C. DE LEÓN​:

Her teasing works, though she knows the reason is less because of how convincing she was– or in this case, absolutely wasn’t– and more to do with that near tangible connection that gets stronger every time they’re together. Every time their eyes meet. Still, Cyra’s grin is proud as she crosses the street with Santi, still wrapped up in his arms and determined to do little more than shrug off his comment about some ‘uncommonly strong drafts’. 

No matter how strong her feelings for him were– are– Things have been so great between them these past six months. She knows it’s not an exaggeration to say that she’s fallen head over heels in record time, and she thinks he feels the same way. He’s the most loving, supportive person that she’s ever met– but even still. Every time Cyra thinks that she’s found enough courage to tell him the truth– one of the last big secrets about herself that he doesn’t already know– 

There’s always a hitch. A hesitation. A lump in her throat. Something that lasts just long enough for any amount of bravery to melt away. To leave her as some semblance of a lying coward in front of the man she thinks she loves, and her secret still untold. 

“Oh, god, yes please!” Her hand squeezes his arm lovingly. “If you’re sure that I have everything you need for it. You know, you could just list off the ingredients and..” The seriousness of Santi’s low voice causes her to drop her own sentence, and take a casual look behind them under the guise of fixing her hair. She spies the two figures matching their pace and in an instant, her shoulders square with the alertness. 

“The bar down the road is really popular, isn’t it? I’m sure that’s all it is.” Cyra tries the logical approach. It’s a dark and windy night, sure, but that doesn’t have to be the start to a scary story for them, right? “Still, maybe you’re right. About us sticking to the brighter street.” Her head bobs  and she lowers her voice even more. “Even if any of these alleys would get us there faster…”

“Could be,” Santi agrees mildly, hopefully, wishing it’s just a curious, late-night bar crowd rather than anything more sinister. The arm he has around Cyra pulls her carefully closer, turning his head just enough to press a distracted kiss to her hair, trying to be reassuring even as the gesture puts the shapes of the two men in his periphery. The comment on the alleys being quicker has him thinking, and in a moment of blind protectiveness, Santi chooses incorrectly.

“Let’s cut through here,” he murmurs, squeezing Cyra’s shoulder before turning them both down a broad alley. He’s taken it numerous times before, and knows it won’t be an issue — or it wouldn’t have, if there hadn’t recently been a chain link fence installed at the far end, too difficult for them to see until it’s entirely too late.

“No,” Santi says quietly, mostly to himself, as he grabs the gate door and rattles it. He tries the padlock and chain, too, but it’s all new and shiny and not about to give to a couple of desperate tugs. For one stupid, knee-jerk moment Santi’s considering if they could climb it, but a gruff voice behind them stops him from that particular and slightly ridiculous train of thought.

‘Hey,’ one of the men calls out, the both of them swaggering closer with the air of having already won. ‘Let’s make this simple. Wallet and watch,’ he starts, pointing to Santi with his other hand deep in his coat pocket. ‘Purse and jewelry,’ he adds, pointing to Cyra.

Without even having to think about it, Santi steps around and in front of Cyra — the bravado of being a teenager, or maybe the simple bravado of being in love and not yet having admitted it. One arm frames her behind him, the other holds a hand out in a mollifying gesture, palm out. “Okay,” Santi agrees, with zero intent to fight. His bravado doesn’t extend to stupidity, only protecting Cyra, which makes complying the smartest move, in his mind. Without hesitating but with a slow and obvious movement, he pulls his wallet from his pocket before tossing it down in the space between them and their accosters.

“I’m sorry,” he says much more quietly to Cyra, already starting to loosen the watch from his wrist; it was a gift from one of his elder brothers. “But it’s… probably best if we do what they say.”

A. BELLEFIELD​:

Atticus isn’t paying attention at the other’s expression. He figures the other has been surprised by something, maybe he’s reading the paper or a student has stopped him. However, when he hears ‘Belle’ he just about stops in his tracks and turns to see who it is. “Oh, uh” He frowns slightly, trying to place the older man. “I’m not sure, did I heal you at some point?” Atticus asks, scratching the back of his head. He had helped so many people that they tended to all blend together; but having the timeframe of March helped a little bit. As he looked at the other, his his eyes landed on the other’s scars and widened a fraction. “Oh! Yes, you were someone I thought was someone else” The interaction is fuzzy, but he remembers that this Santi person was nice enough then. 

“Oh, no, I actually work here.” Atticus laughed quietly “And I don’t go by Belle here, name’s Atticus, Atticus Bellefield” He considers giving the other a handshake but that seems like it would be weird, so instead he gives him a slight wave. 

.

“Atticus! Got it.” It doesn’t come as much of a surprise to him that Belle was a codename, or at least a truncation; Santi remembered thinking it was odd at the time, but considering the nature of Belle’s — Atticus’ — work then, some secrecy made sense. He returns the small wave with an air of amusement, then lets his hands find his pockets as he sidesteps to the edge of the hall rather than having a conversation in the middle of it. “And you work here, that’s impressive.” Pretty much everything about the Institute impresses Santi. “Do you teach? My wife actually teaches here now, which gives me permission to wander the halls sometimes,” he explains, well aware of the fact he’d let Atticus know he was a human when they met, so it felt prudent to explain his presence here.

17th September, 1998, midday; the Xavier Institute || @atticus-bellefield​

“Oh,” Santi blurted out, surprised but a little bit pleased; it wasn’t often he saw a familiar face wandering the halls of the Institute — though maybe ‘familiar’ was a stretch, considering the fact they’d only met once, and it was… a bit of a bizarre meeting. “Belle, isn’t it? Santi, I don’t know if you remember me. We met back in March. Are you a student here?”

16th September, 1998; afternoon || @silverplatters​

“Ms. Brandt, I…” Santiago had gone back and forth on whether she should approach her at all, and eventually something won out — not curiosity, not pity; he couldn’t exactly say. But approach her he did, and started the only way he really knew how. “I heard the news about your decision.”

C. DE LEÓN​:

The expression she makes, wide eyes and a wider smile accompanied by an enthusiastic nod, is maybe a tad over-exaggerated. Alright, it’s very over-exaggerated. But it near has to be when it’s being given to two children who know when they are being bribed with a glittery, rainbow distraction from the thing they actually want. Luckily for her and Santi, the girls also know when they have no hope of winning the battle.

With reluctant, and secretly excited, smiles and mutterings of agreement, the girls let their parents lead them to the ring toss. Their gloom quickly disappears, though, as they file into the only empty spaces left in front of the stall. There’s been a few near winners at this booth; the excitable energy near tangible as Cyra pays the attendant this time. Both girls get their allotted five rings. 

“You and Jackie are on your own this time, my love.” Cyra’s voice is soft as she brushes down Jackie’s hair and turns towards her husband. “I can only help one person at a time, and this is Tammy’s first time playing.” Tammy grins up at her mother and Jackie nods her understanding, having played this version of the games before. She moves to stand to in front of her father, a small but sure voice telling him more than asking him, ‘We don’t need their help anyway, right? We’re pros!’

It causes Cyra to laugh and send a sly smile down towards her youngest. “Oh they’re ‘pros’ darling! I’m sensing a competition.”

Santiago can’t help but laugh — he’s not trying to negate what Jackie’s just said, but her calling them pros at cheating at carnival games is too good to let slide. “Absolutely, I think everyone needs to stand aside and let the professionals handle this,” Santi agrees with a broad grin, settling his hands on Jackie’s shoulders when she moves to stand in front of him, glancing at Cyra with no shortage of warmth and amusement.

Jackie holds one of the rings up in front of Santi’s face. “You can throw this one!” Santi takes it with the same smile and nods, squeezing Jackie’s shoulder. “Very generous of you, peanut, but I’m sure you won’t need my help. Everybody ready?” He directs a quick wink towards their other pair, then: “On your marks… get set… onetwothreego!”

The attendant is barely paying attention with how many people are circling the booth, which is probably for the best. Santi leaves Cyra and Tammy to their own devices as he cheers Jackie on, instead, but naturally, all four of her tosses ping neatly off the sides of the bottles. To her credit, all she exhibits is an exaggerated shrug. “Well, even professionals have off days,” Santiago offers by way of consolation and, to prove his point, tosses his own ring to bounce off one of the suspiciously broad bottle necks. “Looks like maybe we should stick to darts, hm?”

T. CHIBA​:

“She’s okay,” Tiffany nods small, toes scuffing the floor of the hallway as they make their way along it. She finds that she’s walking slower than she usually might, the same as Santi— instinct makes her take a steady pace so she won’t have to say goodbye to Santi so quickly. “She’s immortal, so it wouldn’t really… I was never going to lose her, but it was pretty horrible seeing the violence anyway. I guess ‘almost died’ was probably the wrong phrase, actually… It feels dumb being so upset about it when we both were fine in the end, because I know people actually died, but I don’t know. I just… just wish people could be nicer. Non-mutants and mutants both.” It’s a naive thought, but she feels it anyway.

When Tiffany admits to it ‘feeling dumb,’ Santiago is already frowning and shaking his head. “Just because you knew she should be okay doesn’t make the experience any less traumatic. She still got hurt very badly, and I’m so sorry that was something you had to see.” Santi’s hand rests briefly on Tiffany’s back as they walk, a gentle touch of solidarity. “The way things have been happening lately… it does seem a little insurmountable sometimes, doesn’t it.” A pacifist at heart, Santiago likewise can’t condone the hate and violence the Brotherhood are putting out into the world, even if he understands it likely does come from a place of hurt. “But you and I, and Hale and Cyra… we can be good examples, can’t we?” Because by now Santi figures it’s safe to assume Hale is a mutant, if she’s effectively immortal. “Even if there are days when it feels as though there aren’t huge ways we can make a difference… it’s still important that we have even one mutant in our lives who we can reassure that they’re loved, and they matter.”

L. BURCH​:

“No, no, you’re on to something there, my friend.” Probably a little too close to home for Leon’s liking, but it seems innocuous enough. Who was going to send a man like Santi to deal with a man like Leon, anyway? Still, he makes a note of it. Don’t let him get too close. “I have yet to meet a therapist who doesn’t love a little bit of gossip. The bonus is, there are legal repercussions for spreading it in therapy. So, it’s, in its own way, gossip without repercussions for some sessions.” Gossip. It sounds so childish to call it that. But, he wants this to come off as a joke. 

Santi laughs, a little amused and a lot relieved, that Leon didn’t take total offense at what he’d managed to say. “Gossip without repercussions, I like that,” he decides with a grin, carefully side-stepping a child that goes running past with a huge but only half-eaten ball of cotton candy fluff. “Still, I don’t want to downplay what you do, of course. It’s important work. And I’m sure your clients are lucky to have you,” Santiago decides. He’s always been drawn to Leon as this… steady, calm presence. The man seems like someone who’d be easy to tell secrets to. “I imagine it must be rewarding? Your work.” It’s not something they’ve talked about before, probably because a coffee shop doesn’t feel like the place to do it — a festival maybe shouldn’t be either, but Santi can’t help his curiosity with the line of conversation.

T. CHIBA​:

“Hey, you survived. That’s pretty kickass, to me anyway.” Tiff says with her characteristic pensive optimism. In a lot of ways being a human was an advantage in life, but down in Bergen? She’d really have liked anything that gave her just a bit of an edge against the more powerful forces that could have done her harm.

Santi reaches out and gives her shoulder a squeeze, and god, it feels so… paternal. Sort of makes her want to cry. “I know you would.” she smiles sadly. Although Santi is kind of her boss, he is also so consistently gentle and understanding that she can’t help but feel she could confide in him too. “I just… don’t even blame them, you know?” she blurts out. “The Brotherhood, I mean. Like, Hale, my girlfriend, almost died down there. But then a part of me is like, well, I’d be angry if I was them, too, you know? Is that… is that awful?” she frowns with a small huff. It’s too easy to be honest with Santi.

What Tiffany says next is a bit of a rollercoaster: Santi’s eyebrows shoot up with a pleasant surprise at the mention of her girlfriend, but that doesn’t last long when Tiffany admits she almost died down there. Santi was well aware that, both during and in the aftermath, people did die down there.

Santi’s hand lingers at Tiffany’s shoulder a moment longer before he drops it, his subsequent smile a little sad, a little thoughtful. He shakes his head.

“It’s not awful. In my experience, anger like that… pretty frequently comes from a place of deep hurt. And mutants, unfortunately, have a lot to be hurting about.” He knows Cyra has a lot to hurt or be angry about. “You can understand people’s hurt but not have to agree with what they do with it,” Santi figures, starting to walk again but much slower this time. He’s in no rush. “It doesn’t give them the right to hurt other people. I’m so sorry about Hale — is she okay now?”

W. O’CONNELL​:

His arms out, and all that kindness—Will doesn’t know what to do. He rushes into his arms for a hug, tight enough to matter. “God. Santi.” There are tears, of course, and the weight of a couple of orders of takeout in his hand. Forgiveness is mundanity, and yet the world spins right now on the axis of their shared embrace. There are moments Will can never know, nor can he understand, and this is one of them. He’ll do better. He has to. “You’re too good to me,” he says, his voice choked with tears. With relief. “I’m—”

Sorry, he’s sorry. He’s always sorry. “God. Santi. Thank you,” he says, still holding him. “I don’t know—I’ll make it up to you. Somehow.”

Unlike before when Will pulled away, this time he’s quick to close the distance, and Santi is just as quick to wrap his arms around him in return. Tucking Will’s shoulder under his chin, Santi closes his eyes and lets out a soft sigh, squeezing him firmly. Reassuringly, he hopes.

‘I’ll make it up to you.’ Santiago considers telling Will he doesn’t have to, but this is Will. Of course he has to. So even though he shakes his head, he says, “I know you will. I’m not worried about that.” Pulling away just enough to be able to see him, Santi grasps Will’s broad shoulders and smiles. “It’ll be okay, Will. I know it will. And anything I can do to make sure it is… you just let me know. Okay?”

FIN.

feat. @cyra-de-leon​

Crazy, Stupid, Love (2011) dir. Glenn Ficarra, John Requa

L. BURCH​:

“I imagine that’s the difficult part of it all. Find that balance of being old enough to process those feelings and young enough to be able to have the capabilities for the job. I’d be shocked if they didn’t have a designated professional on site for that, but if not, well, maybe I should be doing some networking.” Maybe he should depending on what Ren brought back. If there was a lot of anguish there, and there was a need for these kids to unload, it would be an easy way to aid Ren in her job. He held his doubts that it would be that easy, but the possibility was there.

Santiago nods solemnly at Leon’s point, because it’s a good one. He tries to imagine any point in his own life where he felt the most physically and mentally capable, and it feels like opposing curves. Then again, he’s also never been anything like, say, invulnerable. “Honestly? You should,” Santi encourages with an unavoidable amusement. “But maybe that’s the freelancer in me talking. Still, though, imagine the fascinating things you might hear…” He trails off, then pauses and corrects himself, “Sorry, that’s probably a bit callous to say. I’m not trying to imply you should offer your services just to get the insider gossip.”

W. O’CONNELL​:

There’s not much Will can say to that and for a moment, he allows himself to sink into things, but the cruel hand of reality drags him back down onto the floor. He wipes his eyes, even if he feels like he wants to cry more. Just more for the things that has happened, for the things that will because of him. It’s on his conscience, and he just has to deal with that. “Not like this. You’re not—you don’t have to, Santi. I know there’s a breaking point to everything,” he says, smiling sadly. “But if you really do want to stay—I’m sorry. I really am. You have to know that.”

Santiago frowns, shaking his head — not brushing off the apology, but still not quite understanding. He doesn’t know how many other ways he can tell Will it’s not his fault. It’s not his fault his heart was too big, and Ezra too terrible. It’s not his fault his good nature was taken advantage of. “I know,” Santi says gently instead, taking a half-step closer. “I know you are. And I really do want to stay. I want to be able to just…” He gestures broadly, with both hands. “Put all of this behind us. Can we do that?” Please?

C. DE LEÓN​:

There’s a certain amount of pride hidden in the sweetness of her gooey, happy smile. Her little trick works exactly as she intended, and Santi pulls her in closer to him– a feat that any normal person would assume wasn’t possible, and yet somehow they always seem to find millimeters still left to consume between them. Cyra doesn’t consider herself to be a difficult woman to please, sentimental a person as she is. A thoughtful gesture or present, something shiny or sweet, or simply good company and she’s content– happy even. But there’s a joy that she finds in Santi’s smile, in the melody of his laugh or the poetic way that he can string his words together– regardless of whether she’s the source of his joy or even if she’s the one he’s talking to– There’s something about being around him, about his very existence, that makes her heart so full that she’s sure it’ll either spill over or explode.

Her romantic daze is broken, if temporarily, as Santi pulls away. Her smile falters slightly and she comes to a stop, giving him a questioning look before catching on to what he’s planning. He wraps her in his jacket, and then his arms– and she melts. The jacket, warm against the exposed skin on her arms and shoulders, smells like him as she pulls it tighter around herself. 

With a grateful smile– and a quickly uttered thank you– she leans in, once again closing the distance between them, and presses a soft, sweet kiss to his lips. “I will only agree to you taking me home if– and only if–” Another quick, teasing kiss. “you plan on staying with me tonight.” Her smile grows again, and the muscles in her cheeks start their usual protest of overuse. A common occurrence on their dates. Tonight, like every night she’s with him, the pain goes ignored. “You know how drafty my room is, it’s bound to be cold there too. What if I freeze in the middle of the night without you there to protect me?”

Santiago is barely watching where he’s walking, at this point — his eyes are for Cyra and Cyra alone, as is most often the case these days. She dots a quick, affectionate kiss to his lips, and even if it’s the thousandth kiss she’s given him, Santi’s stomach still does the gentlest flip. Her words only compound that, and what could he possibly do but nod?

“Of course,” he agrees easily and genuinely, but then, of course, has to buy into the bit. “Your big, fancy apartment does get terribly chilly. And it does have some uncommonly strong drafts.” That’s less of a bit; he has noticed some curious air currents in her apartment from time to time, glancing to the window to close it only to find it already shut. Cyra is terribly distracting, though, so usually if he’s at her place, well. He’s not much focused on finding the source of mysterious drafts.

Only now does Santi drag his attention away from her and cast a quick look around, making sure it’s safe to cross the road now that they’ve picked their destination. “And instead of coffee, I can make you some of that hot chocolate.” The end of his offer trails off into brief distraction; he catches a glimpse of a couple shadows, dark figures falling into step behind them.

Turning his attention forward again, Santiago frowns faintly. “Might be best if we keep to this main street,” he murmurs, resisting the urge to speed his steps and give away that he’s spotted them. “Either I’m a little paranoid, or… well.” He’ll let Cyra decide for herself.

L. BURCH​:

Leon nods in response, knowing that this isn’t the issue to push on. He doesn’t need the gory details of what Santi and his Wife dealt with unless they seemed to have some connection to either organization involved that day. Santi didn’t seem the type. “Undoubtedly. Here��s to hoping her memory keeps the Omegas going strong.” With a shrug Leon, takes a moment to debate acknowledging knowing Yaren, but opts not to. “I suppose being young isn’t a bad thing when you’re having to kick some ass every once in a while. Probably ideal, actually. No risk of dislocating anything.”

“Yeah, I suppose that’s true.” Santi chuckles, his hands slipping casually into his pockets as they weave through the crowd. The press of people only seems to be getting thicker, as they approach the hour the Omegas and their team are meant to make their address. “I just hope they all have the support they need. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be on a team like that at all, much less in the wake of having lost a teammate. Being young might spare you a lot of the physical aches and pains, but I’d argue it can certainly amplify a lot of the mental ones.”

T. CHIBA​:

“Oh,” Tiff laughs. A morbid, melancholy sound but still amused. “Small world. I was there too. I can’t believe I missed you fighting alongside Blindside! That’s very kickass of you. Definitely cool dad of the year award, although I can’t blame the girls for being more excited about Broadway. I’m glad you got out of there okay. It was…”

Tiff breaks off, lower lip clamped between her teeth. She’s not thinking about it. She doesn’t think about it. Hale’s blood everywhere. The fear. The screaming.

Santiago actually laughs, a light sound fully at his own expense. “See, that’s how I know you didn’t see it, because I don’t think anyone who did would’ve described it as kickass. Not my part of it, anyway. Though maybe a black eye does lend a certain dangerous je ne sais quoi.”

Tiffany’s expression darkens, however, as her words catch and trail off in regards to her own experience. Santi frowns gently and slows their steps to a stop; his own empathy may not be superhuman, but it is that of a father. He reaches out to give Tiffany’s shoulder a careful squeeze. “You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to. I know there were… some awful things that happened down there.” A clear understatement, considering the loss of life that occurred. “But if you do want to-” Is that why she’s here to see her parents? Now it seems even worse they don’t have time for her. “-I would be more than happy to listen.”

W. O’CONNELL​:

“I was—” Will swallows wetly, finding the steel to at least look at Santiago as he explains himself to him. “I was so scared. If he was going to come back and then I wasn’t there and I led you to him, I couldn’t—” Will couldn’t live with himself. It’s amazing how he can do that now, honestly. The sadness and horror and pain that he’s built up cracks the foundations of his being and nothing feels like it should be. “Santi. I couldn’t be another reason why you’d be hurt. I just—couldn’t.” He sighs, blinking some tears away. “It was messy. There was a lot to deal with; you didn’t have to deal with that.”

Santi’s frown deepens, but more out of a quiet frustration than anything else. Ezra cut a horrible, intimidating figure, but in Santiago’s eyes, that just meant all the more reason why they should stick together in the wake of what happened — not fall apart. “Will,” he begins with a quiet sigh, taking a half-step in. “What in the hell are friends supposed to be for, if not helping each other deal with things? Even the messy things. Especially the messy things.” Santi knows that Ezra qualifies as a whole new level of messy, but that doesn’t change his mind. As far as he’s concerned, he’d be no kind of friend at all if he let anything change his mind.

C. DE LEÓN​:

Cyra only snorts and rubs Santi’s shoulder, very clearly not believing his declaration of ‘passing on this particular family duty’. They’d have grandchildren–maybe even, if they were lucky, great-grandchildren– long before her husband stopped playing their little game, she’s sure of it. 

She grins at Jackie’s choice of prize, leaving Santiago’s side to help adjust the snake to be more secure around her shoulders. Almost instantly, little voices pipe up asking to play the fish bowl game, the one with the living prizes. Just as instantly, Cyra pulls out her ‘mom-card’ and veto’s it. 

“No. No fishing games.” Cyra answers firmly, before her features soften again at the whines of disapproval. “Darlings, we simply aren’t fish people. You remember the poor Barnaby’s– one, two and three.” The last three attempts at letting their daughters keep the pet goldfish they won during some game. “I refuse to bury a Barnaby the fourth.” Even if they are good for her roses. With a light laugh, she turns towards Santi. “Besides, we’ve seen Pet Sematary.” Well, they’ve seen the first half of it, on accident, after walking into the wrong theater. “I’m not looking to tempt fate. How about the ring toss?” She counters, turning back to the girls. “That way Tammy can play too. Get a little practice in.” She finishes with a wink aimed at their youngest.

Santiago’s relieved that Cyra’s more than happy to burst the girls’ bubble about the fish, because even though the argument comes up regularly — they’d already dealt with Barbaby one-through-three after all — Santi often threatens to cave. It’s difficult, saying no to the little doe eyes they fix him with, and so much of his resolve is already spent gently vetoing that they adopt a dog. 

“There are lots of fun prizes around here that we don’t have to worry about taking care of,” Santi promises them as Jackie and Tammy trade places, and he affectionately smooths some of Tammy’s hair. “What about a stuffed fish?” ‘That’s not the same!’ Tammy insists. “I know, which is exactly the point. How about…”

Glancing idly around, Santiago finally spots the ring toss, then points up towards the rafters of prizes. “What about that unicorn? To join the herd you’re already collecting in your room.” Considering her enthusiasm for the equestrian camp the girls had gone to in June, it wasn’t much surprise that Tammy was the proud owner of a number of stuffed horses — because if the De Leons drew the line at fish, it was no surprise that multiple lines had been drawn at ponies.

“She’s a good substitute, don’t you think?” Santi asks the other two just as much as he asks Tammy.