ooooooooooooohhhh, what if Esme had been the one kidnapped instead of Cyril. Cyril alone, grieving their fiancé, helping Armani look for his son, and gradually (somewhat unwillingly) growing closer as he starts to depend on them a little more, leaning on their shared grief and determination to get Esme back. Esme returning to a Cyril who has changed a lot more than Esme being left behind changed Esme in canon. Both of them hardened, dangerous, scary. reconnecting and becoming terrifying together, very dark mob power couple. Armani would find himself retiring whether he wanted to or not, and the organization would turn into something more ruthless and dangerous.
Cyril recovers in anonymity for a week, relearning how to accept Esme's presence even as their body relearns how to handle comfort. They spend long, lazy mornings in bed, twining first fingers with their fiancé, and then sometimes words, soft and slow and never quite winding around to where Cyril has been, what they have done, or what happened that day five years ago. Instead, they lean into Esme's loose and ready words, pressing gently - gently is all it takes, with him - to hear what he has been up to since they've been gone.
His father's business is flourishing. Esme is taking on more responsibility, being groomed to take over when Armani D'Angelo eventually - not soon, but inevitably - steps back from the forefront of operations. Cyril offers encouragement and interest, and Esme requires little prodding to continue to allow them to steer the conversation back to his life. Five years leave many tales untold, and Esme is - has always been - eager to share every moment with his love.
One pale evening as the dying light flares in a last attempt at silver-gold, Cyril tries for the first time to begin the monumental task of giving him their own five years. They haven't spoken yet that day, trying to store up enough words to give Esme enough of a piece to feel like a beginning.
"I was going to go to the range," they start. Their throat closes up around the words, and they wonder if it will keep being like this, parceling out morsels of a half-sentence here, five words there, dangling their pain like bait on a line for the prize of Esme's attention.
His hip cants against their knee, an unassuming, steady pressure in reminder of his presence. He does not break the silence, just lets them collect themself and decide when they're ready.
They love him for it. Esme talks and talks, and they love that about him; he's easy to be with, easy to let him carry a conversation while knowing that if they have anything to offer he will never talk over them. Esme talks, but when he chooses silence it's always for good cause, and he has shown again and again that listening to them is his highest good.
"I didn't even make it to the car," Cyril continues after a stretched, silent moment. Esme nods, and doesn't interrupt with the fact that the car in question is still in the garage, cleaned and repaired, waiting under a tarp for the day that seemed less and less likely as the years stretched around it.
"They." Cyril has to pause again, but now that they've started they want to finish at least this first, painful part. "I saw them, I think, right before. Something hit me, and I-- I blacked out." Somehow, one hand has found its way into Esme's. His grip tightens, and it gives them strength. "They took me. Somewhere. I never-- I still don't know where the first place was. They hit me pretty hard. It's all just-- fog. I kept vomiting. I remember that my hands were tied, and I couldn't keep my hair out of it."
Cyril's free hand is shaking in their lap. They clench it into a fist, squeezing until the tremors stop.
"They kept me there until, I think, they were sure I wasn't going to die from the head wound. Once I could stand up without passing out, they moved me. Always-- that first time, and then always the same way afterwards. They drugged me and put me in a van. I'd be cuffed, put in a hood. I think-- after a few times I was pretty sure it was the same van every time. The floor felt the same. There was this little loop welded into the wall, right next to the floor, where they threaded my cuffs through, and eventually I started scratching at the interior paneling there. It was always there the-- the next time I was moved."
Their stomach churns with the memories of the drug slipping through their veins, enforcing lassitude in their body and the low, constant misery of nausea that was never quite enough to make them vomit. Their fingers ache. They loosen the fist in their lap, watching blood well up in the half-moon indents of their fingernails in detached, mild interest.
Something shifts in their other hand, and then Esme's warmth next to them diminishes. For a half-moment they think they should be devastated that they've driven him away. But the tug of their emotions is distant, disconnected from wherever it is they go to observe moments like this, and then Esme's back and they realize he was only reaching for a tissue from the box by the bed. His touch is reverently gentle as he presses the soft surface to the red of their palm, each kiss he places on the altar of their knuckles an act of worship that summons them back into their bones.
Tilting their head to shift their gaze feels like pitting their body against a glacier's inevitability, but when they accomplish it they find dark hair splayed across their thigh and warm brown eyes fixed on their own as Esme lifts their hand to his lips again.
"I'm sorry," he whispers.
Cyril blinks. "For what?"
"That you were hurt," he says, a little incredulously, and they feel foolish shame heat their cheeks. They blink again, unsure how to meet his words.
"Oh," they settle on eventually. Inadequate, but that's hardly surprising.
Esme plays with their fingers slowly. "Did you ever find out what they wanted? Was it something about the family?"
They wonder if the wrist in his grasp feels heavier. If he'll notice, as the pads of his fingers trace their skin, that Cyril does not belong here.
"No," they hear themself say. "No, I never knew why."
me writing a fill for the "family business" prompt for amonthofwhump 's mafia madness week: 😊✨ this will be great
me realizing that in order for it to make any sense at all I'd have to post the approximately 9.5k of Cyril's story that I've been hoarding in a google doc for months:
The worst thing you've ever done, and if the red in your ledger can ever be fully cleared. Alternatively: Why do you deserve the best moment of your life?
ohh I am delighted to answer for Cyril!
cyril closes their eyes. their mouth is a thin, pale line, just a slash against bone-white skin until they open it, unwillingly, to speak.
"She never told me who they were. I don't know their names, their families, their addresses. But I remember their faces. I remember the-." Their hands close into fists in their lap, knuckles whitening under thin skin. "The warmth of their blood on my hands," they continue, strained. "Their last words. The sound of their voices. Every single one of them. There's no clearing a stain like that. My ledger-" their mouth twists around the word, "is nothing but red."
and for the second ask:
They smile, soft, unaware they're doing it. "I don't. I didn't when it happened, and I don't now. But... it was the night Esme proposed. It wasn't planned- he'd set up a big scene the next weekend, actually, but he had the ring and we were out that night, and he slipped in the gutter trying to hail a cab - he was drunk, we both were, we'd been at a game night with friends - and somehow ended up on one knee and just pulled out the ring." Their thumb rubs over their empty fourth finger. "We both sat in the gutter crying and laughing in the rain until someone pulled over to check we were alright."
"I would... leave. When I could, when she didn't make sure I stayed aware. She didn't like it when I left. She wanted me to know what she was doing to me. To experience it fully."
29. Are you afraid?
One shoulder lifts, then drops. "Always, a little. You have to be. It keeps you vigilant."
45. What is the worst injury you’ve received thus far?
Their hand goes to one wrist in an unconscious gesture. "I don't know about worst, but the time that hurt the most was when they took everything out, fixed something inside each piece, and then put them all back in. They did it in four surgeries, two to get them out and two to put them back in. I... they couldn't keep me sedated for that long, so they paralyzed me and numbed what they could. I didn't leave the table the entire time. She told me later it was a four day procedure. It felt like... years. Like time had stopped around me, but I still had to live every moment."
Five years ago, Cyril Moore - contracted tattoo artist to their fiancé's family "business" and competitive sharpshooter - disappeared and was presumed dead. They didn't dare hope that they could ever return. When their wildest dream comes true and they find themself in their fiancé's arms once more, it's with the knowledge that there are things lurking under their skin that they have no way to explain.
thanks for the tag, @kaleidoscope-of-thoughts ! the other post was getting long so I hopped onto a new one, but from @rat-father , what would your OC wear for Halloween and/or what would a whumper force them to wear!
Cyril would - and has - dressed up as Annie Oakley for halloween parties (bc they're a competitive sharpshooter themself); Esme went as Frank Butler that year. Another year they went together as Bonnie and Clyde (bc Esme is in the mob).
Julia would dress Cyril up as the Tin Man from Wizard of Oz and think that she was absolutely hilarious. 😌 She would then activate their magnetic implants and position the Tin Man suit in various uncomfortable or downright painful positions which they would have no choice but to hold. So funny!! Isn't she brilliant!! Laugh, Cyril!
I'll tag @for-the-love-of-angst , @crash-bump-bring-the-whump , and @clockworknightmares !
