# data[].attributes.body
Evgeniy had rarely ever taken a drink despite his family’s influences. Being one of the few lightweights in the lineage, his liver is safe. Well, as long as he isn’t in the radius of reach in ownership to his scotch-loving friend.

Getting encased in an embrace and led to another place unfamiliar to him, as always Evgeniy hasn’t memorized the places that the man he calls “Herzog” has brought him to. Twists and turns to every street in the existence of Germany, finding himself light-headed from the travel and fascinated by the subtle changing atmosphere to each spot.

Visits are seldom from him to the country, there are just those times that his military personnel of a client can’t make it that he’ll be the one going instead.

An editing session will normally bring the two men to taverns by the end of the day, if, Evgeniy doesn’t refuse every other offer. And in return a refuse will be Evgeniy going back to Murmansk or ending up in a café with an upstairs inn.

Alexander, Evgeniy’s client himself by all means may sound like a pressuring man at first impression until such a feared individual becomes your love life’s sweetheart.

With the officer getting wind of his editor being in town, by the end of another long session, once again they’re outside the room with Evgeniy leaning on the wall and the other almost towering over him while getting his nightly drinking requests turned down.

“No, I am not going to join you today, you are well aware that I’m a lightweight and yet you’re still going at the offer?” The hints of the editor being offended were prominent, though he was just looking out for his own sake. Having anemia just to get drunk will end him in an early grave.

Alexander in the other hand had been soft with the offer, he sounded like someone begging to Evgeniy’s hearing. Having the coat of his uniform over his forearm a sheepish smile on his face with a bottle of black vodka in hand. It was a miracle that he was able to sneak in the alcohol into the building.

“Maybe not a tavern directly? Your place? Mine? It could be either Zhenya, just a quick de-stress don’t you think?” With such words spilling out of the lieutenant’s mouth, his younger companion suddenly wanted to throw himself into the Angara River back in Siberia. A groan of disapproval when Sashka patted his shoulders as if it would give him a change of mind.

Before the Russian could even say a deaf protest, he’s been whisked away by his client out the building. The hand holding the bottle going around Evgeniy’s waist. The support keeping his steady from tripping over his own steps. An exhale of relief when he recognized the route they were headed, His flat.

His relief getting replaced with uneasiness as they made a turn. The flat may have been visited by Alexander more times than what the editor can count, although, at this very moment, it was in no condition to host a guest just as its renter. A glimmer of hope and dread showed its face once he realized neither of them consented to staying at each other’s thresholds just yet.

“Sashka…” A snap of his fingers falling on deaf ears, the other man was ignoring him with tender hums on their walk. A sharp reminder in his head when he got the stupid idea of staying at “Sir Herzog’s” place knowing that the older man had five siblings all crammed into one small flat of inheritance.

Zhenya could have sworn his face was warm not from the hand on his waist but because of his stress-induced stupidity. A groan of frustration that turned into a slight whine when the hold tightened. His dizzying surroundings of porcelain white walls flashed into the dusk twilight as the squeak o’l wooden doors were swung open.

# data[].attributes.body
The sight wasn’t new to the editor. It was one of the few times he’d exit the office during dusk. Most of those occasions it was due to last minute meetings or his last day’s clients extending their session. And Alexander was a prime example. That man had so many back up drafts and additional ideas to say. Though, it would be unnecessary to call him annoying. Despite that “tough” demeanor, he’s an absolute sweetheart, as per what Mohaxchilienov’s sister, would say. Damn you, Akulechka.

His head would turn to the distinct smell of alcohol, beer to be specific. The red district of the office’s street was as always, alive. But of course, every sidewalk and corner was filled with people. And why? “Now isn’t this Oktoberfest? And I thought the chaos was corralled in Munich alone.” He’d hold back a groan after hearing the half sarcastic comment of this night’s companion as they threaded through the never ending bustle of the crowd.

He’d squint as an inconsiderate citizen switched their car’s headlights to bright, momentarily blinding the foreigner in the process. The place was already insufferable with the stench of burning clutches and laser red taillights stuck in the never ending traffic. The gleaming aura of the sunset disappeared into the pure colors of reds and warm whites. The only thing ensuring him that the sickening bile rising stayed down was Herzog clinging to him like a sloth. He wanted to leave but had to endure, the eventual alcohol will settle his nerves surely, wouldn’t it?

Rose Hued Cocktails Pay DM15.00 for Upstairs Inn!

“Now isn’t that an interesting name for a bar, eh?” Mohaxchilienov’s signature natural sarcastic tone was gone, hello curious dumbass. He could already hear the chuckles behind the double doors, Alexander’s joining in not long after they entered. A fairly young barmaid had opened the doors for them. Quite the style of this place given all of the staff had their cleavage’s out on display, though with the exception of the bartender. Seems though the boy’s a bit shy to show off some skin.

Out of the five barmaids he saw, none of them directed the duo to a seat. It was first come first serve apparently. Mugs and plates absolutely littered the table they sat upon. Alexander went on ahead, automatically bringing back two drinks. Mohaxchilienov was more than disappointed to see the bottle of black vodka from earlier. He was almost tempted to try the puppy face with a whiny tone to get Alexander to fetch him cherry vodka instead. Perhaps even the bottle with a tad bit higher alcohol level.

Scotch…Irish? No, Scottish clearly from the color alone.

“Heh, for a lieutenant you sure are not using your money now, aren’t you?” Was the smell of all the liquor alone affecting him already? It was either his unconscious mind slurring his speech or he was actually getting tipsy from the fumes. But his words were still coherent, Alexander was getting a good amount of cash from being a Lieutenant, Drill Sergeant, and Office clerk. It shouldn’t be a surprise to receive treats like this.

“Me? Not using my salary? Ha, Scheiße. It’s September Zhenya~, four months will pass sooner than you know it. I need to save up for the ungodly amount of nephews and godchildren I’ll be gifting.” Mohaxchilienov would draw out a reply, not exactly as entertaining as he’d expect. Though the next would catch him off guard, Mr. Sexy Lieutenant’s humors shining through so early. “And for an anemic, you have not once shivered since I whisked you away. How come, how come? Was the trip to stifling for our dearie Siberian?”

“Ha, don’t say that as if every step you took wasn’t as stiff as a trunk. Oh right, trunks don’t match you. How  about scrawny twig ass to match your figure, eh?” Yes, now this was amusement. Alexander was one to be very expressive with his face, and that little scrunch and pout was enough to revive Mohaxchilienov’s spirit for tonight. “Darling that’s insulting, the ladies love me for this. I was a scrawny twig in my teens.” “Scheiße, you’re not even getting any.” Alexander’s dissatisfied grumble before finally taking his seat like a refined noble lady was what triggered his Russian companion’s playfulness.

Tough, strict, serious? Depends on the situation. That’s how it is to have the lieutenant around. The man graduated the military academy and is still as free going as a teen. He wasn’t a goodie-two-shoes either. Playing billiards in uniform fresh out of class, along with barely passing music bringing down his grades a few notches. He’d graduate with high honors  if not for that one course. But of course, everyone has their own type of way to use their liberty, and this is Alexander’s.

Mingling with the German’s words once the first shot of alcohol was given. Overlapping flirts whenever a pretty lady passes by. “Buttering up the girls again, Lieutenant? What about your dear ‘wife’, hm?” That snapped the man from his flirty toned conversation for an order with the barmaid. Herr Herzog was a predictable fellow, an easy one to read under that tough military officer’s mask. Such a strong man was a softie around his dear fiancée. And yet it was a fragment of fantasy by this time, the moment Herzog’s face scrunched up, Mohaxchilienov’s brow would’ve arched with an eagerness to snoop around the lieutenant’s personal life.

An uncomfortable tension shooed away their order as Alexander downed his 3-in-1 shot of badly fermented whisky. “Oh wow and I thought you Russians gossip faster than bees? Or did your hive die off so early in the autumn.” The lieutenant shot him a sour glare before wavering to something more docile as his focus strayed away from the Russian. Another shot was poured and taken down, seems like he’s going through something surely. “You’re making me curious. What? Did she cheat on you with someone better under the covers?” The answer was yes, apparently. Alexander looked like he’d just had a bullet drive through his temple.

Now, the thing is with Mohaxchilienov, it’s that he has impeccable intuition. What ever he says on a guess may or may have not have happened yet. But in either case he gets it right. Alexander had been tirelessly milking out information regarding the affair of his fiancée from his siblings only to find snippets. Practically nothing as he doesn’t get the full picture, and to his luck the gossip hoarding Russian had everything, from start to finish.

It didn’t quite matter to Mohaxchilienov if he offended Herr Herzog, the lieutenant had enough chilled stones in his heart to not care. “How in the living hell do you know?” A lucky guess perhaps, or Alexander’s absentminded fumbling with his pocket. Evgeniy was more than aware of the older one’s plan to propose to his dear Evelyn Engelberg. He was a better option but he kept his mouth shut.

“Parking entrance. You two don’t know how to regulate your voices.” It was a guess because he hadn’t specifically heard the conversation.

# data[].attributes.body
Don’t blush. Don’t flush. Stay calm. This isn’t your home.

Luxé himself doesn’t even know how in the world did become frozen on the door step of a man who’d just finished a shower. His mouth is agape with all words in existence dry from his tongue. The mind signals to move back and close the door, he feels it, yet the view remains the same. He hasn’t moved an inch. Rumbles and choked sounds come from his throat in the attempt to defend himself.

In the end only a raspy and terrified “Good…eve,” a shameful swallow of dried spit, “…ning,” it in fact, was not a good evening.

The man stared at him dead on, eyes so dark he thought he was a statue if it weren’t for a head tilt, blonde hair falling over his temple. “Ты не хочешь что-то с собой сделать? Подержитесь там еще немного, и у вас начнутся слюни, капитан.” The Russian felt rusty to his ears, but the voice surely did not. And it woke him up quite rudely from his embarrassed stupor.

“FYODOROV?”

He slammed the door shut giving the man a start as he gave an impassioned glare at the gesture. Amvrosiy or at least Luxé thought it was him, raised a brow at his superior. With the bathroom door agar serving as the only source of light in the room, he could finally make out the other one’s features.

Jet black hair hovering over broad shoulders was absent, in its place a wet mess of caramel blonde dripped rivulets down his neck, chest, torso before getting absorbed into the towel around his waist.

You can’t exactly change someone’s body with a snap, but you can sure fool others into seeing another face.

The dark red eyes he’d known for long that were simply contacts stared back at his own with such a dark abyssal blue he thought he was staring at black holes.

Every line of the face was the exact same, hell even the slight fang of one of his canines that sometimes peeked out of his lips was there. The man standing in front of him naked under the towel was no doubt his informant. At least he thinks so.

“Sir Cheshire, please allow me to get dressed before you ogle.” A near disgusted expression flicked on Amvrosiy’s face as he slide the door to the bedroom close.

‘Tch, is this my informant or just a stranger, worse imposter.’ Fuck a professional facade, he was going to end up beating the shit out of himself if that man’s actually just an illusion. No, he was going to leave right now and get some sense into his stupid head.

He creaked the door open without a semblance of discreetness and in sync the bedroom door rolled open.

“Take two steps back that I won’t pull you in.” Amvrosiy’s(?) voice rang out rough, “I’ve kept myself under lock and key until now, you’ll hear it from my mouth before you can beg it out of Signore Rosario. SIT. Down.”

Luxé’s hand was off the door and in Amvrosiy’s by the wrist. The locked clicked soundlessly as he yanked his hand away, rubbing his wrist of the remnants of the Russian’s grip. “I am your capo, the nerve you have to—“ “You are my Caporegime if I stand before you as Amvrosiy Sergeevich Fyodorov, I am not your informant at the moment. We are equals if I’m outside of that identity.”

Amvrosiy was holding back his voice as to not yell, he’s not known for a short temper, but he’s been terribly on edge after finishing nearly a month long errand.  “I’ll…excuse me…I’ll make us a drink….” He pushed past Luxé and slipped into the mini bar in the kitchen. It was a simple toddy of tea, lemon juice, bourbon, and honey.

The click of the kettle to boil triggered an odd sense that a void was swirling all around him. It’s been a while since he’d let silence simply ring in his head, like a mind cleaner of some sorts. Steel wool cleaning the back of his eyes sort of thing.

Returning to the living room Luxé was not seated but kneeling over a drawer containing old documents that Amvrosiy should’ve shred a month ago. Setting one of the two glasses down he took a sip to taste, a grimace forming on his face as the Capo pulled out a file.

“Azul Chaton…Oxford, England? How’s this with us?” “Bureau. I think he’s the one who stole it.” Luxé rose slowly, flipping through the papers as he went bottoms up on the toddy without an ounce of a reaction. Amvrosiy backed away slowly to not earn another retort.

“You’re not freaking out or shouting,” the capo mused placing down the mug with a soft clink on the glass. “Do you expect me to moan or what?” Luxé’s gaze shot to him like an aimed dagger that he couldn’t do anything except open and close his mouth like a fish.

Alexei had warned him on speaking out of reflex but for fucks sake he didn’t even know who he stood as right now. It was habit he usually used in his native language, but doesn’t exactly follow that rule if he’s tired as hell. A snarling grin was on his capo’s face. The sight sent a sense of unease through Amvrosiy as he watched his lips parts before getting covered by the back of his hand.

“I don’t control your mouth, you tell me if you will.” Finishing with a shrug at this point Luxé was damn sure that the man in front of him was Amvrosiy. Except he didn’t know his real name. If he wasn’t standing as the Amvrosiy who annoyed him over the coms during missions and errands then who was—.

Across his position he could see the numerous medals lining the upper wall of the bedroom. Barely a foot had been left ajar of the sliding door but it was enough. All of the medals were gold. First Place. Champion. Highest.

Very few rumours circulated the capo’s circles, most were only around the Executives or lowly soldiers and associates. Even the assassin’s ranks rarely had any concrete rumours. But facts and information was a haven with the underboss. And Eurielle’s chatty moments are to be treasured.

“Mohax—,” he couldn’t bring himself to finish the surname. Flicking his gaze to “Amvrosiy” the childish irritation was gone and replaced by the seriousness and authority he had by the door earlier. “—chilienov.” He finished for Luxé.

He’d met all of them before already, in select auctions and meetings of the allies as the underboss’ companion if the consigliere is unavailable. There were always three Mohaxchilenovs in the room. Laurien for the company of the twin’s mother. Alexei as the head of the Alliance. Then Matryona as the current head of the company under the Mohaxchilienov name. The twin’s companions would either be Vitaly or Yefiniy, but Matryona was the only one who attended alone. She always said “Rostya is busy as usual” and none would ask any further.

“Rostya” or rather, Rostislav Sergeevich, her younger brother, was always absent because he was too busy being the Franciscaño’s informant.

He’d been talking down and belittling the youngest of the most powerful family within Western and Eastern Europe.

Good gosh that actually makes him want to kill himself on the spot.

“Thank Heavens that you don’t take long.” Rostislav rubbed his face, his fringe falling messily over his forehead as he pushed his hair up. Pinching his nose soon after the air between them became awkward.

Oddly enough the lights of the city below felt brighter as the night drew on. And that white and blue light caught on the shifting colours of blue and olive wrapped around the Russian’s neck. He wasn’t ophidiophobic per se, but he really found snakes unsightly. And there was one slithering on Rostislav’s neck like it was a tree branch. It’s pink tongue flicked out, tasting, smelling the air.

He felt his muscles physically recoil, but in reality he hadn’t moved an inch. Amvro— no, Rostya (if he was even qualified to call him that yet) hadn’t moved either. The wind gust up from the open windows, they both shivered from the cold billowing in.

# data[].attributes.body
INSPO: “Good Luck Babe”

Characters: Albina Zimmerman

Tatjana Rosenberg

January 25, 1986

Wedding of Tatjana And Klaus Tangemann

The news came late, the notice was late. To think that the time she’d visit the chapel a few years after the christening of a child not even hers, the wedding of her first love beheld itself in front of her. How did it become that a person who’s sweeter than sugar gets married to a brute with a smile brighter than the sun.

Serene in theme, calm in nature, pristine in purity, all to glorify the miserable marriage it declares within. A white gown soon to be stained with filthy hands not even worth tapping the angel on its shoulder. Church bells ringing loudly in their ears as the bridesmaids and groomsmen shout and celebrate with genuine glee at the fake love. Simply disappointing, to live your life to the fullest and throw it all away in the chains of matrimony.

Disgusted she was at herself to be a witness at such moment. The man’s grin was of malice, only wishing to get his hands on his bride. Letters written over and over again saying to “find someone worth your salt” only to find a creep who clearly wanted nothing of the benefits of marriage other than eternal consent to bedroom things.

She turned a blind eye, there was no way that she could object to a wedding she wasn’t even invited to. Her little visit was only supposed to be a small prayer for good weather as the son she adopted into her name wished to run around the park. Under thick skin anger was a storm-sent ocean, she wanted to tear apart the decorations, slapped the bride and groom in the face. As punishment and to knock some sense into Tatjana. But then again, who was she to her?

For once in her life she wished that her son was making her tail behind him, it would’ve been such a wonderful distraction. At least from that she could smile rather than frown. The path to the outside of the holy grounds seemed like a blur as she marched back to her parked car. Unlocking her door felt mechanical as she jammed the key in the slot and slipped in. Manoeuvring out of the car parking she drove home, not bothering to raise her windows nor turn on the radio. The wind rushing at her face was enough of a block to silence the jealous though running rampant in her head.

So she’s just a torn off piece of the past now? Is that right Tatjana? The very same girl you promised to wait for, the very same woman you gave your first love letter to, the same one you wished was married to you at birth so that nothing could tear them apart? Is Albina just the life you left behind? Yes, the answer was yes.

The moment Albina had returned to her manor, two people came running up to her, the first one delivered a hand written letter which was clearly given enough effort to give it a wax stamp seal that was of Albina’s birth flowers. A circle of Chrysanthemums with a Peony in the middle, stamped onto topaz yellow wax. The second one was her son, a curly raven haired boy that hugged her leg with no hesitated. Caving in she carried the five year old in her arms as she greeted the boy’s father. The man was her butler and bodyguard of some sorts, the only reason why she opted for the boy’s adoption under her name was because she needed an heir for the company, and the kid still needs a mother.

Dropping him off just outside her study a forced smile on her lips just to reassure the child. That smile fell as the door closed the behind her, the low creak and nearly silent click as the lock settled into place. The wax seal popped open without much resistance and damage to the paper was she sat on her desk. Fingers fiddled with the rose pendant of her necklace as her other hand pulled out the letter inside.

Neat handwriting met her eyes as she read, a perfected cursive where every letter written seemed like a printed farce. Whatever expression on her face turned numb as she read the contents.

January 21, 1986

To my dear Albina,

Believe me when I say I’m sorry for forgetting my promises all those years ago. I didn’t forget you, no. I’ve committed adultery choosing this mistake. I wasn’t threatened, nor was this forced. By the time you receive this I am to be wed, and I wilfully accepted the proposal carved out of money. This is a mistake from my own choices so do forgive me. I loved you I really did. But you disappeared, I didn’t know where to look or who to turn to in order to find you again. I wanted you back, under the acacia. I wanted to hear your solemn voice and see your natural bittersweet smile. You were gone for so long, I didn’t even know I’d fallen out of our passion until I felt that I had not missed you when the news came that you’ve returned to the country. To the heavens above, to whoever can listen, can it happen that we both find each other again? I want to see you, I want to have you. I fell for you again when it’s a week before the wedding. I want you. Let me have you. Who am I to say all these when I’m marrying under such petty circumstances? Yours? No, I am merely a woman named Tatjana Rosenberg. If it ever happens that I do leave this bastardoues man, take me back at once. I beg of you, have me wear your ring that we can kiss under the shade of the acacia once more. As spouses who love and will love. I want to live was yours and you as mine. I love you, Albina.

From your beloved Rose,

Tatjana Rosenberg

The sound of scissors cut through the room.

Sharp and precise, Albina cut off the last part of the letter beholding her name and her last two sentences. With a small vial by her side she rolled the paper and put it inside. Wiping whatever tears stinging the corners of her eyes, she looked up as if the heavens had also heard her mind and would fulfil their unattainable dream. Redirecting her focus back got her small vial, she meticulously dripped in Tatjana’s favorite perfume, watching as the ink slipped out of the paper and mixed with the pink liquid. The remaining paper of the letter she slipped in the middle of a premium edition of Tatjana’s favorite book. She had everything, always keeping two of the gifts she gave before she left the country for Belgium.

With the cork of the vial she sealed it in for good. A small screw like pin with an eye hole was drilled into the center of the cork and secured with superglue. Joining the newly made pendant with the necklace she wore as of currently, a bittersweet smile graced her lips before it fell.

The spot on where the pendant sat was the exact same spot where Tatjana used to lay on as they slept beneath the tree. Her lips used to hover as her palm stayed over her heart. At least with the last words of the woman that should’ve been hers, they could stay over the heart that should’ve beat beside her’s forever.

Albina exited the study just as her son nearly knocked, it was barely five and the little boy was probably there to mess with her. Scooping the little one in her arms she made the way down to the library, he wanted to continue the book they’d been reading for a good week by now. Perhaps, this little boy could be her source of joy as he stumbles along this long life of regret.

Oh Tatjana, come back.

# data[].attributes.body
Inspo: Too Sweet By Hozier

Character: Rosalyn Villavona (Duke Florejes’ Only Daughter)

18 Years old

Christine Archambeau

15 years old

May 17, 1856

Debut of Lady Villavona

The patter of a light shower graced the windows. Nobles flooded the halls of the ballroom, her father insisted she’d stay in the hidden theater. Saying she should observe the ballerina that would perform in front of the Royal Couple in the later evening hours. Quite humid here given the weather and lack of ventilation, closed off as the center of the mansion. The second son of Duchess Aurelvgne joined her shortly. His excuse being that he’s bored and fatigued from dancing with all the ladies to tried bringing him to their quarters. But it was disturbing that grown women would desire intercourse with a newly crowned Duke barely over the age of 20.

Rosalyn merely chuckled, her focus solely on the tiny figure rehearsing on stage. A loud thud every time an Jeté concluded. The routine vigorous and violent, reflecting off the envious theme of the black swan. Archambeau was such a young dancer, hired by her father a few months prior. She needed to practice to not bring disgrace upon the House of Villavona.

The door below their seat swung open her Duke Villavona entered first, followed by the regal stature of Portugal’s king and queen. The noise of Europe’s nobles spilled inside before returning to the silent muffle as the door closed.

On instinct, Rosalyn straightened her posture as the orchestra started the moment the Royals took their seat. The white outline of fabric flowed in the momentum of the performer as she gave it her all. Even from this far of a distance, Rosalyn saw the harsh silence of tears just below the surface. After a good eight whole minutes of dance Christine bowed, her body tired after dancing with all her might. A young, adolescent’s body of fifteen battered down into a slim figure due to dance.

A glint shone into Lady Rosalyn’s eyes, her father stared at her from his spot as he escorted the girl off the stage. Seems like Villavona would be keeping Archambeau safe somewhere in the manor while the party of the adults continued.

Christine sat in front of the new Duchess. Her fragile frame trembling ever so slightly from exhaustion. Duchess Villavona persisted that she’d change her attire. Following with minimal discomfort, she was offered a silk dress, wonderful for a gown. Nearly declining until the clasp of her costume was removed. It brought a surge of air into her lungs. Rosalyn’s left her momentarily to get dressed. And now they sit here, a cup of tea and its aroma filing the room.

Archambeau felt an extreme flutter in her stomach as Rosalyn complimented her in the most subtle yet powerful ways. As bright as the morning sun? Her hair softer than the rain? Her movements graceful as a vineyard, smile as sweet as the grapes made for wine. She couldn’t handle such at this age, naïve and young. But the lady she stood in the same room knew the bitterness of the world. The unfairness of the wealthy and the poor.

A vow to wait she heard, the skin of her nape tingling at the light breathing of the woman behind her. Nimble fingers traced her clavicle before retreating. One delicate kiss upon the crown of her head and the back of her hand before they parted ways.

One delicate dance under the love of the Rich. She bowed, then Rosalyn. A last embrace, and their love held by a thread for the years to come.

# data[].attributes.body
Perhaps, in another life, Naori wouldn’t have been a regular hospital visitor. Perhaps, in another life, his roommate wasn’t so eager to leave all the time. Perhaps in another life, the person he shared a home with, didn’t wish to die everyday.

One year, it has been one year since Miyame Kasayaki declared himself clean. Yet there was still something that made his days empty. Either from himself, or the world around him. His roommate suggested a soak to celebrate. Unfortunately the winds are chilly during his time of the year. But the port side hotels of Hokkaido are luckily supportive to have an indoor pool with a heater.

Warm water sloshed around with the other guests of the hotel enjoying their stay. Snow pattered and clumped outside from his view, making sheets of ice to melt the following morning. A perfect day for cleanliness, warmth for comfort and cold numbness of the past. Not a bad idea at all.

From his little basking spot at the very edge of the jacuzzi, the faintest silhouette of an employee walking out far too casual for a job. Clad in violets and sunset gold, hiding just behind two barriers of glass to take a quick puff. Wasn’t the building a strict no smoking area?

With a quick shiver from the warm water to the cold air, Kasayaki pattered over to the sun-tanning bed, his wet body laying over the black material with a perfect hourglass view in front of him. “I thought this was a no smoking hotel, desk clerk?”

Apparently Naori took the joke well as he extinguished the amber glow of his cigarette. “My apologies then, dear guest. I assume you’re enjoying your stay. Enjoying so much that you’ve distracted an employee.”

Distracted?

“Spare me the bullshit, Shin-san. You’re off the clock already.” The other’s face dropped to a frown before softening again. Clearly unable to keep a straight face under these circumstances. “You’re too soft, now where’s my cake?”

“Cake?” The receptionist pushed himself up, buttocks securely sitting on the cement railing that separated the pool floor with the bordering garden along the high rise tower’s edge. “The kitchen’s still buying ingredients with my money, sorry for the delay.” At this point it would be fruitless to hold back their giggles. That dry humour was delightful to the ears, with no effort whatsoever to make an open sarcastic remark.

“Happy to see me kicking and alive, Shin-san?” Reaching up to touch the cold glass window, the warmth of his hand leaving a mark of condensation. Cold weighted heavily on the surface as the braces keep them from falling shut. “Who wouldn’t be?” With a raise of a brow, his gaze drifted down to Kasayaki’s hips. “You’re sitting on a towel might as well use it. It’s cold you know.”

The recovered merely exasperated a sigh before wrapping the towel over his wet form. “You think I’ll be admitted again?” Those words brought the receptionist to a pause, the cigarette centimeters away from his lips. The light in his eyes wavered. “Again? Don’t be silly, it’s just a check up.” Physical check up, he’ll be fine. He won’t be left in their apartment for another two years.

“Shinobu-san?” … “Hm…?”

“You don’t want me to leave in anyway possible, yes?”

…

“Your point is?”

“Perhaps I’ve hurt you…then you became attached out of pity.” The cigarette is now gone, the high feeling of nicotine fading away with each passing moment.

“It wasn’t pity. Just…” Words were dying while Miyaki gave a knowing grimace. “If you want me to stay just say it.” He gave in, joining the survivor on the sun tanning bed.

“It’s bad scaring someone like that, you’ll make yourself sound like a jerk that way.” “Heh, only to you.” How romantic for some people like them.

A cold gust of wind blew in and Naori hurriedly closed the window, the built up snow falling in a clump, hopefully into the snow catchers. “You should wash up, it’s getting cold.” “Oh wow, now he’s reminding me.” “Hush up, now go.” The air went stiff with faint sadness as Kayasaki chuckled his way into the main building. “See you there, Shinobu-san.”

…

The fifty feet tall Christmas’s tree stood tall in the middle of the plaza. Surely a ton of people were already there taking pictures.

Hopefully they don’t get lost in their little holiday walk around the streets. Christmas is for couples in Japan after all, they wouldn’t want to be leftovers.

# data[].attributes.body
Character/s:

Shinobu Naori - 26 years old

Sakuma Kuraniko - 32 years old

Sakuma Kuraniko, 32 years old and currently enjoying a good drink at the hotel’s top bar. Not all the time they were given a chance to get-together in the same place while the hotel operates. Either one or two of the group was always gone, and yet somehow both Naori-Kun and Momano-Kun were here. Warming drinks of alcohol filled their bellies under the safe light of the bar’s gazebo style. Every one’s laughing for once, after the day’s draining tasks, they can indulge in a hazy ecstasy that will surely turn into a skull pounding headache the next day.

Being the staff’s long term employee in the resto’s service, Momano being here was a breath of fresh air for the eldest in the room. That was broken by Naori sitting beside him. Causing both of them to move away a bit for some space. Moments after a freshly made Tom Collins was served, his little bubble of alcoholic warm was popped by a question he dreaded to hear all day.

“Two months ago…Okami Nii-San came home gloom. Why is that Kuraniko-sempai? You’re the only one outside of his work that he talks to. Why did he cry that night?”

The language, no, dialect was familiar, with most of the staff being from Tokyo or Osaka, only them two under stood. Kuraniko had been purposefully avoiding that man’s younger sibling as he worked. One knew, but the other’s intuition was too strong for a human.

“You’re a few months late to ask that.” “I don’t care. Nii-San is never on the verge of tears at the door.”

His attempt to steer away the conversation was denied. But it was true, Okami does not come home all gloomy, only with a smile bright enough to rival the sun. Naori was too determined to find out. Dropping this meant forgetting the sadness his brother endured that day.

“What did you say?” It was full of pity with the slightest notes of distaste. Neither dared to initiate eye contact with the other. Naori’s eyes held pain even with Momono-Kun draped over his lap like the attention needy fox he is. Whining on and on about how the older men keep mentioning his sister.

He opened his mouth to speak, but this intended words were silenced with a lie. “Wrong time wrong place, that’s all.” “You still tried to lie.” Chugging down a good cup from the beer in his mug to drown his stupid words. “I know, and?” Naori paused beside him before continuing. “Right person, wrong time.” He tried to conclude without his voice cracking. Love lives were an equally difficult topic around this family. Their mother was the reason for that. Dating an ungodly amount of men a DAY after her husband’s death. Not even trying to grieve while her children mourned.

Okami? The Eldest of the three children of the Naorj name became the breadwinner. Working day and night to pay off debts and his own necessary. And that same man was the one Sakuma regretted falling for, and Hard. He was supposed to move on and accept the friendly bond they had, but no, his infatuation turned into something that will haunt him. What kind of friend confesses decades worth of feelings a week before the other’s wedding?

Ladies and Gents, Sakuma Kuraniko apparently.

His relapse was broken by Naori finishing his drink out of the blue, probably out of anger. A low groan from the younger man before a loud “I’m going home” erupted into the space, Momano hurriedly went after him clearly concerned or just drunkenly willing to join the middle child of the Naori family on his walk home.

Little by little, the group became four, then three, then two. Kuraniko and Hirosaki being left. Their ever so loyal bartender served him a drink, a strong one at that. For free? “Why—?” “What with you today young man? The life of the party? Where is he?”

He was met with concern and disappointment at once, and from a man hitting 58 next month too.

“I- don’t know, Hirosaki-senpai, I don’t know.” Bringing the strong concoction to slide down his throat only to be met with his own face scrunching up before hacking out. “You made the rookie cry, y’know.” The elder one merely blurted out the obvious while cleaning the glasses of the others.

“And? He’s the one sensi—” “A terrible liar you’ve become.” Kuraniko raised his eyes from the melting ice of his drink. “You were so fond of him before today. Always saying how much he’s like he’s brother. Always saying how great they are. Always saying how proud you were of him.” He felt sick to his stomach, a frown making his grimness apparent. He wants to speak but there are no words, the truths right in front of him. A bottle of sake was slammed in his face. “Take it home, you’ll pay with your money.” His salary…damnit.

Not even trying to finish his scotch and snatched the bottle off the counter. Making a bee line to the elevator, he doesn’t want to deal with these today. Not when he knows everything going to be gone tomorrow. Not when he has to listen to vows being made, not when he had to see them happy while jealousy smoking outside to get high. He wants to cry from just the thoughts, he’s not attending the wedding tomorrow.

# data[].attributes.body
The hallways were as empty as the reserved seat at the reception. The glorious golds taunted him, those same golds would be decorating that joyful marriage as he wallows in the love-sickened air he created for himself. Stuffy and choking, as if to squeeze out the useless love he had left.

The door whirred open from his keycard. The automated air conditioning keeping the room an unforgivingly cold 15° Celsius. It’s horrid. Shoving the bottle of alcohol into the mini fridge and facing all pictures of Omani’s face away from his sight. Including the sweetest one of his college graduation that sat by his bed.

It’s quiet, so quiet he’s afraid he’ll be scolded if he makes a noise. The bed creaks under his weight, instilling a spark of pity in Sakuma to at least transfer to the couch. He barely fits, and so does the pain of his heart, just a drop away from spilling everything. And yet his eyes feel so dry, the blanket he’s burying his face into is cold. Okami’s perfume doesn’t reek from its edges, replaced by the scents of laundry soap and sun dried sheets.

Those stupid years of “playful” interactions on the bed, couch, every where that they had been able to smile like the high school boys they once were. They had been for nothing apparently. Okami could’ve used that same time spent with his lovely fiancée. That woman had the world laying his heart out for her, that woman was so damn lucky. So lucky and Sakuma can only writhe out of anger, not at her, at himself. He’d been so caught up in the other’s smile that he’d nearly disregarded the woman by his side. How dare he do that.

And he confessed wrong too, it caused a fight. Okami took it the wrong way, saying that all their “happy times” were to keep him away? No, it was never like that, and yet it seemed so much like it. And Sakuma hated it.

The night was so peaceful until he blurted those three vulnerable words out. Okami didn’t even hesitated to look at him with disgust. He wanted to hide, to run, and yet Okami wanted an answer. Every word he wanted to say came out wrong. The situation made it worse, Okami had just asked him to attend his wedding. And now Shin-chan tried to pry it out of him earlier. Oh Okami, your brother’s still looking out for you.

Staring blankly at the drawers and pulling one out. Christmas gifts? No. Just gifts in general, gifts unsent because he thought they were too cliché for Okami. Tearing them open one by one. Annotation tabs, two new releases last year, a brooch for prom, a hand made embroidery of his full name on a piece of felt. Felt, felt that was the colour of the drowning turquoise of unexplored caves. The last one was heavy, even Sakuma himself failed to recall the gift until he ripped the wrapping. And they his heart sank. One of the best self-bound books, he had sneakily found the old poems and scripts Okami wrote in his free time and re-typed and printed everything.

The title said “Winters were sweet for 13” in gold, bold and proud. Sakuma had made that title since Okami wrote all of it in 13 winters. In reality it was only three. Twelve months, two winters, and that one month before spring. The pages aligned perfectly, not a single typo insight, the very spine was embezzled with the design of a moth and butterfly intertwining their proboscis together to share the nectar of a hibiscus.

Cleaning up the Christmas themed wrappers, Sakuma bitterly placed the gifts into his safe, but left the self-hard-bound book. Keeping the passcode hidden around the house somewhere. The book’s quality was high tier, from the pages to the leather and wood that made the cover. Tears pricked his eyes when he opened it on that one page. In the middle of the whole book there was a section dedicated to romances. Every word passionate and gut wrenching. And Sakuma let the water of his tears soak his blanket, gingerly keeping the book close to him despite knowing that none of the words are for him.

Pushing the book aside for a while to console himself until the wave of indifference washed over him again. His eyes were closed as if to sleep yet his head was ringing. Why couldn’t it be him?

Why couldn’t it be him that Okami ran to so happily. Why couldn’t he be the reason those sweet caramel irises smiled? Why couldn’t it be him, the one Okami could love without end. Why? Why? WHY?!

For the first time that night, Sakuma let out the weakest of groans. One filled with a despair only a failed love can bring. He’ll try to sleep through this pain in his heart. It physically hurts that he can’t stand to drink water and calm it down. But he’ll be a sleepless zombie tomorrow knowing that as he serves guests that come and go, the one that sculpted and sliced away his other half will pledge their life for another.

# data[].attributes.body
Character/s:

Eurielle F. (Franciscaño) Rosario - 32 years old

Cyrille Desforges - 31 years old

It’s the May Miracle that the air of France was crisp and didn’t reek of downpour. Eurielle was finally able to drag out the coffee table and chairs back outside onto the terrace of his penthouse. With June creeping up on them, their daily rain showers have turned into a light mist or a drizzle just to moisten the bare cement.

A lungful refreshed his cooped up senses, nearly the whole month he’d slept more on the pull out sofa bed of his study rather than the King sized cushion lying idle in his bedroom. Call him overdramatic or whatever, but the freeness of the wind blowing past him was enough for the man to sag on the railings as if he’d collapsed. Which he clearly had plans on doing on his bed later if he doesn’t flop on the couch first.

The bottle of previously opened Yellow Tail awaited its reopening as Eurielle melted onto the velvet arm chair. His peace was supposed to be just him and a sweet glass of moscato, but was slightly disrupted by his guest of a consigliere joining him on the terrace. “I expect Clicquot or something more extravagant from you.” He wanted to be nonchalant to the approach, but his semi-relaxed state had given him a start.

“Can you not..just walk in like that…? I was about to have a good sip of wine.” Sleep deprived eyelids drooped as the glass was filled with the white wine. Its yellowish hue finally seemed clear in the dim lights of the suburban city. Bringing the liquor to his lips, he took a moment to appreciate the aroma before sipping the fruity and zesty wine. The aftertaste was sweet, tangy even, but a smooth coating of flavour overall.

With wine in his head, his focus drifted to the wine in Cyrille’s respective glass. Even from a far and in this dim lighting, Eurielle could tell it was Domaine De la Romanée Conti, 1929 vintage to be exact. He knew his wine yet not himself, how amusing. “Whose are you drinking? Mine or yours?” “Mine of course, I’d never forget to bring it over while I’m practically freeloading here for a while with the condo being renovated by your dear sister-in-law.” For once he felt dumb, actually no. Every single conversation with Cyrille made him dumb. You could never understand him enough, and when you ask he’d retort with unbridled sarcasm. Or just ignore you completely.

The response came off as cocky to Eurielle’s ears, it was rare that Cyrille visibly showed any care to anything, so why did he still expect? As the other joined him on the opposite seat, he’d unconsciously curl into his side, as if to hide. Clearly wanting time to himself, he gingerly sipped from the glass again, this time halving the contents. Letting the alcohol warm him up for a moment before the after taste had him drinking more. “What brought you up to the loft? I thought you’d be lounging by the mini bar.” “The liquors you have on display are too light for my taste. The only strong one you have is Philippine imports.” It felt like an insult that had to be defended. “You were drunk with two shots of that thing.” “I already had tequila and Absinthe in me, how was I supposed to handle coconut vodka?”

Wanting to retort again but found the words on his tongue gone as he open and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. He shut himself up with swig of wine. Annoyance at himself bubbled just under his skin as he snatched the bottle off the table and poured to fill the glass. His head swam in a daze as he halved his drink again. The wine no longer feeling comforting but serving as a distraction on the murmured taunts Cyrille commented while watching Eurielle drown himself in alcohol.

“You came here to mock my alcohol behaviour?” “Maybe. Just maybe. Although it’s mostly that.” With a bow the wine glass gesturing to where, Eurielle felt the fine hairs on his nape stand. He pulled on the lapels of his robe to hide the apparently bare, scared, and tattooed shoulder blade. The head of the snake suffocated by the silky fabric. “There’s nothing about this that concerns you. Why ask?” He took his eyes off Cyrille for one moment, and the next was a looming presence over his shoulder. “Curiosity, purely and simply that.”

Cocking his head up before scoffing, “Are you deaf?” “No, very much not. I’m asking since it circulated like wildfire. I just didn’t bother on the topic for a decade.” That decade should’ve given Cyrille enough time already to figure out what happened to him that blossomed that tattoo along his back. “Until now?” He raised a brow even if the other couldn’t see, the bite in his voice said much. “Until now.” His consigliere finished his statement with a lit that hardened into a fine knife head

That burn has no involvement with you. He WISHED to say, but thoughts are thoughts and he’s already hinted at that. “Why the fuck do you keep degrading my sanity?” “I’m not, it’s just your perception on my words.” Walking away from the mocking presence, Eurielle wanted to fling himself off the balcony. He would have if it weren’t for the three kids he adopted. “So tell me,” the cold rim of the wine glass was dragged down his clothed spine. Suppressing a shiver, he returned his focus to the man behind him only to hear the possibly stupid question to be asked.

“Say, had that fire not burned everything down. Where do you think you’d wander off with that life yours eh? The mafia you call “Famiglia” is not the life you aspire to be bent on for, is it not?” With the words on the tip of his tongue, and Cyrille’s own drilling holes into his dignity, the temptation to answer directly was too strong. He had waited more than “too long” for that question to finally be asked. It was a stupid, unreasonable reason that tied him to the path of the now century year old crime syndicate. Blood, mental instability, and manipulation. The older executives took advantage of his mourning state during that time and somehow convinced his stubborn thirteen year old self to join the “Famiglia”. Zio Primo’s face that day was priceless, clearly, he had never wanted Eurielle to trot down Leonide’s footsteps like a naive fawn.

“Praia de Odeceixe, Portugal. A quiet house there, a different name, no scars, all the books I want to read, all the food I wish to cook and eat…,” his voice trailed off as more of the life that has slipped through his fingers was unraveled, “a peace I can’t afford.” The humorous start was nowhere to be seen as he focused his eyes on the street lamps below. The surroundings turned into white noise. “You’re,” “Running my mouth?” “Pathetically ambitious.”

His exhale to the retort was quiet and inaudible with the winds whipping past them. Laying his head on his arm he let his vision blur, so unfocused it could rival astigmatism. Grenoble kept its quiet at this time, its air crisp with the slightest trace of snow from the French Alps and pine from its slopes. “Get back inside before it gets too cold, Seconda. I don’t think you’re done being “pathetically ambitious” with me.” Cyrille’s foot falls became muted as he made his way down the terrace, leaving Eurielle up there to breathe in the chilling air.

The city was covered in a sea of gray cotton, the tower estates were built on a much higher altitude than the rest. Odile insisted on that fact because at Eurielle’s penthouse level, she put a door leading directly outside onto the edge of the forest. From his position over looking the landscape, he could see the patio lights decorating the fences of the cliff. He took a step towards the door but the winds whipped past again, the curtains thrashed on the glass door, beckoning Eurielle back inside with rage. He could only grit his teeth and bring his bottle and glass as he returned to the warmth of his home.

# data[].attributes.body
Character/s:

Euriel Florejes Villavona - 32 years old

Auréle Montblanc - 30 years old

“MERDA!”

His fist hit the glass door of the clinic, followed by a bout of underlying curses to the fact that he just locked himself out of his own establishment. And made it certain that he couldn’t enter his own home. He was pacing before he knew it, trying to recall his steps on as to where the actually living hell had he left his keys. The deafening pause ringing in his ears was broken by the image of a Starbucks mug, and on its handle, his pretty keychain.

“Ay…blanco…..”

With nothing but shame in him, he slumped on the glass door, a shiver running up his spine at the cooling temperature. His fist hurt after slamming it on the glass, his teeth were restless as he bit on his lower lip until it bled, a few tears welled in his eyes at the sharp pain but he quickly blinked them away as he dialed Auréle’s number.

Putting the receiver on his ear he waited for the signature static to crackle before blurting out his favor in the transmitter. “Please, wherever you are, do you mind passing by my street for my keys?” A few beats of pure silence passed before a raspy response filtered through. “The keychain that was hanging on a plum Starbucks mug and has a personalised engraved mini scalpel? If you’re talking about that…where the fuck do you live?” Florejes choked on cold air at the confirmation, quickly muting his side to cough, unfortunately for him he accidentally ended the call instead.

A loading groan slipped into the air as he typed in his address, the reply was a quick voicemail. 20 minutes, it’s a tad long but it’s just 10 minutes twice. Although that would be twenty whole minutes of him sitting on the cold hard cement looking like a homeless man. He sat there in a daze, the chilling temperatures seemed worse than snow. His heel tapped insistently, his mind dull as he fought sleep.

There was an overbearing urge to just give up fighting and completely surrender to the sleep that weighed heavy on his bones. His shoulders were shooting arrow after arrow of nothing but pain down his back, dreading the weekend and the endless wave of patients to come his way, the office was as draining as it already was, but his medical work was worlds away in tiredness.

Gritting his teeth his vision blurred as he pressed the heels of his palm into his eye sockets. The world went quiet leaving behind a ringing irritation in his ears. Zeroing on nothing in particular his head drifted to the only one waiting for him in that apartment. Rosalyn was probably already tucked in bed, with either half or no homework done left in her bag of desk, it was a miracle that the girl was still maintaining her spot in the batch’s top ten achievers. He blinked within closed eyes, suddenly craving the fluffy fleece blanket draped on his daughter.

He curled in closer to himself, his knees nearly touching his chest as his breathing came in short white puffs. There was barely anyone walking at the late hour, normally he’d still be circling the rooftop at this time but the cold and lack of keys kept him rooted in place.

Florejes shifted, trying to conserve his body heat while his jacket served no help. With his brain preoccupied with not letting him suffer from hypothermia, the signals coming from the vestibular nerve were blatantly ignored. The honking in front of him ceased, coming ‘round from the driver’s seat, faux leathered shoes came into Florejes’ blurred view and still he did not register. An exasperated huff fluttered around his head from the man. Auréle’s hands flexed and warmed as he counted to prepare.

« Un...

Deux...

Trois... »

He seized Florjes’s cold riddled arms by the wrists, successfully waking him from the winter induced nap. Florejes stumbled as he was hoisted onto his feet, his vision had not quite yet cleared, forcing to shake away one of his hands from Auréle’s grasp to rub at his eyes. His remaining hostage hand squirmed in the stinging heat of Auréle’s palms. He was about to shake off his grip when it loosened, dropping from his wrists to cross around his colleague’s hips.

« Bonjour, Monsieur Villavona ? » from Florejes’s blank stare he could still register the mocking concern in Auréle’s eyes.

“ « Bonjour » my ass, it’s the dead of night—!”

“It’s midnight now get in. Don’t think I’m still going home at this hour.”

The door was swung open for him to enter shotgun, Auréle had to circle around the car to return to the driver’s seat. No necessity for the seat belt when all they’re going to is the parking. The basement parking is for the hotel guests, residences are from floors 28 to 58.

“Two lefts and the right entrance.”

“Two lefts and the right entrance?”

Florejes was stunned into silence but recovered as he had to peek from his seat to tell the security guard, “Villavona, 48th Floor Unit No. 4825.” A quick signal and they were up the ramp.

“7th floor parking, there shouldn’t be that many today it’s a weekend tomorrow’s .” He waited for a half baked response but looked over to see the back of his colleague’s hand pressed to his neck.

“Fever?” “Barely, I’m just warm.” Hm… the last time someone said that to me they went into a coma from a heat stroke….“Fatigue?” “You’re a worry wart… this is more or less my normal, I’ll be fine.”

He blinked twice before turning his head to face the window, not giving his usual quick hum as he felt as though that him would lengthen the duration of triggered regurgitation. With every ram of the car up the ramp his stomach flipped and stuck itself under his diaphragm.

“Are you trying to jolt yourself awake?” Hurriedly shoving the back of his hand into his mouth his words were muffled as they came out. The nausea subsided as the parking ramps changed, going straight up rather than circling a pillar.

# data[].attributes.body
Dim, The only word that could describe Maximiliano’s opinion on the room he decided to crash in for the early evening.

A few warm lighted lamps illuminated the room enough that one could read. The dispersion though was uneven, most of the brightness being cornered into the three walls that enclosed the desk of the already quiet space limited room.

The mixing smell of self-made paint, lavender, and rose weren’t comforting nor unpleasant to either of the editors present in the room.

Something that Maxil wasn’t expecting to see in the room was his co-worker on a painting stool, engrossed in polishing details on a canvas.

“This is a catharsis habit on your schedule, isn’t it?” The question cut through the silence of the room but it stayed unacknowledged by Feodosiy, purposely ignoring the other man’s figure browsing through a clients work. The silence of muteness returned to their lips. Brush strokes against the canvas along with the occasional shouts of military personnel outside the safety of the apartment complex, kept the silence from being as still as death.

A dip of the brush into the rinse of water as the last stroke was finished. Feodosiy’s thin arms stretched out from the cramped position they were in the duration of the process. Standing up slowly with a hand keeping him balanced as the sense of lightheaded-ness crept its way through his temples.

Maxil didn’t try to bother helping out being too focused on skimming the work of a client. After Feodosiy’s steadily steps to the cushion of the couch, his body ended up sitting curled by the armrest but limp in the nerves.

A few shuffles from Feodosiy before finding himself peering over Maxil’s shoulder, his eyes going over the words of the manuscript he and the man beside him were to edit.

“May I have a look on the second half?” Feodosiy’s quiet voice whispered out of pale lips while he took the second half from Maxil’s hold. Gentle as he repositioned himself, a bony back pressed to the older man’s side. The contact feeling neutral on each other’s senses.

Not at all being uncomfortable with the feeling of Feodosiy’s spine on his arm, Maxil continued scanning and marking along side his co-worker.

A notice from Maxil of the content of the manuscript, his mouth parting as he called out to Feodosiy. The call and the pair’s proximity was close. Close that when Feodosiy turn his head around, lips equally parted as if he was to say a word, both of which found their speaking devices closed.

The focus shared drifted off for a few moments, the air around them from its cool and dim atmosphere warmed to softness and tenderness. Neither of them pulled back from the closeness, given that their respective minds were occupied with thoughts and questions unanswered.

Feodosiy pulled away first, lips seal shut but relaxed and soft. His sitting posture repositioned to for his back to be up against the armrest on the opposite side on the couch to his co-worker. His normally dull mahogany reds seem to have even the slightest bit of a smile in the ambiance of the warm lighted lamp.

Maxil on the other hand had his own lips slightly parted while maintaining his elegant posture. Eyes darting over as if studying the very crooks of his friends face, looking for the one thing he’d expect from a moment as long as what lasted earlier.

Remained lingering on both of them, the gentle softness of a partner that both possessed. And somehow, the tender moment seemed much more genuine and eased than forced from instinct.

“Utter this to anyone else and get your wallet ready if you want to be out of prison by the end of the month.” The dullness in Fedya’s pupils returned, a monotone voice matched perfectly. Neither a warning with sternness nor a concern with fear. Just a fact, rule, and law they were born to follow.

Maxil didn’t say another word, only a subtle nod as his gave strayed away from the other man sitting opposite from him  and back on the neatly done manuscript.

Feodosiy might’ve kicked the older man out of his flat the moment it came over them, but, there was just something about the other’s presence that didn’t need to go away so early in the young night.

# data[].attributes.body
The sliding glass door screeched as he pulled it close. Juggling the liquor in his hands one of them nearly slipped past his fingers if Cyrille hadn’t caught it in time. Surprisingly enough, no wine was split either. Both of them pushed out a huff of relief that none was wasted. Alcoholics at heart.

“Getting tired now Eurielle? You usually have a grip on these things.” Eurielle simply gave a face of dismay as they walked down the stairs… how fast did Cyrille run— if not jump up those steps to catch the bottle…? “It’s just the cold, and the weather.” It was the truth. The slow drop in temperature thanks to the rain accompanied by the sudden rise as summer shows itself made him more sensitive. He could barely hold a pen for 10 minutes without his fingers feeling like they’ll fall off.

“Did you eat before I arrived?” “Leftovers from breakfast…” that weren’t enough. He was hungry. But his appetite kept saying the opposite. He felt both hungry and full at the same time. As if the sustenance digesting in his stomach could entice a container already stuffed. Maybe it wasn’t just the weather. Feeling his in his stomach from just trying to fathom the thought, a clank of a glass brought him out.

Cyrille had set down the bottle and glass, which was originally in Eurielle’s hands roughly on the marble kitchen counter, when did he take it?

“Anything you want to eat still? It’s pretty late.” He waved him off. “It’s barely even been an hour since I ate.” An hour since he ate two pieces of bread, one egg, and a few sips of milk and matcha from Charline’s and Amble’s cups. He grimaced slightly before leaving Cyrille to himself.

Turning on his heel he made his footsteps as quiet as a cat as he approached his kid’s doors. Amable was sleeping soundly even with the IV hooked up on him again. He had to switch back to homeschooling in the middle of the year because of a sudden fluctuation in his health. Eurielle’s eyes flickered to Charline on the other side of the room. She slept restlessly as usual. Tossing and turning at every image that her mind conjured as a dream.

He slipped inside, leaving the bedroom door open just enough that he could close it soundlessly once he exited. The plus cushions surrender under his weight, dipping by the edge as he stroked his daughter’s hair to soothe her enough to sleep peacefully. Perhaps he was loosing himself every time he entered his eldest and second child’s room. Eurielle adopted them as a father, so why, so how is he caring for them more than his own mother did to himself.

Charline stopped stirring and mumbling in her sleep after only five strokes from her parent. Eurielle let out a fond huff as she curled to face his side.

He would’ve missed this moment had the fire not happened. Looking back over to Amable’s sleeping face, reminiscing of the time when that boy would still cling around his leg as a shy little nine-year old. He wouldn’t have had that joy. Even Andrelinda who slept in the room in front of his. She was so young, so so young yet was abandoned. It was a fact that he still couldn’t wrap his head around. That a girl, a baby like her was just…left to fend for itself when it should’ve been under someone’s wings.

Intertwining his fingers with Charline’s, he squeezed her hand, hoping that his own wasn’t as cold as ice. His eyes softened when she nestled in closer, leaning in, he pressed his forehead with hers. Keeping the pressure light as to not wake her. They, Charline and Andrelinda, were still adjusting to him. It hadn’t even been six months since they started to live as his children. She was barely seven and Andrelinda was about to turn four.

He let go with reluctance radiating through his being. Casting a long glance at Amable’s rising and falling chest before he left had him caught red handed by Cyrille at the door. “Left something open?” His consigliere raised a brow at him. “For myself, thank you very much.” Eurielle’s hand held onto the door knob for a moment longer when he closed the bedroom.

“You’ll crash in for the night again?” He stretched, pushing past Cyrille and into the intimidating space of his living room. “I’m still deciding on what room, how many are you keeping open for me this time?” Cyrille took the opportunity to tap on the cold metal railings of the staircase. There was a room beside the terrace, complete with a bed and decently sized closet. The penthouse already has a walk-in closet for all four of them, it was mainly for guests.

“Just pick one out of three— “ Eurielle shoved a bomb into his own mouth. There were in fact only two free rooms left. The third was his own room. The master bedroom was only free on a few select nights. Particularly when he was feeling off and the cramped room of his study felt more like home.

Cyrille pushed himself off the staircase. A stupidly pleased smile split his face as Eurielle’s words settled in. “I’ll give you space, just for tonight.” he failed to hide the lilt in his voice. It nearly made Eurielle groan in dismay. “Find a way to squeeze in... without disturbing me.” He gave one last glare before slipping into the darkened bedroom of rustic wood and gold resin. His advisor waited for the slow roll of the hidden door before entering himself.

The room was just as he left it to be all those years ago. Odile had too much faith in him sometimes. She didn’t even hesitate to bring his pathetic little sketch to their engineers and interior designers that day. She was ecstatic to have a gift for her brother-in-law’s newly adopted kid.

The bathroom hid behind a stained glass door whose colors shone a quiet bird of paradise onto the floorboards. He could see Eurielle’s silhouette moving around as he busied himself with his nightly routine. The bathroom was connected to the study but with a door’s lock facing the inside of the inner room. Making it inaccessible from the master bedroom’s bathroom door. Cyrille hummed lowly as he scanned the state of the chamber. Nearly nothing was misplaced except for a desk filled with the things that Eurielle leaves around for the night and easy access the next morning.

It was comforting and unsettling. Perhaps from the cold but Cyrille felt that it wasn’t the cause. Gliding his hand over the sheets, the fabric rippled beneath his touch, smoothing soon after as the silk it was. There was something more.

He gave a glance at the figure standing just behind the door, possibly hunched over the sink to wash his face. Not allowing his thoughts to stray too far he lifted his hand off the bed. He would be sleeping in it later but he doubted that he’d follow through with his own plans. Especially not when entertainment was just at his fingertips.