence or the means to get it any other way. Pity. 

    But he was tired of the slapping of skin and whatever toys the clients were into -- it was like God had specifically designed this hell. He was beginning to hate what had once been his favorite activity and when he realized that...it finally dawned on him that perhaps he was in a bad place. Mentally. Though to be fair, it could be worse, he could be on another bender and he’d been successfully sober for six months now (okay, maybe not entirely, but it wasn’t like he was waking up in the tub anymore). 

    One thing that always helped was seeing Danielle’s at the rehabilitation center -- she never knew he was there of course, but he was able to catch her in glimpses, always for a couple of minutes each day. He missed seeing that white cloud of curly hair and he liked to check in on her just to make sure that she was keeping clean. Every time she would buy from him, he’d make sure to set aside at least two hours to talk to her and make sure that his favorite customer was doing well, but when he noticed a change he had decided to stop selling and took her to the clinic himself. She was probably asleep, but he wanted to make sure that no one else had started selling to her while he had been allegedly six feet under. 

    He slipped in through the back door, ambling through the halls, dodging what cameras he could and, when he couldn’t, ducking his head so his face was hidden by the shadow of his hoodie. One, two, three...if he remembered correctly, Danielle’s room was six doors down. He glanced into each one, a half-smile on his face as the quiet energy of other living people -- who weren’t fucking -- gave him hope. 

    Until he heard a quiet voice. Faint, warm, and gentle. Drifting through an open door. She whispered of something that he never thought would pass from lips that were too holy to ever utter such an ugly, despicable word. 

    It’s too soon, it’s too fucking soon, you don’t have --

    But she’s close, she’s there and --

    It’s too soon, it’s too fucking soon, neither one of you are ready --

    Why is she talking about ambrosia --

    Guess which side won the argument? 

    He stood in the door, a white-knuckled grip on the doorframe. 

    “Paola?”