date: april 16, 2019 where: ronan’s office with: @rafaellacapulet
the city council building is quiet, late at night.
ronan likes it that way--it feels like his castle, his prized flagship, a fortress meant for him and him alone. the silence does not overwhelm him in the same way it does when he’s alone inside of the penthouse--here silence settles like a dark cloak, something warm that keeps him hidden away until he wants to be seen again, as opposed to an oppressive void that threatens to consume his rational thought. here, alone in his office, with only the occasional scratching of pen against paper, of city life filtered through panes of glass, he can follow each red string inside of his mind to its conclusion, to the heart of the labyrinth. he can make plans of action, construct and dismantle empires of his own creation, decipher the machinations of parts of himself he doesn’t fully understand, all without distraction.
he doesn’t believe that settling is possible, especially in a place like verona, but on a warm spring night like this one, with his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and a quiet concerto gently weaving around the confines of the room like a bird, grief at more of a comfortable distance--he feels as settled as can be reasonably expected. his mind is active, sharp, focused on what needs to be done--particularly after damiano and his idiot son had shown the extent of their leadership abilities, their abilities to wield any kind of real power, to be entirely unimpressive and insultingly little.
it's a feeling that lasts exactly as long as it takes for a shadow to appear on the wall outside of his door, for his ears to register the sound of footsteps, for a familiar face to emerge from the darkness, like it always had.
his breath catches in his throat, and for the second time in not even a full month, ronan ivarsson finds that he cannot think of what should be said. rafaella strolls up to his desk as if no time had passed at all, as if she were there to liberate him from the confines of the building in the same way he had dogged her steps at twelfth night, once. she smiles at him as if nothing had ever come to pass, as if the ring on ronan’s left hand were a mere accessory, or bore a mate somewhere on her person. he blinks at her, as if she’ll disappear if he does it enough times, before the knowledge that she really is before him settles inside of his mind.
“piccolo rosso,” he says, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “you must have strayed pretty far off of the path if it led you to me. does grandmother know where you are?”