#priam: tryna' push boris off the bridge and pass it off as an accident

[maskrvde-blog]

SEPTEMBER 20TH, 11:11 AT NIGHT

castelvecchio bridge

@justtotallystab

priam taravella leans forward against the stone railing, tilting his head just enough so that he could see the water below him. his mouth twists against his cheek into something like is-this-all-that-there-is, something that makes his normally refined motions retain an edge of rawness, and it’s enough to brand the concept of threat into the slope of his shoulders.

he idly dips his fingers into the pocket of his coat, retrieving an engraved lighter and flipping it around in his hands for a bit as he toys with the notion of a smoke. his thumb repeatedly flicks the wheel and a flare of heat catches at his fingers as he caves after a few heartbeats, lifting a cigarette to his lips.

smoke curls from his mouth and rises into the starless sky as he breathes out, bracing his forearms against the blessed cold of the bridge. the ember of his cigarette is the only light at this time before it, too, dies down. they say, a stray thought that flits across his mind, that wishes come true at 11:11.

they also say—here, his mouth slants into something mocking around his cig—that priam taravella is a good man.

he hears footsteps emerging from the other side of no man’s land, and his grin can’t help but to grow. too much teeth for his expression, right now, and he forces himself to redon the guise of humanity before the footsteps draw too close.

ah. how wonderful, as the dim light falls upon the silhouette of the most beloved man in verona. something in him sneers, vicious and cold, though he turns his head in a rather perfunctory manner, shoulders relaxed and mouth tilted into a roguish grin.

‘ out for a stroll, kovrov? ’ as though everything in him isn’t screaming for him to bare his teeth, as though his every movement wasn’t carefully calculated to reduce the ways men could call him a threat.

the moonlight—strange how the clouds have vanished—pools in the hollows of his eyes and falls across his frame like a tattered silver veil as he raises a hand in greeting, flicking the cigarette down—it’s not finished yet, hardly half-smoked, but he knows that if the other man comes closer, it’d take a huge amount of willpower for him not to lunge like something half-wild and burn the other man’s face away—and he’s smiling.

it’s a lovely smile, all charm and dark eyes set alight with pleasant surprise. ‘ what brings you out here, in the middle of the night? ’