#c | kitty.

[sxint]

Location: Saint’s home in Shoreditch Date: 06|05|21. Closed: @kittym

It’s a Thursday, and as Saint pulls into the garage, parking up his Aston Martin in it’s usual pride of place, he’d stall for a moment. Elongate his time before getting out of the vehicle and entering his home, a home now shared not only with Astrid, but with Kitty. Gabrielle Warden doesn’t make decisions lightly, she is a commander, the foreseer of War, and mother of strife. So her youngest child can’t help but feel a little hard done by, as if the decisions were made and organised as one final test to prove his legitimacy as an heir worthy. To prove him loyal enough to choose his head over his heart. The palms of his hands pass over his face, rubbing tired eyes as he’d gather enough composure to enter and inhabit a personality he’d much rather abandon. But if this is for War, for himself and most importantly, to protect the secret rekindling between him and Kitty, it’s an act he will slip into. Cruel and unbothered, amused even, that he’d be able to taunt his ex from the comfort of his sofa. 

His routine is typical, as he enters through the door and greets both Julius and Indi with a chipper ‘hello’ and a few merry pets between velveteen ears. He slips his coat off first, then shoes, hangs his keys by the entryway and makes his way towards the kitchen. The kitchen, where he catches sight of an empty wine bottle and residue of it’s contents slick at the bottom of his sink. Quickly, he grabs for the merlot, raising the label upward for a better look at the year, heart racing and anger fluttering in his chest as he inspects wasted alcohol to check it’s not one of his vintage bottles. “2004...” he mutters. Saint’s jaw twitching and grip tightening around the bottle-green glass. “Two thousand and fucking four. Unbelievable,” on an exhale, he sets the empty container back down on the side, eyes pressing shut in the attempt to grasp and ounce of composure. The worst thing is he knew it was intentional, that Kitty too realises she must drift back to her old mannerisms in order to hide the tracks of yearning, and soft intentions. They’d had to hate each other, briefly, when there are a dozen sets of eyes waiting for one of them to slip. 

Flicking the kettle on, Saint reaches a mug from his cupboard, along with sugar and coffee granules. Spooning a generous heap of each in the mug, he pours the boiling water in and leans down into his wine cupboard to check the rest of his inventory was still safe from a dismal fate; poured down the drain of a kitchen sink. All appears right, for a moment, until it’s a 1991 bottle of his family’s own cabernet sauvignon that’s ceased from existence. Bolting up straight, Saint turns around, the familiar frame of his girlfriend stood lingering at the door with a devilish grin, and lack of warmth in dark brown eyes. The same spiteful look she’d once given him, in those months she believed their love was nothing but a game to him. “Astrid! I thought your job was to keep an eye on her, not let her raid my fucking cupboards!” a deep frown sits heavy on his brow, pulling his expression unamused and weighted as a passive comment from Astrid wanders back through red brick walls. “Alright, where’s the other bottle?” 

[sxint]

Location: Elite Boxing Gym.  Date: 27|04|21. Closed: @kittym​

Gabrielle's gaze widens at the sight of him, hand catching to grip Saint's jaw as she examines the injuries left behind by a Pestilence Virtue, by the new bond created with Death to attempt to bring them to their knees. Plans conspire over the past few days, Horseman and her Seraphim discoursing their options, choices that only seem to promise what War does best; battle, strife and wreak revenge for more blood spilt without the satisfaction of it being their enemy's. So when it's announced, when Saint and all the rest of War are requested to meet and are shared the news that they should form a similar bond with Famine, he'd do well to mask his aggravation. Bite his tongue, sharp, and forbid loud and unwarranted opinion to spill against his mother's command. Loyalty goes further, his respect for his horseman even more so, as Saint dons a mask of acceptance, and goes to work as a good Seraphim.

It's why he's still in the gym, the sun having set hours ago, and still, he'd find an excuse to linger. Striking his good arm into a punching bag as he'd watch members come and go. Until all that is left frequenting the area is a few stray Angels, perhaps a Virtue or Dominion lurking in the background. And in truth, perhaps it's not his urge to do a good job that keeps him there training, but his subtle suspicion. The instinct to remain on his toes and be distrustful of Famine in a location he knows they cherished, eating away at his thoughts before he slams another blow into smooth leather. His focus falters, though, to a familiar figure walking behind the boxing ring, towards the changing rooms, and Saint permits himself a moment's distraction to approach her as she comes back to set up at another punching bag.

Acting had always been one of Saint's strong suits, able to morph himself into numerous versions of the same man in the drop of the hat. And although his heart soars, pulse hammering in a frenzy against his chest at a vision of curves and long lashes, the look Saint pays Kitty in public is far more malicious and taunting than it ever would be behind the closed doors of their newly shared terrace house. “Mallick,” his lip twitches, curls into a smirk, “C’mon I thought you could punch better than that. A few months out of the boxing gym and you’ve gone soft, or something?” If anyone asks, he's getting in her head. Approaching her with War in mind, rather than the real reason, in that he seeks any opportunity to spend time with her; even now, when how he behaves and what he says is hardly genuine. “Maybe if I piss you off, you’ll do better. Or, I can give you some advice, Seraphim to Virtue.”

[sxint]

Location: Saint’s home.  Date: 31|03|21. Closed: @kittym​

TW: death, mourning, intoxication 

Intoxication is the closest he's felt to being alright in hours, drunkness numbing his senses into something more palatable when bitterness clings to his throat and dreadful thoughts parade in his mind. Saint has never dealt well with his emotions, and perhaps it was because he’d always felt too much, or at least more than what the world he lived in permitted for him to feel if he wanted to stay sane-- or alive. Because in the balance of life and death, the smartest person he knew finds herself on the ill-fated side of the scale. His sister with the knowledge to take down empires, rule from the heavens, and put her darling brothers to shame, was dead. The sight of blood pouring from her throat plays on a wicked rotation as if burned to the inside of his eyelids, there for him to relive every time his gaze becomes heavy enough to let guilt sink in.

Because he'd be hypocritical to call these people monsters. When he too had been the person to hold a dagger, sink cool sharp metal into flesh, and watch how a person could bleed. Have red coat his hands, and watch sisters, brothers, fathers, and son's bodies stack up and up, all engraved with his name on their tombstones. So he washes his demons away, or he tries to, drinking enough red wine that fermented grapes lose their taste and he’s consuming alcohol as if it were water. As if it were the only thing that would keep him from falling apart at the seams. Saint is pulling the cork out of his fourth bottle when the doorbell rings, a quick swig consumed before he pushes himself up and walks over to the entranceway with feet heavy as concrete.

“Oh-” He stares at Kitty blankly, inebriation faltering his senses, unable to pick up a mask and wear it fast enough to hide the disheveled mess he’d become. So he doesn’t. He stands there broken, his head dipped in shame and green eyes stained by the tears that mindlessly fall from his lash line. Still wearing the same hoodie and sweatpants from the night before, he moves the sleeve over his hand, balling into a fist to rub across his face as the jersey material gets stuck on the uncharacteristic stubble peppering his jaw. He's still crying then, a flow of deep and stubborn pain that pulls at his soul. A loose end that unravels itself, a loss of control, like a puppet without its strings. “Hi... sorry, I’m sorry. Did you want to come in?” Saint asks, his focus caught on the damp stain coating his sleeve.

Turning around, he doesn't wait for her answer but leaves the door hung wide open before collapsing back onto his sofa. The living room is dim-lit, the pixelated blue light of his television licking the profile of his face and casting reflections upon the empty bottles placed mindlessly around him. Images of Juno plastered on every news channel, montages and well wishes he'd been watching with the sound set to mute. “I didn’t know you were coming, I would’ve got Zach to come get the dog,” Saint looks at Kitty, shame surging in him again. Because instinct would tell him to lie, to tell her that he was fine. That the tears that stain his face and ghostly complexion are trivial things unworthy of her attention. And maybe a part of himself even thought it was the truth, that those demons that live within him were only his to dance with, too dangerous and ugly for the likes of her eyes to see. For her to witness and still feel the compassion he'd fought to reclaim. Burying his face into his arm, he bites back a sob, turning frantic breaths into long and slow exhales. "I'm sorry. Just give me a minute. I'm okay."

[sxint]

Location: The Savoy Date: 05|03|21. Closed: @kittym

Clock strikes twelve, and Saint has fallen into deep sleep. A slumber pulled from days on end of exhaustion, of worry and frantic ideas of Juno and where she could be. What might be happening to her. Who took her. It’s question after question with no answers, no signs of her return or even that she were still alive. There’s something far more alarming about dead silence, ‘l'alambic avant la tempête’ the still before the storm, is what Gabrielle calls it, whilst gathering son’s to her office to offer her counsel. But at least with today he’d had something to look forward to, something to focus his thoughts on and distract from what felt like an impending doom and bigger threat on his family. Occupying concerns previously pivoting on the material values of a warehouse and a few hundred thousand pounds worth of firearms and warcraft blown to nothing but ash and embers. At least for the past seventeen hours, his daydreams consist only of Kitty, of dark and glossy hair and a voice that sounds like honey. Viciously smooth, amber and warm and alluringly sweet. She’s like a trap, a trap Saint yearns to get caught in and escape the mind numbing existence he’s been forced to endure. 

So as planned, he books into The Savoy. Using a fake name and opting for a standard suite, strategically mindful that anything too flashy could pull unwanted attention of staff to their customers, staff who’s information could be bought if the right person had caught onto the thread and knew the right direction in which to unravel it. Saint arrived there five hours ago, an overnight bag slung over his shoulder and tired rings casting dark and somber shadows around green eyes.

KITTY | 19:01PM: hey, room number 114, 3rd floor x

Text sends off with a sharp ping as he’d fallen onto the bed. Staring up at plain ceiling and wondering how long it had been since someone had dusted around the lampshade. It’s the last thing he remembers before delicate knock on the door pulls him from his dreamless sleep, his posture shooting up straight as he moves to get up and make his way over to the door. A brief glance made through the spy hole to make sure it had been Kitty standing there. 

Twisting the lock, he pulls the door open and ushers her inside with a swift motion. The handle locking again with a satisfying ‘click’ as he turns around to face her. Brain still thick with empty dreams and the disorientation of abruptly being woke, Saint’s hand moves to comb through unkempt hair and straighten his shirt. Subconsciously attempting to somehow better his appearance when he’d already known he looked like shit, or so at least enough people had told him that week that he wouldn’t be all that surprised if the same comment were to derive from Kitty’s mouth. “Hey,” he starts instead, voice hoarse and accompanied by a small nod, teeth grazing to bite on his bottom lip and doing his best to compose the grin that begs to spread across his features. The mere sight of her alluring something warm and familiar to flicker in his chest. The swell of emotions and adorations, even if they aren’t to be reciprocated, still there, existing in the dormancy of break ups and false accusations. “Sorry, I fell asleep, I didn’t mean to, I just--” stopping himself from rambling, he lets out a quiet sigh, pulling his breath back into his lungs and allowing for fragile silence to fall back between them. “Fuck. I’m so happy to see you... can I say that?”

[sxint]

DATE: 30|01|21. LOCATION: A park near the pale stallion. CLOSED: @kittym.

Locking his phone screen, Saint rises from his seat at the bar with urgency, shrugging his coat back over his arms and quickly tipping the last few mouthfuls of wine into his mouth before making his way out from The Pale Stallion. It doesn't go by unnoticed, the subtle fleeting sensation that flutters at the pit of his stomach, glowing and hopeful and all reminiscent of the prospect of her. It's the first time in months that he thinks of Kitty and isn't instantaneously plagued with dread, with guilt and remorse for lies he'd spat in her face the night he'd been forced to break her heart. Shatter it to pieces and in turn remove the centre of his universe in which he'd built his axis around, nothing left to orbit in her sudden absence. He'd needed this, after the week he'd had, losing his friend, begging his brother for sobriety and ripping his cousin's innocence from his grip, reconciliation couldn't have come at a better time. The one person he'd yearned for, who understood the inner complexities of his mind and had finally been prepared to meet with him. 

Making his way through the crowd of regulars, Saint welcomes the cold January air into his lungs as he makes an exit from the pub. The warm and ale filled atmosphere exchanged welcomingly for a crisp winter breeze as he moves fast, feet carrying him with a rhythmic stride along the pathway and towards his destination. The trembles in his chest progressed louder the closer he'd got, the more he'd began to anticipate his arms wrapped around her, the way Kitty's head had always fit neatly just below his chin and the heat of her voice reverberated through his torso as she spoke. Exhaling an anxious sigh, green gaze watches the vapour on his breath turn to tendrils of mist, mixing with the amber glow of street lights before the corner of his lip urges to tug into a nervous and intoxicated grin. She’d missed him too, she’d said it, confirmed the words he’d longed to hear enough to throw caution to the wind and do what Saint did best; act entirely from impulse and what would feel validating in the moment. 

Arriving at the park, he reaches to pull open the old iron gate, metal creaking from rust and icy to the touch as it swings shut behind him. Eyes scan across the landscape, a few benches and grassy areas coated by the late-night dew, but no sight of her. Kitty and the silhouette that he had known all too well, one he could recite every perfect line and curve even with his eyes closed. Teeth catch on his bottom lip, biting down in contemplation before moving to take his phone back from his pocket, his fingertips hitting strategically against the phone screen. ‘I’m here, are you close?’ Saint stares at the message for a moment, wondering how desperate he’d appeared before ultimately hitting the send button. Valuing that of his heart compared to his brain that urged for his discretion. 

[sxint]

LOCATION: Elite Boxing Gym  DATE: 21|01|21. CLOSED: @kittym​

It could redundant, a known waste of time as he makes his way from the sanctuary of a luxury vehicle and expensive shoes strike rhythmically along the pavement to the club. An illegal fight, something to win money on, but the Virtue had known better of Famine’s tricks. See’s straight through the smoke and mirrors of their carefully organised schemes for what it truly is, a betting scam, likely rigged in the gang’s favour so that they are the ones in the end to reap the benefits. Not the fighters or the spectators, this were a game for the elites to play. They know his face at the door, scowl at a Warden entering supposed neutral territory, sliding over cash for a ticket, almost comical when the Warden’s (in all their petty fashion) had purchased the club in the early 2010′s with the hopes that it might stir up Famine enough to bite. But they didn’t, and they still don’t. A truce in place to ensure no more blood is spilt or money lost in the conflict of their family’s. But then War is all that Gabrielle had known, all their Horsemen had longed for and so Saint is sent there to ensure Famine provide his gang with their cut of the profits. 20% of all takings for each and every fight conducted on the property. 

The air is thick, faint smell of sweat lingers as he paces his way through the crowd to find a spot he can safely linger in. Or more importantly, where he can watch-- though it’s not Thomas or Leon that a green gaze is caught on. Seven months have passed and there’s still not a morning that he hadn’t woken up anticipating for her to be there. Not a day where a memory hadn’t interrupted his train of thought, bittersweet and yet he can’t bring himself to push them away if his mind were the only place he’d get to be with her again. Daydreams of a past where Kitty Mallick’s manicured nails drag sincerely along the outline of his jaw and the warm, spiced fragrance of her perfume clings to his clothes so that he could take her with him wherever he went. Saint spots her easily in the crowd, as if she were a magnet, soft dark hair tossed over one shoulder and the necklace that he’d bought her still clasped around an elegant neck. This was redundant, he thinks, the voice inside his head hissing in it’s usual toxic fashion as his eye line dares to look away. Dares to break the connection as if to do so would mean she would vanish all over again. 

Redundant, and yet he can’t help himself. Can’t help but to allow those dangerous, hostile thoughts to morph into something else. A yearning, the desperate want to approach the other and confess that every would he had uttered to her in their break up was a lie, made up fiction as it were his duty to his family to remain loyal to one gang and one gang alone. ‘As it were the duty of any member of War’, his mother’s voice finds it’s way into his skull now, as it so often had when he’d been dancing closer and closer to the precipice of new betrayals. So he manages it, tears his vision from the one he desired the most and onto the fight, glancing blankly as the rest of the crowd responds and cheers with each hit exchanged.