[ His desperation is a sour taste in his mouth. The name across the screen offers him not an ounce of hope, but there's no one else he can think to turn to. ]
[ They've met a few times in passing. Larus hears his name thrown around at parties all the time anyway, usually something that has to do with drugs or a handful of other things he's sort of forgotten about by now, and eventually, he ends up getting his number from some friend of a friend who'd been his roommate last year. Or something. He doesn't actually care about the little details, interested enough to go out of his way to contact him about the party some frat house is throwing a few days from now and ask if he's going. More specifically, he asks if he's going with someone, and if not, maybe they could meet up there. He doesn't get a reply though, and really, he doesn't think anything of it considering the fact his source was sort of unreliable at best; maybe the number had been wrong. So, he dismisses it and goes to the party alone.
It's mostly a bust from the second he walks through the door.
The music is loud, as it always is, and there are too many people crammed in the hallways of the house to fit through it properly without bumping into someone else. It takes him at least an hour to finally make his way through to the kitchen, helping himself to a cup full of warm beer that tastes just as bad as it looks. There's probably some better liquor somewhere, but if he really wants to get trashed, he'll go back to his dorm and drink with his roommate until they're both too sick to move. Instead, he just kind of wanders around for a while before he steps out into the backyard for some air, glancing around at the cheap lights strung up across the property and the random bodies smashed together—either drinking or kissing or puking in the bushes. He sits down next to someone on the steps of the porch, giving him a quick once-over as he tosses back the rest of his cup, and Larus pauses, doing his best not to choke when he breathes the same time he swallows. ]
I thought you weren't coming. [ Maybe he's a little annoyed about it now, but he's good at keeping his cool. So, he leans back on a hand to look at Jericho in the dim light. ] You didn't text me back.
I didn't know it was you who texted me. [ People give out his number a lot, mostly to buy weed, but it's a hassle to keep up with it all and a lot of messages go unanswered. He's had too much beer and the house is too hot -- right now he's outside for some air, and he has someone else's joint between his fingers, having long forgotten who he's supposed to return it to. He holds it out to Larus, closing his eyes to let the meager breeze cool his sweaty skin. ] Did you want to buy something?
[ Because really, that's the reason most people talk to him. He doesn't have a lot of friends, or any, but it's not really anyone's fault but his own when he barely answers the phone and doesn't encourage anyone to come over longer than a night at a time. He doesn't know Larus well, having only met him a few times around the school or at a party. He seems well-liked and that already sort of puts them in different social circles, but he's good-looking, very much so, and he has the kind of even voice that smooths out some of the frenzy going on in his head. ]
[ He almost doesn't hear him talking at first, far more interested in the grease he's shoving into his mouth, but eventually, Larus looks up. ]
That's the point isn't it? If he drops me now, we won't get anything. [ Sometimes, it's a little difficult keeping up with his other identity; there are some very specific things they'd decided on to make it seem better than just a random hookup, but Larus is too good at assimilating into his role when he's out there that it's just exhausting. At least he doesn't have to pretend with Jericho, grabbing at the napkin and careless of the way their fingers brush. He wipes at his mouth with it, eyes closing at the gentle touch to his hair. ] I could deal with being a stripper. This on-call prostitute thing just isn't working for me, but he's not really into escorts.
[ No, this guy isn't into class or dignity despite the end goal of the job being the same. He's pretty sure he likes to use his power to entice stupid boys into doing a lot of really kinky things, and Larus is grateful they haven't actually gotten past the "hands on his ass" stage quite yet. That, and he's good at evading because where's the fun if there isn't any suspense? ] I'll let you know if we go anywhere before we leave. I think this is just a courtesy visit. [ He grins at him around taking another bite of his burger. ] Have you always worried this much, or is this new?
He's not going to drop you. [ Not with the way Larus is playing him. He ignores the sweet smell of his hair, yanking a little too hard when he thinks of other hands in his hair, on his body. Eventually more will be required of him than just a grope or a kiss -- there's simply no way around that. He hasn't asked about it. He doesn't want to tell Larus how to do his job, but he'll feel at least a little less powerless when he gets on the inside, too, although that poses an entirely new set of problems.
He has all night to think of all the ways this could go wrong. Right now he goes back to combing his fingers through the snags in his hair. ] You have to be a special kind of douchebag to have an on-call prostitute. [ But that's what they're dealing with -- a greedy and entitled man, one powerful enough that he can be. ] But if I was going to have one, I definitely wouldn't choose you. You probably talk too much and think you're hilarious.
[ He keeps a straight face when Larus turns his grin on him, but his expression is a little more relaxed. ] I'm not worrying anymore than normal. Don't feel too special.
[ He isn’t having second thoughts about joining this group, per se, but there are some concerns making themselves known.
The tension between Larus and Jericho tops the list. In the confusion of gunfire and fists, Casimir understands why Larus had grabbed Egil first. But there had been something dismissive about it, something that very clearly said he thought only one of them was worth saving, and Jericho hadn’t made the cut. Maybe it was just that Larus knew Casimir could take care of him -- and he had -- but somehow he suspects there’s more to it than just that.
They’d kept from breaking into a shouting match, but the voices had clearly traveled through the thin walls of the safe house, and Casimir had suggested a hot bath to keep Egil from fixating on what was going on in the next room. He lets some of Egil’s sadness filter through to him, clasping his hands in his and telling him that every group has their fractures and differences, and that they’d all find their way back to the thing that had sealed them together. Whether it was devotion or this cause, he couldn’t say, and he’d left when he’d sensed Jericho’s presence, going down the hall toward the heat of Larus’ anger.
He’d made sure the windows were locked and shuttered, a few bits of sunlight still seeping through the cracks, and he finds Larus with blood on his hands, undoubtedly Jericho’s. There are a few smudges of wolf blood on his own shirt, but he doesn’t have anything else to wear, wondering if Larus had thought to stock the closets with a change of clothes. He crosses his arms, his stare mild. ]
I don’t believe in leaving people behind. Not when you can still save them. What was that, Larus?
[ He's already in another part of the house when he hears Casimir approaching, knowing the cadence of his step in comparison to Egil's. Besides, he doubts Egil wants to speak with him right now anyway, which only leaves him with the task of going through the dresser for the clothes he'd stashed here after he cleans his hands. Yet, there's no time for that, and there's a spike of tension that travels through him when Casimir asks that question, keeping his back turned to him as he wipes his palms on his jeans and begins to remove his jacket. ]
I don't want to have this conversation right now. [ But it sounds too bitter, even for him, and once he's free of his jacket, he pulls at his filthy t-shirt, continuing to clear the blood from his fingers. There's a bit of discoloration on his side and shoulder from where he'd been thrown particularly hard through a wall, but bruises will heal much faster than most things. He sighs. ] I wasn't going to leave him, but you were there. You know what he did. [ And he looks at him then, his expression wavering between hurt and angry. ] Maybe he loves Egil, and at one time, I really believed that to be true. But he is still stuck in that old life, and it's going to kill him. I wasn't going to let that happen to Egil. [ A pause, and his gaze drops to the floor. ] Or you.
Say what you will about me or my ethics. Lecture me if that's what you've come here to do, but I'm not apologizing for any of the things that happened tonight. [ He can't, especially with his thoughts still reeling the way they are, and with his hands satisfactory, he pulls open a drawer to shake out some of the clothes he'd put inside nearly a week ago. ]
[ They’re fighting again, and he’s sure the new neighbor can hear it.
It’s unclear to him what started it this time, but he doesn’t feel like taking it tonight, toe to toe with his impossibly gorgeous and incredibly wasted boyfriend, spelling out just how stupid he thinks he is for complaining about the toilet paper or the designs on the dishes or whatever it was that had set him off. Nik responds by hitting him hard across the face, the pressure just enough that he feels a warm wash of blood run over his lip, gushing from his nose.
The pain doesn’t bother him as much as the blow to his pride, and he spits out blood onto the expensive leather couch, which sets Nik off again, and it’s another thirty minutes and questionable lovemaking session later before the house goes silent, the back door banging open as Casimir strides outside, buttoning up his ripped jeans but not bothering to do the same with his shirt that hangs open. When he realizes it’s Nik’s, he uses the sleeve to wipe the blood from his face.
He plans on stretching out on one of his plush garden chairs, a canopy of shimmering lights woven with flowering vines above his head, but he notices movement across the wooden fence, making him pause briefly before approaching the edge, barefoot in the grass, jeans low on his narrow hips. ]
It’s late to still be working, isn’t it? [ And without waiting for an invite, he hoists the fence, gracefully landing on the other side. This backyard is painfully empty compared to the perfectly manicured and landscaped paradise next door, and Casimir rests his hands on his hips, glancing around, and perhaps he should give the new resident a little more time before he starts making disdainful comments about the decor. ] Are you married?
[ It's been a long few days, and by the time he steps inside the door of his new place, he can feel the exhaustion pulling at him from every angle. The flight in had been tiresome, traveling undercover despite having dispatched his target earlier than scheduled, and the drive from the airport had felt tedious, sitting out in his car long enough to see the shadows of his neighbors through their windows. He doesn't need to hear the conversation to imagine what it might be about considering their body language, and Larus watches until he grows bored of it, trying to determine what the other guy is like—the one he hasn't met yet. Nothing really comes of it, and he spends the next hour sorting through the boxes he hasn't unpacked and equipment he should be storing -- guns and knives he should be cleaning -- before navigating to the backyard. It's getting dark, leaving little time to do anything worthwhile outside, but he hefts a bag of soil across the deck anyway and down to the flowerbeds that have seen better days.
His cover fits well with some of the things he's picked up over the course of his career, so he doesn't mind crawling around in the dirt and tidying the area for the flowers he plans to plant here. Even if he doesn't stay long in this place, at least there will be some touch of color, and he's down on his knees when he hears the creak of the fence, the sound of feet moving on the grass. Instinct tells him to reach for the spade shoved lightly in the ground, but the voice that follows put him marginally at ease, glancing to the side to get a glimpse of who's speaking. It's enough to have him easing back to get a better view. ]
I prefer later hours. Besides, that's not something you should be asking when you're trespassing. [ But the light tone of his voice and the partial smile he offers says he doesn't mean it, and slowly, he stands, dusting off his jeans so he doesn't look as rumpled as he feels. ] I'm not anything, but I met your boyfriend a few days ago. [ And that's when he notices the careful smear of blood that's been wiped away, the slight discoloration to his face, and to cover it, Larus rubs at the imaginary dirt on his own cheek before looking at the house next door and back to Casimir. ] Interesting guy. [ He offers a clean hand. ] Larus.
i'm not trying to tear you down. you need to be realistic.
[ And it's all he manages to get out before he crushes the phone he's using in his hand, dropping it underfoot as he wanders off down the street. He hadn't been far from Casimir's place either, thinking to return to him at some point, but he doesn't know if he can go back with all of this anger filtering through his mind. At first, Casimir's ideals had been something easy to acknowledge; in a way, they were similar to Egil's, and as long as he stuck to doing his job, there would have been no issues. Yet, now, it's complicated, and he's annoyed by that fact, unsure what to do with himself now that everything feels worse than before. There's the familiar pain of his missing eye, the way it travels down the side of his face so he's aware of it no matter what he does, and even his chest has started to hurt.
This is not what he wanted, and by the time he's managed to calm down even a little, he's halfway across the city at one of his safe houses. He retrieves one of the burner phones he keeps there, dialing Casimir's number rather than sending a string of random texts. It goes to voicemail, which is relieving in of itself, and instead of hanging up, he leaves a message he has no idea he'll even listen to. ] I want to talk about this, but I can't tonight. And if you want me to stay, I will. I'm sorry.
[ The last message he gets tears something between a growl and a despairing sob from his throat, and the curtness of the reply spurs him into motion, shoving his phone into his jeans and pulling on the denim jacket he’d thrown over the back of a chair when he’d first come in, one with something obnoxious and glittery emblazoned across the back — a phoenix, he thinks, but he’s thinking less about his clothes and more about where he wants to go, which is right next door to the kitschy brothel that boasts the most beautiful girls and boys in the District.
One of the girls works with him, Rowena, a shtriga he’d found amongst the refugees on one of his ships; she survives on the life essence of others, which she steals from her clients but heals before they leave. Casimir doesn’t altogether approve of her methods, but she’s humane about it and doesn’t kill. Her skills outweigh any crimes she might be committing, however — she’s a perfect spider, able to crawl into the smallest of spaces and drop in completely unnoticed to spy and gather information. She’s his eyes and ears, although Larus had supplemented in that department since they’d become friends. Friends, more than friends. He doesn’t know what they are anymore.
He convinces Rowena to sneak out with him, and together they cross the District for one of the lively clubs run by the Sea Snakes. There’s no reason for him to stay home when there’s no one there with him, especially not when he could be out dancing and drinking and making the most of his high. Rowena asks him about a hundred times what’s wrong, but he just smiles and orders them both the strongest drinks on the menu, and from there time passes in a blur.
He likes her because although she can be pushy, she knows when to stop. She dances with him and doesn’t comment further when he wipes his eyes across his sleeve, and when he decides to stand on a table and wax poetic about all the strangers in the room, she goads him on but stays nearby in case he falls. She takes away the last few drinks a group of boys send Casimir’s way, much to his chagrin, but then she faithfully holds his hair back when he throws up in the bushes outside despite how much of a fuss he’d put up before. ]
What boy has you so upset? [ She finally asks the obvious question when he’s done spitting and hacking, and he just shakes his head, sliding a hand into his pocket to reach for his phone. There’s nothing from Larus, and still his words ring through his head. You need to be realistic. He wants to smash it to pieces on the sidewalk. He scrolls through his missed calls, a message from an unknown number, and holds it up to his ear, only half listening. ]
Do you think I’m a fool for what I’m trying to do? [ He looks at Rowena, her large blue eyes with thick lashes framing them like a nest. ]
Yes. You’re a fool. You want the entire world. [ She crosses her arms, meeting his gaze — they’re the same height, same dark hair, but her skin is fair and her features more severe. ] But we follow you because we know you want the world so that you can give it to those you love.
[ He manages a smile at that, and he leans in to press a kiss to her forehead, and then suddenly Larus’ voice is filling his ears. He listens intently, something fluttering in his chest, and Rowena squeezes his arm and goes back inside to offer him some privacy. He sits down at the curb, his head swimming, and debates with himself for several minutes before he dials the number again. ]
Larus. [ He rests his forehead against the heel of his palm, closing his eyes, and he doesn’t know if he’s talking into an answering system or whether someone has actually picked up. ] I’ll tell you what’s unrealistic for me. It’s asking myself to want less. I can’t do that any more than you can will yourself to be human again. I’m being as real as I ever will be. Hope is realistic to me. I won’t let that go.
[ His mood has been poor lately, but there’s a foolproof way to lift his spirits every time -- a way that doesn’t involve nursing a hangover the following morning -- and that is spending the evening volunteering at the orphanage.
It hasn’t changed much from when he was a child there. The decor remains unnecessary dismal and the headmother overly strict, but the children are the same: lively despite the circumstances that have landed them there, mischievous despite the headmother’s sour gaze. She looks just the same as when Casimir first laid eyes upon her -- around two-hundred years old, hair streaked with gray, her brown eyes sharp and alert. In lieu of a greeting, she tugs at his ear and demands to know why he has so many piercings. In return he asks why she isn’t dead yet.
He takes the children outside and they lose themselves in a game of hide and seek, then he shows them how to make their own crowns of twigs and flowers while they gorge themselves on the array of desserts he’d brought with him. He brings the headmother a tart made with fresh fruit, an indulgence she doesn’t often allow herself, and she brews him a cup of her spiced tea that he used to steal sips of so many years ago because it had reminded him of home. ]
You’re too thin. [ Her voice has the sound of a rusted knife, and he pillows his chin atop his arms, resting on the table. ]
I’m not. I like my figure.
[ Her lined mouth turns to a frown. ] This is how you sit at the table now?
[ A grumble sounds in his throat, but he sits up, now resting his chin in one hand. She doesn’t comment further, seemingly giving up the fight for his posture, and he looks past her at the cracked tile above the stove. ] Why’ve you stayed here all these years?
[ She pushes the half-eaten tart toward him, but he shakes his head, meeting her severe expression, and she doesn’t speak again until there are only crumbs on the plate. ] It passes the time.
[ He lifts a brow, scoffing. ] That’s not a good reason.
Everyone knows what you do. Everyone knows your reasons. Maybe the target on your back wouldn’t be so big if you learned to keep your mouth shut about some things like I do. [ She picks up the plate and his empty teacup, glaring down at him before going to the sink, and he listens to the water running, putting his head back down and letting his eyes slide shut. After a moment he feels her dry hand nestle in his hair. ] I must die before you do. It’s the natural order. Can you at least do that for me?
[ His eyes squeeze more tightly closed before he opens them again, tilting his head to gaze through the window. Some of the children are still working on their crowns while the others have abandoned the task to climb the heavy trees instead. ]
I don’t fear death. [ The words have barely left his mouth before she’s smacking the back of his head sharply. ]
Death fears no man. It cares not what you think, you arrogant, prideful fool. Grant an old woman her one wish or get out of my kitchen.
[ He smiles then, turning so he can plant a kiss to the back of her wrinkled hand. ] May the gods will it, then.
[ The walk back to Rosehedge helps to clear his mind, and he turns his thoughts toward the many things yet to be done, nearly to the street when he stops suddenly, turning his head sharply to the left toward the shadows beside the small boutique next to the brothel. ]
Radha. Come out. [ He can sense the small girl’s presence, and she slinks out carefully, hugging the side of the rough brick. A quick look, and her gift is apparent to him — she’s a psychometrist, able to read the information contained in the energy of physical objects. She never liked to come and play at the orphanage, instead lurking in corners like she’s doing just now. She inches forward, regarding him warily, and he kneels to level their eyes. ] Why did you follow me here? Tell me the truth. I’ll know if you’re lying.
[ She hesitates, but eventually speaks, the streetlights catching glints of gold in her thick brown hair. ] I saw you when I touched the mirror in the headmother’s room. The heavy one with the silver carvings. I saw you in my head.
[ His lips curve, tilting his head. ] That’s because I bought her that mirror and you have a very special gift. You can see things when you touch them. Why were you in the headmother’s room?
[ Her eyes drop, looking abashed, and a chuckle rises in his throat. ] You’re sneaky. I won’t tell. [ He casts a quick hand before her face, closing his eyes briefly, and then he has the full story — parents from far outside the city, dead from some sickness. She’d wandered across miles of land for weeks before finding the harbor, boarding a transport ship unnoticed, struggling to block out the history of the floors, the beds, the wooden walls. Once in the District, she’d very nearly been snatched up by the Sea Snakes before someone had caught her stealing food and deposited her at the orphanage. The headmother had punished her immediately with chores, and then given her a place to stay.
Casimir beckons her up as he rises, heading toward his shop. ] I have to bring you back, Radha. You can’t go disappearing and wandering across the city — you’ll worry the headmother.
Can I stay here? [ She gazes around the street with wide eyes, lights reflecting in the dark pools. ]
It’s too dangerous for you to stay here. But I’ll come visit again, and I’ll bring you a special present and show you the city next time. We can practice your gifts. [ He smiles down at her, tucking his hair behind one ear. ] How does that sound?
[ She thinks it over, then nods, apparently satisfied, and Casimir is struck by how much he wants to help her so that she’ll never have to cower in fear of the magnitude of what she sees in her mind again. He has many purposes, but showing the way to the young and forsaken might be the most important.
He turns his face to the sky, dirty clouds hanging above like it might rain, and he wonders where Larus is, if he’s tucked away in a safe house that could never be found or if he’s prowling somewhere, waiting and watching. He wonders if he’ll get stuck in the rain, and if he’ll be responsible enough to change his bandages after. He pulls out his phone and his keys, handing the latter to Radha. ]
Go inside and climb all the way up the stairs. Look in the cabinet left of the sink and bring me the little jeweled box. Don’t open it. [ He brushes her hair from her shoulder, looking into her eyes. This is as much of a test as anything — he wants to know how much she can see when she touches an object and how much control she has. ] I’ll be waiting right here.
[ She disappears into the shop and he lifts his phone, calling Larus and half listening to the ringing while keeping Radha’s thoughts in the back of his mind. He can see what she’s seeing; there’s a struggle as she passes through the powerful energies of the shop, and she pauses when she reaches the stairs, more personal memories of him drifting through her mind. His phone stops ringing, and he doesn’t know if Larus picked up or if he’s talking to a machine. ] Have you ever been curious about where I grew up? Come with me to the orphanage. I think the headmother would be happy to meet you. [ Only because he’s always alone, and he knows she wonders if he has anyone. He’s still not sure what he has with Larus, but it’s been rekindled and he plans to go forward with whatever it is.
He opens his mouth to speak again, but he turns sharply toward the shop instead, Radha’s thoughts suddenly flooding his mind as she stands before his door with the key in the lock, a man that Casimir has never seen before flickering through her head when she touches it, and he doesn’t have time to utter a sound or move an inch before the world explodes into an inferno of light.
For a moment, he’s weightless, heated air rushing over his skin, the ground gone beneath his feet, and then there’s a burst of pain as he hits the street and rolls. He grasps for threads of Radha’s mind, but he can’t think, can’t open his eyes, and can’t move, and then he reaches the edges of consciousness, a shower of debris falling from the sky, only able to shield his head before he slips away.
It seems only an instant later that he opens his eyes, a groan pulled from his lips at the piercing throb in his head. Smoke fills his lungs, and the pain intensifies when he falls into a fit of coughing, unable to breathe or focus enough to seek Radha’s mind. There’s an unbearable heat in the air, and when he finally looks up, through hopelessly blurred vision he sees his shop amidst flames, the walls caving before his eyes. The upper floor is gone, his entire home, and — Radha. His throat burns so much that he can’t call her name, and when he pushes his hair from his eyes he finds it wet with blood, streaming down his face. He forces himself to unfurl a thread to find Radha, but there’s nothing but pain, so much that it nearly topples him again.
He clenches his teeth and drags himself toward the flames. The brick wall of the brothel next door is singed from the explosion, and the opposite building has cracked windows from the debris. His whole body aches, hands scraped raw, and his vision only worsens, but he doesn’t stop, moving towards the heat until he isn’t sure if it’s sweat or blood on his skin, and then he feels it, feels her. He throws blackened, splintered wood out of his way, digging up bricks and shards of glass, and then he finds her, his hands touching something soft, and for a moment he can’t move.
Her body is still warm, but he can’t make a connection, her mind unresponsive to his probing, and still he persists despite the pressure building behind his eyes. There’s nothing but emptiness, even when he reaches out and lifts her broken body into his arms, her head rolling back, her clothes burned into the charred skin on her legs. The smoke is worse here, his eyes watering and throat like sandpaper, and he buries his face into the small place between her neck and shoulder, shaking with sorrow and rage, and he lets loose a guttural cry, his fingers digging into the dirty fabric of her dress, and something unspools inside of him, spreading wide and unseen. When the angry tears begin, his body shaking with its force, his pain seems to spread all around him — if anyone approaches they’ll feel it, the full intensity of crippling grief and blazing anger, and he doesn’t care who gets caught in it, letting it run off in powerful waves as he sobs into her lifeless body, a child taken too soon in a war she hadn’t even known herself to be a part of. His guilt mixes into the fury of emotions tornadoing through and around him, and soon there’s nothing in his mind but darkness, losing himself to it, his tears cutting through the blood on his face, drowned out in the raging fire where his home used to be. ]
i'm not telling you to leave. there is no expiration date on how long you can stay.
but you need to know i can't give you whatever it is you think i can. i'm not like the ones you were with. i won't keep you against your will or bite you. i won't even touch you. if you're going to be here, i'll show you some things you can do. introduce you to some people.
if you want to survive, you have to stay ahead of everyone that might come after you.
[It wasn't always violent. It didn't always hurt. Not that Aubrey knows how to continue that train of thought without sounding insane, so he doesn't bother trying.]
That's not what I want anyway, I'm not gonna ask for anything more from you. You've already done so much. It's enough you'll let me stay. If you think I can help in some way, I'll do it, I can't mooch off your kindness forever. Having something to do would be good.
[ He’s unconsciously settled into a strange version of domesticity, and yet there’s one thing missing that he keeps craving more and more of: attention.
Larus keeps to his odd habits of coming in late and falling asleep on the couch more often than not, and Casimir has grown used to it even when he holds his breath each night when he hears him come in, wondering whether this will be one of those rare moments when Larus slips into bed with him, cold from the chilly weather outside but quick to warm against his skin. The silent press of bodies doesn’t come with an invitation for conversation, so Casimir doesn’t try, instead just allowing himself to be pulled into his arms with a heavy wash of breath against his hair. He always gets up before Larus to make sure he’s on time to class, and he normally doesn’t see him again until he’s at work. Their routine has become a fixed one, and on those nights that he spends at his own place, he finds his thoughts wandering toward his enigmatic boss far too often.
His boss. He knows he shouldn’t be doing any of this, but he’s good at keeping secrets, and Larus himself is a locked box. Besides that, he simply doesn’t want to stop, and he’s adamant about getting what he wants.
He’s off tonight, a pleasant surprise -- Larus always manages to rearrange his schedule to accommodate exams and papers and the pressures of school despite the fact that Casimir has never asked for this favor. He’s stirring a pot of stew in Larus’ kitchen while memorizing terms from the textbook laid on the counter, but his concentration is waning, instead drifting toward that night in his apartment, the heavy smell of liquor on Larus’ breath, the warm desperation in his kiss. He can still feel the dampness of his cheeks on his fingertips when he recalls those strange events. They’ve never discussed it since then, and Larus’ behavior hasn’t changed in any way. He still ignores him at work and relaxes only the slightest bit at home. There’s still an electric tension between them that just keeps building, and Casimir feels too full of this nervous energy.
He’s startled when he hears the door unlocking, and he turns off the stove, ladling out a steaming spoonful and walking it toward Larus to greet him as he enters. ] Here, taste this. It’s my mother’s special recipe. I hope you like spicy. [ He brings the spoon to Larus’ lips, watching him carefully, and without any further warning, asks what’s truly on his mind. ] Do you remember when you kissed me?
[ Getting out of his office and leaving the club is a lot more difficult than it usually is for whatever reason. Some of the bouncers aren't exactly happy about things, and then, of course, Egil corners him to talk about the holidays and who he's dating – or "almost" dating because "someone won't pay attention" to him – and whether or not he's going to go home and see his family. Larus has to politely remind him that he doesn't have any, which just makes him feel on edge, and before Egil can protest, he's pulling on his jacket and walking outside to get into his car. He thinks about it the entire drive home, hating this listless feeling that's come from the anniversary of his sister's death and how, even after all this time, he can't cope with it. He's reminded of the stupid things he's done in an attempt to forget, but it's not so easy when he's going home to the very person who throws him entirely off-kilter.
Larus spends an extra five minutes with his head pressed to the steering wheel, wishing everything could just go back to normal.
Yet, normal isn't going to fix the fact he's entered some strange relationship with one of the dancers, and normal certainly isn't showing favoritism by changing his schedule or letting him sleep in his apartment. Normal isn't walking inside to him cooking or asking him to taste whatever it is without much explanation and opening his mouth to accept it, savoring the bit of spice before another question is falling out of Casimir's mouth. Normal isn't narrowing a look dark enough to kill or trying not to choke when he swallows because he suddenly wants to tell him to get out and never come back. Of course, it had just been a kiss, and there's nothing normal about that either, about wanting to be with him and his eccentric ways and all those damn cats. ]
Why– [ And he pauses, pushing past him to get further inside despite the fact he should be turning around and leaving again. This is not the conversation he wanted to have right now. ] If you want something, just say it. We could have talked about this when it happened. [ Except he doubts he would have talked about it at all, remembering very clearly just how his mouth had tasted and how much he'd wanted to slide his hands over every inch of him. He still does, and if Casimir continues to press, he doesn't know what he's going to do. ] Did Egil tell you to do this? [ After all, he had hinted at it just a little while ago, and he drags a hand through his hair, tugging himself out of his jacket and obviously bothered by how true that might be. ]
[ He curls his fingers around Larus', a warm smile touching his lips. ] I wasn't referring to your help. I was referring to the way you look distinctly under the weather. [ He tosses his phone toward the couch, hardly noticing when he misses and it bounces off of the armrest to the floor, and, with his free hand, he strokes his thumb along his cheek, running softly over the dark circles beneath Larus' eyes. He sleeps, but not restfully, and it will all catch up to him soon. Casimir hears the change in his breathing each time he wakes in the middle of the night. ]
I was acquiring goods. [ He lifts Larus's hand to keep them linked above their heads as he turns slowly to show off the fur stole. He then promptly lets it fall from his shoulders to nest carelessly at his feet, grasping Larus' other hand and pinning them both to the wall as he pushes into him, enveloping him into a deep kiss. His knee presses between his legs to apply pressure, grinding down as he tugs softly at Larus' bottom lip, flicking his tongue to press against his mouth. A dozen memories pass through his mind, fire and ice, pain and longing, and for a moment he's lost, stranded back in the ice court with chains around his throat.
He tightens his fingers, the wall unforgiving behind them, releasing a harsh breath before he kisses him harder, heat radiating from his skin, and, abruptly, he breaks the kiss. His mind spins; he can't remember where he is until his foot moves and he steps on the stole. There never was anything soft like this in the ice court, and he releases Larus' hands, slick with sweat, moving away and wondering why his heart beats so quickly from just a touch. ]
[ Larus notices what Casimir does not, but there's little time to actually think about it, falling into the caress and stumbling back when he's nudged into the wall. Kissing him is like swallowing fire. He can barely breathe, though it doesn't matter when the static in his head quiets considerably the longer they touch, and he tries to reciprocate, only able to arch against him when his hands are trapped beneath Casimir's. Still, he does his best to keep up and finds that it's over much too soon, sinking back against the solid surface behind him until he feels like his skin isn't going to slide right off his bones, and when he exhales, Larus shakily retrieves the stole and follows after him to drape it over his shoulders. ]
It looks expensive. You shouldn't leave it on the floor. [ He has no idea what possesses him to say something so contrite, but it's easier than focusing on the strange sort of despair that rises up in his throat. There's a pause before he wipes his palms on his pants and walks around Casimir to face him. ] Come to bed with me. [ Maybe it's a little too blunt, but after that kiss, he doesn't know if he's looking for sex or an excuse to lean against him and fall asleep. It doesn't take much for him to take Casimir's hand though, dragging him through the small apartment into the bedroom. Since the last time they'd argued about it, Larus had reluctantly given him permission to change the furniture; the mattress might be softer, but it doesn't make it easier to sleep. Nothing does, not even the medication he dumped into the toilet.
He nudges the door shut from habit once they're inside, and the stole is placed on his messy dresser, giving Casimir a careful look before stepping close to cup his face. His fingers mimic the gentle tracing along his cheek, brushing at his lips and the dip of his chin. It's so surreal, being able to see and touch him after so many years of thinking he'd imagined it all, and when Larus kisses him again, it's softer. Gentle. Something inside him wants to ease the distress, though he doesn't know how much longer that's really going to be before they're tearing at each other like they can't get enough. ]
[ larus never makes anything easy, completely outside the realm of saiph's influence and control, and it's as infuriating as it is desperately attractive. his touch to his face is deceptively gentle but saiph knows better, and the sulking, paltry part of him makes a grab for larus' elbow, first to press a simple kiss to his palm and then to bite hard into his wrist, stopping just short of breaking skin.
he exhales and noses into his arm, fondly rubbing his cheek against him. ]
You're insufferable. You know what I want.
[ because he wouldn't torture him like this if he didn't, wouldn't close the space between them like saiph isn't holding his breath every time he touches him, waiting for a promise of more that never comes. he wouldn't let saiph touch him, either, or kiss him, or trace the curves of his hip bones with his fingertips. larus may not be able to kill him but he could come real fucking close, could snap his neck in half a heartbeat, salt and sage every building in the city, and here they are despite all that, standing standing face-to-face behind a closed, bolted door. like old friends. like lovers.
saiph locks his arm around larus' shoulders, to keep him from pulling away and to lean their faces together, forehead-to-forehead. ]
I want to be inside you.
[ literally and figuratively, in every way possible. he wants to circulate in his bloodstream, feel his heartbeat in larus' veins, suck the blood from his goddamn teeth and feel him open up around him. he wants him, from his pretty red mouth to his pretty white bones. all of it. no exceptions. ]
[ Even if he knows, that doesn't mean he's going to give it to him. The differences between them are like night and day, cold to warm in the stoicism of Larus' rules and Saiph's devilish nature, and it's a simple reminder when he bites into him, when he presses himself so utterly close that Larus can taste his heartbeat without ever opening his mouth. It's a dangerous game, and Saiph doesn't know what he asks, closing his eyes to the sensation of their bodies touching and soaking in what he doesn't allow himself to have. Going forward means no way back. He's already lost enough of himself to this undead plague crawling around inside of him; to think that Saiph wants any of that is the real travesty in all of this. ]
We've had this conversation before. [ So many times. Too many. He lifts his hand to cradle the back of Saiph's neck. ] I'd give you anything but that.
[ Because there would be nothing else after that, no secrets and certainly no mystery. He isn't sure what Saiph would want with him afterward or if he would want him for the same reasons because it's a toxic and addicting thing to remember the feel of his teeth through his skin. It's why there are red bars all across the city and why humans die in them all the time—from over-exposure or the insanity that sweeps over them in withdrawal. Saiph isn't exactly the same, but Larus can't know what it'll do to him. He doesn't want the responsibility because the guilt would fester and leave his insides to rot.
Just like now, just as it does denying him. He'll snap eventually and drag his teeth across the inner parts of his thighs or the curves of his hipbones, but until then, he reins in that desire with suffocating control. ]
Anything at all. [ It's breathed against his lips, and for a moment, Larus hesitates. Yet, that hesitation is consumed by the distinct lack of connection between them, and he tilts his head to press their lips together, a teasing embrace of their mouths that he purposely punctuates with the gentlest scrape of his teeth. No one ever said he wasn't a hypocrite. ]
[ He’s always known this was going to happen, he just never knew how bad it would be.
Some would say that things have gotten worse between him and Nik, but it truly doesn’t feel that much different. Not in Nik’s behavior. The difference is that Casimir’s thoughts are often flooded with someone else now, and Nik has realized that. So they argue more. Their arguments escalate, usually in the dead of night. Their yelling matches turn into physical altercations, and Casimir doesn’t like hurting him, but it becomes more and more necessary to defend himself.
More and more, he shows up on Larus’ doorstep aching, bruised, sometimes bloody. Larus never turns him away, and he grows used to sleeping on his couch, his bed, wherever, depending on his mood. Sometimes he’s angry. Sometimes he’s manically happy to see him. Sometimes he’s incredibly drunk. And sometimes, he’s seeking the comfort of his arms.
He always tries to leave by sunrise. But there have been a few too many lazy mornings together, stuck in a strange, hazy bubble where they pretend the world doesn’t exist outside of this house. In this bubble, he doesn’t care what Nik thinks. Let him feel the loss of his presence, and maybe he’ll realize how bad things are between them. Larus gets agitated sometimes, rightfully so at the entire situation, but he never physically lashes out. It’s just… so different with him. It’s almost like how Nik had been at the start.
He makes the mistake of saying this to Nik one night, after sex and now in the middle of a passionate argument, so loud that he’s sure Larus can hear them if he’s home, and things devolve entirely too quickly for Casimir to keep up. Nik begins storming through the house, railing against Casimir, against Larus, against everything that’s ever bothered him in the last twenty-four hours, and once Casimir realizes he’s heading outside, across the fence, straight toward Larus’ house, he has to put a stop to it.
Nik stops him in the living room, breaking a lamp dangerously close to Casimir’s head, the glass leaving a shallow gash across his cheek. Then Nik does something he’s never done before. He drags him across the room, and throws him in the closet, the force making him hit the wall with a thud, falling against the sharp corners of stacked boxes -- Christmas decorations, expensive kitchenware gifts neither of them had particularly liked, board games, shoes. Before he can right himself, Nik slams the door shut and twists the lock.
He’s well on his way to making himself hoarse, banging on the heavy door, when he hears the front door slam, and suddenly, the house is empty. Panic grips him, and he reaches for his phone, fingers flying over the screen. ]
nik’s heading your way. he’s drunk and he wants to kill you.
At first, Larus hadn't wanted to deal with Casimir's fluctuating moods, the soft promises of things that would never be real or the fleeting pressure of his lips when they entertained the notion of kissing. He's only so strong as to resist the temptation, half-dating a man who's in a committed relationship with an abusive idiot he could kill and stage the murder as an accident. The desire to have Casimir in his bed or filling that lone silence every moment had become too much each time he caught glimpses of them together, and he needed to get out. He needed to go somewhere far away from this town with its desperate housewives and gossip mill, contacting a few "friends" to arrange some work that would take him out of the country.
Of course, the job had been a disaster. He'd botched the intel, which lead to a difficult death, and he's now got a broken rib and a throbbing knife wound in his hip—neither luckily nonlethal. But they both hurt, and he isn't in a good mood, driving back from the airport without really thinking about what he might be coming home to. Casimir in his pool, drinking his wine. Casimir curled up on his sofa or in his bed. Casimir, Casimir, Casimir. It's so frustrating not to have any peace of mind, and he sits in his car in his driveway for half an hour too long when he finally gets home, forehead resting against the steering wheel and body aching. He's going to have to end this, or he's never going to be free; there's just no other way around it. Reaching for his phone feels like a blessing and a curse when he notices Casimir's name pop up across the screen.
But he only gets a second to glance at the message before the car door is being ripped open and someone is trying to drag him out of the vehicle by his hair.
Larus curses, a deep breath causing pain to flare through his chest, and his hand shakes as he tries to dislodge those fingers, maneuvering in a way that he's outside without more discomfort than he's already in. Yet, there's no real way to fight someone who is both drunk and wanting to actually do him harm, grappling with Nik until he's got an arm locked around his throat. The bastard tries to use his body weight to slam him against the car door, and even though the sharp burn from the knife wound lances through him, he doesn't let go. He'd been trained for this, knew his limits, and he squeezes at him, writhing and all, until he feels the signs of unconsciousness start to take hold, carefully letting him slip to the ground before stepping over him.
He sweating as he walks up the front walk to Casimir's house, holding his side and ignoring the fact fresh blood is beginning to seep into his pants. There's a smear of it left on the door when he opens it, trying not to breathe but panting at the same time. He's tired and irrational, and when he finally figures out that Casimir is in the closet, he undoes the lock to throw it open and look at him. This is not what he wanted to deal with.
It takes him several long seconds to get his mouth to work. ]
I'm not doing this anymore. [ And though it's supposed to make him feel better, he just feels worse, grimacing as he turns to limp away from him. ]
[ There are few quiet places in the city, but he's tracked Larus to one of them, a shabby rooftop overlooking the harbor for a breathtaking view of endless, inky black waters. Finding him had been no easy task, and he suspects that he only did because Larus allowed him to. This song and dance between them is only something like trust, but not quite the real thing. Not yet. He calls upon Larus for work-related endeavors. His work is the city, and so their meetings have become quite frequent. Oksana, standing guard outside of Cashmere, offers up generous complaints about Larus' tendency to forego the entrance doors altogether. And Casimir's sanctioning of this.
The moon is but a sliver in a sky dotted with a small scattering of stars, the constant lights of the city hiding most of the constellations. The temperature has dropped from the earlier warmth of the day, and he wishes he'd thought to bring a coat to layer atop the dusky-colored, laced shirt he's wearing, the strings undone at the top of his chest and hanging uselessly down his front. No matter. He doesn't bother trying to mask the gentle steps of his worn, brown boots. He's just come from the market, and in his hand is a rosy peach, tossed to him by one of the women running a fruit cart after he'd stopped to help her oil one of her squeaky wheels. ]
Are you appreciating the view or are you being sinister? [ He walks to the edge of the roof, a few feet beside where Larus is perched on the raised stone perimeter, and brushes back the tendrils of hair that've escaped the loose half-braid gathered at the back of his head. The rest of his hair falls around his shoulders and down his back. He climbs on the short barrier and sits, letting his feet dangle off the edge, and takes a large bite of the peach, sweet juices immediately flooding his mouth. He gestures with the fruit. ] What did you like to eat? Before you joined the ranks of the forsaken, of course.
[ He breathes the night like one might a flower. It's been this way for years now, something that he's adjusted to out of necessity, out of a hate that's tainted every ounce of his life – as undead as it is – and accepting change has never been more difficult as it has been since he'd met Casimir. Working with him is trying in a way that he can't quite describe, mostly because there is nothing that can convince the other to do as Larus suggests, and it's days of watching carefully constructed control slip out of his fingers because someone else thought to do something that made little sense. But he doesn't fault Casimir for these things because he assumes he doesn't know any better.
Time will teach him the way it has taught Larus the bitterness of death.
Still, when they meet on the roof, it's different than the purposeful visits he pays to Casimir's shop, and he's alone for exactly half an hour before he recognizes the telltale sound of Casimir's gait across the rooftop. His heartbeat echoes like a shadow, and it's oddly familiar, an old friend that Larus has not considered in some time. There's the occasional thought of what it might be like to sink his teeth into that ridiculously delicate throat of his, but every time it crosses his mind, he's flooded with an intense guilt so much stronger than any hunger he's ever felt. Never mix business and pleasure—even if that pleasure is necessary for surviving. So, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and ignores the fragrant scent of the peach Casimir bites into wafting over the salty smell of the sea. ]
I'm wondering how long it would take someone to notice that you've fallen and cracked your head on the ground. Or if you'd be lucky enough to miss that and land in the water instead. [ He pauses, gaze settling on Casimir. ] That's implying I prefer the taste of blood. I don't. [ There's another brief pause, though the slightest hint of a smile briefly flits across his face. ] And none of that matters now, so I'm declining your right to an answer.
sometimes i think if i come back, you won't want me anymore. not the way i am now. it's silly, i know. me. insecure. it's... laughable. i wanted to send this hours ago but i wasn't sure if you wanted to hear from me.
[ he's right. he doesn't want to hear from him, but it's not because he'd simply disappeared without a word. larus doesn't let the messages sit for as long as he probably should either, staring at them and wishing he could see casimir's face instead. ]
does that mean you're thinking about never coming back? you know i would want you no matter what. i've never kept that a secret from you.
[ it's near dawn when he hears it: a beating heart.
the pulse is rapid, a loud drum that even he is drawn to. but larus knows better. he knows that whatever it is – most likely human – is as good as dead before the sun comes up. which is why he continues making his way south through the dark without bothering to stop for whatever sounds rise up in the night. long ago, before the world swarmed with vampires, it used to bother him. strange, maybe, since he, too, was also a creature of the shadows, but it's the bloodlust he wants no part of. the destruction. it's everywhere, and worse, he wears a target on his back that invites many of them to try to kill him.
if it's a human, he hopes they die swiftly.
if it's a human, they probably won't.
larus thinks about it as he walks, only a block away from the safe house he's going to pass the day in when he smells it. fresh blood, human and vampire both. he grits his teeth, grinding down to ignore the prick of his fangs, and when he catches sight of the hooded figure fleeing in his direction, the echo of that heartbeat vibrates all the way through him almost enough to distract him from the fact this person is being stalked. he growls, darting forward and catching them briefly by the elbow. ]
Red door down the street. Go.
[ and without another word, he lets them go as he steps right into the path of the vampires. they attack, of course. they always do. but larus is faster, ducking and smashing one's face through a wall before he tears the other apart using his teeth. the taste of that blood is bitter and makes him nauseous – or maybe hungry, he can't tell – but he spits it out regardless, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket as he backs away and disappears once more in retreat. he meets the stranger at his safe house and rattles the door as he works it open. ]
You're a fool for coming here. [ and he bares stained teeth like it will prove something. ]
[ at first he thinks he's found another human, but the moment the stranger's hand catches his elbow, he feels that sensation wash over him, the one he thinks he's never going to get used to — an overwhelming lack of life. it's familiar enough by now that he doesn't recoil despite how his body wants to, but he's instantly glad he doesn't. this man may be a vampire, but he's not like the rest. casimir catches a single glimpse — bits of gold threading his dark hair, the evening sky in his eyes, his name is larus — before they both turn away from each other, casimir to shoot down the street and larus to stand against his pursuers.
casimir spares a glance behind him, but only for a moment. it's clear he doesn't need help. he focuses on finding the door, faded red paint peeling off the wood. silently, larus appears beside him, the blood on his teeth a much more vibrant red. casimir lets down his hood and frees his long black curls with a drag of his fingers, regarding larus with an almost amused grin. ]
I wasn't going to die tonight.
[ his words are spoken without a trace of the disquiet he feels — or the pain. his ribs give a sudden twinge, bandages looped beneath his dark coat. they're healing, but they're certainly taking their sweet time. larus gets the door open and casimir shuts it behind them, his gloved hand resting against the rough wood for a moment as he exhales softly, gathering his composure before he turns around and brushes the back of his knuckles across larus' bloody cheek, sending a single thought through his head. my name is casimir.
[ As usual, Larus doesn't comment. What else is he supposed to say?
He does circle around the interior of the shop, carefully gauging Dennis and where his attentions happen to lie. They're not on him, for the moment, but that quickly dissolves when he decides he wants to actually offer Larus a pair of sunglasses. They're not a color or style he'd ever choose to wear, though Larus has come to the conclusion that indulging someone enough means they eventually lose interest. (Hopefully, that will be the case after tonight.) So, he steps forward and guides Dennis' hands, the touch of their fingers blatantly casual but lingering for a second too long before he drops his arms to his sides.
They do nothing for him. He can see the entire room as clearly as if he wasn't looking through filtered lenses. ]
Nothing. [ In answer to his question. Larus doesn't want to ask why Dennis is so intent on doing this with him, and frankly, he doesn't care enough to know either. ] Vampires aren't the usual crowd she sells to. Most of them take what they want and never pay for it.
[ If Larus said that about any other minority, it'd be offensive, wouldn't it?
Dennis' expression shifts minutely toward something wry and sharkish. He trails the tip of his tongue over his fangs. His touch at Larus' temple lingers for more than a second too long before it strays upward to capture a couple errant strands of golden hair and swish them forward, over the rim of those frames, mussing Larus up a little instead of tidying him. He trails chilly knuckles slowly down the side of Larus' face and crooks an index finger to hook his chin. His gaze slips only momentarily downward, toward the carotid and jugular, before he tilts his head to appraise the effect of the shades from arm's length.
Yep, as suspected: total douchebag. Big fucking Lebowski vibes. Adorable.
Pretty boy like that could make it work, if there was an ounce of levity to his personality. Unfortunately for the both of them, if there is? He's yet to draw it out. What other vestigial charms might be hidden somewhere in there, atrophied by what Dennis surmises from context clues must've been a short, tough life? Blunted amusement animates his glazed eyes as he looks Larus over, and he raises a brow. ]
She allows this? [ He senses her, smells her back there, and noted the lack of pulse before he'd made it within a city block. Does she find savaging her own kind more objectionable than some other vampires they know? Or is she simply too weak to protect what's hers? The moment stretches, then he drops his hand and his gaze to turn back to that stand for another look. An afterthought: ] Maybe purple's more your color.
And Idk Larus, maybe after that grotesquely sad and mysterious intro, you could talk about the last thing you remember and try to figure out wtf happened??
it's nothing against antonio, even if his heartbeat is a serious distraction in the midst of a place not quite so laden with them. instead, he focuses on everything he can see—and can't. if larus didn't know any better, he would almost think this was some sort of trap; why he ever really conversed with other vampires is still a mystery to him. why he even accepts this kind of invitation is simply something else altogether.
but he glances at dennis, back to antonio. larus is severely overdressed for whatever this is, keeping his hands tucked neatly in the pockets of his leather jacket without so much as a word. he tells himself that even though he knows, he really doesn't care for the intrigue.
so, naturally, larus frowns. ]
Enjoying yourself? [ clearly not yet, but he's trying to humor him a little. ]
[ Jericho doesn't have a lot of rules in his life, no matter what his over-invested and overbearing sister might say, but a pretty steadfast one is 'don't get involved with vampires'. If he was being particular, it might have a sub-clause that added 'definitely don't get involved with vampires this damn close to the full moon, you idiot', but, well.
Turns out that there are exceptions to rules.
There shouldn't be, is the thing. That's the point of rules in the first place, and the reason he has so many of them (not too many, thank you 'Lupe, just enough). The rules keep him safe. Keep the people he cares about safe. Three locks on the bookshop door. Four on the one that leads to the basement.
Heavy metal collar that's far too big when he's human but almost chokingly small when he's a wolf. Never make plans the day before or the day after a full moon in case the Hunger takes him early and he can't get away. Safest to just--hole up in his own personal torture chamber for the duration and ride the whole thing out.
It's a system that's kept him from inflicting this sort of life on anyone else and kept him from--well. The things his Wolf demands he do. The possessive things. The frightening things. The--
The point is there are rules for a reason. And yet.
And yet here he is the night before a full moon, feeling the tug of it under his skin like an itch he can't scratch in the company of a vampire who, for reasons beyond his comprehension, fascinates him.
Jericho leans back on the couch and watches as Larus moves around the room, brown eyes flecked with bits of gold curious and undeniably hungry as he observes, but6 he's had more than enough practice pushing down the latter urge. No point in--upsetting a tenuous alliance by pouncing on the person you're trying to convince into helping you, even if he does seem like he could use a good fu--
--that's another sub-clause he's adding right now:
'Don't get involved with vampires in the biblical sense'. So mote it be, or whatever you're supposed to say in these situations.]
It'll sound better, if it comes from both of us. [ He argues, even if they've gone over this before ] She's not likely to listen to my Claim on the area without a proper Pack to back it up, but two of us arguing to get her goons out of the neighborhood? That holds more weight.
[ He has to stop grimacing every time he pulls in a breath.
It's the smell, he tells himself. That wolf smell that tries to claw its way down his throat and suffocate him when he doesn't even need to breathe. And rather than pretend to be something that he's not, Larus ignores it and doesn't mimic the respiratory function he's lacked since he'd been turned. That settles part of him for the time being, casting furtive glances around the room he currently occupies. What other secrets would he find if he prodded hard enough? Were there any to even interest him?
Despite a long list of other things he hasn't sorted through, Jericho's voice is a strangely warm cadence to him. It nearly makes up for the scent that clings to him and every inch of the place he's standing in. ]
A diplomatic solution, [ Larus says eventually, crossing the distance between them to stand a little closer. ] But you know as well as I do that it isn't going to solve anything.
[ There have been a handful of rumors circulating around some rich idiots moving in on Pack and vampire territories. As much as Larus loathed getting involved with such politics, it made it difficult to move around freely with more obstacles in the way. In the past week, he hasn't been able to reach any of his contacts in the red bars in the area Jericho's talking about.
He frowns and finally takes a seat next to him, uncomfortably aware of the heat radiating from him. ]
We could kill them. They'll think twice about it if they know there's no chance they'll survive. [ His voice is calm, cool. Not that he makes jokes, but he means this with utter seriousness. ]
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we need to talk.
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what do we need to talk about?
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It's mostly a bust from the second he walks through the door.
The music is loud, as it always is, and there are too many people crammed in the hallways of the house to fit through it properly without bumping into someone else. It takes him at least an hour to finally make his way through to the kitchen, helping himself to a cup full of warm beer that tastes just as bad as it looks. There's probably some better liquor somewhere, but if he really wants to get trashed, he'll go back to his dorm and drink with his roommate until they're both too sick to move. Instead, he just kind of wanders around for a while before he steps out into the backyard for some air, glancing around at the cheap lights strung up across the property and the random bodies smashed together—either drinking or kissing or puking in the bushes. He sits down next to someone on the steps of the porch, giving him a quick once-over as he tosses back the rest of his cup, and Larus pauses, doing his best not to choke when he breathes the same time he swallows. ]
I thought you weren't coming. [ Maybe he's a little annoyed about it now, but he's good at keeping his cool. So, he leans back on a hand to look at Jericho in the dim light. ] You didn't text me back.
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[ Because really, that's the reason most people talk to him. He doesn't have a lot of friends, or any, but it's not really anyone's fault but his own when he barely answers the phone and doesn't encourage anyone to come over longer than a night at a time. He doesn't know Larus well, having only met him a few times around the school or at a party. He seems well-liked and that already sort of puts them in different social circles, but he's good-looking, very much so, and he has the kind of even voice that smooths out some of the frenzy going on in his head. ]
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[ He almost doesn't hear him talking at first, far more interested in the grease he's shoving into his mouth, but eventually, Larus looks up. ]
That's the point isn't it? If he drops me now, we won't get anything. [ Sometimes, it's a little difficult keeping up with his other identity; there are some very specific things they'd decided on to make it seem better than just a random hookup, but Larus is too good at assimilating into his role when he's out there that it's just exhausting. At least he doesn't have to pretend with Jericho, grabbing at the napkin and careless of the way their fingers brush. He wipes at his mouth with it, eyes closing at the gentle touch to his hair. ] I could deal with being a stripper. This on-call prostitute thing just isn't working for me, but he's not really into escorts.
[ No, this guy isn't into class or dignity despite the end goal of the job being the same. He's pretty sure he likes to use his power to entice stupid boys into doing a lot of really kinky things, and Larus is grateful they haven't actually gotten past the "hands on his ass" stage quite yet. That, and he's good at evading because where's the fun if there isn't any suspense? ] I'll let you know if we go anywhere before we leave. I think this is just a courtesy visit. [ He grins at him around taking another bite of his burger. ] Have you always worried this much, or is this new?
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He has all night to think of all the ways this could go wrong. Right now he goes back to combing his fingers through the snags in his hair. ] You have to be a special kind of douchebag to have an on-call prostitute. [ But that's what they're dealing with -- a greedy and entitled man, one powerful enough that he can be. ] But if I was going to have one, I definitely wouldn't choose you. You probably talk too much and think you're hilarious.
[ He keeps a straight face when Larus turns his grin on him, but his expression is a little more relaxed. ] I'm not worrying anymore than normal. Don't feel too special.
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is everything okay? [ He's not busy per se, but he'll make more time for him if it's urgent. ]
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The tension between Larus and Jericho tops the list. In the confusion of gunfire and fists, Casimir understands why Larus had grabbed Egil first. But there had been something dismissive about it, something that very clearly said he thought only one of them was worth saving, and Jericho hadn’t made the cut. Maybe it was just that Larus knew Casimir could take care of him -- and he had -- but somehow he suspects there’s more to it than just that.
They’d kept from breaking into a shouting match, but the voices had clearly traveled through the thin walls of the safe house, and Casimir had suggested a hot bath to keep Egil from fixating on what was going on in the next room. He lets some of Egil’s sadness filter through to him, clasping his hands in his and telling him that every group has their fractures and differences, and that they’d all find their way back to the thing that had sealed them together. Whether it was devotion or this cause, he couldn’t say, and he’d left when he’d sensed Jericho’s presence, going down the hall toward the heat of Larus’ anger.
He’d made sure the windows were locked and shuttered, a few bits of sunlight still seeping through the cracks, and he finds Larus with blood on his hands, undoubtedly Jericho’s. There are a few smudges of wolf blood on his own shirt, but he doesn’t have anything else to wear, wondering if Larus had thought to stock the closets with a change of clothes. He crosses his arms, his stare mild. ]
I don’t believe in leaving people behind. Not when you can still save them. What was that, Larus?
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I don't want to have this conversation right now. [ But it sounds too bitter, even for him, and once he's free of his jacket, he pulls at his filthy t-shirt, continuing to clear the blood from his fingers. There's a bit of discoloration on his side and shoulder from where he'd been thrown particularly hard through a wall, but bruises will heal much faster than most things. He sighs. ] I wasn't going to leave him, but you were there. You know what he did. [ And he looks at him then, his expression wavering between hurt and angry. ] Maybe he loves Egil, and at one time, I really believed that to be true. But he is still stuck in that old life, and it's going to kill him. I wasn't going to let that happen to Egil. [ A pause, and his gaze drops to the floor. ] Or you.
Say what you will about me or my ethics. Lecture me if that's what you've come here to do, but I'm not apologizing for any of the things that happened tonight. [ He can't, especially with his thoughts still reeling the way they are, and with his hands satisfactory, he pulls open a drawer to shake out some of the clothes he'd put inside nearly a week ago. ]
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( neighbors au )
It’s unclear to him what started it this time, but he doesn’t feel like taking it tonight, toe to toe with his impossibly gorgeous and incredibly wasted boyfriend, spelling out just how stupid he thinks he is for complaining about the toilet paper or the designs on the dishes or whatever it was that had set him off. Nik responds by hitting him hard across the face, the pressure just enough that he feels a warm wash of blood run over his lip, gushing from his nose.
The pain doesn’t bother him as much as the blow to his pride, and he spits out blood onto the expensive leather couch, which sets Nik off again, and it’s another thirty minutes and questionable lovemaking session later before the house goes silent, the back door banging open as Casimir strides outside, buttoning up his ripped jeans but not bothering to do the same with his shirt that hangs open. When he realizes it’s Nik’s, he uses the sleeve to wipe the blood from his face.
He plans on stretching out on one of his plush garden chairs, a canopy of shimmering lights woven with flowering vines above his head, but he notices movement across the wooden fence, making him pause briefly before approaching the edge, barefoot in the grass, jeans low on his narrow hips. ]
It’s late to still be working, isn’t it? [ And without waiting for an invite, he hoists the fence, gracefully landing on the other side. This backyard is painfully empty compared to the perfectly manicured and landscaped paradise next door, and Casimir rests his hands on his hips, glancing around, and perhaps he should give the new resident a little more time before he starts making disdainful comments about the decor. ] Are you married?
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His cover fits well with some of the things he's picked up over the course of his career, so he doesn't mind crawling around in the dirt and tidying the area for the flowers he plans to plant here. Even if he doesn't stay long in this place, at least there will be some touch of color, and he's down on his knees when he hears the creak of the fence, the sound of feet moving on the grass. Instinct tells him to reach for the spade shoved lightly in the ground, but the voice that follows put him marginally at ease, glancing to the side to get a glimpse of who's speaking. It's enough to have him easing back to get a better view. ]
I prefer later hours. Besides, that's not something you should be asking when you're trespassing. [ But the light tone of his voice and the partial smile he offers says he doesn't mean it, and slowly, he stands, dusting off his jeans so he doesn't look as rumpled as he feels. ] I'm not anything, but I met your boyfriend a few days ago. [ And that's when he notices the careful smear of blood that's been wiped away, the slight discoloration to his face, and to cover it, Larus rubs at the imaginary dirt on his own cheek before looking at the house next door and back to Casimir. ] Interesting guy. [ He offers a clean hand. ] Larus.
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i'm not trying to tear you down. you need to be realistic.
[ And it's all he manages to get out before he crushes the phone he's using in his hand, dropping it underfoot as he wanders off down the street. He hadn't been far from Casimir's place either, thinking to return to him at some point, but he doesn't know if he can go back with all of this anger filtering through his mind. At first, Casimir's ideals had been something easy to acknowledge; in a way, they were similar to Egil's, and as long as he stuck to doing his job, there would have been no issues. Yet, now, it's complicated, and he's annoyed by that fact, unsure what to do with himself now that everything feels worse than before. There's the familiar pain of his missing eye, the way it travels down the side of his face so he's aware of it no matter what he does, and even his chest has started to hurt.
This is not what he wanted, and by the time he's managed to calm down even a little, he's halfway across the city at one of his safe houses. He retrieves one of the burner phones he keeps there, dialing Casimir's number rather than sending a string of random texts. It goes to voicemail, which is relieving in of itself, and instead of hanging up, he leaves a message he has no idea he'll even listen to. ] I want to talk about this, but I can't tonight. And if you want me to stay, I will. I'm sorry.
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One of the girls works with him, Rowena, a shtriga he’d found amongst the refugees on one of his ships; she survives on the life essence of others, which she steals from her clients but heals before they leave. Casimir doesn’t altogether approve of her methods, but she’s humane about it and doesn’t kill. Her skills outweigh any crimes she might be committing, however — she’s a perfect spider, able to crawl into the smallest of spaces and drop in completely unnoticed to spy and gather information. She’s his eyes and ears, although Larus had supplemented in that department since they’d become friends. Friends, more than friends. He doesn’t know what they are anymore.
He convinces Rowena to sneak out with him, and together they cross the District for one of the lively clubs run by the Sea Snakes. There’s no reason for him to stay home when there’s no one there with him, especially not when he could be out dancing and drinking and making the most of his high. Rowena asks him about a hundred times what’s wrong, but he just smiles and orders them both the strongest drinks on the menu, and from there time passes in a blur.
He likes her because although she can be pushy, she knows when to stop. She dances with him and doesn’t comment further when he wipes his eyes across his sleeve, and when he decides to stand on a table and wax poetic about all the strangers in the room, she goads him on but stays nearby in case he falls. She takes away the last few drinks a group of boys send Casimir’s way, much to his chagrin, but then she faithfully holds his hair back when he throws up in the bushes outside despite how much of a fuss he’d put up before. ]
What boy has you so upset? [ She finally asks the obvious question when he’s done spitting and hacking, and he just shakes his head, sliding a hand into his pocket to reach for his phone. There’s nothing from Larus, and still his words ring through his head. You need to be realistic. He wants to smash it to pieces on the sidewalk. He scrolls through his missed calls, a message from an unknown number, and holds it up to his ear, only half listening. ]
Do you think I’m a fool for what I’m trying to do? [ He looks at Rowena, her large blue eyes with thick lashes framing them like a nest. ]
Yes. You’re a fool. You want the entire world. [ She crosses her arms, meeting his gaze — they’re the same height, same dark hair, but her skin is fair and her features more severe. ] But we follow you because we know you want the world so that you can give it to those you love.
[ He manages a smile at that, and he leans in to press a kiss to her forehead, and then suddenly Larus’ voice is filling his ears. He listens intently, something fluttering in his chest, and Rowena squeezes his arm and goes back inside to offer him some privacy. He sits down at the curb, his head swimming, and debates with himself for several minutes before he dials the number again. ]
Larus. [ He rests his forehead against the heel of his palm, closing his eyes, and he doesn’t know if he’s talking into an answering system or whether someone has actually picked up. ] I’ll tell you what’s unrealistic for me. It’s asking myself to want less. I can’t do that any more than you can will yourself to be human again. I’m being as real as I ever will be. Hope is realistic to me. I won’t let that go.
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It hasn’t changed much from when he was a child there. The decor remains unnecessary dismal and the headmother overly strict, but the children are the same: lively despite the circumstances that have landed them there, mischievous despite the headmother’s sour gaze. She looks just the same as when Casimir first laid eyes upon her -- around two-hundred years old, hair streaked with gray, her brown eyes sharp and alert. In lieu of a greeting, she tugs at his ear and demands to know why he has so many piercings. In return he asks why she isn’t dead yet.
He takes the children outside and they lose themselves in a game of hide and seek, then he shows them how to make their own crowns of twigs and flowers while they gorge themselves on the array of desserts he’d brought with him. He brings the headmother a tart made with fresh fruit, an indulgence she doesn’t often allow herself, and she brews him a cup of her spiced tea that he used to steal sips of so many years ago because it had reminded him of home. ]
You’re too thin. [ Her voice has the sound of a rusted knife, and he pillows his chin atop his arms, resting on the table. ]
I’m not. I like my figure.
[ Her lined mouth turns to a frown. ] This is how you sit at the table now?
[ A grumble sounds in his throat, but he sits up, now resting his chin in one hand. She doesn’t comment further, seemingly giving up the fight for his posture, and he looks past her at the cracked tile above the stove. ] Why’ve you stayed here all these years?
[ She pushes the half-eaten tart toward him, but he shakes his head, meeting her severe expression, and she doesn’t speak again until there are only crumbs on the plate. ] It passes the time.
[ He lifts a brow, scoffing. ] That’s not a good reason.
Everyone knows what you do. Everyone knows your reasons. Maybe the target on your back wouldn’t be so big if you learned to keep your mouth shut about some things like I do. [ She picks up the plate and his empty teacup, glaring down at him before going to the sink, and he listens to the water running, putting his head back down and letting his eyes slide shut. After a moment he feels her dry hand nestle in his hair. ] I must die before you do. It’s the natural order. Can you at least do that for me?
[ His eyes squeeze more tightly closed before he opens them again, tilting his head to gaze through the window. Some of the children are still working on their crowns while the others have abandoned the task to climb the heavy trees instead. ]
I don’t fear death. [ The words have barely left his mouth before she’s smacking the back of his head sharply. ]
Death fears no man. It cares not what you think, you arrogant, prideful fool. Grant an old woman her one wish or get out of my kitchen.
[ He smiles then, turning so he can plant a kiss to the back of her wrinkled hand. ] May the gods will it, then.
[ The walk back to Rosehedge helps to clear his mind, and he turns his thoughts toward the many things yet to be done, nearly to the street when he stops suddenly, turning his head sharply to the left toward the shadows beside the small boutique next to the brothel. ]
Radha. Come out. [ He can sense the small girl’s presence, and she slinks out carefully, hugging the side of the rough brick. A quick look, and her gift is apparent to him — she’s a psychometrist, able to read the information contained in the energy of physical objects. She never liked to come and play at the orphanage, instead lurking in corners like she’s doing just now. She inches forward, regarding him warily, and he kneels to level their eyes. ] Why did you follow me here? Tell me the truth. I’ll know if you’re lying.
[ She hesitates, but eventually speaks, the streetlights catching glints of gold in her thick brown hair. ] I saw you when I touched the mirror in the headmother’s room. The heavy one with the silver carvings. I saw you in my head.
[ His lips curve, tilting his head. ] That’s because I bought her that mirror and you have a very special gift. You can see things when you touch them. Why were you in the headmother’s room?
[ Her eyes drop, looking abashed, and a chuckle rises in his throat. ] You’re sneaky. I won’t tell. [ He casts a quick hand before her face, closing his eyes briefly, and then he has the full story — parents from far outside the city, dead from some sickness. She’d wandered across miles of land for weeks before finding the harbor, boarding a transport ship unnoticed, struggling to block out the history of the floors, the beds, the wooden walls. Once in the District, she’d very nearly been snatched up by the Sea Snakes before someone had caught her stealing food and deposited her at the orphanage. The headmother had punished her immediately with chores, and then given her a place to stay.
Casimir beckons her up as he rises, heading toward his shop. ] I have to bring you back, Radha. You can’t go disappearing and wandering across the city — you’ll worry the headmother.
Can I stay here? [ She gazes around the street with wide eyes, lights reflecting in the dark pools. ]
It’s too dangerous for you to stay here. But I’ll come visit again, and I’ll bring you a special present and show you the city next time. We can practice your gifts. [ He smiles down at her, tucking his hair behind one ear. ] How does that sound?
[ She thinks it over, then nods, apparently satisfied, and Casimir is struck by how much he wants to help her so that she’ll never have to cower in fear of the magnitude of what she sees in her mind again. He has many purposes, but showing the way to the young and forsaken might be the most important.
He turns his face to the sky, dirty clouds hanging above like it might rain, and he wonders where Larus is, if he’s tucked away in a safe house that could never be found or if he’s prowling somewhere, waiting and watching. He wonders if he’ll get stuck in the rain, and if he’ll be responsible enough to change his bandages after. He pulls out his phone and his keys, handing the latter to Radha. ]
Go inside and climb all the way up the stairs. Look in the cabinet left of the sink and bring me the little jeweled box. Don’t open it. [ He brushes her hair from her shoulder, looking into her eyes. This is as much of a test as anything — he wants to know how much she can see when she touches an object and how much control she has. ] I’ll be waiting right here.
[ She disappears into the shop and he lifts his phone, calling Larus and half listening to the ringing while keeping Radha’s thoughts in the back of his mind. He can see what she’s seeing; there’s a struggle as she passes through the powerful energies of the shop, and she pauses when she reaches the stairs, more personal memories of him drifting through her mind. His phone stops ringing, and he doesn’t know if Larus picked up or if he’s talking to a machine. ] Have you ever been curious about where I grew up? Come with me to the orphanage. I think the headmother would be happy to meet you. [ Only because he’s always alone, and he knows she wonders if he has anyone. He’s still not sure what he has with Larus, but it’s been rekindled and he plans to go forward with whatever it is.
He opens his mouth to speak again, but he turns sharply toward the shop instead, Radha’s thoughts suddenly flooding his mind as she stands before his door with the key in the lock, a man that Casimir has never seen before flickering through her head when she touches it, and he doesn’t have time to utter a sound or move an inch before the world explodes into an inferno of light.
For a moment, he’s weightless, heated air rushing over his skin, the ground gone beneath his feet, and then there’s a burst of pain as he hits the street and rolls. He grasps for threads of Radha’s mind, but he can’t think, can’t open his eyes, and can’t move, and then he reaches the edges of consciousness, a shower of debris falling from the sky, only able to shield his head before he slips away.
It seems only an instant later that he opens his eyes, a groan pulled from his lips at the piercing throb in his head. Smoke fills his lungs, and the pain intensifies when he falls into a fit of coughing, unable to breathe or focus enough to seek Radha’s mind. There’s an unbearable heat in the air, and when he finally looks up, through hopelessly blurred vision he sees his shop amidst flames, the walls caving before his eyes. The upper floor is gone, his entire home, and — Radha. His throat burns so much that he can’t call her name, and when he pushes his hair from his eyes he finds it wet with blood, streaming down his face. He forces himself to unfurl a thread to find Radha, but there’s nothing but pain, so much that it nearly topples him again.
He clenches his teeth and drags himself toward the flames. The brick wall of the brothel next door is singed from the explosion, and the opposite building has cracked windows from the debris. His whole body aches, hands scraped raw, and his vision only worsens, but he doesn’t stop, moving towards the heat until he isn’t sure if it’s sweat or blood on his skin, and then he feels it, feels her. He throws blackened, splintered wood out of his way, digging up bricks and shards of glass, and then he finds her, his hands touching something soft, and for a moment he can’t move.
Her body is still warm, but he can’t make a connection, her mind unresponsive to his probing, and still he persists despite the pressure building behind his eyes. There’s nothing but emptiness, even when he reaches out and lifts her broken body into his arms, her head rolling back, her clothes burned into the charred skin on her legs. The smoke is worse here, his eyes watering and throat like sandpaper, and he buries his face into the small place between her neck and shoulder, shaking with sorrow and rage, and he lets loose a guttural cry, his fingers digging into the dirty fabric of her dress, and something unspools inside of him, spreading wide and unseen. When the angry tears begin, his body shaking with its force, his pain seems to spread all around him — if anyone approaches they’ll feel it, the full intensity of crippling grief and blazing anger, and he doesn’t care who gets caught in it, letting it run off in powerful waves as he sobs into her lifeless body, a child taken too soon in a war she hadn’t even known herself to be a part of. His guilt mixes into the fury of emotions tornadoing through and around him, and soon there’s nothing in his mind but darkness, losing himself to it, his tears cutting through the blood on his face, drowned out in the raging fire where his home used to be. ]
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i'm not telling you to leave. there is no expiration date on how long you can stay.
but you need to know i can't give you whatever it is you think i can. i'm not like the ones you were with. i won't keep you against your will or bite you. i won't even touch you. if you're going to be here, i'll show you some things you can do. introduce you to some people.
if you want to survive, you have to stay ahead of everyone that might come after you.
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[It wasn't always violent. It didn't always hurt. Not that Aubrey knows how to continue that train of thought without sounding insane, so he doesn't bother trying.]
That's not what I want anyway, I'm not gonna ask for anything more from you. You've already done so much. It's enough you'll let me stay. If you think I can help in some way, I'll do it, I can't mooch off your kindness forever. Having something to do would be good.
Would they be the same as you? Those people.
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( stripper au )
Larus keeps to his odd habits of coming in late and falling asleep on the couch more often than not, and Casimir has grown used to it even when he holds his breath each night when he hears him come in, wondering whether this will be one of those rare moments when Larus slips into bed with him, cold from the chilly weather outside but quick to warm against his skin. The silent press of bodies doesn’t come with an invitation for conversation, so Casimir doesn’t try, instead just allowing himself to be pulled into his arms with a heavy wash of breath against his hair. He always gets up before Larus to make sure he’s on time to class, and he normally doesn’t see him again until he’s at work. Their routine has become a fixed one, and on those nights that he spends at his own place, he finds his thoughts wandering toward his enigmatic boss far too often.
His boss. He knows he shouldn’t be doing any of this, but he’s good at keeping secrets, and Larus himself is a locked box. Besides that, he simply doesn’t want to stop, and he’s adamant about getting what he wants.
He’s off tonight, a pleasant surprise -- Larus always manages to rearrange his schedule to accommodate exams and papers and the pressures of school despite the fact that Casimir has never asked for this favor. He’s stirring a pot of stew in Larus’ kitchen while memorizing terms from the textbook laid on the counter, but his concentration is waning, instead drifting toward that night in his apartment, the heavy smell of liquor on Larus’ breath, the warm desperation in his kiss. He can still feel the dampness of his cheeks on his fingertips when he recalls those strange events. They’ve never discussed it since then, and Larus’ behavior hasn’t changed in any way. He still ignores him at work and relaxes only the slightest bit at home. There’s still an electric tension between them that just keeps building, and Casimir feels too full of this nervous energy.
He’s startled when he hears the door unlocking, and he turns off the stove, ladling out a steaming spoonful and walking it toward Larus to greet him as he enters. ] Here, taste this. It’s my mother’s special recipe. I hope you like spicy. [ He brings the spoon to Larus’ lips, watching him carefully, and without any further warning, asks what’s truly on his mind. ] Do you remember when you kissed me?
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Larus spends an extra five minutes with his head pressed to the steering wheel, wishing everything could just go back to normal.
Yet, normal isn't going to fix the fact he's entered some strange relationship with one of the dancers, and normal certainly isn't showing favoritism by changing his schedule or letting him sleep in his apartment. Normal isn't walking inside to him cooking or asking him to taste whatever it is without much explanation and opening his mouth to accept it, savoring the bit of spice before another question is falling out of Casimir's mouth. Normal isn't narrowing a look dark enough to kill or trying not to choke when he swallows because he suddenly wants to tell him to get out and never come back. Of course, it had just been a kiss, and there's nothing normal about that either, about wanting to be with him and his eccentric ways and all those damn cats. ]
Why– [ And he pauses, pushing past him to get further inside despite the fact he should be turning around and leaving again. This is not the conversation he wanted to have right now. ] If you want something, just say it. We could have talked about this when it happened. [ Except he doubts he would have talked about it at all, remembering very clearly just how his mouth had tasted and how much he'd wanted to slide his hands over every inch of him. He still does, and if Casimir continues to press, he doesn't know what he's going to do. ] Did Egil tell you to do this? [ After all, he had hinted at it just a little while ago, and he drags a hand through his hair, tugging himself out of his jacket and obviously bothered by how true that might be. ]
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[ He curls his fingers around Larus', a warm smile touching his lips. ] I wasn't referring to your help. I was referring to the way you look distinctly under the weather. [ He tosses his phone toward the couch, hardly noticing when he misses and it bounces off of the armrest to the floor, and, with his free hand, he strokes his thumb along his cheek, running softly over the dark circles beneath Larus' eyes. He sleeps, but not restfully, and it will all catch up to him soon. Casimir hears the change in his breathing each time he wakes in the middle of the night. ]
I was acquiring goods. [ He lifts Larus's hand to keep them linked above their heads as he turns slowly to show off the fur stole. He then promptly lets it fall from his shoulders to nest carelessly at his feet, grasping Larus' other hand and pinning them both to the wall as he pushes into him, enveloping him into a deep kiss. His knee presses between his legs to apply pressure, grinding down as he tugs softly at Larus' bottom lip, flicking his tongue to press against his mouth. A dozen memories pass through his mind, fire and ice, pain and longing, and for a moment he's lost, stranded back in the ice court with chains around his throat.
He tightens his fingers, the wall unforgiving behind them, releasing a harsh breath before he kisses him harder, heat radiating from his skin, and, abruptly, he breaks the kiss. His mind spins; he can't remember where he is until his foot moves and he steps on the stole. There never was anything soft like this in the ice court, and he releases Larus' hands, slick with sweat, moving away and wondering why his heart beats so quickly from just a touch. ]
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It looks expensive. You shouldn't leave it on the floor. [ He has no idea what possesses him to say something so contrite, but it's easier than focusing on the strange sort of despair that rises up in his throat. There's a pause before he wipes his palms on his pants and walks around Casimir to face him. ] Come to bed with me. [ Maybe it's a little too blunt, but after that kiss, he doesn't know if he's looking for sex or an excuse to lean against him and fall asleep. It doesn't take much for him to take Casimir's hand though, dragging him through the small apartment into the bedroom. Since the last time they'd argued about it, Larus had reluctantly given him permission to change the furniture; the mattress might be softer, but it doesn't make it easier to sleep. Nothing does, not even the medication he dumped into the toilet.
He nudges the door shut from habit once they're inside, and the stole is placed on his messy dresser, giving Casimir a careful look before stepping close to cup his face. His fingers mimic the gentle tracing along his cheek, brushing at his lips and the dip of his chin. It's so surreal, being able to see and touch him after so many years of thinking he'd imagined it all, and when Larus kisses him again, it's softer. Gentle. Something inside him wants to ease the distress, though he doesn't know how much longer that's really going to be before they're tearing at each other like they can't get enough. ]
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shimmies on over from here.
[ larus never makes anything easy, completely outside the realm of saiph's influence and control, and it's as infuriating as it is desperately attractive. his touch to his face is deceptively gentle but saiph knows better, and the sulking, paltry part of him makes a grab for larus' elbow, first to press a simple kiss to his palm and then to bite hard into his wrist, stopping just short of breaking skin.
he exhales and noses into his arm, fondly rubbing his cheek against him. ]
You're insufferable. You know what I want.
[ because he wouldn't torture him like this if he didn't, wouldn't close the space between them like saiph isn't holding his breath every time he touches him, waiting for a promise of more that never comes. he wouldn't let saiph touch him, either, or kiss him, or trace the curves of his hip bones with his fingertips. larus may not be able to kill him but he could come real fucking close, could snap his neck in half a heartbeat, salt and sage every building in the city, and here they are despite all that, standing standing face-to-face behind a closed, bolted door. like old friends. like lovers.
saiph locks his arm around larus' shoulders, to keep him from pulling away and to lean their faces together, forehead-to-forehead. ]
I want to be inside you.
[ literally and figuratively, in every way possible. he wants to circulate in his bloodstream, feel his heartbeat in larus' veins, suck the blood from his goddamn teeth and feel him open up around him. he wants him, from his pretty red mouth to his pretty white bones. all of it. no exceptions. ]
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We've had this conversation before. [ So many times. Too many. He lifts his hand to cradle the back of Saiph's neck. ] I'd give you anything but that.
[ Because there would be nothing else after that, no secrets and certainly no mystery. He isn't sure what Saiph would want with him afterward or if he would want him for the same reasons because it's a toxic and addicting thing to remember the feel of his teeth through his skin. It's why there are red bars all across the city and why humans die in them all the time—from over-exposure or the insanity that sweeps over them in withdrawal. Saiph isn't exactly the same, but Larus can't know what it'll do to him. He doesn't want the responsibility because the guilt would fester and leave his insides to rot.
Just like now, just as it does denying him. He'll snap eventually and drag his teeth across the inner parts of his thighs or the curves of his hipbones, but until then, he reins in that desire with suffocating control. ]
Anything at all. [ It's breathed against his lips, and for a moment, Larus hesitates. Yet, that hesitation is consumed by the distinct lack of connection between them, and he tilts his head to press their lips together, a teasing embrace of their mouths that he purposely punctuates with the gentlest scrape of his teeth. No one ever said he wasn't a hypocrite. ]
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( neighbors au )
Some would say that things have gotten worse between him and Nik, but it truly doesn’t feel that much different. Not in Nik’s behavior. The difference is that Casimir’s thoughts are often flooded with someone else now, and Nik has realized that. So they argue more. Their arguments escalate, usually in the dead of night. Their yelling matches turn into physical altercations, and Casimir doesn’t like hurting him, but it becomes more and more necessary to defend himself.
More and more, he shows up on Larus’ doorstep aching, bruised, sometimes bloody. Larus never turns him away, and he grows used to sleeping on his couch, his bed, wherever, depending on his mood. Sometimes he’s angry. Sometimes he’s manically happy to see him. Sometimes he’s incredibly drunk. And sometimes, he’s seeking the comfort of his arms.
He always tries to leave by sunrise. But there have been a few too many lazy mornings together, stuck in a strange, hazy bubble where they pretend the world doesn’t exist outside of this house. In this bubble, he doesn’t care what Nik thinks. Let him feel the loss of his presence, and maybe he’ll realize how bad things are between them. Larus gets agitated sometimes, rightfully so at the entire situation, but he never physically lashes out. It’s just… so different with him. It’s almost like how Nik had been at the start.
He makes the mistake of saying this to Nik one night, after sex and now in the middle of a passionate argument, so loud that he’s sure Larus can hear them if he’s home, and things devolve entirely too quickly for Casimir to keep up. Nik begins storming through the house, railing against Casimir, against Larus, against everything that’s ever bothered him in the last twenty-four hours, and once Casimir realizes he’s heading outside, across the fence, straight toward Larus’ house, he has to put a stop to it.
Nik stops him in the living room, breaking a lamp dangerously close to Casimir’s head, the glass leaving a shallow gash across his cheek. Then Nik does something he’s never done before. He drags him across the room, and throws him in the closet, the force making him hit the wall with a thud, falling against the sharp corners of stacked boxes -- Christmas decorations, expensive kitchenware gifts neither of them had particularly liked, board games, shoes. Before he can right himself, Nik slams the door shut and twists the lock.
He’s well on his way to making himself hoarse, banging on the heavy door, when he hears the front door slam, and suddenly, the house is empty. Panic grips him, and he reaches for his phone, fingers flying over the screen. ]
nik’s heading your way. he’s drunk and he wants to kill you.
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At first, Larus hadn't wanted to deal with Casimir's fluctuating moods, the soft promises of things that would never be real or the fleeting pressure of his lips when they entertained the notion of kissing. He's only so strong as to resist the temptation, half-dating a man who's in a committed relationship with an abusive idiot he could kill and stage the murder as an accident. The desire to have Casimir in his bed or filling that lone silence every moment had become too much each time he caught glimpses of them together, and he needed to get out. He needed to go somewhere far away from this town with its desperate housewives and gossip mill, contacting a few "friends" to arrange some work that would take him out of the country.
Of course, the job had been a disaster. He'd botched the intel, which lead to a difficult death, and he's now got a broken rib and a throbbing knife wound in his hip—neither luckily nonlethal. But they both hurt, and he isn't in a good mood, driving back from the airport without really thinking about what he might be coming home to. Casimir in his pool, drinking his wine. Casimir curled up on his sofa or in his bed. Casimir, Casimir, Casimir. It's so frustrating not to have any peace of mind, and he sits in his car in his driveway for half an hour too long when he finally gets home, forehead resting against the steering wheel and body aching. He's going to have to end this, or he's never going to be free; there's just no other way around it. Reaching for his phone feels like a blessing and a curse when he notices Casimir's name pop up across the screen.
But he only gets a second to glance at the message before the car door is being ripped open and someone is trying to drag him out of the vehicle by his hair.
Larus curses, a deep breath causing pain to flare through his chest, and his hand shakes as he tries to dislodge those fingers, maneuvering in a way that he's outside without more discomfort than he's already in. Yet, there's no real way to fight someone who is both drunk and wanting to actually do him harm, grappling with Nik until he's got an arm locked around his throat. The bastard tries to use his body weight to slam him against the car door, and even though the sharp burn from the knife wound lances through him, he doesn't let go. He'd been trained for this, knew his limits, and he squeezes at him, writhing and all, until he feels the signs of unconsciousness start to take hold, carefully letting him slip to the ground before stepping over him.
He sweating as he walks up the front walk to Casimir's house, holding his side and ignoring the fact fresh blood is beginning to seep into his pants. There's a smear of it left on the door when he opens it, trying not to breathe but panting at the same time. He's tired and irrational, and when he finally figures out that Casimir is in the closet, he undoes the lock to throw it open and look at him. This is not what he wanted to deal with.
It takes him several long seconds to get his mouth to work. ]
I'm not doing this anymore. [ And though it's supposed to make him feel better, he just feels worse, grimacing as he turns to limp away from him. ]
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The moon is but a sliver in a sky dotted with a small scattering of stars, the constant lights of the city hiding most of the constellations. The temperature has dropped from the earlier warmth of the day, and he wishes he'd thought to bring a coat to layer atop the dusky-colored, laced shirt he's wearing, the strings undone at the top of his chest and hanging uselessly down his front. No matter. He doesn't bother trying to mask the gentle steps of his worn, brown boots. He's just come from the market, and in his hand is a rosy peach, tossed to him by one of the women running a fruit cart after he'd stopped to help her oil one of her squeaky wheels. ]
Are you appreciating the view or are you being sinister? [ He walks to the edge of the roof, a few feet beside where Larus is perched on the raised stone perimeter, and brushes back the tendrils of hair that've escaped the loose half-braid gathered at the back of his head. The rest of his hair falls around his shoulders and down his back. He climbs on the short barrier and sits, letting his feet dangle off the edge, and takes a large bite of the peach, sweet juices immediately flooding his mouth. He gestures with the fruit. ] What did you like to eat? Before you joined the ranks of the forsaken, of course.
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Time will teach him the way it has taught Larus the bitterness of death.
Still, when they meet on the roof, it's different than the purposeful visits he pays to Casimir's shop, and he's alone for exactly half an hour before he recognizes the telltale sound of Casimir's gait across the rooftop. His heartbeat echoes like a shadow, and it's oddly familiar, an old friend that Larus has not considered in some time. There's the occasional thought of what it might be like to sink his teeth into that ridiculously delicate throat of his, but every time it crosses his mind, he's flooded with an intense guilt so much stronger than any hunger he's ever felt. Never mix business and pleasure—even if that pleasure is necessary for surviving. So, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and ignores the fragrant scent of the peach Casimir bites into wafting over the salty smell of the sea. ]
I'm wondering how long it would take someone to notice that you've fallen and cracked your head on the ground. Or if you'd be lucky enough to miss that and land in the water instead. [ He pauses, gaze settling on Casimir. ] That's implying I prefer the taste of blood. I don't. [ There's another brief pause, though the slightest hint of a smile briefly flits across his face. ] And none of that matters now, so I'm declining your right to an answer.
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not the way i am now.
it's silly, i know.
me. insecure.
it's... laughable.
i wanted to send this hours ago but i wasn't sure if you wanted to hear from me.
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does that mean you're thinking about never coming back?
you know i would want you no matter what. i've never kept that a secret from you.
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apocalypse au.
the pulse is rapid, a loud drum that even he is drawn to. but larus knows better. he knows that whatever it is – most likely human – is as good as dead before the sun comes up. which is why he continues making his way south through the dark without bothering to stop for whatever sounds rise up in the night. long ago, before the world swarmed with vampires, it used to bother him. strange, maybe, since he, too, was also a creature of the shadows, but it's the bloodlust he wants no part of. the destruction. it's everywhere, and worse, he wears a target on his back that invites many of them to try to kill him.
if it's a human, he hopes they die swiftly.
if it's a human, they probably won't.
larus thinks about it as he walks, only a block away from the safe house he's going to pass the day in when he smells it. fresh blood, human and vampire both. he grits his teeth, grinding down to ignore the prick of his fangs, and when he catches sight of the hooded figure fleeing in his direction, the echo of that heartbeat vibrates all the way through him almost enough to distract him from the fact this person is being stalked. he growls, darting forward and catching them briefly by the elbow. ]
Red door down the street. Go.
[ and without another word, he lets them go as he steps right into the path of the vampires. they attack, of course. they always do. but larus is faster, ducking and smashing one's face through a wall before he tears the other apart using his teeth. the taste of that blood is bitter and makes him nauseous – or maybe hungry, he can't tell – but he spits it out regardless, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket as he backs away and disappears once more in retreat. he meets the stranger at his safe house and rattles the door as he works it open. ]
You're a fool for coming here. [ and he bares stained teeth like it will prove something. ]
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casimir spares a glance behind him, but only for a moment. it's clear he doesn't need help. he focuses on finding the door, faded red paint peeling off the wood. silently, larus appears beside him, the blood on his teeth a much more vibrant red. casimir lets down his hood and frees his long black curls with a drag of his fingers, regarding larus with an almost amused grin. ]
I wasn't going to die tonight.
[ his words are spoken without a trace of the disquiet he feels — or the pain. his ribs give a sudden twinge, bandages looped beneath his dark coat. they're healing, but they're certainly taking their sweet time. larus gets the door open and casimir shuts it behind them, his gloved hand resting against the rough wood for a moment as he exhales softly, gathering his composure before he turns around and brushes the back of his knuckles across larus' bloody cheek, sending a single thought through his head. my name is casimir.
it's only fair, after all. ]
Are you alone?
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tfln / rhexis.
He does circle around the interior of the shop, carefully gauging Dennis and where his attentions happen to lie. They're not on him, for the moment, but that quickly dissolves when he decides he wants to actually offer Larus a pair of sunglasses. They're not a color or style he'd ever choose to wear, though Larus has come to the conclusion that indulging someone enough means they eventually lose interest. (Hopefully, that will be the case after tonight.) So, he steps forward and guides Dennis' hands, the touch of their fingers blatantly casual but lingering for a second too long before he drops his arms to his sides.
They do nothing for him. He can see the entire room as clearly as if he wasn't looking through filtered lenses. ]
Nothing. [ In answer to his question. Larus doesn't want to ask why Dennis is so intent on doing this with him, and frankly, he doesn't care enough to know either. ] Vampires aren't the usual crowd she sells to. Most of them take what they want and never pay for it.
[ From what he's heard. ]
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Dennis' expression shifts minutely toward something wry and sharkish. He trails the tip of his tongue over his fangs. His touch at Larus' temple lingers for more than a second too long before it strays upward to capture a couple errant strands of golden hair and swish them forward, over the rim of those frames, mussing Larus up a little instead of tidying him. He trails chilly knuckles slowly down the side of Larus' face and crooks an index finger to hook his chin. His gaze slips only momentarily downward, toward the carotid and jugular, before he tilts his head to appraise the effect of the shades from arm's length.
Yep, as suspected: total douchebag. Big fucking Lebowski vibes. Adorable.
Pretty boy like that could make it work, if there was an ounce of levity to his personality. Unfortunately for the both of them, if there is? He's yet to draw it out. What other vestigial charms might be hidden somewhere in there, atrophied by what Dennis surmises from context clues must've been a short, tough life? Blunted amusement animates his glazed eyes as he looks Larus over, and he raises a brow. ]
She allows this? [ He senses her, smells her back there, and noted the lack of pulse before he'd made it within a city block. Does she find savaging her own kind more objectionable than some other vampires they know? Or is she simply too weak to protect what's hers? The moment stretches, then he drops his hand and his gaze to turn back to that stand for another look. An afterthought: ] Maybe purple's more your color.
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that's really not worst case, and you know it.
what would you prefer i talk about if not that?
when will you be back?
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And Idk Larus, maybe after that grotesquely sad and mysterious intro, you could talk about the last thing you remember and try to figure out wtf happened??
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weh my icons went away
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it's nothing against antonio, even if his heartbeat is a serious distraction in the midst of a place not quite so laden with them. instead, he focuses on everything he can see—and can't. if larus didn't know any better, he would almost think this was some sort of trap; why he ever really conversed with other vampires is still a mystery to him. why he even accepts this kind of invitation is simply something else altogether.
but he glances at dennis, back to antonio. larus is severely overdressed for whatever this is, keeping his hands tucked neatly in the pockets of his leather jacket without so much as a word. he tells himself that even though he knows, he really doesn't care for the intrigue.
so, naturally, larus frowns. ]
Enjoying yourself? [ clearly not yet, but he's trying to humor him a little. ]
look idk but i got you this
Turns out that there are exceptions to rules.
There shouldn't be, is the thing. That's the point of rules in the first place, and the reason he has so many of them (not too many, thank you 'Lupe, just enough). The rules keep him safe. Keep the people he cares about safe. Three locks on the bookshop door. Four on the one that leads to the basement.
Heavy metal collar that's far too big when he's human but almost chokingly small when he's a wolf. Never make plans the day before or the day after a full moon in case the Hunger takes him early and he can't get away. Safest to just--hole up in his own personal torture chamber for the duration and ride the whole thing out.
It's a system that's kept him from inflicting this sort of life on anyone else and kept him from--well. The things his Wolf demands he do. The possessive things. The frightening things. The--
The point is there are rules for a reason. And yet.
And yet here he is the night before a full moon, feeling the tug of it under his skin like an itch he can't scratch in the company of a vampire who, for reasons beyond his comprehension, fascinates him.
Jericho leans back on the couch and watches as Larus moves around the room, brown eyes flecked with bits of gold curious and undeniably hungry as he observes, but6 he's had more than enough practice pushing down the latter urge. No point in--upsetting a tenuous alliance by pouncing on the person you're trying to convince into helping you, even if he does seem like he could use a good fu--
--that's another sub-clause he's adding right now:
'Don't get involved with vampires in the biblical sense'. So mote it be, or whatever you're supposed to say in these situations.]
It'll sound better, if it comes from both of us. [ He argues, even if they've gone over this before ] She's not likely to listen to my Claim on the area without a proper Pack to back it up, but two of us arguing to get her goons out of the neighborhood? That holds more weight.
and i love it thank you
It's the smell, he tells himself. That wolf smell that tries to claw its way down his throat and suffocate him when he doesn't even need to breathe. And rather than pretend to be something that he's not, Larus ignores it and doesn't mimic the respiratory function he's lacked since he'd been turned. That settles part of him for the time being, casting furtive glances around the room he currently occupies. What other secrets would he find if he prodded hard enough? Were there any to even interest him?
Despite a long list of other things he hasn't sorted through, Jericho's voice is a strangely warm cadence to him. It nearly makes up for the scent that clings to him and every inch of the place he's standing in. ]
A diplomatic solution, [ Larus says eventually, crossing the distance between them to stand a little closer. ] But you know as well as I do that it isn't going to solve anything.
[ There have been a handful of rumors circulating around some rich idiots moving in on Pack and vampire territories. As much as Larus loathed getting involved with such politics, it made it difficult to move around freely with more obstacles in the way. In the past week, he hasn't been able to reach any of his contacts in the red bars in the area Jericho's talking about.
He frowns and finally takes a seat next to him, uncomfortably aware of the heat radiating from him. ]
We could kill them. They'll think twice about it if they know there's no chance they'll survive. [ His voice is calm, cool. Not that he makes jokes, but he means this with utter seriousness. ]
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