The Innocent

   " — For to be wise and love exceeds man's might; that dwells with gods above."

[tomassabello]

hermionediangelo​:

“Is that right?” the question, though rhetorical, forms around the amused stretch to her mouth. “I suppose if someone has to try…” she teases, grin belying any semblance of seriousness that could be drawn from her rebuke.

“I had my fair share of,” tongue runs across the front of her teeth, whether it sought the taste of lingering chocolate sauce or the right descriptor remained unclear, “dalliances before.” Mouth pulls up into a smile after a beat, a teasing lilt entering her tone, “none of mine were deemed worthy enough for front page news though.” He knows - or so she hopes - that there is no judgement accompanying the sentiment, rather a light-hearted jibe from someone who understood what was happening behind the scenes. 

It would be a lie to say it wasn’t the statement that prompted the soft pink hue that blossomed across her cheeks, making her feel as though she were the starring role in some kind of romance film. “I like you too.” soft-spoken, her own admission is underpinned with truth, coming a handful of beats after his own, before the warmth of his hand in her own proves a distraction. Harriet mulls the thought over, chewing on her lower lip until she makes a decision, “I’m in too,” squeezing his hand gently in affirmation. 

The condition softens her expression further, unable to help feel flattered by the thought in itself. “I’ll try,” the woman promises, strange that something that people would expect to come naturally to her was something she knew would prove difficult. “It’s not something that… comes easily to me.” Even with Vivianne, with Everett, with Easton, who had seen her at her highest and lowest moments, there were certain things that she couldn’t push passed her lips.

Harriet picks up her glass with the hand that doesn’t rest in his, holding it outward in askance of a toast, “To… something more than friendship,” she proposes, ignoring the hesitation that reverberated in her chest, easier now to fall into a more humorous tone, mouth quirking playfully, “And being all in.”

.

They toast. 

‘To... Something more than friendship, and being all in,’ Harriet proposes cheekily, and he clinks his glass with hers, eyes crinkling with mirth before he knocks it back. He’s so excited at the prospect that he drains his prosecco in one go and sets the glass down again with a cheerful ‘whoop!’. A couple of the restaurant staff look in his direction, clearly bemused — but he doesn’t care. 

For the first time in a very long time, he has something to look forward to. Someone. And not just anyone, but a woman whom he’s beginning to wish he had met much, much sooner in life. And yet something tells Tomas that if he were to voice that sentiment to her, Harriet, in her persistent positivity, would tell him that there’s a reason they’ve met now, and that maybe it was meant to happen exactly this way.

... Or maybe he’s just a dreamer, through and through. 

Either way, Tomas feels like he’s buoyed up to cloud nine right now. They split some dessert, they finish dining, they dance (questionably) to a playlist set on shuffle on his phone. And it’s the best night he’s had in months. Every time Harriet grins he feels his heart skip a beat. By the time their booking’s come to an end, he doesn’t want to leave. But reluctantly he does, helping Harriet into her jacket as he thanks the staff for all the strings they pulled to make the private dinner possible. 

He’s close enough to walk to his hotel, but Harriet’s come in a taxi, so he calls her one. He doesn’t want to break the spell tonight by moving too fast, too soon. It’s his most wretchedly-repetitive mistake, and he doesn’t want to risk it, this time. So he pays for Harriet’s trip upfront, ignoring her protests as he drags her playfully over to the passenger’s side door, before turning to face her. 

“Thank you for coming out tonight on such short notice. And congratulations again on your mini-milestone. We’ll have to plan something extra-special for the six-month mark. Your work’s lucky to have you, you know.” Tomas squeezes her palm, and raises one hand to the crook of her throat, thumb brushing softly against her skin. “... And I’m lucky too.” He leans in at that, to press a kiss against her cheek, followed by the other, and then, ever so gently, a fleeting one against her mouth. 

“Sweet dreams, bellissima... I’ll text you in the morning.”

— EXEUNT TROILUS

[tomassabello]

hermionediangelo​:

Mouth presses into an amused smile at his theatrics, head shaking from side to side before he can finish the sentence. “Someone has to keep you grounded, no?” The light-hearted edge to her tone falls away, able to recognise when it was called for, their conversation shifting between different moods with the fluidity of running water. “Mille grazie,” she concludes after a beat, the two words imbued with as much gratitude as the D’Angelo woman could offer in an attempt to show how much the simple thought meant to her. 

Harriet’s gasp is instinctive, a sweet-tooth since her youth, leaning forward as the table is lined with every dessert she could have imagined, merriment sparking in her gaze at the sheer extravagance of it all. “The cake almost looks too good to eat,” she muses while her eyes trail over the intricate details on the largest item on the table, having thanked those who brought out the buffet of treats, plucking a profiterole from a tray in the meantime and placing it into her mouth. 

The prelude pulls her attention from the spread in front of them firmly back to Tomas, brows lifting in unspoken question, though when he speaks Harriet can’t say it was something she expected. Mouth parts into a small ‘oh’, almost not entirely sure she had heard it correctly over the unsteady rhythm of her own heart against her rib cage, surprised by his forwardness. Before she can gather her thoughts, he continues, her focus moving across the planes of his expression as he does (but what exactly she’s looking for, Harriet isn’t sure).

“Hai molto di più della tua gratitudine.” It’s easiest to start there, she thinks, an undeniable truth from her perspective, “You deserve to have someone be there for you, too.” The implication being that she was perfectly fine fulfilling that role for him, while he needed it, working in reverse order to answer him meant that she reached the most difficult thing last. “And if i did -,” the blonde exhales, a gentle recognition of a misstep before a correction follows, “- if i do return them,” teeth snag on her lower lip, uncharacteristically at a loss for words, “what does that mean for -,” us, “-this?” She settles on in the end, a finger gesturing between them as a sheepish smile raises a corner of her mouth.

It was different for her, to have watched from the sidelines as he climbed hurdles that had once been her own, unable - and unwanting - to demand anything from him. Their friendship had more important than pursuing something fickle that might have been nothing but a means of filling a void. She can remember the feeling that first bloomed in her gut at their conversations of love, love lost, love found, though she had ignored it - tamped it out underfoot like embers from a fire, hoping it would die down - not her place to ask the question lingering on the tip of her tongue. This - this was different - a little unexpected, too - finding herself chewing on the corner of her mouth while waiting for his answer. 

The actor lets out a short whistle. “There aren’t many people who can keep me grounded,” He admits, lips quirking playfully. “Might be a tall order, that one. Of course,” He adds, dangling it like bait, “You’re always welcome to take a shot.” 

In fact, he’s hoping she’ll do just that.

But Tomas’ teasing is briefly - though not unpleasantly - interrupted once the cake is brought before Harriet, along with a wonderful assortment of other treats to tempt her fancy. He leans back in his chair, happy to take the second-spot in her attentions given the brilliantly gleeful grin that captures her features when she gazes at the cake anew. He’s rather proud of it, it’s true. It’s a faithful miniature, the creamiest layers of chocolate and vanilla sponge, covered with the fondant necessary to replicate the Giardino Giusti. It’s worth every penny too, just to see her smile like that.

“You have no idea how much I mean it when I say the pleasure’s mine,” He insists, shooting her an easygoing grin when Harriet looks up at him in awe. He isn’t just being humble about it, either. “It’s crazy fun to surprise you – And here I wasn’t sure I’d pull it off without you being as all-knowing as you are.” He could get used to this, Tomas thinks. Finding new ways to surprise her, watching her smile as radiantly and unselfconsciously as she’s doing now. I could do that, I could do that for us...

... He likes to think of them as an ‘us’. 

Harriet offers the word bashfully, a finger waving in the space between them. This time, the actor does his best to contain his reflex to smile, and keeps his expression solemn instead, least she think he’s joking. “Well,” Sabello begins, “I admit I haven’t thought that far ahead.” He’s too spur-of-the-moment for that; too liable to acting on impulsive - albeit deeply felt - emotion. “To be honest, half of me was afraid you' laugh me out of the restaurant in hearing it altogether... Might serve me right, even, after some of the ways I’ve behaved in the last few months.” 

He’s grateful Harriet is too merciful for that. And he’s exaggerating somewhat; if anything made this confession a fraction easier, it was the bankable knowledge that she would let him down gently. It’s one of the many things Tomas appreciates about her. “I like you. More than I think you realize... Maybe more than I should,” He admits, reaching for her hand again across the table. It feels warm under his palm, grounding him. “I like spending time together, but I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought of being more than friends... Though it isn’t only for me to decide what happens between us. I’m in, no matter what... Even if it is just a friendship.” He assures her, feeling more nervous than he thought he would, while practicing in front of the mirror. 

Tomas gives her hand a squeeze. “I only have one condition — That you let me be there for you the same way you’ve been there for me, these last few months. I don’t want it to just be about me, me, me anymore... My problems, my life. I want to be there for you too. I wanna be in. Both of us, in.”

[boysappetit]

[tomassabello]

hermionediangelo​:

It’s difficult, she thinks, to offer words of comfort when it seemed that their respective relationships differed in more than a handful of ways. Unsurprising, but difficult. For one, Tomas had endured a more public relationship and an even more public break up. Harriet grappled with the conclusion of whether or not it was a better alternative to her own experience, forced to confront your demons when plastered across the front of the paper for all to see. “Love is complicated,” she concludes, not quite aiming to put an end the conversation but offering another attempt at reassurance, “But i think being capable of love is always something that should be cherished.” Expression moulds into something more empathetic, “Even if it can really hurt us, too.” 

Harriet nods before she can think better of it. “I did, mostly my best friend and my grandparents.” Teeth snag her lower lip at the omission of her parents, though deliberate, it felt like a knife to the heart even though the original wound had scabbed over a number of years previous; the vessel still beating proudly in the meanwhile. “The people I worked with at the time were a great help too,” she adds after a beat, having taken leave from the natural history museum for a handful of weeks following the separation, “Accommodating,” the best descriptor, “Given the circumstances.” the circumstances being that she was a newly single new mother.

“I’m always nice to you.” Gaze narrows in unspoken question, daring him to dispute the statement, a smile of her own catching at the corner of her mouth and dragging it upward. Breath hitching in her throat at the swift gesture, glancing between him and their hands, softening underneath the admittance that followed finding her stare unable to meet his for a beat as a soft blush coloured her cheeks. Mouth parts into a grin, head thrown backward in surprised laughter. “Maybe half a mile,” she teases, not offering the satisfaction of an outright agreement, choosing to settle on a compromise instead.

'I think being capable of love is always something that should be cherished... Even if it can really hurt us, too.’

It’s a comforting statement, more than he thinks Harriet realizes. He’s always been a man of intense feeling; welcoming both the dizzying highs and the cavitating lows that come with experiencing life, heart-first. It’s just as much for his craft as it is for the sake of his own person, in better understanding himself and others. And yet it’s a choice that had often made Tomas a target for ridicule, especially in Verona. He’s been seen, at times as a gullible fool for his convictions — at times dismissed as an overdramatic thespian. But Harriet does not see him in the same light.

He smiles at her softly, giving her hand a squeeze before releasing it. “Fine,” He concedes, dragging the word out punctuated by a sigh, just to tease her. “Fine, you are nice to me. Most of the time,” Tomas emphasizes, before his tone turns a little more serious. “But I’m glad you had people there to support you when you went through your own heartbreak.” He wants to add that she can count on him to be one of those people going forward, if he can help it, but Tomas loses his nerve at the very last minute and shoots her another smile instead. Before he can add anything else, dessert arrives; including some of Harriet’s favourite sweets, as well as her cake modelled after the giardino Giusti.

It’s a couple of minutes before they’re alone again. “I should-... I should tell you something, but I don’t want it to be a big deal.” Tomas begins, trying to ignore the thousand moth wings that seem to beat beneath his ribcage. 

It’s now or never, he supposes.

“I have feelings for you.” He doesn’t blurt it out so much as lay it finally on the table, with the honesty and the directness that he thinks Harriet deserves. Tomas isn’t exactly sure when it started. He’d noticed that she was beautiful right off the bat, the same way that most people with eyes could recognize that much about her at first glance. But through the fog of hurt and the fiery heartbreak that had consumed him over the last few months, it’d been impossible to recognize anything more than that at first. The friendship that had developed between them was pure and lacking in ulterior motive, even as he’d thrown himself at so many other people in the pursuit of forgetting and feeling wanted, even if only for a night. But Harriet was an exception.

Not because it hadn’t crossed his mind (he couldn’t pretend to be such a saint) but because the companionship that was budding between them was too important to risk for cheap pleasure. And although that was still true, more and more in the last few days, he was beginning to feel like it’d be disingenuous to keep those fledgling feelings to himself. “I’m not telling you because I expect you to return them, and none of this – ” He sweeps a hand to indicate the lavish dining room around them, “ – is because of that either. You deserve to be celebrated either way. And more than that, you deserve so much more than my gratitude for what you’ve done for me in the last few months... Even if gratitude is the only worthwhile thing I have to offer in thanks.”

[tomassabello]

evcravens​:

“I’m sure Hollywood would beg to differ,” Everett replies, thinking of all of Tomas’s box-office successes in the past decade, blossoming from a teenage heartthrob into a seasoned actor in his own right. The film industry would adore having yet another charming, wholesome actor to dazzle on the silver screen, and theatre-goers, at least, wouldn’t tire of seeing a face like his plastered on a poster. A dry grin cuts across his lips. “And so would about a thousand twenty-something-year-old women.”

Every once in a while the absurdity of it all catches Everett by surprise, as if he’s an outsider looking at himself through a glass window. He’s met a smattering of actors and actresses, mostly due to his family ties in Milanese fashion houses, but never in a million years would he have expected himself to be friends with such a well-known actor — much less like him.

It hits him suddenly that a year and a half ago, Catia had roped him into watching a romantic comedy starring Constance Wu at Multisala Rivoli with her, and they’d both watched Tomas Sabello strip shirtless on the screen. At the time, he’d been faintly amused at his godsister’s half-joking, mischievous eyebrow waggle, but now that he actually knows the man, the memory feels faintly embarrassing. He decides, without much deliberation, that it’s something he’ll firstly, never share with the man, and secondly, never think of again if he can help it.

The small-talk of lush vacation destinations and the freedoms of bachelorhood are welcome distractions from an otherwise awkward recollection, even if Tomas’s good cheer momentarily stutters on his ex-wife’s name. It tugs at Everett’s empathy, if not because of the soft spot he’s begrudgingly developed for the actor, because he’s struggled through a similar situation with his ex-fiancée: long days and longer nights when everything seems to lead back to lost love and broken trust. It’s why he lets it slip past unacknowledged, if only to let a fellow romantic forget his woes for a while.

A hint of a smile quirks across his lips when Tomas refers to starring in an indie film as small potatoes, a comment that would come across as insufferably arrogant from literally any other actor but comes across as innocently endearing because — because it’s Tomas. The sort of man who called him Signor Craven like a nervous teenager long after he’d insisted on being referred to as Everett, and always reminded him inexplicably of a wide-eyed puppy. It stresses Everett, how credulous the actor can be. And yet he wouldn’t be very Tomas if he wasn’t.

Or perhaps, he’s wouldn’t be the old Tomas anymore.

There’s something in his eyes that’s simultaneously familiar and foreign. It’s the same pensive determination Tomas wore when Everett first met him, anxiously pushing a bag of wines across the desk to him — and yet it’s tinged with a certain sharpened glint. Suffering has rubbed against it until it now gleams, polished and bright.

Everett likes him more for it.

Fears him more, too.

“I’ve always thought there were three essential components someone must have if they want to reform such… situations,” he says, the mirth fading from his eyes. “The proper understanding of exactly what is going on. The power to make significant change. The freedom from… serious pressure to do so.” A beat. He thinks of a hit on his father, of being twenty-four and beaten brutally until he’d seen stars. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who has all three.”

It’s a pick-two conundrum, spanning even from his early twenties. He’s always had the power and means to speak out. When he was young and free of blackmail, he hadn’t truly understood the corruption in the city. By the time he’d fully grasped the depth of what was happening, he was too in love with his then-fiancée to even consider speaking out against it. He thinks of impoverished whistleblowers whose words don’t make it past split throats, thinks of wealthy, oblivious politicians, thinks of Isabella Gagliano’s crusades for righteousness marred by her adulterous Montague affair.

“But for you, one of those has changed.” Tomas might have friendly acquaintances in the mafia, Everett included, but he can’t imagine that any of them will hold weight in the long run. Not like his marriage with Celeste might have, if it’d continued. He’s freer than anyone Everett knows, even than Lucien, who calls himself neutral and yet carries the surname Ivarsson. “Perhaps it’s time to put all three to use.”

He laughs. 

He’d almost forgotten how easy it is to laugh with Everett Craven. The man seems to have a habit of lighthearted teasing when he’s had enough time to warm, but it has always been free of guile — in a manner not often encountered in the upper echelons of Verona. Or Rome, for that matter. It’s one of the things that warm Tomas to him in turn; sunflower turning to sunflower in a grey and droughty field.

There may not be any mockery or ulterior motive hidden behind Everett’s smiles, but there is something else. Something far more personal, and a touch melancholic. He’s spied it before, namely whenever they allude to the mafia, and it’s there-and-gone again now, when he mentions the possibility of using his celebrity in order to address the sobering reality of violence in Verona. For a moment, he thinks the Capulet won’t say anything at all. Or that maybe he’ll change topics, springing back like a pulley; no less polite but vaguely unreachable. He’s watched him do it before.

You didn’t have to bring up that bit, Sabello, he reproaches himself, classically quick to overshare once comfortable. He’s about to jump in himself in order to offer a change of topic, when Everett speaks... And continues speaking. It’s the most he’s ever heard the man risk on the topic, and as Tomas regards him a mixture of awe and gratitude settles centrally in his chest. “I think you’re right,” he answers immediately, hoping to reassure the businessman that he won’t have cause to regret speaking as openly as he has — even though it’s still been a veiled approach. 

“No, you’re absolutely right. And to hear it from someone else too is... I don’t know,” He smiles at Everett, searching for the right words. “Helpful. Reaffirming. You’ve been awfully kind to me, Everett, sometimes more than I’ve deserved.” It’s true too. Everett had shown kindness even before they’d met, with the mercy he’d extended to Celeste. Even though she may no longer be his wife, it’s an act of service that Tomas will not forget with regards to the other man. 

He clamps Everett on the shoulder, mouth pulling into an amicable grin. “I have to go, but I think this chat’s been the highlight of this event for me. I’m gonna think about what you said some more, and maybe - who knows? - maybe next time we’ll meet I’ll have some better news to share about it.” There’s a flower bud in his chest; a seedling of hope, though the petals are clamped firmly together, not yet ready to reach for the sun. But the conversation’s given him a small bolstering of courage, thoughts flipping from a ‘yeah, right... me?’ to something approximating a ‘why not me?’... 

He contemplates it en-route to the car, and then all the way home from there.

He’s unstuck his head from the sand — he finally has the understanding. 

He has the power — that double-edged sword of fame and following; that’s cut him one too many times of late. He can put that to better use.

And now, finally, bittersweetly — he has the freedom, too. 

Tomas knows that his muted longings must materialize if he’s to make any worthwhile difference in this city. Everett’s right... It’s time to put all three to use.

- EXEUNT TROILUS.

[alwaysiambic]

His heart and hand both open and both free; For what he has he gives, what thinks he shows; Yet gives he not till judgment guide his bounty.

Shakespeare's Troilus and Cressida (4.5.113-115)

Ulysses speaking of Troilus

[tomassabello]

hermionediangelo​:

The blatant surprise that flashes across her expression in response to the bluntness of his question is supplanted by a soft upturn at the edges of her mouth when Tomas speaks of envy. It felt like another life now, her time with Uberto, like opening a book from centuries previous and needing to blow dust off the cover first. “I thought I was, absolutely,” she tells him, truthful, “But the more I thought about it, the more I realised I was in love… with the idea of love. It took me a long time to realise what I experienced - my relationship - wasn’t love. Not really.” The smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, blinking back memories that she had tried (and many times failed) to forget entirely. “I’m not sure which is worse, honestly.” To mourn for the love lost, or realise that you had never had it to begin with?

“It’s difficult,” she summarises for him, nodding her sympathies, ”It might be one of the hardest things that people go through. You might have left them, but it can be difficult to forget what they meant to you.” The text messages when something happened, happening upon their favourite sweet treat and buying it just because, or looking forward to celebrating the next milestone together. Harriet had felt as though someone had pulled the rug from under her when her relationship had ended - a phone in hand staring blankly at the screen grappling with the habit to text when the want had been taken away - “I can’t tell you those feelings ever go away, but you don’t notice them as much after a while.” It might have been the most she’d talked about her relationship, having let Tomas do most of the talking while they’d known each other as he grappled with feelings she had dealt with years previous, though it’s all truth.

It’s then her hand reaches for his across the table, the gentle brush of fingers a prelude to a reassuring squeeze. “I like you now.” Her reassurance feels weighted in the context of their current conversation, unable to ascertain whether the throb against her rib cage was one of caution or encouragement, but the need to retract the statement is decidedly absent in the aftermath of voicing it out loud. “Just as you are.” The implication being that it mattered little to Harriet what iteration of the actor had sat in front of her, gaze moving from their intertwined hands back to his expression. “Besides, I could say that you deserve another version of me, too; the person I was before.” Her smile matches his, small but tilted by dry humour derived from mimicry.

It was strange, to consider the incarnation of herself who would have looked at the woman she was now with confusion, wondering ‘what if’. Harriet had spent countless nights weighing the alternative pathway her life could have taken (of which there were many), but she had learned that there was a piece of her current self that wouldn’t exist if that had been the case. The revelation had been slow to dawn on her, but when it did it stuck, a record that played on loop in her mind’s eye, making her more accepting of how she had been moulded by her past. “I think we both were very different people, once.” The conclusion isn’t sad, rather observant. Now, as Tomas sits opposite her and offers glimpses of a hypothetical she can’t help but wonder whether he, too, would like the version of her that was untouched by sadness and scepticism more. “But I’m glad we found each other when we did.” 

.

He thinks that maybe this is where his love story diverges from Harriet’s.

It’s easy to think that, because of the whirlwind courtship he’d enjoyed with Celeste, that maybe it was the romance he was in love with, rather than the woman herself. It’s easy to think that because they were married too soon, and because that was very likely a mistake – that maybe the love was too. It’d be easier to believe it, because it’d be easier to move on if it were true.

But Tomas doesn’t think it’s true. 

The truth is that he’d loved Celeste. More deeply than he had loved any other romantic partner who’d come before her. Enough that she’d made him crave the sort of singular commitment he’d never really been interested in, before her. So much that he’d made dreams of growing old with her, no matter how many times they’d bickered or how it’d grown perpetually clear that their many differences were, at times, straining the marital bond between them. 

The truth is also this: They weren’t meant for each other. Not because Celeste had cheated, not even because she’d broken his heart — but because of the pileup of fundamental differences between them, that they hadn’t broached before tying the knot. And even if their marriage hadn’t ended in the horribly public, humiliating way that it had, Tomas is beginning to recognize that there was a deadline hanging over them anyway, so long as husband and wife could not be compelled to agree.

“I’m not sure which is worse either... I loved Celeste, I’m pretty confident about that, but I won’t lie... Sometimes it’s easier to wish that I hadn’t. That like you, I’d been in love with the idea of love instead.” Because the idea existed, and could be preserved regardless of relationship — in a way that being in love with a partner could not survive the end of said relationship. “It’d be easier for my pride too, if I hadn’t really loved her.” He flashes a grin at that, though it’s slightly sheepish. He doesn’t imagine Harriet has the sort of ego required to relate to the desire to save face.

“Did you have any support?... When he left you?” The more she shares, the more he wants to know. It’s not a moment from her past that Tomas wants to make her relive, but he wants to unwrap her, unravel her story, understand the woman she’s become. He can’t deny the way his heart begins to ricochet when she reaches over the table to find his hand. His eyes drop to her mouth, the kindness of her words washing through him like a tide that takes with it the bitterness and the build-up of grime.

“Now I know you’re just being nice to me.” He teases, but his smile is indication enough that he’s absorbed her words, and believed them too. Tomas flips their hands over, so that hers is gently trapped beneath his palm. “I can’t imagine there was ever a version of you better than the one sitting across from me now.” He admits, and the corners of his eyes soften with the confession.

“ — Well,” He amends the statement with a smirk. “That is, unless there’s a version of Harriet who ranks my culinary surprises a mile up from McDonald’s.”

[quotemadness]

“I must learn to love the fool in me - the one who feels too much, talks too much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often, lacks self-control, loves and hates, hurts and gets hurt, promises and breaks promises, laughs and cries.”

— Theodore Isaac Rubin

[tomassabello]

🎬 Troilus & Hermione, Scene IV

hermionediangelo​:

The attempt to suppress a smile as he recalls the memory proves near futile. “It hasn’t,” happened to me, she means, “but i do want to hear that story some time.” Harriet doesn’t need to add on that her request depends on whether or not he’d be willing to tell it, it was always implied with these sorts of things. Head cants to one side as she watches Tomas struggle with answering the question that she had returned, settling on a cautious ‘I don’t know’ rather than choosing one way or another. Surprise and anticipation flash across her expression as he starts to pose a question, finishing the bite of food that was on her fork as he continues, using the moment to allow her to formulate her response. 

“I think controlling happiness is like - ,” a pause, in which her stare moves across the room as though searching for an appropriate comparison to the conundrum Tomas had presented her with before returning to him, “ - catching lightening in a bottle.” In truth it was not an innovative contrast, but it was one that Harriet knew (or, at the very least, hoped) would be understood by the actor. “For me, it’s absolutely a choice. I believe that you can choose to see the good… even when things don’t seem that way.” The beauty in a rain shower in spite of it happening on the way to work, the taste of a cappuccino from her favourite café even if the street in front had been the scene for the mafia’s latest excursion the week prior, the security of returning to a home that for the longest time had felt empty. 

Brow knits together in response to his next question, her own cutlery being returned to the table demonstrating that he had her full attention. “You could say that’s a choice too, but i think it’s different.” Harriet is acutely aware of what has happened in Tomas’ life in the last number of months as she speaks, tongue running over her teeth as she considers the path her sentence is taking. “Being left, and by someone whom I didn’t quite choose to begin with,” able to thank her parents for tying her to the man that had been her husband, “I suppose it made it easier as there was no other option but to move forward.” The exhale that follows is audible, a gust of air that passes between her lips, pushing the weighted memories away from her, “Does that make sense? A little bit?” 

.

‘Like catching lightning in a bottle...’

It’s a fitting analogy, Tomas thinks. That’s certainly how it feels, trying to force happiness these days. He’s sick of mourning, sick of alternating between the many stages of grief that come from trying to put to rest the most significant relationship in his life to date. He’s frustrated that it’s so hard. Glimpses of Celeste around the city, or snapped by paparazzi in the papers, lends an entirely different impression to what it means for her to move on. She looks effortlessly happy, at least if the cameras are to be believed. If there’s the slightest hint of sorrow, of regret in her eyes the few times they’ve run into each other to date — then Tomas suspects it’s for his benefit, more than anything. Guilt, rather than grief. Pity, rather than pain. 

So why is it so much more difficult for him?...

Maybe it’s because Celeste has found new love elsewhere. Maybe only love replaces love. Or maybe, maybe it’s that plaintive whisper by his ego, which has never before had to cope with being the one heartbroken and left behind. It’s difficult to admit to, but more and more it feels like it’s true. Like it wouldn’t feel so impossible, if it wasn’t for the fact that he’d taken so much for granted. Love, ardor, interest, for granted.

He doesn’t want to make that same mistake again. 

“Were you in love?” He blurts out, wondering if she struggled the same way, to put to rest a no-longer-requited feeling in her heart. It’s true that he’s divulged more about Celeste than Harriet’s has about her own relationship thus far. He isn’t sure whether it’s because his drama is still relatively fresh or whether it’s more a testament to the fact that her relationship is well and truly behind her. “Even though you didn’t choose him, I mean. It’s probably rude of me to ask, but the thing is... I envy you.” Tomas admits, setting his fork down lightly as he offers her a small smile. 

“I want it all to be behind me, because when I think about it logically, it is behind me. She’s moved on, and even if she hadn’t, I can’t imagine ever being with her again. Not in the present, not in the future...” The actor trails off briefly before continuing. “In some ways it feels like I’m over the relationship, but the love that existed, it-... It’s like being haunted by a ghost. You know it doesn’t exist, it isn’t there anymore — but that doesn’t stop you from feeling the old impression of it. That’s the worst part, the part that’s making me miserable, even when I want nothing more than to be happy. The way I was before.” He looks up at Harriet, the solemnity in his dark eyes giving way to a semi-wry smile. “I can’t help feeling you'd have liked me much better if you’d met me before. After everything you’ve done, it’s the version of me you deserve, too.”

[thomasstanleyhollland-deactivat]

henry golding on instagram (9 june 2021)

[the-borgias]

BONES | 1.12 - The Superhero in the Alley

[tomassabello]

@hermionediangelo

[quotemadness]

“We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won’t do harm - yes, choose a place where you won’t do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine.”

— E.M. Forster

[tomassabello]

  🎬 Troilus & Hermione, Scene IV

hermionediangelo​:

“That’s true,” she muses, contemplation playing on the curve of her mouth, “It is an excellent sign not to have run away screaming in the middle of the first day.” After all, that was always the fear that played in the back of her mind, an adjustment period that proved too insurmountable to allow her to continue. Amusement is imbued with a hint of bashfulness, canting her head to fix him with a look before his smile is reflected back at him. “I am far less interesting than you.”

Brows lift in question as Tomas admits an ulterior motive, waiting for the reasoning to follow, when it does she cannot help the bubble of laughter that slips passed her lips. “You can keep me for as long as you like,” spoken lightly, the truth behind the admittance is apparent; an assurance, perhaps, that she didn’t intend on going anywhere. “Though i don’t think i’ve had any reason to distract them for you lately, you’ve been very well behaved,” she’s teasing him then, merriment glinting in her gaze, “I mean, apart from planning surprise dinners, of course.”

The question catches her somewhat off guard, a sudden dip from their back-and-forth into something more serious, a moment punctuated by a sip of her drink that allowed her time to think. “Yes,” Harriet decides, the answer not necessitating much thought after all, “I really am happy.” Were there things she would change about Verona? Yes, though she knew that her grievances overlapped somewhat with the man sitting opposite her which made it easier. Now, though, she was content. Smile widens, affirming her statement, before she pauses, “Are you?” 

.

“Don’t tell me you’ve had that happen... Run away screaming from a job on the first day? Come to think of it, it’s happened to me. But only because my costar was an awful prankster and completely took advantage of the fact that I woke up with a wicked hangover on my first day on set.” He makes a grimace, part bemused at the memory, part embarrassed. He can’t imagine Harriet having ever acted with similar levels of indignity... But then, she was full of surprises.

Like when she tells him that he can ‘keep her’ as long as he likes, no doubt oblivious to the way that his attention hooks on her features when she speaks it, keen interest sparking in the inky depths of his eyes. He’s been asking himself that question too, lately. How long he could keep her — not that she was an object to be kept, of course, but rather that he asked himself sometimes if it was mere pity that had Harriet entertaining his company, whenever he so happened to bestow it upon her. 

Tomas wasn’t above engaging her via sympathy, but he feared, like all things, that even sympathy had an exhaustible deadline. 

Which was why he envied her happiness. How easily she answered his question, how confidently she knew the answer. When Harriet turns it over to him, he doesn’t feel confident about his own answer at all. “I don’t know...” The actor admits pensively, setting his fork down before his gaze flickers back upwards to train on her face. 

“That’s what I was gonna ask you, actually... How do you know when you’re ready to be happy? Do you control it? Do you choose it?... Or is it just something that comes whenever it comes?” She’d been married, once. If he’s bold to press the question, it’s because Harriet’s been unusually open-handed with her personal truths over the last few months of their budding friendship. “When you-... When you were single again, after being in a relationship for so long... How did you know you were over him?”

[tomassabello]

evcravens​:

When it comes to the mafia, Everett isn’t particularly eager for anything, grudges included. If his naturally forgiving disposition hadn’t already dampened his proclivity towards vengeance, his increasing disillusionment with Veronese politics this past year has all but dealt the final blow.

Simply put, Everett is done.

All the glamor and excitement and promises of a better city couldn’t tempt him towards throwing his heart back in to the Capulets, even if it were from the lips of Juliana. He’s lost too much to a cause he’s never believed in to begin with to even attempt to muster up the confidence he’d had in his mafia work a year prior, no matter how steeped in denial that conviction was. Now, Everett fulfills his duties and keeps his head down, while silently pondering the world outside the city borders in the furtive places of his heart.

But not all developments of the past year have led to such discouraging revelations. There’s Tomas, too, standing before him with all his grace and compassion still intact, albeit dimmed, after going through Verona’s wringer. The actor admits to liking him, a light, sweet surprise flicking on under Everett’s skin. He’s not sure why he’s so pleased by the admission, but there’s something about the implicit approval of good-hearted, well-meaning Tomas Sabello that sparks it nevertheless.

“The feeling is mutual.” It’s the truth, the ordinary, simple sort that tugs the first genuine smile of the conversation at the corners of Everett’s mouth. His defenses lower marginally, enough to allow sympathy to bleed into his features as the actor alludes to his failed marriage. He watches him for a few weighted seconds. “You’re a good man, Tomas.” It’s a descriptor Everett can never hope to emulate, one that’s tinged with the barest hint of regret. “There aren’t many like you nowadays.”

Perhaps Tomas doesn’t know what to do with Everett’s words; he changes the topic soon after, all polite awkwardness. Everett doesn’t comment on it. “It was… well, I’ve had better summers,” he admits drily, reflecting on how bleak most of it had been, between Maeve’s death and Vivianne’s torture and the chaos of the coup in between. 

And yet… there were some good parts. Catia’s continued safety, his growing relationship with Easton, laughter with Mikael and the sweeter moments with his ex-fiancée. “I did go to Mykonos earlier this summer, which was wonderful, and my family hosted our annual charity benefit at Lago di Como in July. Nothing vastly remarkable to speak of, though.” A lie. “Have you decided whether or not you’ll be returning to the film industry soon? I’m sure there are casting directors here who would love to snag you for one of their projects.”

‘The feeling is mutual’...

It’s all the reassurance Tomas needs to bloom a full, lightbulb smile on his lips; eyes crinkling warmly as relief floods him. Verona might’ve toughened his skin in some ways, but ill-will still exhausts him, and any opportunity to set the record straight is as preciously rare as it is welcome. And Everett, who’d been a gentleman about it till the end, deserves it perhaps more than most. 

“Let’s be grateful there aren’t more like me,” He insists with a chuckle, “I’m pretty sure Verona’s already half-sick of seeing my face and antics plastered across the newspapers – I suspect they’d riot if I had a double.” It’s only part self-deprecation. 

The truth is that he can’t quite absorb the Capulet’s well-meaning words in light of his actions lately. Heartbreak had, in many ways, brought all of his flaws up to the surface. When he hadn’t been bitterly angry about the cards he’d been dealt, he was wallowing in self-pity. The sum of the worlds problems had become a small, tight ball that begun and ended with his life. It’s only been a few months and he isn’t quite on the other side, but already he spies the telltale signs that one day, not so faraway, he’ll look back at this chapter of his life with embarrassment.

“Mykonos!” The actor echoes approvingly, glad for the change in topic. “I love Mykonos. I went for a week a few years ago, before-...” There’s the briefest pause, joy wavering in his expression as if wondering whether to stay or whether to go. “ — Before Celeste,” He admits, but unlike recent weeks where the mere thought of her was enough to put a stop the conversation or punch him with despair – it’s milder now, surmountable. “It’s a great place for a bachelor, you chose well... In fact, maybe I’ll have to take another trip in the future.” It’s a noncommittal musing. He’s not the same man he was in his early twenties, when all-nighters in Mykonos held a particularly addictive appeal. Still, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss the thought; miss the easy, careless entertainment he could throw himself into back then. 

“Since you mention it, I’m working on something at the minute, actually. Small, indie type thing.” Nothing ever really stayed small where he was involved, it seemed — and not always for good reason. But it’s a nice way to dip his feet back into the industry nonetheless, while he’s still uncertain whether or not it consisted of a full intention to return. “Ah, it’s small potatoes,” Tomas dismisses it with a fond tug of his mouth. 

“... To be honest I’ve been thinking that... I don’t know, that maybe it’s time to focus on some other stuff that’s going on. Put my platforms to better use or something.” He looks at Everett, but isn’t quite certain what he’s looking for. Understanding, maybe. Common ground. “I’m sure we can both agree that Verona’s still a mess. Rome’s hardly better... Sometimes I think maybe It’s time I do more than just movies.”

[dialnfornoir]

Breathless/ À bout de souffle (1960)

[boysappetit]

Henry Golding

[tomassabello]

   🎬 Troilus & Hermione, Scene IV

hermionediangelo​:

She squeezes his hand in gratitude before letting go, head turning toward him with the joyful yell of surprise as her own smile widens in response. Laughter bubbles up from the back of her throat, his own glee contagious, quietened, then, by the flattering realisation that it had been done for her. “Grazie,” she utters, settling into the chair as the seat meets the back of her legs, more of a blanket statement rather than a single instance. “You shouldn’t ha -,” the sentiment of asking forgiveness over permission cuts through her rebuttal, Tomas did know her too well, mouth snapping shut in acknowledgement that he might have been right. Just this once.

Blonde curls bounce as the D’Angelo shakes her head back and forth, about to dismiss the idea that there was anything to be forgiven when a plate of arancini is placed in front of her amid a plethora of other dishes, another laugh pulled from her. “That’s why you asked!” It’s as much of an accusation as it is a revelation, puzzle pieces sliding into place now she could see the picture on the box. “I thought it was just one of your acting exercises.” Even if she’d wanted to be mad, Harriet couldn’t find it within herself to summon up a semblance of negative emotion, veering instead toward surprised, yet flattered.

“You’re forgiven,” she teases, underpinned by the sentiment of ‘just in case’, unable to entertain the thought of causing him harm or upset however minor it might have been. “Not that there’s anything to forgive,” fingers reaching forward, foregoing the cutlery in favour of picking up one of the rice balls between finger and thumb, taking a bite before placing the other half on the edge of her own plate, “But these are really good,” she swallows the rest of her mouthful before continuing, “Not a patch on McDonalds.” A beat, and then, quieter, ”It’s incredible, all of it,“ a glance given around their surroundings again, "Thank you.”

.

All the preparations, all the secrecy — every last detail is well worth it just to hear Harriet laugh; just to see the mirth light up her features and dance prettily in her eyes. Tomas finds himself absorbed by her joy. It’s an infectious and unself-conscious thing. He can’t quite remember the last time anyone laughed like that, and finds it even more difficult to remember when last he laughed so heartily himself. In Harriet, he catches glimpses of the person he used to be; of the person he wishes to be still, even if some of the lessons he’s learned since then have been much needed, to better adapt him to the sobering realities of life in Verona.

“Better than McDonalds, huh? Now there’s some stiff competition,” The Roman actor chuckles, some of his champagne-fizzy giddiness finally beginning to settle as they dig into their dinners. “Hey! Three months is a good milestone! It means you like your job.. You like them, and they clearly like you. Then again, I can’t imagine anyone not liking you...” Tomas admits freely, shooting he a smile before reaching for his wine glass. “Anymore charisma from you and the paparazzi will forget all about me.”

“So you see,” He continues after a sip of red, “This is all done with ulterior motive. How long have I wanted to fly under the radar?... Now that you’ve come into my life I’ve gotta find some way to keep you, so that you can distract the paparazzi for me.” Although it’s true about her charm, he wouldn’t dare throw her to the wolves like that. Sometimes, he wonders if he and Celeste may have stood a better change without the paparazzi, without their every move being captured or commented on by dozens of strangers bearing cameras or microphones.

But it’s too late for what-ifs. 

Even if it wasn’t, as he sits here right now, basking in the innocent joy of a woman who has no part in any Italian fame or infamy, a new sense of peace begins to wash over him. He thinks, maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing, everything he went through, just to be sitting here right now with someone as disengaged from the mafia and the mudslinging as he hopes on day to be. “Are you happy?” Tomas asks a moment later, merriment giving way to a search for honest truth. “Really, I mean.”