itsmarcusreyes:
it’s difficult not to wish ravi had followed his husband to the bathrooms, but marcus isn’t entirely sure his spouse would be any more reasonable when met with this obnoxious shade of pink. the voice of reason tells marcus to pick himself up and leave, to banish vincent from sight and mind. but the voice of spite says no, gripping the edge of the sink in protest. vincent’s belligerence is grating, and it leaves a bitterness in marcus’ features that can’t be hidden. “i’m doing you a favour, vincent. less issues for the both of us if you keep behaving, and avoid who you’re supposed to avoid. can’t imagine it would be a popular move with uriel to piss off a famine seraphim right now,” marcus’ smile is cruel and delighted, “do you?” marcus catches the motion to his knee in the mirrors, and while he imagines a reality in which he could break those mirrors with vincent’s head, marcus keeps his smile steadily. there’s shame in vincent’s win over him, so much that for a moment, marcus thought he wouldn’t breathe properly ever again. but there is no shame in how far he’s come, no longer bound to bed or the walking speed of a snail.
marcus turns to face vincent, eyes sharp as they rake up and down the other like a tiger regards a house cat trying to provoke it. the only threat here is his own wavering discipline. his smile turns into a soured laugh. if he could, oh if he could, marcus would pull the pin of one of those fucking grendades while it sits between vincent’s jaws. speak my brother’s name one more fucking time. “see, that’s the thing, aren’t bombs supposed to kill people?” he tilts his head, “well, whatever you were trying to do, it was pretty sub par. didn’t keep either of us down for long. your lot, though? very easy to kill.” he hopes vincent knew them, he hopes vincent mourns them and he hopes he’ll get another chance at thinning out their ranks. “good thing we’re all playing nice now.” marcus moves away to dry his hands before he returns to the mirror to fix a few strands of hair. “wouldn’t want some jumped up little prick messing everything up now, would we?”
-
"We’re not like other gangs. We don’t just get down on our knees and take whatever judgement Uriel decides on.” It doesn’t matter if Vincent is skeptical to believe it. What’s important is that it’s said. The magnitude of Death is far more important than the internal strife in its ranks. Besides, it’s all but true - disagreement with their own Horseman occurs regularly. And yet, they commit out of their own volition. Not some choke hold set forth by a dinosaur like Rafael Femenias Senior. “Right - heard about that little promotion. Can’t say I’m not surprised. Look at the competition.” Vincent shrugs, purposely glancing down at Marcus’ knee. Someone like Marcus undoubtedly felt like a lion in its prime, all fluffed up and empowered. Now, he was more like a wounded cat with a thorn in its paw. And though Vincent is not stupid enough to be unafraid, he’s certainly wise enough to dig into his beliefs.
His jaw tucks sideways, a moment of relent as his confidence breaks in somberness. Many of Death’s own lives lost, in pursuit of the be-all and end-all that they hope for. Fuck you, he almost says in childish whim. Like a petulant kid shoving and stomping his foot. But he aims to disprove, and he keeps to a prolonged silence. “At least they died fighting their own fight. Not some fat cat’s in his gaudy fucking ivory tower.” How many of Famine’s own truly pick it out of honor, rather than out of fear and vice? He finds a smirk through it - the image of Femenias Energy’s tower up in smoke more than satiating his offense. “What’s that saying? At the end of the world, only the cockroaches survive?" He shrugs, scoffing at the vanity of Marcus’ hair adjustment. Arrogant shit. “Sure, bud. You tell yourself that.” Vincent edges on, throwing a curled up wad of tissue paper. “But believe me - this ain’t the end.”
