#c. saint

[kittym]

baby, i have no idea how this will end.

maybe the equator will fall like a hula hoop from the earth’s hips and our mouths will freeze mid-kiss on our 80th anniversary. or maybe tomorrow my absolute insanity combined with the absolute obstacle course of your communication skills will leave us like a love letter in a landfill.

but whatever however whenever this ends i want you to know that right now i love you forever.

ANDREA GIBSON, “HOW IT ENDS”    ///    @sxint

[kittym]

+ SAINT ( @sxint​ )

MORNING, SUNDAY 30TH MAY. PARIS. It’s not her first time in the city ( nor, she suspects, will it be her last ) — but it is her first time being there for love. And wasn’t that what Paris was all about? Romance etched into the elegant architecture and the narrow streets; a sense of residential pride tucked away behind every peeling poster; a gleaming glimmer of passion in each road-rage-induced honk of a car horn. A half-drunk mug of coffee is left abandoned beside her elbow, caffeine unnecessary when excitement and the faintest hint of nerves flutter through her abdomen. In the wake of her argument with Rafael and the sombre mood that slinked through April, alongside a somewhat disappointing party attendance, Saint had single-handedly managed to save her birthday this year. To think of something to give in exchange had been a large, looming challenge until she’d realised that it wasn’t the brick walls and a roof that mattered to either of them in his gift ( among others ), it was the chance to spend time alone together. Where better, then, than to take Saint somewhere he would feel comfortable and at home?

Arms crossed upon the table, her chin resting against them, she people-watches from a wooden wicker chair outside La Fontaine until she catches sight of the one person she truly wants to see. Kitty lifts her head and sits up, a pleased smile flickering to life across her lips, waiting for Saint to cross the road before she stands. Without another thought, spurred on by the freedom to do as they please, she runs to greet him. A hand fists into the front of his t-shirt, yanking him down closer for a kiss, hard and greedy, public displays of affection so rare that she almost forgets where they are until she leans back to catch her breath and linger in the scent of his cologne.

“Hi,” she whispers through a grin, instinctively wiping lipstick from around his mouth with the pad of her thumb, the habit of covering up signs of their being together difficult to shake. “You came.” She would have forgiven him in a heartbeat if he hadn’t, well aware of the weight he carries in his chest — yet his request to avoid celebrating his birthday had gone unheeded by her if only to use it as an excuse to get him out of London. To distract him with something different and new instead of letting him fester alone with two dogs and multiple bottles of wine for company ( admittedly, he’d probably argue that that sounded like the perfect day ). Releasing her grip on him, she smooths down the printed letters with a hum of approval. Girls just wanna cum. “Fuck, I’m a big fan of this t-shirt. You want to sit down? Get a drink? I’ll even make eyes at you while you order in French.”

[kittym]

+ SAINT ( @sxint​ )

EARLY EVENING, SATURDAY 19TH JUNE. SAINT & KITTY’S SECRET HOME. The house is quiet, except for the sounds that come before violence strikes. Boot soles against tarmac grit. The pants of heavy breathing. A snarl of aggression, animalistic and spun-through with a hunger for survival. Kitty’s eyes are trained on the split screen, analysing shaky views of London cast in darkness. She pulls the pen whose lid she’s chewing on out from between her teeth and scribbles down a barely legible note on lighting. There was no point in filming Cat + Mouse in unlit places if you couldn’t see the competitors. Shadows among shadows. She’d need to get a better night vision camera for the drone next time. A thermal camera too, perhaps. Plucking up a carrot stick, she crunches on it as a life ends and the winner is declared, a flurry of messages filling the screen as the tied-in chat function shares victory posts and losers’ laments. Some usernames are jotted down for future reference. From loading screen to grizzly end, the footage loops; a constant replay of the first deathmatch.  

She doesn’t hear the door open and close, unaware of Saint’s presence until he says something deep and low that makes her want to stretch out like a cat in his warmth. Kitty glances up, greeting him with a lazy smile before returning her attention to the television screen. “I’m just finishing up. You want to see what I’ve been working on?” Having kept the project hidden from so many over the past couple of months, pride blooms beneath her ribs to now be able to share it. A few taps on her tablet pulls up the highlights video, edited together by one of Jessica’s contacts. A taster of catharsis and glory, unapologetically brutal. She lets the video play, turning in her seat to kneel on the blsh pink sofa cushion beneath her, pulling Saint closer by the belt loops. Her final carrot stick is poked into the side of his mouth as he watches. 

[kittym]

+ SAINT ( @sxint​ )

EARLY EVENING, THURSDAY 22ND APRIL. SAINT & KITTY’S SECRET HOME. It’s the first time she’s been back to their home since the days following her birthday, life biting at her heels and keeping her from finding solace in the unassuming terraced house tucked away in London’s suburbs. A secret turned tangible, all brick and concrete and glass, with door numbers made from brass and smooth wooden floors and a warmth, most importantly, aided by the blush pink accents the colour of love. She’s greeted by a wave of fresh paint scent, strong but appealing and oddy comforting. Throwing a jacket that she hadn’t needed ( spring having dug its roots in outside ) over the bannister, Kitty leaves her shoes by the door and heads upstairs in search of the person she’s here for. It didn’t matter to her where they met, so long as he was there ( but that certainly didn’t mean she wasn’t enamoured with having a place to call their own ).

Faint footfall up the wooden stairs, her steps are padded by socks. Quiet, she pauses at the threshold of their bedroom to watch Saint examining a patch of re-coloured wall. Domesticity hums, peaceful and a far cry from the rest of their lives — the shoulder strap of the arm sling he’s wearing a stark reminder of what lies in wait for them when they leave the confines of safety. Kitty tiptoes forwards until she’s close enough to reach around him, fingers held over his eyes. The brush of his lashes makes her smile. “Guess who,” she murmurs fondly in his ear, raw red catching the corner of her gaze. Kitty’s heels abruptly lower to the floor, slipping a hand beneath Saint’s chin to gently turn his head. She winces on his behalf, the scabs and bruises that decorate his features painful. “Shit, Saint. That’s— you said a fight not a fucking assault.” Her brow furrows, tracing a thumb lightly over mottled black-and-blue skin. “Are you in pain? You should be resting.” She holds a hand out for the paint roller caught in his grip but her line of sight doesn’t leave the marks of violence decorating his face. “Who the fuck did this to you?”

[kittym]

LOUD. a playlist to piss off your housemates [ @sxint and @hunterastrid ]             ▷ P L A Y

[kittym]

+ SAINT ( @sxint​​ )

LATE AFTERNOON, SATURDAY 26TH JUNE. SAINT’S HOME. She packs her suitcase alone — which wouldn’t be a problem, really, if she hadn’t heard Astrid leave twenty minutes ago, assumedly to avoid any risk of witnessing one final argument from the two supposed-ex-lovers forced to live under the same roof for the past month. Kitty throws things haphazardly into the bag, lazy and unhurried in her movements, waiting for the bedroom door to open when, deep down, she knows it won’t. Saint’s distance feels like miles. And she understands, truly, that he isn’t in the best place. She notices the red beneath his eyes and the despondent, glassy, far-away look that drifts across his expression like a sea mist. He’s been swallowing his words, making it hard to get inside his head. The situation is made words, too, by a living situation that has felt, day on day, like a performance — keeping her gaze on certain marks; inciting arguments and tension for the sake of keeping up appearances; sneaking in quietly before Astrid awakes to make it seem like she’d spent the night there and not in a secret relationship in a secret bed in a secret house in South London. In a way she’s grateful to be leaving.  

The wheels of her suitcase clunk down each step of the staircase, dragging it to the bottom to leave by the door before tentatively slinking into the living room. “Hi,” she says softly, not wanting to disturb the thick air that has settled, dust-like, over everything. Kitty approaches Saint on the sofa, perching on the arm. “I’m heading home.” Desperate to attempt to offer him some sort of comfort, she slips a hand into his hair, sliding her fingers through soft brown curls. “It’s getting long.” The words are uttered aloud to fill the quiet, her heart aching for him. This was more than just a hangover from the night prior, many knocking back the champagne to try and dull the sharp edge of celebrating a truce with those who have shed their gangs’ blood. A small pang of guilt gnaws against the inside of her ribcage for dancing with Fletcher, having hoped that stoking emotions other than deep mourning in Saint would provide him with some respite. Leaning closer, she presses a kiss to the top of his head. “I’ve, uh— I’ve got something on tonight so I won’t be at the house. But— maybe tomorrow evening?”

[kittym]

+ SUNIL MALLICK ( mentions @sxint )

LUNCH TIME, FRIDAY 4TH JUNE. THE FEMENIAS-MALLICK FAMILY HOME. She needs to tell someone. She needs to tell someone because if she doesn’t, if she continues with this weight around her neck, light physically but heavy in a way that a hug holds you together or a winter duvet makes you feel safe, she’ll spill a secret that she wants to keep to the wrong person and the potential subsequent domino-effect will topple through her and un-build everything that she and Saint have salvaged over the past couple of months. The engagement ring sits snugly against her sternum, hanging from a necklace chain, warmed by her skin and hidden beneath her clothes. Dark eyes watch Sunil whose attention is set squarely on his lunch, Kitty’s mouth too full of unspoken words for her to be able to touch her own yet. He notices, nodding towards her plate, and she realises that she’s not quick enough to come up with a lie to explain her lack of appetite. “You know, uh— when I was little and I had that soft toy bunny that I lost?”

Her dad nods, mid-chew. Swallows. “Yeah, I remember. It was pink. Had a bow around its neck. You thought you lost it in,” he clicks his fingers, searching through hazy memories. Kitty, eight years old, a tooth missing and a cut on her cheek from falling out of a tree into a bush while exploring. “Richmond Park, maybe? Or out on the Common. Either way, you cried for three hours until we bought you a new one. And then the next day you found it in the car under the seat.”

“Yeah,” Kitty responds with a grin, but it wavers as she tentatively creeps closer to her point. “The replacement was never as good as the original because I fucking loved that bunny to bits. Which—” She exhales and a flicker of concern sweeps across Sunil’s features, setting his food down while his daughter forces herself to continue. “I don’t know, that was a stupid way to explain this, but the person I broke up with last year.” There’s a grimace and a swift correction. “Who broke up with me. Well, we started speaking again and it was kind of like getting bunny back. You can’t just replace that kind of love, you know? You can’t forget it, either. Saint is—” It’s so foreign to be able to speak of him to someone else, to share how she feels about him, that instinct kicks in to try and stop her. She pushes through it. “He’s— I don’t know— he’s everything to me. It aches, almost, how much I love him. I mean, sure, he makes me angry sometimes, but he calms me too. There’s something about him that feels right, you know? And to get him back after I thought I’d lost him— I want to hold onto him forever.” 

Quiet for a few heartbeats, Sunil reaches for her hand. He doesn’t say anything; doesn’t need to. His support is evident. Kitty smiles, soft and grateful, knowing that her next request is far from easy. Or fair. She has worked hard to keep her parents away from Famine — Veronica Femenias’ personal decision never to get involved in her family’s criminal activities respected despite her daughter being embedded so deeply within the gang’s snarling jaws — yet she needs her dad to understand the gravity of this secret. “I really want to tell you something else but you have to promise you won’t tell mum— or anyone else. Nobody can know.” Not Rafael, as much as she’d love to tell him, to share his joy at getting engaged with her own ( the fear of Ikki finding out and using it against her or Saint too much of a risk ). Not Marcus who, despite her hope that he wouldn’t, could very well revert to previous power-hungry ways, looking to destroy War by outing that their Seraphim has once again stepped out of line. Not Ravi, in case he tells his spouse. Jessica is the only one, perhaps, where the truth might be safely planted. Although not without Saint’s agreement first. “If it gets out, everything will be fucked up and ruined.” 

Sunil shoots her a small look of reprimand for swearing, giving his daughter’s hand a light squeeze. “I promise, Kit. I will take anything you tell me to the grave if you ask me to.”

Tentatively, Kitty hooks a finger around the chain of her necklace and pulls until the diamond ring strung from it is freed from the safety of her t-shirt. With a slow blink of comprehension, Sunil’s face lights up.

[kittym]