Realistic or Modern 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔟𝔲𝔯𝔫

[Uxie]

heart
burn

uxie + oxicodone

oxicodone

 

[oxicodone]

dante

the hitman

───── ᴘʀᴏʟᴏɢᴜᴇ ─────​

The veil that separates man from sin; devil from men, it poises a rotting feeling alongside guilt. A buzz-like thrill, not short of cold, hard stone that possesses the heart in the most demanding of times. Here's how you craft this feeling:

a dark, six-button wool and silk suit, a cotton shirt in-between a dark vest and said suit, foreign, white cuffs by some designer bozo, a silk tie by another, and rich, tar-painted shoes that the guy at the store had stressed as "very expensive leather wing tips". Whatever the fuck that meant. And, behind it all, stashed within the vest: a single colt m1911 with a fitted silencer. In one pocket: a burner phone. For the cleaners.

The veil is both the wardrobe and the act. Pretense donned in face and body, all of it just to be allowed into a space Dante has never set foot inside before. And, maybe it's the months of training, years of conning experience, or maybe it's just the clothes, but he easily slips into role. Carries a flute glass in one hand, a smile on his face, and an air about him that could trick the Gods, themselves.

"Mr. Graham."

"Mr. Caron."

Behold: he even reacts to the name of the identity he's borrowed for the night.

"Please, I've told you many times to call me by my name," the man laughs, the sound reverberating from his throat in a rich symphony.

"One day I'll remember,"

Dante laughs back. Perhaps the one thing he hadn't been provided with: details about the role he was playing + the partygoers. Hadn't earned himself a real spot at the agency just yet, and, in a way, this was all still a test. Needed to prove himself; up his reputation before the boss offered him any true form of security.

"How are the children?"

"Oh, you know. School's got them busy."

"School? In summertime?"

"Would you look at the time,"

Dante shoots his (watchless) wrist a glance before searching the crowd.

"I've gotta greet the man of the party. Nice seeing you Mr. Caron."

A twitch of a smile, a quick tap on the old man's shoulder, and Dante's off. Venturing into the crowd with a target in mind.

Right. The target. Louis Müller. Son of an upcoming salesman, said to have amassed his wealth through hardly legal means, rumored to own an island. Y'know, all that high-end shit that is only passed around within the rich man's world. He's the target of many, really. Dante's client just happened to offer the highest price.

And, right now, he's off hands. Safe on a platformed stage; a balcony open towards the first floor where all the guests await his appearance.

Dante's counted the security, bathrooms, staircases, and possible routes. He chooses a lone spot at a wall, one which allows him to react for when Louis moves on to his next destination. After he's finished his little speech — (which, what was it. Something about charity?). Once the speech starts, he (Dante) steps into one of the numerous hallways of the estate. Doesn't need big-shots coming up to him, badmouthing the guy they pretend to revere while the speech takes place.

 

[Uxie]

lilliana

the songbird

Tonight, Lilliana is not quite the picture of elegance.

She rarely is, to be fair, but it is a little bit more damning not to be in a setting like this. It was truly an honest mistake, getting lost in a sprawling house like this that seems closer to a palace than anything close to a manor like they'd called it. They'd left her to her own devices, after she'd greeted Mr. Müller — Please, call me Louis, the old man had said, and she'd nearly cringed visibly — dismissed her with not so much as a maid to guide her back. It is wholly expected for a girl of her age and stature and situation to wander off in search of what treasures and secrets lay in such hallowed halls, no?

She is beginning to understand why they never bring her out to functions like this.

Nevertheless, time had escaped her while she'd futilely tried to make meaning of the paintings that hung in Mr. Müller's dimly lit gallery, and her only cue had been the chime of a distant grandfather's clock. Now, Lilliana sprints through the maze of hallways, heels in her hand and gown hiked up to her knees and formerly pristine braid rapidly coming loose with every step. What would Mother say, if she sees her now?

Maybe a few dismissive words here and there — it isn't like she'd been the one to make the braid for her, anyway. Lilliana would have to do her best to replicate Annie's work when in the privacy of her dressing room. For now, finding the dressing room is of more import.

It felt like a left over here—

"Oh!"

She veers sharply to the side to avoid the man who suddenly appears as she rounds the corner, stumbling and twirling in a clumsy dance.

"I'm so, terribly sor—"

Her voice falters as she rights herself, her gaze lifting to take in features that are surprisingly familiar. A moment of silence hangs, before realisation dawns on her all at once. Her currently very bare feet, suddenly feeling every lick of the carpet beneath her; Afternoons spent peering out at him from a window of the orphanage building; When she'd coaxed his name out of her roommate with a hundred cookies and a thousand chocolates.

"Dante,"

she murmurs, and she can only hope the flush that had found its way onto her cheeks is no more noticeable beneath the layers of blush she has on. The embarrassment of coming face-to-face with him is less related to her past infatuation, and more about him being a memory of a time she'd sooner forgotten, in a place she'd been least expecting it to surface.

Should she just pretend not to know him? It is what Father would've demanded her to do, surely, but she has never been very good at listening to instructions. A quick conversation couldn't hurt.

Her hesitation lasts only a second longer before she seems to split into reality again, her gown dropping to the floor once more in an unceremonious move. A sheepish smile slips onto her lips.

"My apologies! I was not expecting, um,"

She fumbles for the right words, her voice coming out in an ashamed squeak as she continued,

"I wasn't looking where I was going."

 

[oxicodone]

dante

the hitman

They're all decorated the same. Walls painted in wheat and earthy tones, chandeliers dangling from every new ceiling. Upon wood; mis-matched berber carpets leading from one hallway to another. If Dante's to memorize his way back, there's frankly nothing to go off of. Statues and paintings and plants are not enough. Not when they fail to differ so. Rich man's taste 'n all. So, instead, Dante counts. In his head, he goes

A left, a right, another left. Count one, count two, count three hallways crossed. A third left —

and — pause! Suddenly.

He's quick.

Quick when he yanks his head down from the clouds, even quicker when he tears through a-many names and details, hoping to acknowledge her before she does him — (counts it a loss when he doesn't. He really hasn't studied enough. Never been much for a student) — so, then, who is she?

Circling around him is feathers of gold; a crown that would've crashed right into his shoulder if not for her slippery little dance. Quick on her feet, recognizable from her gait, recognizable by the way she speaks. The way she sounds her words. Even when she cuts her sentence short. Then, recognizable and familiar from the scent of spring; dual-kunzites searching something in him — him in her. They both look to the other, him for clues, her for realization. It comes to her first. And the very way she sings his name; unlike a bark, closer to a flower — not like the boys from the street, not like his faceless employer, but like —

"Lily."

On his tongue, her name is a question. He means to add "shit, it's really you?" but what comes out instead is:

"you're..."

"you've really changed."

('Cause god forbid he pays mind to anything more important right now.)

Dante can't remember if they'd ever spoken before. Two lone kids among too many a dozen. Robbed of a typical childhood; barred to a house of other unwanted children. And, was she anything more than that? Dante decides he can't remember.

 

[Uxie]

lilliana

the songbird

Her nickname, said so gently like he was thinking of white petals and not white-blonde hair. Despite it all, her heart does a meagre flip in her chest, and Lily wonders if she's a little more sentimental than she'd thought.

It's far more logical, though, to just presume that she's no more resilient to a handsome face than she had been at nine years old.

She had not expected him to know her name. The conversation would've ended with an apology, and she'd think of him for the night and no longer. It is a natural assumption, after all, considering they'd never spoken — she would remember if they had, just as she remembers signing her name, all cute and pretty, on her parting gift to him. As if he'd been anything more than a name and a face to her.

The thought mortifies her. She tries not to let it show.

"You've really changed."

Her eyes widen as surprise flits across her features.

"I didn't expect you to— remember me,"

she begins, words coming haltingly. What had she been like back then? She didn't think she was very much different, only that she was packaged like the young princess of a wealthy family now.

"I suppose I have."

An uncomfortable silence befalls them, and Lily allows it only a moment before she interjects, snatching at the first phrase that comes to mind with desperate fingers.

"How have you been? You look, ah—"

She finally gives his appearance a once-over, taking in the smart suit and the tussle of stark-white hair that has always painted an intimidating visage — it is the faintest sense of weariness in his gaze, accented by the hint of darkness beneath his eyes, that gives her pause. She knows nothing of where life had taken him after she'd left, and she had not thought to write back to the orphanage in the least; what little longing she'd carried with her to the Romanos had been swept away by the first spring breeze.

She's curious, of course, but it almost feels somewhat rude to ask. Then again, his mere presence before her is an answer to her question, and she grabs the thought and runs with it.

"Well."

she finishes simply, mauve lips curling into a smile,

"I've heard Mr. Müller's quite picky with his guestlists, so you must have been taken in by someone quite outstanding."

 

[oxicodone]

dante

the hitman

Truth's this: Dante hadn't expected himself to remember her just as much as he'd expected to run into her in the chokingly lavish corridor of a seven digit manor. He'd known just about enough (or so he'd like to believe). Lily was her name — had been her name for the better part of his childhood, and from the few peeks and guesses exchanged in the past, Dante knew her as nothing more than a kid next door. One of bundles of gold, eyes large enough to collect stars. A foggy memory of the hint of her smile, another of a present with her name scribbled on it —

— How have you been?

Dante blinks. Reality had never been prettier than the memories from the orphanage. And yet, here she stands. A tempest against his own logic.

He spares her a wordless moment; allows her to find whatever she's searching for. Then, his eyes dance across the hall. Over her shoulder.

"'Guess so."

"We graduated together,"

he lies. Here, his gaze returns to her own. He adds:

"I've got business with him."

Runs a quick scan down her person and settles on a long stare at her shoeless feet.

"You?"