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just down the path of wooden floors , there resides a small ( very small ) room for dante to rest. in the very back of the shop , hidden from prying eyes is there a full - sized mattress with a barely fitted sheet. the sheets , now , disheveled from their romp , gather underneath sweated back that now settled into the dented mattress. a smirk creeping on his lips. ' at least the hangover after all this will be worth it. ' / @rotquiem
“Run. I’ll hold them back.” - my ff7 verse is turk leon but he's old and tired and just does his own thing - aerith you are safe w him ☺️
every memory up ‘til now — – her mother remained ill. lethargic, sporting a smile that desperately tried to hide exhaustion … though aerith knew just how frail ifalna were from experimentation. because of professor hojo … because of shinra. & while she learnt to keep her distance from most, leon were the exception. another personnel who rotated in watch of their solidary confinement, standing guard outside their quarters for hours whilst doing what-ever else a turk's responsibility were. unknown to a seven-year old.
for weeks they shared a mutual friendship of exchanged papers bearing tic-tac-toe + letter games he described as ‘hang-man’. soon able to detect his familiar foot-fall from inside her cell, brightening instantly that she'd have companionship whilst her mother recovered in the cot across the room. bonus packed goods from the facilities cafeteria, smiles exchanged from across the hall before being berated about her linage she knew little of … & the genuine relief of knowing there were one-more good person whom worked under the electrical company's ceiling. not all were horrid, bearing a heart that could empathize to their mistreatment.
it's why when he kneels to her level, inquiring her frowning-face, aerith is quick to throw her arms behind his neck, nuzzling her nose deep within his collar as she softly murmurs: ❛ i'm going to miss you, mr. leon. ❜ — – with the help of another researcher, the kind man who smuggled painkillers within their quarters to bring her mother relief … they'd soon begin their departure from cruel torment. escaping grey + pure white walls, the nostril-stinging cleaning components and overhead security calls to surveillance floors one through seventy.
the next day arrives, and all they can do is pray that their escape goes without any detection of their immediate absence. leon is no where to be seen, not for hours, and not before the ‘monster breach’ giving their signal to find the cart planted for their hiding. ifalna folds shortly into their sprint, ducting the two out of eyes view as she pants to regain her breath. her heart races, her fingers tremble in what would later be known as anxiety, remembering her mother's promises of entering a church that would give them safety. at least for a while. heavy-treaded footwear echoes the hallway, the distorted voice through a SOLDIER'S speaker causing tears to form in her eyes. they'd be caught … and as punishment she'd continue to watch the head scientist's hand bring her mother closer to the life stream. to her death.
a familiar face joins their huddle, aerith relieved to see her guardian-angel one last time before they fled with mr. hicks to the steel plated city outside shinra tower. he looks to ifalna, telling them to run, and tiny lungs so desperately plead to scream in disagreement. with all he's done, with how important he's become to them, leon should be joining their escape … not delaying the personnel ordered to retrieve the ‘cetra's'. the warmth of her mother's palm grasps her own, the woman's voice quiet and stern that they had to keep going, gratitude in her thanks before parting in the opposite direction of the turk.
aerith's heart sinks as her limbs are dragged further from the friend she's made, tears staining her cheeks as her throat becomes tight, barely able to swallow let-alone speak. & without the good-bye she hoped to say … the faremis women flee to the cart of their freedom, watching as leon's final expression were all but a small grin as to encourage her to remain strong. ( i hope we meet again, mr. leon. thank you for everything. )
📚 ( from : 1984 by george orwell )
she stares long and hard at the two plants before them, unusually calm all things considered. but now, she was in her element. while @rotquiem excelled in keeping cool in high pressure situations and matters of the undead, but when it came to solving puzzles and analyzing, well, who better than her ? and something about this particular task was bothering her. after a moment and few more trails and errors, it clicks, she brightens with a revelation.
❝ actually, it would have made no difference. ❞ she spins around to grab the document they only briefly scanned over before, flipping eagerly through the pages before getting to the one she wanted, holding it out for the older man to take. ❝ in this game we're playing, we can't win. looks like we have to find another way. ❞
book starters ━ accepting
‘ devil may cry , ’ the ceaseless ringing finally meets its end when he snatches the phone call and answers the line , pressing it to his ear with naught but sheer irritation etched into his voice. he leans against the wall , weight sunk into one shoulder , voice caught somewhere between a sigh and a grunt. ( " dante , turn on the tv. " ) he knows that voice : lady. ( — — — bio weapons. ) and that's all it takes for him to scramble , look for the remote. he’s moving before the line even settles; and once the remote is located , thumb presses the red power button hard enough to nearly crack the plastic device. the screen flashes awake , and he's flicking through channels to find the specific one of which the other spoke. the television , the very same so lovingly dragged into the shop by leon , himself , because leon wanted dante so desperately to be part of the modern generation with all this new technology. and , ah , and there it is.
endless ramblings of news anchors , headlines stacked atop of headlines. bioweapons. government involvement denials. containment failures. leon. his heart sinks almost instantly. it was only supposed to be a few days , leon said. but you never really knew. not with his line of work. thereafter , the phone slams without so much as a goodbye. he doesn’t remember when he sat on the desk's edge , engrossed in the news , but he's watching hopelessly to see just a glimpse of blonde hair. he’s there for what felt like hours , hunched over , palms digging into wood to hold him steady. something begins to bubble in his chest , and he thinks ... he's enraged , probably. but mostly a silent distress took over. it's not quite fear; it's something quieter. worse. ( and the familiar image of a woman's silhouette with long blonde hair running to her death ... it alters , the image is now more masculine , man with shorter hair ... leon. )
something of a huff slips through his lips , as his hand , instinctively , moves to the pocket of leather chaps , pulling his cellphone free. when the screen lights up and he sees the empty call log and no new messages , his heart sinks further. no news is good news , isn't that what lady said to him days earlier ? how could it possibly be any good. he looks at the newscasters again , their voices blaring in his ears even though the volume is low. whatever he drank earlier is about to come up , it's burning his throat. this is news; this is bad.
days pass and the news doesn’t stop. to his dismay , the silence doesn't stop either. having been together for so long , however , they both know better than to try calling the other first. it’ll go straight to voicemail. dante is used to calling and talking to dead air like some idiot; usually he doesn't mind it , as he knows it would lighten leon's mood when he listens to the voicemail wherever he is. this time , though , he doesn’t even make the attempt , not even when his thumb threatens to press call while it hovers over the touchscreen that lit up with leon's name. he waits. and will continue to wait. the shop's phone rings during this time , but it’s just jobs. demons crawling out faster than they should , more than usual , like something’s stirring beneath the surface. nero confirms it. lady , too. trish says the same with that knowing look she gets — — — demons don’t gather without reason. they’re circling. something’s coming. at the very least , they offer a ounce of distraction.
his mind split in two : one half sharp , focused , demon - hunting / the other stuck somewhere else entirely. he finds himself , now , hunched over his desk , leon’s laptop cracked open in front of him , screen glow painting his face in pale blue. he scrolls without seeing , fingers dragging across the trackpad in slow , aimless passes. he's searching for work , for articles or news , for anything that fills the space. beer can at the side of the laptop , licked clean , about to join several more littering the desk , stacked against greasy pizza boxes that have been pushed to the corner like an afterthought. glass bottles sit empty , long drained of whiskey. he’s not drunk enough ...— — — or maybe he’s too drunk. hard to tell anymore. leon's absence , the news , and the demons ... it all settles in his bones , heavy. he exhales after a short while , long and low , letting his head fall forward. thus , his forehead meets with the desk. a dull , gentle thud echoing with the news in the background. and sleep takes him quickly. the sounds of the anchors bleed into whatever dream drags him under. so when the shop door creaks open , he doesn’t stir. the subsequent footfall of familiar boots against the floor and a voice ( “ honey , i’m home. ” @rotquiem ) that is what wakes him.
initially , he believes this is just some sick joke played on him by his own wicked mind. of course his brain conjured up an image of leon , as if his heart did not ache enough. he lets out a breathy huff against the desk , his head rolling gently against the wood. ' man , i gotta stop drinkin’ so late … ' the words are slurred due to his inebriated state. but the figure doesn’t fade; doesn’t dissipate like the rest usually do. and that's what causes his brows to furrow , eyes cracking open , slow and reluctantly , squinting through the drunken haze. lashes heavy as he tries to make sense of the silhouette. still there … huh. ' …leon? ' his voice is smaller this time , hopeful almost , but still denoting a sense of uncertainty. he's testing the limits of his dream , seeing if it’ll echo back — — — or answer.
fortuna was a nightmare , to say the least. lady's idea of an easy job was ... not so easy. though , nevertheless he was grateful to take it. to have met nero ... ------ well , that's a story he'd save for later.
he's since returned to his shop , devil arms a plenty thrown 'cross the wooden floors. ' some kind of welcome home party , babe. ' a playful remark made to another who appeared from the doors that led to rooms behind the front lobby. ' no balloons , no confetti , no banners ... ---- ' at least the shop was cleaner than the state he left it in , he'll admit that. ' still. phew , am i glad to be back. ' to see you , he means to say. / @rotquiem
in all honesty , this was a true testament to what consequences befall others at hands of dante's boredom. actions spurred on by none other than a mind that sought to occupy itself with such adolescent antics. his idea was even deprived of liquor. this emerged from his sober self. he's not drunk ... -- nor particularly horny. truth be told , this all stemmed from the fact that the person of his desire did not acknowledge him all day. now , he was simply ... bored.
though , undoubtedly , busy with bio - weapons , government jobs , or something of that nature , leon clearly had far more pressing matters to attend to than dante's loneliness. alas , the silence of the shop echoed far too much for his liking and it disturbed him. truly , devil may cry , too , missed the sounds of their antics : playing pool , poker , shouts of pain or pleasure ( depending on the day ). there was more than just a small piece of him that missed the other's presence , especially in these quiet moments when the lonesomeness became too noticeable.
jukebox is broken again , and the silence persists. so , he’s found himself sprawled on the couch with one boot hanging over the armrest. the brilliant idea to send leon a ... tasteful image (?) comes to mind when he notices the flash of his belt buckle. swiftly , he decides to unbuckle the belt , shimmy his pants just low enough to get the angle he desired. phone's camera CLICKS when he decides bothering leon sounds infinitely more entertaining than any potential gig he has sitting in his text logs. he captures the worst possible picture imaginable : slightly blurred , shirt shoved halfway up , pants crumbled below pelvis area , all of himself hanging out in the open. smug expression visible behind the phone as he snaps , then presses send. no caption necessary , of course , the image speaks for itself.
but ... when there is no instant response , there is a little bit of offense taken , and thumbs start pressing against the screen rapidly:
[ sms ] 6:36pm - u there?
[ sms ] 6:36pm - wow no answer?
[ sms ] 6:37pm - ok
[ sms ] 6:38pm - wyd
then , he gets his long awaited response :
[ sms ] , @rotquiem : 6:40pm - 👍
admittedly , he expected a bigger response ( to match the photo , of course ). something that meant he truly enjoyed the picture of his dick. maybe he's a little appalled , and that's why he starts typing again. leon's phone buzzing two more times.
[ sms ] 6:40pm - A THUMBS UP????? THATS ALL I GET???
[ sms ] 6:40pm - i send you a picture of my dick and thats all you gotta say?
❛ surprise . send an unexpected nsfw image to my muse .
at the behest of the young blonde attached at his hip , he'd peruse the entered shop for a gift befitting another. birthdays were ... not something he'd often remember. dates came and went , any important celebrations were swallowed by jobs and bloodshed. admittedly , he hardly could recall his own. though , something mentioned in passing had managed to linger in the back of his mind — — — july 31st was the date of leon's birth. the shop itself was narrow and dimly lit , crowded with old trinkets he hardly had a liking for. silver crosses hung beside tarnished lockets and the air smelled faintly of dust. familiar enough that dante paid it little mind.
a necklace that nearly copied his own from years passed caught his attention from behind a glass. the very same red amulet passed unto him as a child , the family heirloom , had once carried more weight than he cared to admit. this one was nothing more than a poor imitation , black rope holding onto a small , red stone. he picks it out and pays for it without lingering long enough to reconsider. the clerk wraps it tightly within a box for the receiver.
it isn't until he gets outside the shop and crosses the cobblestones over into his own shop that he dials the other's number , gift held tightly in his hand. dante presses the phone to his ear as the line rings. on the other end , a familiar voice crackling through. ' hey , ( @rotquiem ) , you busy tonight? ' an all too familiar call , delivered as casual as though he hadn't just bought a birthday present for the other.
try to be civil, it costs nothing. - vergil lmao
beyond salvation
an eyebrow raises as vergil stares at leon, face painted in a clear sour expression. not because of the other but because having to deal with somebody in his way for this. "i could've done this alone. you're in my way." a sense of defeat washes over him just as he says this, jaw locking tightly. he hadn't realised that dante could also have had romantic relations. he figures among the fuzz of his own mind that he had one before, otherwise nero wouldn't have existed if he didn't love somebody.
"he hasn't smiled this fondly for anyone in a while. i will be civil if i wish to be."
