/ false flag

[dominic vinten cuvo]

His neurotransmitters were fried. His skin dry, his stomach alarmed by sudden movement. Negronis and cocaine and too little food laid the foundation for a night that quickly slipped into blackness. It was one of those occasions that consumed the entire weekend, leaving Chateau in a blaze, rolling on the beach with Calvin, waking up in a guest bedroom with a stranger. No, Dominic didn’t care to remember every detail or face the consequences of any of his actions under the influence. Until he realized he didn’t call Kitty as promised. It’s not a pang of guilt that reaches Dom but a flicker of fear, already in such a precarious position partying in LA while she was hospitalized in Europe. He wanted it not to be serious, convincing himself that she had made up the incident or at the very least embellished the severity, not wanting to face any flavor of reality. In fact, he felt gravity extra heavily today—he couldn’t seem to rest comfortably, colors felt dulled, his senses rejected his surroundings. Waiting for Kitty’s arrival meant popping a few tablets to tide over the discomfort, cleaning himself up enough to put color back into his cheeks and shed all evidence of this weekend without her. Tracking her movement through the gated neighborhood, he did something he rarely burdened himself to do: he opened his own front door to greet her, that famous half-smirk on his lips. "My pretty Kitty."

[kitty smith-sato]

It was a relief to be apart from her fathers, who had taken the bruising across her cheekbone and split lip very, very badly. With jet lag setting in, Kitty had become irritable, batting them away and closing herself off in her bedroom, her phone glued to her hand. She had awoken around 9am still clutching it, MiuMiu licking her face as she registered that she had no missed calls. In the past few days Kitty had been experiencing a lot of physical pain and had become used to it, the throbbing of her lip when she tried to eat, the tenderness of her cheek when she put her Chanel sunglasses on. But this was a different kind of ache entirely, a seizing up of her insides, the dull ache of being let down.  As soon as she gets up she starts the work of processing it into a more manageable emotion. Stood in the shower with hot water blasting her tender skin, she starts converting the pain to anger, finding this to be as easy as converting oxygen to carbon dioxide. Inhale pain, exhale fury. By the time she's in the back of an Uber Black, touching up her lipgloss as if it could do anything to obscure the nasty cut across her bottom lip, she's managed the transformation entirely. Stood in stilettos on her supposed best friend's doorstep, she's fantasizing about taking one off and lodging it straight in his eye when the man in question answers, as handsome and as dishevelled as ever. "Did your phone die?" she asks, tone cold. She doesn't wait for an invitation, barging past him into the cool of the house. "Do you have any rosé? I'm thirsty."

[dominic vinten cuvo]

Most people only witnessed Dom when he was ratcheted up: influenced, on something or other that masked the discomforts of life and made the world much more interesting to him. He would be talkative, charming, easily possessed by people and conversions, briefly masquerading as a normal person with interests and a flair for life. But down, on the tail end of those wild nights? All of the sparkle was gone, his mood sour, energy low, existential dread creeping in and leaving pockmarks across his unprotected brain. Waiting to drag himself out of the trenches and back to a preferred altered state. The girl before him was less perfect than usual, smudges of shadow around her eye and pout. It really happened and he had been absent for it all; his stomach churned thinking about Henry coming to her rescue instead. “I had a miserable time, don’t ask,” he deflected to her question, following her into the house. He rarely stayed here, hadn’t been for months but always kept a cellar of wines and an impressive barmoire. “Sit down. Don’t lift a finger,” he said, fetching them glasses and a bottle, not used to serving himself. Looking at her up close as he handed her the glass, his head tilted to the side, lip turned down in sympathy. “Look at you,” he murmured, pushing a tress of hair over her shoulder. “I’ll have someone’s head for this.”

[kitty smith-sato]

"You look like shit." Kitty sits down on a plush sofa, her back rigid and her knees pinned together, as she'd been taught to do in etiquette classes once upon a time. As a child her fathers had seen her as a project, a doll, someone they could dress up and pose, playing pretend at happy families. She glances around the room, remembering it from a previous visit though there had been some changes, minor touches of modernisation. The spaces they found themselves in were always like this; curated, tasteful, unchanging. Never giving a sense of being lived in, no schoolbag discarded by the door or used dishes soaking in the kitchen sink. She had seen these things in childhood friends' homes and been as seduced as she was revolted, tempted by the idea of domesticity but disgusted by the reality. So this is a comfortable place for her to be, with the one person in the world who knew her best. For better or worse. In sickness and in health. Thinking of those words, she fiddles with her wedding band as soon as she has the privacy to do so, wearing it again now that Henry had come to her aid. Dom reappears and she takes the glass from him, ducking ever so slightly away from his hand when he goes to touch her hair. "If anyone is getting their vengeance today, it won't be you." She feels vulnerable under his direct gaze, breaking it by pointedly looking at the wine bottle still unopened in his hands. 11am seemed as good a time as any to start. "If you had any plans today you're going to have to cancel them."

[dominic vinten cuvo]

When she says it, Dom can only smile because it’s what he expected her to immediately clock. “It’s the inside that counts,” he tuts back, although even he knows that is much more rotten than the outside. But that was them, sharing their black poison hearts with one another because no one else could survive the poison. He doesn’t watch her, far too busy trying to remember his few tasks as his brain struggled to keep up the order, wanting only rest and quiet and to disappear. After heavy pours Dom settles into the adjacent seat, disturbed by the surrounding ambiance that did not match his tastes. Of the wine he takes a long sip, head falling back as if propelled by the pleasured sigh that escapes him, hoping it will muddle enough with whatever else is in his stomach to offset the misery. She’s mad—for now—so he knows better than to try petting the angry, hungry beast. This feels familiar: she needs to cut him down, he needs to grovel. “I’ll cancel my plans for the next thousand years,” he proclaims, staring at the ceiling, neck exposed, before resting his head against his knuckles and looking toward her. “Well, have at it,” he invites, shifting to pose as if he’s a man on death row welcoming a barrage of bullets. All raw and tender that he was right now, idling between woefully sober and still wrecked by the comedown. “I’m ready. Tell me how horrible I am. Come on, make it hurt.”

[kitty smith-sato]

This isn't going as she had anticipated. Whilst her fury simmering down to quiet seething was par for the course, there's something disruptive at play... looking at him in profile, his head lolling back, she can't help but feel pleased to see him. His recent absence not included, they had barely spent a week apart their whole lives, slipping easily into each others' itineraries whether that was at shared events or in their aftermath. They would gossip together under a duvet tent, co-conspirators making each other cackle with impressions of their supposed closest friends. Exhausted by recent events, seeing Dom in all his dishevelled glory is itself a kind of homecoming, and that's comforting to someone who felt so rootless. "Good," she says to his proclamation, her smirk hidden behind the rim of her wineglass.  She eases now, leaning back and kicking off her stilettos so she can pull her feet up onto the couch. Folding into herself, she groans, shaking her head. "Ugh, you know it's no fun when you don't put up at least a little fight, Dommy." Ever the quick drinker, she knocks back the rest of her glass, savoring the sour taste on her tongue. It's clear now that she won't have the fight in her after all, her scathing sentiments mellowing in his company, dissipated by his lack of resistance. Maybe his willingness was admittance of guilt enough. "Tell me about last night and I'll consider surrendering the Pedialyte I picked up for you."

[dominic vinten cuvo]

Giving his mind something else to think about, Dominic was simultaneously appalled and perplexed by this house. Frankly he couldn’t remember who’d gifted it or when, even briefly wondering if he was at the right address or had just accidentally wandered into some celebrity’s third mansion. Unimportant little distractions that lifted his focus away from Kitty’s seething despite her currently miserable façade. From experience, he knew she craved the security of his attention, the promise that he regretted his actions. Fortunately for Kitty his resistance was low and there wasn’t much else to hide behind, knowing he fucked up. “But it’s no fun without name-calling and death threats,” he groaned in disappointment, tending to his glass again, quick repours when they were both done. Always preferring their interactions when they were rough and sharp, more honest than those rare (and entirely suspicious) moments of soft respite. That seemed only possible with him being down and her being injured. “That’s boring,” he frowned, turning away as if bothered to think about it again. “There's nothing to tell. We didn’t even make it on the news.” In truth, if he could remember all that happened he would probably divulge, though it seemed cruel to highlight her absence. “Come here, lay your head in my lap and let me tell you all the ways I've missed you. In Italian, if you'd like.”

[kitty smith-sato]

Kitty feels a sense of missed opportunity. It was rare for Dominic to be this off his game, usually able to push through a hangover or comedown if there was promise of a better time to be had, or ground to be gained. It's an out of the ordinary vulnerability, so it's frustrating to be meeting it with her own. Her eyes survey him more closely, inspecting him as was her custom. "You still haven't hit the gym." There, that would help. A taste of familiarity, though she can't muster up much more than that. She's relieved that there was no one else to be seen, no Calvin skulking around or, worse, Violet asleep in his bed. Maybe she was? Kitty inwardly gags at the idea, forcing it down with another sip of her wine. At least he could always be relied upon for a decent vintage, not that it mattered with rosé.  She scrutinises his words as he offers them, narrowing her eyes as she tries to assess how honest they were. Unfortunately it seems to be true, which means she's gossip-less but also fomo-less, a rare treat these days. "Karma." Normally she would eschew his offer, but she had developed a craving for physical touch, feeling Henry's absence so much when he had to fly back to New York. So she sits up and arches her back in a stretch. Taking the bait, she crawls into his lap, her head on his thigh as she feels the immediate rush of dopamine at the closeness. "Play with my hair, and non perdere nessun dettaglio."

[dominic vinten cuvo]

A little dagger to remind him of his place. “I’m on a testosterone regimen,” he lied, seeing as most men were doing so in LA along with fillers and Turkish hair jobs. Fortunately he was unburdened by such needs…although botox was on his radar yet. “I can barely fit through doorways anymore,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes. All of that ire coming from a pale, tiny frame always amused him to realize. How powerful she was in such a slight vessel, able to bring men to their knees and peoples’ lives to ruin—and still be regarded as an angel throughout. With her head in his lap, his fingers comb through the black silky strands from the root down. Up closer now, Dom could truly study her marred face, shuddering to imagine the depraved attackers setting their sights on his girl. He ached to think of her knocked down in a cobble street, jewelry and purse ripped from her grasp, stupid onlookers frozen in shock. He drank the horrifying thoughts down with more wine. Offering a second language was a bad idea when he was struggling enough with one. Nevertheless, in Italian he waxed poetic about how the world paled when she wasn’t around, that their friend group was left shattered in her wake, that without her as a beacon of beauty ordinary women were briefly relieved by her absence. Once finished, Dom cupped her cheeks. “Kitty please,” he breathed. “Say you forgive me.”

[kitty smith-sato]

"Okay baby," she says, her bottom, scarred lip pouting out in faux sympathy. She knew him as intimately as she knew herself, every inch of him, every fluctuation. Kitty was convinced that if he ever so much as got a splinter she would see it, potentially before he did, so attuned was she to every millimeter of his physical being. He combs his fingers through her thick, straight hair and it makes a shudder of pleasure drive itself down her spine, her hair being played with one of her favorite sensations in the whole world. It almost doesn't matter what he's saying. Actually, she's surprised how triggering she finds the Italian language... as soon as the plane had taken off she had resolved not to return to Italy, maybe ever. But Dom's pronunciation was beautifully crisp, his compliments fluid and likely more sincere for being distanced by a second language. Despite herself, she's moved by the things he says, even if she knows he's trying to climb himself out of a hole. It was easy to accept what he was saying as truth, given that she believed it herself; for example, no matter how skinny Violet was, and she was truly sick with envy over that fact, she still did not remotely worry about the blonde, no shred of her thinking that her friend could possibly compete with her. So she buys what Dom is telling her wholesale. What's harder is him cupping her cheeks, his eyes locked in on hers as she looks up at him from his lap... it was one of those rare moments where she remembered that he was Dom Vinten Cuvo, a red blooded man with big hands, chiseled features and stormy, brooding eyes. Her breath catches in her throat, hating herself for being so basic as to notice his visible masculinity, wishing she could transcend it. Eventually she reaches up and puts a hand against his cheek, giving him a lopsided smile that was reminiscent of his signature equivalent. "I forgive you. Idiot."

[dominic vinten cuvo]

The Italian flowed out of him; once he started, the words practically dripped off his tongue as if he had just returned from the old country. While Dominic enjoyed grandstanding and hearing his own voice, above all—usually, when in the right mood—he loved flattering his precious Kitty until she retracted her claws. This time he wasn’t lying through his teeth, rather indulging the dramatic flairs of his grandiose imagination. Often he did think and truly believe these thoughts about Kitty, practically worshipping the ground she walked on…but it wasn’t always wise to let her know. Finally, he’s forgiven! Luckily his body was backfiring in such a way that he didn’t need to worry about getting an erection and spoiling the moment with his untimely libido. Trying not to remember the dozen other things they could be arguing about or hashing out, Dom leaned down to plant a kiss on her lips. It was even better that it would probably hurt a little. “Good,” he grinned, pleased with the little effort required to sway her this time. “Let’s put this all behind us,” he decided, a truce. Continuing his ministrations to her hair, Dom watched the black strands spread like an oil slick across his lap. “So. How is dear Henry,” he asked with wavering nonchalance, refusing to even properly inflect the curiosity because his nemesis didn't deserve the sincerity of a question mark.

[kitty smith-sato]

Kitty logs the compliments in a mental cabinet, knowing she would take them out and look at them the next time Dom did something to piss her off. These rare moments of supposed sincerity (she could never be entirely confident of their legitimacy) were precious to her, the proof that there was more depth to their relationship than traded barbs and sexual tension. Even then the conversations were tainted by doublespeak, compliments given in a fashion that made sincerity bleed into sarcasm, blurring the lines of what was real. She had only ever once fully let her guard down, that fated time in her grandmother's conservatory, high beyond all previous levels, the sunshine pouring in and making all the plants look like they were glowing. She'd told him she loved him, then. She'd told him that he was the only person she'd ever loved, that he was the only reason she knew she was capable of it at all. It was a relief that he had been too high to remember this, the memory seared into her mind as her greatest show of weakness on record. She winces as he kisses her but kisses him back all the same, affection instinctive between them. "Truce,"  she agrees, closing her eyes as he continues to play with her hair, only opening them to give him a look when he mentions Henry. "Oh, as if you care." Usually Kitty relished eliciting a response out of Dom, but Henry had never been a pawn she liked to play, something about the idea of one spoiling the other. Like he could contaminate him just by saying his name, dragging him into the mud with the rest of them. Sometimes she was glad he had escaped the abyss of this friendship group. "He looks just the same, though he's in some meathead frat now. A shame." She lets out a heavy sigh before she asks her next question, her tone weary of the subject even as she brings it up, "and how has Violet been? It doesn't seem like she's learnt much from recent events."

[dominic vinten cuvo]

When they bickered, when they threatened and cursed and swore this was the last straw, it was because they could feel the other slipping away. A desperate grasp at this strange, mercurial, all-consuming relationship that had taken root in their lives years ago. The longest lasting and, sadly, the most sincere relationship to be found in their lives of abject wealth and depraved apathy. Dominic felt closest to Kitty, more so than his family—as he vehemently denied her blood status despite sharing a womb—and ever-shifting list of so-called friends. His love for Kitty was brutal, stubborn. His longing for Calvin was different, something everyone knew but nobody said out loud. This time Kitty was absurdly wrong: Dominic cared very much. Too much, actually, with hate being the only thing to latch onto as he floated in the nothingness of his comedown. His blood boiled thinking about Henry swooping in to rescue Kitty; in fact, he was furious that he still existed because Dom had nearly forgotten him. He should have called him by the wrong name, that would really show her! “Gross,” is all he managed to reply, pretending to inspect the nailbeds of his free hand. About Violet, he rolled his eyes. He enjoyed Violet rather like a treasured pet or plaything, a status unlocked once they hooked up—a conquest had, the appeal ending there. Now she was a pawn between them, as Kitty could expose the details of Violet's overdose at her leisure. More like a ticking time bomb. "She's doing great, actually," Dominic chose to think, despite enabling her for his own amusement. "Marvelous progress. All booze, no drugs. Nature is healing." He reached over Kitty's head for his wine glass, taking a swig. "Can I waterfall some into your mouth?"

[kitty smith-sato]

Seeing Dom now, after feeling so wounded by the absence of him, brings with it a host of complicated emotions. Kitty is relieved to see him alive and welcoming to her, her ego tickled by the sweet nothings she could recall word for word if she wanted to. But she's irritated too, irritated that he can have this effect on her. Her Achilles heel. Whilst she knew her actions were put down to machiavellian motives most of the time, and rightly so, she had truly not acted for herself the night of Violet's overdose. It was a night that haunted her, not because she could have lost her supposed best friend, but because of the alternate reality that spun out. What if he hadn't called her? What if he'd gotten caught? Sometimes she wished she'd never gotten involved, though even if her intentions had been laid elsewhere at the time, it would be a lie to say she didn't derive any pleasure out of holding on to that particular morsel of information now. "Oh what a relief," Kitty says, her tone flat. She scrunches her nose up at his question, though thinks again, a small smile playing around the corner of her lips. "Oh, fine," she acquiesces, opening her mouth to receive it. It inevitably spills down her chin and neck, making her flinch, laughter ringing out through the quiet house. She sits up, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, her lip stinging. "This isn't hitting the way I want it to. Wanna go get some edibles or a weed vape or something?"

[dominic vinten cuvo]

The wine helped to soften the hard edges of the insides currently rebelling against him. Dom couldn’t imagine allowing anyone else to bother him while in this state, preferring to resuscitate himself privately and then return to his friend group as if nothing had happened. He had an image to maintain, after all, and no one wanted to see the ugly in-betweens. Kitty understood that better than anyone else, an expert in curating her own reputation. No one could see them here, a fact they both relished as he let wine from his mouth drain messily into hers, ripping into a smile and laugh when it spilled. Briefly wondering what it would be like to drown in wine. At her suggestion the boy let out a sigh, mainly because that sounded like leaving the house or interacting with people—and that did not currently appeal. "Don't make me go anywhere. I can't handle any UV," he explained, thinking of his skincare regimen. Then again, wherever Dominic went, drug paraphernalia followed, so they needn’t look far. “Go check the drawer, there’s a million possibilities,” he suggested instead, missing the feeling of her head in his lap. He wasn’t done inspecting and touching her. “Take your pick. Let’s get naked and watch something in my bed.” Perhaps porn, or the Zapruder film for the tenth time?