son of verona

    What was one to do when part of oneself, burned and scourged, waged war with another part, one that was bruised, beaten – but still cursedly soft? Leaning upon the edge of the bar, she turned her head away from the man who steeped himself so pitifully in liquor, a man who had tread her heart underfoot time and time again, had cast her down like the heavens casting a lackluster star from the sky. He had once been the entity that filled her heavens. He had once been her sun, her moon, and her stars – what was he to her now, save for a stranger in a bar? Yet this stranger said her name the way that her sun had once said it, yet not quite. Had there ever been such a softness, such a forlorn despair that ached around the syllables of her name? Her curls bounced about her freckled face as she turned to him, sure that her ears were feigning and making her a fool. It was the only explanation that would suffice, that she would be able to swallow – for the words that leapt from his lips was a cruel one and not even he could be capable of such a cruelty as to call her amore. Not after the world had been rent apart, had fallen into ashes at their feet. Such a thing was unwarranted even for him. So she repaid him in kind, amber hues meeting his eyes and glancing down to his hands, ones that had, at one point, bloomed such an ache in her that she was so foolish as to think it might be love. And it had been. For her.  

    “Fretta, por favore.” She murmured, fingers drumming upon the surface of the bar – where were her wings when she so wished to fly away? “This man is bothering me.”

Immediately, there is an ache --- he feels it coiling in his chest, in fury and bewilderment, agony and expectancy. How long may one trample upon a rose, a dove --- a girl, before she becomes what which is unrecognizable? Immediately, there is a halt. Time hushed for a moment which bleeds into another, the same way in which he is sure he is -- bleeding. His hand retracts, flinching at her words, and thoughtfully it is passed over the place where should beat a steady thump beneath his palm, and yet he feels nothing there. 

This was the first lesson her Papà had taught her: this is how you know it’s a true Old Fashioned, mia stella.. this is how a true lady drinks her scotch, and this is how a lady worth looking at drinks her scotch… Maeve knew better than to practice the tips he had given her, knew that alcohol held no promise of hope or a happier tale than the one she lived every day. But she craved the sight of an Old Fashioned regardless, as if the mere presence of her Papà’s favorite drink in front of his favorite girl might awaken him from his coma, miles away, lying still in a hospital bed. She entered the Tempest Lounge with desperation in the bruises beneath her eyes, the sign of a girl who did not know what to do with herself in the dark. 

She moved forward as if she knew what she was doing, though she surely didn’t. She wrapped her hand around her drink as if she intended to drink it, though she surely didn’t. She stared down into it as if it held the answers, though — though she knew that alcohol could not give her anything but more pain, a headache in the morning. 

The sudden, sharp sound of a man lashing out drew Maeve out of her thoughts, and she lifted her eyes and blinked with surprise at the sight of Easton. Of course he’s here, I should have expected as much. “You surely don’t sound like it,” she commented, her mouth falling to a slight frown at his tone. “If you are so intent on being alone,” she said, uncharacteristically snippy, taken aback by his harshness, "Then perhaps you should drink at home.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Maeve regretted them; she knew better than to speak unkindly to a soul that was surely as bruised as her own. “I’m… I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.” Her voice was softer when she spoke, kinder. “If you would like me to go, I can. I don’t know what I’m doing here, anyway.”

Everything felt wrong in him, like he wasn’t himself --- like the witty bastard he’d been known to be had been left behind in a great hall bearing a mask and sin not his own ( and sometimes, he wished he was there again, with only the jealousy of Rafaella to burden him ). Although, when one is made to feel as though their lives are insignificant, they adapt to this feeling as creatures to time and situation. Darwinists, of course, understand this best. Yet, it --- the overwhelming theme of aimlessness, an entire plan unraveling whilst he hung off the lip of a bottle, he wasn’t quite adjusted to that feeling --- to the sense that he was just as useless and without belonging as he was said to be, was told he was.

    Do I look in the fucking mood for company, at one point in time those words would have been like thorns, destined to draw crimson blood across caramel skin, painting it in hues of red. But now her skin was marble and her blood was made of silver. Cold, frigid silver – if one were to look close they might be able to see frost glimmering across her skin. What were his words now, but haphazardly tossed pebbles that might have once been stones? Her gaze lingered on his features ( drinking them in, indulging in them ), lips curling into a frown of disgust as she stared at the raggedness of his features ( oh, how her heart ached somewhere deep within ) and the way that the liquor seemed more familiar to him than the clothes upon his back. Finally, her lashes batted closed and she turned away, as if that movement and that alone could simply wipe his existence from her side. From her memory. From her heart. If she believed it enough, perhaps such a thing could be true. She managed to cast any thought of mercy or salvation out of her heart, so why not him?

    Offering Easton nothing more than a glance she turned to the bartender with a smile. “One gin tonic, por favore,” she requested,”and make it quick. I would like to be on my way – the company here seems to be rather lacking.”

Perhaps, if not weighted against humor, the silver tongue he possessed may have indulged in a countering remark --- not biting, as all he seemed to know, but clever. He’d have made the sort of quip which might have pricked the edges of her mouth with a grin, soft edged and wide brimmed, endeared with him despite himself ( his drunkenness and insensitivity ). “Raf,” he mumbled, unmeaning to as the thought weighed in unconsciously, automatically --- as with pain when one strikes one’s hand against flame. A sort of agony well present in him to begin with, the kind which is wrought by the destiny of a bastard, who anchors himself to liquor bottles and survives on self-loathing breaths. Men who forget to say words such as stay, those like don’t go. No, they --- like all false gods ( and men, as they are not that either ), are built on nothing but vanity and greed, enough allure to be fallen in love with, enough wickedness to turn away those same unfortunate souls who fall. And here is his Icarus, her wings reforged with steel and resolve ( which do not kneel before a garish sun, never ), and he would demand her still. “Amore,” the word grins at her in that manner which he is known for, which she has perhaps loved him for, but his eyes drag with desperation which he is unknown for. A hand outstretched, as a beggar’s --- pathetic, demanding, just as he looks. 

date: january 17th time: 5:45 pm location: the tempest lounge status: open to all

Oh, she hated to hear people talk badly of themselves, even in jest. A few months ago, Maeve might have looked at Easton and only see anger, bitterness, violence; but things had changed since then. He had offered her a glimpse of his mind (whether he intended to or not), and she had come to look forward to his arrogant smile and his biting laugh (whether she had intended to or not). She placed her free hand on his and smiled up at him wordlessly, knowing he would only shrug her off if she dared to tell him that he was wrong, that he had to be, for she could hardly imagine any woman resisting Easton’s charming and infuriating ways.

Though Maeve did not say it, she hoped he understood by her eyes alone. “I am more than happy to bear you, Easton,” she said warmly, her fingers squeezing over his just once before she withdrew her hand and returned it to her side. “Who else would admire statues with me and insist that I am wrong with every opinion I make?”

Vaguely insulted that Easton dared to call her home hell, Maeve frowned up at him. “Don’t say that, you’ll hurt my feelings. I love Verona with all my heart, and I refuse to allow you to call it hell. Besides,” she reminded him with a small smile, “angels don’t frequent hell very often, you know.”

Her cheeks burned at his teasing; she hadn’t meant for it to come across that way. And though she knew that Easton was only trying to elicit a reaction from her, Maeve couldn’t help her bright cheeks and suddenly nervous gaze. “Forgive me,” she said, quickly regaining her composure, “What I meant to say is your home and my home, separate but equal.”

He couldn’t help it --- brows shot up in teasing at the press of her hand, his instinct for deflection rearing up to saturate her earnest care with humor in that troublesome habit of his in avoidance of sincerity. The hands he played, unlike her own, were solely in wit and banter, solely outside of the realm of feeling that Maeve seemed content to reside within. Rather, his talent in emotional expression laid in anger --- smoke and thunder, but never in love or its like.