#ivanrahal

[ofcastora]

drag my teeth across your chest // to taste your beating heart

@ivanrahal

[cuorepietoso]

Friday, 22 March, 2019 Katarina’s Palazzo 0010 h / 12:10am Closed for @ivanrahal CC @katarinadvpont

          The unholy burning in his bones is driving him to insanity. 

     That’s the best excuse he has for creeping around this time of night, when he should be curled in his bed and trying to heal, instead of straining himself and possibly getting his ass shot to death if Katarina happens to be awake and lingering in her own halls, sleepless. It doesn’t matter-- seven days later, and his bed already feels too cold when he’s alone. 

     It’s almost pathetically easy to pop open one of the ancient windows on the ground floor with the blade of his knife. It actually is pathetically easy to put his crutches in the looming maw the window provides to the ancient building, and then pull himself up afterwards, nearly falling face first to the floor with the dead weight of his bum leg dragging him down. The backpack settled tight to his spine hits him in the back of his skull, and he winces as the thought of its jostled contents. 

     He rights himself, however, and gathers his crutches and clacks quietly along the hallway, lit only by the bare light of the moon, and makes his way towards what he assumes would be the kitchen. The damn house is like a maze. He’s in the front room. He’s in the sitting room. He’s in the goddamn hallway again, looking at the window he’d jimmied open with a long sigh. Reaching out, he shuts the damn window once more, and goes back the way he came, the near silent sound of his crutches on the cold marble floor echoing loudly only in his head. The figure on the stairs in the front room startles him enough to take a step back with his injured leg and a muffled curse, reaching for a gun in a shoulder holster he didn’t bring, nearly stumbling straight onto his ass. 

     It takes him a long moment to realize the figure on the stairs is a familiar one. The wash of relief rumbling into him nearly chokes him with a laugh, even as he adjusts the straps of his backpack uneasily. “Rahal, I thought God had sent me an Angel of Death. Do you often linger in rich people’s creepy ancient homes like a ghost?”

[lorettadelluci-blog]

When: February 8th, 2019 Where: Twelfth Night & Tempest Who: Closed for @ivanrahal

Loretta stands in the shadow of the goddess Diana and watches as a woman breaks up with her boyfriend in the Twelfth Night’s garden. They’ve been coming here on bi-weekly dates since Loretta started working with Rafaella to better project the museum’s image. In the beginning she’d originally thought the two deeply in love, but... things change. (She thinks this as if she’s been working here for long, in any meaningful way. It’s only been a month or so.) They’re both holding hot beverages. Hopefully nothing will be thrown this way or that.

Her phone buzzes -- a text from Rafaella. It tells her to proceed with the advertisements she’s been teetering back-and-forth on for a while. She taps out a quick reply. When she looks up again, back at the couple, the gentleman’s brow is pinched tight in the middle, like he’s thinking very hard on just what it is he’s going to say to win back the adoration of a girl who very much feels the opposite right now. Her body language screams flight rather than fight. Even from the second floor through the window she can see it happening, right before her very eyes.

The woman spits out words.

The man throws his hands up in frustration, and oh, yes -- there goes the drink. It soars across the greenery and into a shrub. Loretta notes in her agenda to let the groundskeeper know that he might come across an errant coffee cup on top of his magnolia plants. Oh, dear. Then: the sound of foot-steps coming up the stairs, stopping at the landing. Not the characteristic high heels Rafaella might wear, or the Witches --- she keeps forgetting they’re dead, expects them to show up and banish her in some dramatic manner any day, now --- but a stranger. She turns her head.

Oh, she thinks, I know you. By name and face but not characteristic interaction. This is the one and only Ivan Rahal. The Plague. A cunt, Orion Massetti had said. The most self-serving person alive. Loretta finds herself delighted. She smiles with her teeth, and it’s genuine, but only for the half-second it sits on her face. “Can I help you?”

[cuorepietoso]

Wednesday, 9 March 2011 [LOCATION REDACTED], Libya 0237 h / 2:37AM Closed for @ivanrahal

          The firefight has lasted for what feels like an eternity. 

     That was the problem with urban warfare, really: an unknowable amount of resistance, hidden away in a city they know like the back of their hand, while you stumble around like a foreign idiot trying not to get shot once you’re split off from the rest of your unit. Tahan still had radio contact with them, thankfully, but between him and his unit and a safe extraction lay three hours and almost nine city blocks. The helicopter wouldn’t be flying in until morning light. He had time. They wouldn’t leave him. He just had to get there. 

     It’s hard to keep his steps silent with 27 kilograms of gear strapped to his back, in the unfamiliar streets. He’s panting, quietly, sticking close to the walls of the buildings to keep out of sight of anyone that might be on the rooftops, sweeping the dim alleys before moving on, the uncanny silence of a city that’s supposed to be full of life weighing heavily on his shoulders. 

     Creeping, sweeping, darting forward. It’s become such a routine that as he peers into the next alley, barrel of his rifle pointed into the mouth of it, he nearly misses the two lit cherries of the cigarettes in the dark, the low hush of voices, the prone, uniformed body laying still between them. He halts his forward motion, falling back to crouch once more against the cold brick of the building. 

     He casts his thoughts back to the events of the day before: his own unit had been sent in to run the rebels and the military forces alike, while another, less specialized one, had been instructed to assist with the evacuation of some high-value assets. Civilians, as far as he knew. The details were murky, what went wrong, how their plan went up in smoke, but he knew their forces had been scattered throughout the city. Most had reported in as being at or near the rendezvous point. Most, except for him, and as far as he could remember, one other. A younger guy, a private, but he can’t recall the name. 

     Tahan peers around the corner once more, but it’s hard to make out more than shapes in the alley-- it’s definitely a soldier, collapsed on the ground, though he can’t tell whether or not he’s breathing. The two men standing seem to be in a hushed argument, gesticulating wildly with their cigarettes in hand. One has his back fully to the mouth of the alley, and the other is just three quarters turned away. 

     Shooting them would make an awful lot of noise, draw every untethered gun in the city to his position and paint a target on his back. Carrying the soldier, likely dead but possibly alive, will slow him down, hinder him, make him clumsy, drastically reducing his own chances of making it to the rest of his squad in time, let alone making it at all. 

          He pulls his knife from its sheath, and slowly creeps forward. 

     As he draws closer, feet light, breathing muffled to nearly nothing, the scene grows clearer. The pool of blood under the soldier, shining black in the night. His whole uniform seems stained with it, and from this close he can hear the quiet wheeze of his breaths making an unsteady metronome for the argument occurring above him. He tries to feel relieved. Inching forward so slowly makes the nape of his neck prickle with sweat, the stakes growing higher. From this close, if one of them noticed him, took a shot, they could kill him before he could even blink, and then kill the kid. And he is a kid, too. Doesn’t look a day over twenty.

     He’s a meter away, crouched behind a rubbish bin. The one closer to him gesticulates, arm thrust out straight to the side, and Tahan strikes. He leaps forward and grabs his wrist, pulling him off balance and drawing his blade across his throat, all the way down to the spine. The other man starts to raise his own gun, eyes wide and mouth opening to call out, and Tahan is on him next, shoving the barrel out of the way as he slams into him shoulder first, knocking the breath out of his opponent as he pushes him back up to the wall. His bloodied blade is buried between the man’s third and fourth ribs. There’s silence after the bodies fall once more, broken only by his own labored breath and the gasps of the soldier still laying on the ground. 

     He waits one beat, two, listening for anyone that might come running at the minimal amount of noise he’d made, and then he wipes the blood from his knife on his pant leg and slips it back into the sheath. Kneeling, he settles his hand on the kid’s shoulder, then slips around behind him to drag him into the nearest doorway, shushing him when he moans quietly at the movement. The bodies outside are hidden as best he can manage, dragged to lay behind crates, hopefully enough to keep anyone from sweeping the alley and finding either pair. 

     Pulling off his kevlar gloves, he stuffs them in a pocket and splashes water from his canteen onto his hands, to rinse the blood off. Hand sanitizer, then latex gloves, and he kneels at the kid’s side once more, carefully turning him on his back to check his pulse. His breathing remains shaky, his pulse thready and too fast, but his eyes move restlessly under the lids like he’s trying to wake up. Tahan leans forward, pulls the black mask over the lower half of his face down around his neck, and checks the name tape across his breast, and the flag on his shoulder.

          Rahal. Italy. 

     He taps his cheek with one finger, looking over him critically for injuries as he does. “Easy, kid.” Most, if not all, of the blood seems to be seeping out of a wound on his upper torso, mostly hidden by the shredded fabric of his uniform and the flak vest that apparently hadn’t been all that effective against what looked like a knife. “Rahal? Can you hear me? My callsign is Tombarolo. I am an Italian medic.” As he speaks, he starts patting him down, head to toe, checking for any injuries outside of the obvious one. His voice remains warm, almost friendly, not a hint of panic creeping out of him despite his racing heart. “I’m here to help you. Are you awake?”

     A few other cuts, scrapes, bruises. All of his joints seem to be in working order. Tahan leans over him once more to peel back the strap of the flak vest, trying to peer under it. “Bene-- I’m going to have to cut this off of you.”

[cuorepietoso]

Sunday, 7 April, 2019 The Soda Jerk 1945h / 7:45pm Closed for @ivanrahal

     It’s not that he expects the other man to show-- honestly, it’s always kind of a toss up on whether Ivan decides he’s going to grace him with his presence while he’s at work or not, whether he’ll deign to appear and sit at the bar or not, whether he’ll watch the patrons quietly or not, whether he’ll do his level best to distract Battista and get him fired or not, or whether he’ll try to poach some of the friendlier informants and get Battista fired for hitting him in the mouth while he’s on the clock or not. He’ll just say, well, he’s not all that surprised to see him here tonight, taking what Battista has semi-affectionately started to think of as ‘his’ seat at the bar. Two things do stand out: he’s here far earlier in the night than usual, and he seems almost… excited.

     It’s likely nobody else would be able to tell. Ivan is careful to keep his hands and his feet still, but his posture is rigid, and instead of disinterestedly watching the goings-on of the sleepy Sunday evening bar life, he’s staring at Battista expectantly. Perhaps he thinks he has news for him. He’s been waiting so patiently, a whole five minutes from the first moment Battista had held up a hand in a vague gesture to ask for a little patience-- he’d been in the middle of a conversation with a chatty customer, but she’s wandered off now, and it seems like he has nothing better to do now than figure out what the younger man wants. 

     A brow lifted, he wanders over, and pours him a club soda with a little bit of lime, preemptively greeting him with a bored, “You know, maybe you’d get faster service if you bothered to tip better.” He slides it over, careful to keep his voice absent of any amusement-- “Loathe as I am to ask, Shual, what has you so excited?” Only a wary sort of curiosity remains in his tone. It’s important to keep up appearances, after all, which is why he’s at work today instead of helping to sort out the cash from their little payday.

[ofcastora]

HEY, LITTLE SONGBIRD, GIVE ME A SONG I’M A BUSY MAN AND I CAN’T STAY LONG

DIVERONA + BROADWAY @ivanrahal

[lamrien]

For all the years he’s lived in Verona -- which is to say, all of them -- he’s never descended down into Measure by Measure. He’s never felt the need. There is no baser desire for bloodshed in him. It does not go any further down than skin-deep, does not reach the bone marrow; he was raised better than that. He has seen what sort of abhorrent things blind lust for hurting something can do. Awful and terrible things. In some cases, a fist to the face means nothing. A broken bone equates to months of being cradled in a cast, but no further expression beyond irritation and hurt pride. And then sometimes -- not always, but sometimes, desire can produce a chain reaction. One long, strenuous line of suffering, simply because a person decided that the only way they could lesson their pain was by inflicting it on others. There are certainly many in the Montagues and Capulets who feel that way, at the very least, he’s sure of it. Maybe he’s romanticizing it, that way, but in his head it’s the only way violence for the sake of violence can be rationalized. Violence, for the sake of loving. When he opens the door to the caverns he is not greeted by the warmth of bodies grappling with each other, looking for purchase. Instead, he is greeted by a sharp breeze, as if to say turn back. Do not enter. You’re making a mistake.

He could leave this whole thing behind, realistically speaking. Doubt roots itself in his chest quite quickly as he trails along the main hall. Not even heroes of legend could walk into a viper’s den and leave unscathed, but here he is, a stranger in a strange land. It feels as though he’s looking for Medusa with the determination of a man who wants to see himself in stone.  He finds his way by trailing after the crowing of men and women, and the sort of raucous laughter that can only be associated with drunkenness, sheer human joy at being unaware of what the fuck is happening and alive at the same time. It seems like the sort of environment that Orpheus Ahulani would have enjoyed thoroughly, but the man is dead, so Lucien can’t say he’d like much at of anything at this point. Stiff body in the ground, and all that. Or maybe he was cremated. The rumors had been -- fuzzy on the details. But he’d at least had the dignity of being missed, which was more than some could say. Does Measure by Measure miss its old proprietor? 

This place clearly feels Orpheus’ absence months later, even now, even if it doesn’t mourn the man. There are the tell-tale signs of renovations occurring here, slowly but surely. Scaffolding in some places, posters torn down and put back up and then moved two inches to the left. He can’t help but wonder if they are all doomed to the same fate of creating something and having to leave it behind, time and time again. A drawing. A scrap of poetry written on some paper. A favorite book, falling apart. ...A fight club? The further into the caves he goes the more he finds himself having to shoulder past patrons, and the breathing room only gets smaller from there. Most everyone here is a Capulet, there’s no doubt about that -- some wear a familiar blue insignia, or they have slips of ink peeking out from somewhere that shouldn’t be exposed. Many boast loudly of their recent accomplishments for the city, speak with foul mouths about the Montagues. They’d probably bleed blue, if they could will their bodies to do such a thing. There are at least a hundred and fifty of these poor fools here, willing to die on the stake for their cause, and they are all cheering on two men at the middle of the room as they try to beat each other to not-quite-death-but-close. Lucien lets himself enjoy the sight. He’s here. It makes sense to act like he wants to be.

It’s immediately clear which one of the two is winning: he’s strapping, young, and so much blood is pouring from his now-broken nose that he’s as pale as a sheet. But he’s still not worse off than his opponent, who is half-crumpled on the ground, one knee up, one knee down, arms raised to protect his face. He’s stopped bothering to try and go in for the kill by now, obviously, just trying to survive the experience. He’s got hair a similar hue to that of the other’s bloody nose, and the way his own gore drips from the side of his head (his ear?) it looks longer than it actually is. Lucien pushes closer, lets himself be shoved to the front of the crowd and then back, and then to the front again. He’s close enough to the ring towards the end that he can see, with perfect clarity, the way in which the pale beast goes in for the kill. His right arm winds back, blue ink on his bicep shining in the warm light of the room, and Lucien doesn’t think the one on the ground even has a moment to pray for mercy. He just drops, collapses backwards onto himself with his knees bent at an uncomfortable angle. The sound his body makes when all the air leaves his body on impact is -- uncomfortable. The crowd roars, inebriated on victory, and it is in that moment that Lucien finds the one he’s looking for.

There a hundred and forty eight people celebrating. Directly across from him, separated by the distance of the ring, Lucien meets the eyes of the very man he’s looking for. He watches as both men are taken out of the ring -- one dragged out, the other carried by the sheer fervor of winning. Lucien’s already moving. The group of people directly around him disperses, rearranges, as two new opponents are shoved in, and that’s when he makes his move. The empty space is an advantage: he’s on Ivan Rahal before the man can think of ducking out on him, and then they are pressed shoulder to shoulder as the mob moves in again. A woman positioned between the two new fighters throws her hands up and these lambs throw themselves directly towards slaughter. Their bodies each are marked with scars, they are not quite as fast as the whelps before them, their hair is peppered with grey -- all small indicators that this is not their first time charging in and that it likely won’t be the last. Still, there is no flagging in their enthusiasm. Blows have already landed by the time Lucien turns his gaze sideways to look at Ivan, the jut of his chin, the set of his brow. He could be a work of art, but all Lucien can see is a snake. The noise is already gearing up as the crowd picks its favorites. Names are tossed into the ring, too. Lucien decides to join in.  He almost has to raise his voice to a shout just to be heard -- not quite, but close. “You’re Ivan?”

@ivanrahal  /  MARCH 2ND /  MEASURE BY MEASURE

[gracedalys]

who: @ivanrahal where: valentino d’alesio’s penthouse when: march 22nd

Valentino D’Alesio’s penthouse is grander in design than she’d imagined it to be. With the early morning sun hitting the windows just right, all the modern artwork and obscure referential paintings seem to come together to form one image. It’s impressive, it’s intense, it’s everything she would have imagined a man like D’Alesio to live in. But he didn’t really live here. He just haunted the place, from room to room, until it was time to go travel the world and preach the word of the Capulets.

Not anymore, though. She’d heard what Genevieve had said, read the email -- he’d fallen out of favor with Cosimo, for whatever reason, and now he was hiding. It was the perfect time to strike. She passes by a bust of Nero in the hallway (how pretentious) and peaks around the corner of a doorway. No family, no friends, lovers. Just poor little Valentino, living his entrepreneurial life all by himself. Miserable, sad, lonely. She wonders if he’s still asleep. If she could get away with sneaking into his office across the hall from the master bedroom and successfully open the safe with all of his Big Important Documents and get out without a fuss. Damiano hadn’t said he’d needed to be dead, after all.

She sort of hopes, in a grim way, that he’s awake. That she’ll get the excuse to dig fingers into flesh and yank until it’s clammy-cold. That’d be a way to start the day right. Wouldn’t even need a cup of coffee, after that. Or a cigarette. The nicotine patch at her elbow itches.

Down, down, down. Past the living room, the two closets, the door to the deck and his needlessly large pool. What is it with the wealthy and their pools, exactly? She’d had one. That’s beside the point. Down, down, down. She finally reaches the kitchen. It’s modern. A large stove, island countertop with what is likely genuine marble. All white-silver-gold-cream hues, matching the rest of this cursed place, which looks so synonymous with a museum she could scream. She hates museums because they are quiet. She ‘rounds the corner of the island and looks over the dining table to the windows that view Verona in all its glory. The dining table is made of glass. She immediately thinks of fingerprints.

A soft wheeze from right beneath her. And then Grace looks down.

And -- he’s dead.

Well, not quite dead-dead, but close enough that it’s basically over for poor Valentino, who is bleeding out on his kitchen floor in his underwear. His eyes are staring blankly up at the ceiling, glassy and full of fear. She follows his gaze. Nothing. His chest rises, slowly and not at all surely. Up for one second, down for five. Up for two, down for ten. There’s a knife lodged just below his right rib cage at a weird angle. There are other wounds, on his neck and chest. His phone sits, open and unlocked, not three inches from his hand. She kicks it away with her shoe. Sighs. Crouches.

“Did you do this?” She asks.

He doesn’t even turn his head. Just wheezes again, long-and-slow. Grace pats his face. Pap-pap. Nothing. Yeah, this is over. She stands again, looks around, and sees Ivan fucking Rahal. Visceral rage at the thought of failing a mission given by Genevieve is replaced by giddy elation at the mere sight of him, and then confusion. He’s standing directly in front of what she assumes is the pantry, because what else is a closet in a kitchen, if not a walk-in pantry? “Did you do this? Were you hiding in there?”