Chapter Text
Time was an illusion, or at least, that is what the teen preferred to think.
The island of Guadeloupe was stunningly beautiful, so much so that the average person would be swayed entirely from invasive thought, yet here he was on the edge of the boat deck with dangling legs and a blistering sunburn. He doesn't dare think of the last time he had been home, or worse, at peace. Because time didn't exist, right? Not when everything had come to an absolute stop once Ward had been severely wounded, having been in a coma for—for how long now, Rafe muses absentmindedly, his gaze reflecting the waves in the distance.
He doesn't want to think about it, not when Ward was still in bed hooked to a myriad of machines, looking the most peaceful Rafe has ever seen him. It was a stark contrast to the usual look that contorted the man's face, typically spewing his disapproval and reproach, doing a terrible job at hiding his disdain. But Rafe, fuck, he tries, he really does, it just isn't good enough—it may never be good enough, but he pushes those thoughts to sea, hoping these aimless fears would find a new home elsewhere.
Bright eyes flicker at the sight of a lone sea turtle drifting through the crystal clear water, and for just a moment, he thinks about a time where life was substantially less complicated—he clenches his eyes shut, his jaw going tense, as he recalls the feel of a warm body pressed against his, surrounding by the scent of coconut shampoo and the faint taste of salt on his tongue from the rolling waves.
She had looked at him in utter disbelief, completely bewildered by his presence, only for him to cum like a pathetic loser within her hand, literally and metaphorically turning into human putty.
Fuck, he hated her. But God, did he still crave her. How fucking unpleasant, and more regrettably, fucking titillating.
His hands clench into fists, so tight that his skin turns scarlet, little crescents forming in their wake. He wishes he could forget her, forget everything, but the last shred of humanity that he clings to is so intertwined with her that it'll never happen; a sick part of him refuses to feign ignorance, not when she had given him something that no one had been capable of doing, something that only she could do.
"Rafe, hey—" Wheezie approaches, sandals smacking the wood of the deck, "there—"
Rafe is clamoring to his feet, staring in the direction of where Ward was located, "is it—is it dad, is somethin' wrong?"
Wheezie purses her lips firmly, that same sad little glimmer that usually there in full effect, "no, dad is still sleeping," she pauses at her own words, then shakes her head, "it's Rose, she said she needs you."
"Of fuckin' course," murmurs the brunet, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, "I gotta do everything around here."
-
It one was of those sweltering days, the kind where even the A/C on full blast did very little to soothe him. Fuck this humidity, thinks the teen, as he paces back and forth within Ward's room. He vaguely questions if his father was comfortable, thinks to stroll over and dab his forehead where beads of sweat have collected, thinks that the man's cheeks are even flushed. But he pushes those thoughts aside, instead raking his fingers through cropped locks.
"I need you," Rafe mumbles, more to himself aloud, tugging lightly at the delicate hairs at his scalp, "you're just—you're never there when I need you, dad, and I don't—" He pauses, as if Ward was genuinely listening to address him: "I'm gonna take care of everything, I will and I can, but God—.." Rafe resumes his pacing, his arms crossing over his chest, head shaking adamantly: "you taught me how to run things, how to be just like you, and I just—I need you to know that all of this," he gestures vaguely, "this is all because of me, nobody else, not Rose, not Sarah, not anybody but me."
Being sober was bullshit, and his internal dialogue proves it. Rafe is chewing at the inside of his cheek until it's raw, uttering a humorless snort. "I stepped up, manned up, have the cross and the gold and now is when you wanna sit there and just—not even listen," he disregards the current state of the man, "I just want you to be proud of me, dad, to just—to not look at me like a mistake, like I don't—... That I'm not—.."
Rafe glances toward his father for a moment, allowing his gaze to linger: he thinks if he squints, he can see the faint twitching of his eyelids, as if he were actively rolling his eyes at what he had confided. Fury bubbles within his chest and his hands are forming fists as he stalks toward the bed, something thick and twisted forming in his throat as he overlooks the man. He has so many things he wants to say, things that needed to be said, yet he hovers over him, breathing labored, feeling the familiar prick of tears stabbing the back of his eyes.
"I'll never be Sarah," Rafe relents with a glower, burying his face within his hands, "but I'm good, dad, and I can be great if you just take a second to look at me, to really see me."
-
Rafe Cameron learned many things since taking over the Cameron family business, but the main thing was how to barter for better prices on things he had acquired over the past few months. In fact, he had discovered the perfect opportunity at getting rid of some of the golden antiquities through a local dealer who had connected him with someone named Singh. Granted, he didn't know much of the man, other than the fact that he was well-known around the area, mostly through rumors that those who double-crossed him often ended up disappearing, never to be seen again.
Not one to fall into obvious traps, Rafe had been initially apprehensive about agreeing to meet with the man, yet there he is sliding into a long-sleeved button-up, easing on a blazer and ultimately into a pair of mules. His slides his palm over his smooth scalp, only the prickle of his buzzcut grazing his skin. He had, had a bit of an epiphany the past few days, something that led him to compulsively shave his head; he absently wonders if it was a sign that his mental health was starting to deteriorate again.
Instead of pondering, he arranges for his driver to swoop by and take him to the infamous Kingfish.
~
Needless to say, Rafe thinks he should have strapped up given the atmosphere he arrives in. There are heavily armed guards policing the place, consisting of men in military-style uniforms, headpieces to communicate, and very obvious bulletproof vests. Really, no one says a word, to which he was slightly alarmed about, but knew better than to question it. He was led through the doors and into the parlor room but before he can speak a word, he is abruptly left alone and instructed to make himself comfortable.
"Asshole," murmurs the teen as he ushers toward a table equipped with a decanter and crystal glasses.
He quirks a brow, thoroughly intrigued, as he approaches the table. He deduces that that decanter holds whiskey, something that he didn't realize he had been craving until just now. He jostles the table as he snatches up a glass, pouring the deep amber liquid into the crystalline. He was quick to throw one back, humming at the pleasant burn that trickles down his throat, more than eager to pour another.
"Uh, excuse me?"
He pauses at a familiar voice addressing him, one that sounds to sickly saccharine and lacking in malice. He places the glass down and shifts on his heel, blue eyes locking on the sight of someone he was certain he would never see again, at least not this close in proximity and without the usual venom that accompanies her.
He barely has time to process the way the satin fabric molds to her frame because he had spoken too soon—much too soon, in fact—because the venom has suddenly returned: "I knew you and Ward were behind this shit," hisses the brunette, that familiar look of disdain clear on her countenance.
The two are moving forward, as if by some unseen force, as Rafe delivers a hiss that rivaled hers, "What are you talking about? You trying to weasel in on my deal?" His brows are furrowing thickly, his eyes betraying him to gaze her up and down, blue eyes finding the pretty pink of her lower lip, and God, he just wants to—
A heavily accented voice slices through the palpable tension and for that, Rafe is oddly grateful because there was no telling what road his impulsive desires would have led him down. Both sets of eyes are darting in the direction of the voice, who looks oddly smug all things considered, "I wondered if your little reunion would cause sparks, you know."
From his peripheral, he thinks he can see Kiara opening her mouth, a retort hot on her tongue, but is silenced when he instinctively queries, "and who are you?"
"Me?" There is a dark glint in the man's eye as he regards the youth, the smug smirk not once wavering, "My name is Carlos Singh."
Ultimately, the predator became the prey and Rafe Cameron, well—he hadn't been prepared for this transition at all. Something about the cross, needing to find some decrepit diary, and some treasure that probably didn't even exist. It had been a blur, one that he certainly hadn't paid enough attention to, nor knew even the slightest about. But he knew the look on Kiara's face, that know-it-all haughtiness that the latter may have not been aware of.
Maybe it would go unnoticed by Carlos Singh, but Rafe wasn't as easily fooled, especially by her. He maintains innocence and is genuine in that, yet would pester the brunette later if this were to persist. There were things that Rafe Cameron was prepared for in life—like success, filling his father with pride, taking over the family business—but a bullet to the head wasn't one of those things.
Needless to say that when Carlos leads the duo to a bedroom near the back of the building with instructions to watch the demonstration about to unfold, Rafe finds himself on high alert. This wasn't the worst case scenario, thinks Rafe, as his gaze perpetually finds Kiara—she looks fiercely brave in that moment, her whiskey-colored hues holding his a moment, before she crosses her arms over her chest and strolls to the window.
She peels back the curtain to observe what was occurring a floor beneath them, lips twisting into a frown at the sight of a man being led out of view: "who the hell is that guy?" breathes the teen, his eyes unable to stray too long from the sight of the latter.
If Kiara was bothered by his close proximity, she doesn't show it nor flinch away, just keeps her eye keen on the scene. "I know him, that's Jimmy Portis."
Part of him desires to reach out, to touch, to feel, to have reassurance that this wasn't some disturbing fantasy playing out in the back of his conscious, but he manages to reign in the urge. He gulps deeply at the sight of the gun that Singh brandishes, his eye contact sending an involuntary shiver down the length of his spine, before he shifts to approach Portis. Rafe leans forward for a better view of what was happening and only then does Kiara flinch away, glaring at him through the corner of her eyes, but otherwise remaining focused.
What the two heard next left them both rattled: the deafening sound of a gunshot firing, Singh having mercilessly murdered Portis in plain view and without hesitation. The haunted look in Kiara's eye does little to quell the urge to surge forward, to protect, to shield, to promise that everything would be okay. So he gulps deeply, shifting to face her head-on, his hand dancing dangerously close to her wrist:
"This diary," Rafe starts with furrowed brows, "Hey, no bullshit—" He finds her eyes frantically, "don't bullshit me, okay? Do you have it?" his words are slow and punctuated, searching her gaze for any sign of recognition. She isn't looking at him, doesn't want to betray her defenses, but he persists: "Kie," urges the brunet and at this, she blinks, slowly turning her head to level him with a scowl.
"No."
"Don't give me that bullshit, Kie, if you have the diary, just give it up. I refuse to die over some old book."
Kiara holds his gaze steady, searching the latter's gaze, making certain he was watching her diligently, "I told you, I don't have it."
As resolute as she appears, holding firm in her conviction, Rafe doesn't find it in him to believe her. So, he reacts by grasping at her wrist and as he expected, she jerks away from him; big brown eyes are staring up at him with many things, leveling him with betrayal at the most intense, so much so that she ends up pressed against the sill. He opens his mouth to speak, fingers loosening considerably, giving her an opportunity to escape if she so willed it.
But she stays there, holds her ground, "This isn't a fucking game, Kiara, this is your life—I mean our—lives at stake," warns the brunet as he enters her space once more; only a hand presses against his chest to prevent him from gaining ground.
"And what, pray tell, makes you think I value your opinion, let alone care what happens to you after what you did?"
Rafe visibly recoils at that, as if he had been slapped, and absently thinks he would have much preferred the latter. He leans down to her level, lips forming a thin line, "I don't wanna die here, Kie, and I have a feeling," he curls his fingers toward his chest, tapping over his heart, "that you don't either, not here, not like this."
"And not with you," Kiara hisses resolutely as she snatches her wrist away, making haste to slide under his arm and toward the bed, plopping down unceremoniously and burying her face within her hands. She hears the audible footsteps approaching and heaves an exasperated groan, peering through her fingers to glare at him. "Don't even think about it."
Rafe feels a bout of spite crawling up his throat, one that he desperately attempts to swallow, but to no avail, "you know, there was a time where you wanted me close, wanted me near you—..." He pauses thoughtfully, "Wanted me inside you."
"You don't get to say that—" Kiara shakes her head vehemently, rising from the bed to stomp furiously toward him, stabbing him in the chest with a finger: "You can't just do this," this motions wildly between the two of them, "you can't just pretend that what you did doesn't matter, that you didn't hurt people, and worse. I told you, you don't get redemption, you don't get to be the hero. And you definitely don't get to reminiscence on something that didn't mean anything to me."
Rafe raises his hands before him, poised to reach out and grapple the front of the satin material, but his fingers acquiesce and instead grasp at the empty air in front of him. Something akin to fear glints in her dark eyes, but just for a moment, as she raises her head in defiance, like a silent dare. But Rafe knows better, could do better, whether she believed it or not.
She was breathing hard, her small hands clenched to fists, poised to strike at any moment. And in fact, she does attempt it, as feeble as it was. Rafe catches her hands within his own and slowly lowers them to her sides. And he finds her shoulders quaking, her countenance contorting when the force of the sob erupting from her throat breaks the surface. She bows her head, doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
"Kiara, look: I didn't mean to—" Rafe flexes his fingers, has half the mind to pull her into an embrace, to show her that he was capable of being a good guy, but resists for her sake. She doesn't breathe a word, barely even squeaks a sound at all. So he leads her to the bed once more and gently sits her down. His heart is pressing that he comfort her, but his head is saying to leave her be and God, he was so tired of listening to his heart these days.
And he lingers a moment longer, his nails digging into the skin of his palms, as he relents and goes instead to the floor. He presses his back against the wooden bedpost, his head thudding back against it as he shifts his gaze to the ceiling. He allows his eyes to flutter closed, not reveling in how this had gone; his fantasies had been much kinder, much more obliging to his personal desires and this certainly wasn't that, didn't even hold a candle to what his mind had conjured in the past.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. She was supposed to have forgiven him by now, to have accepted him as he was, whether it be a murderer or the softer him that she knew to exist. He shouldn't have to change for anyone, at least that was what he had considered the past few months, that if someone genuinely loved him, then they would love him for the not-so-picture-perfect parts, too.
Time proved to be moving sluggishly as the sun was still as bright as it was earlier. Rafe had barely moved from his spot on the floor, having been reluctant to disturb the quiet brunette above. He had heard rustling earlier, as if she had been peeling the sheets back for a nap, but hadn't heard much else since then. Part of him wants to grab onto the bedpost and peer over to see if she were okay, that she was still breathing and hadn't stopped out of sheer spite.
But he doesn't, at least not until he hears the tell-tale sighs of her sleeping. He crawls to his feet and conceals a hiss at the ache in the lower part of his body, shifting this way and that to loosen his stiffened joints. He toes off his mules in favor of strolling across the carpeting to find the window once more, noting how the guards had switched rotation in the silence of the past hour or so. He peers through the window, glancing about for an opening, but finding none.
He had pulled one of the chairs to the window and decisively set up base there, thinking that eventually he would find a clue to escaping this hell-hole. In the meantime, the heaviness of his lids takes over and inevitably, he falls into a semi-deep sleep.
-
When Rafe finally stirs, he nearly falls out of the chair. The sound of the door sliding open on its hinges reveals the sight of Kiara, who is wearing a pair of fitted gray pajamas, sauntering out of the bathroom in a plume of humid steam. Her hair is damp and clinging to her neck and the sides of her face as she works at drying it with a plush towel. She makes eye contact with him reluctantly, gaze narrowing on cue, as she crosses the distance to the bed.
This time she sits with her back facing him, that way she doesn't have to address him at all. Rafe finds that oddly amusing, all things considered, and thinks that he deserves the pettiness. On a small table rests a plate of untouched food and another plate that had been plucked with and barely eaten. His stomach lurches in response, but he doesn't mobilize just yet.
"We have to talk about it at some point, Kie."
Kiara drops the towel to the sheets, her fingers raking through her locks, "Do we, though? There really isn't anything to talk about."
Rafe exhales through his nostrils in a huff, not desiring to play these games, "like the fact that you still can't say my name?"
Something akin to a snort echoes from her lips as she glances over her shoulder at him, lips pursed thinly. "Can't or won't? I wouldn't dream of giving you the satisfaction."
The brunet is losing patience rapidly and yeah, he wishes he had a line of coke readily available, just a pinch to calm the thoughts running rampant. He presses his tongue into his cheek, his dark gaze going to the floor to concentrate on something other than the way she looks at him. "I loved you, Kiara," Kiara positively howls at this, but before she can go on a tirade, he presses further:
"I would've done anything for you, even now, because that kind of love, that doesn't just—you're still here," Rafe growls as he presses fingers into his temple, "and there, and everywhere and I wish I could hate you, that I did, but it doesn't stop, hasn't stopped, and I need to tell you because—because if I don't and we fucking die because you're a stubborn asshole—.. Then this makes it good in my book, makes it fair."
Kiara is reaching for a pillow and sending it flying toward him without hesitation, then follow the action with another. But Rafe doesn't care, he dodges them effortlessly, though he does have trouble dodging the excessively heavier objects that she launches his way, "and you know what? I don't give a damn how you feel about it, I don't care, because it's the truth and unlike you, I'd rather die with no regrets and wishing I'd spoken the fuck up about whatever the hell this is, or was, or wasn't."
Kiara pauses her assault, her hands taut on a lamp she had pulled from the wall, her cheeks red with exertion and her eyes pricking with unshod tears, "I hate you, Rafe," the words are resounding in the silence, and it reverberates off the walls; a relentless assault against his eardrums that only served to salt old wounds, "and no matter what, I will never forgive you. I really thought that you had changed, or were changing, or even just that you wanted to," She was speaking fast, so much so that her words are breathless: "I thought that maybe you weren't the bad guy for once that and that, yeah, you did bad things, but that in your twisted head, it was for good reason. I thought that maybe—... That maybe you were capable of something other than toxicity and destruction and hurting other people, but I was wrong."
"I was so, so wrong and I hate you for that, for making me think, even for the slightest second, that you were more than just a wannabe Ward Cameron, so desperate for daddy's approval and love, that you would ruin your own life just to please him. To be his little scapegoat and to—to prove yourself and for what? Ward will never see you for who you are, just as a pawn in his games, someone that can take the blame so he doesn't have to. And you still don't get it," she persists as she drops the lamp, nearing closer to him, her hands emphasizing her points as she speaks fervently:
"You'll never get it, Rafe, ever. Because that isn't love, that's just looking for opportunity, looking for someone so lost and confused and desperate for love that you confuse any and every little thing as that because you don't know what it is, you don't get it nor understand it. So, no, Rafe, you don't get to stand there and tell me that you ever loved me when you don't even comprehend what that word means, not when you're so—so.." She shoves him back, but he allows it this time, lets her shove him back against the windowsill.
She glares at him with such an intense ferocity that part of him thinks he was bound to implode. She shoves him again, but this time there is nowhere for him to go, so he drops his head back against the glass of the window. He looks down at her through a narrowed gaze, tears pricking at his own eyes, because he never knew that love could hurt so bad. That it could sting so horribly, like a thousand little razor blades nicking the intricate muscle of his heart, meant to tear through the muscle and into the core of it all.
Her words feel like that, but worse, as if she meant to pluck out his heart entirely and place it upon a platter to feast upon. He deserves it, he does, and he takes the berating because he knows that deep down, she needed this, to be released from whatever captivity he had on her. But Kiara looks more distraught that he doesn't fight back, that he isn't grasping at her shoulders and wrists, that he isn't pinning her down and demanding that she get a grip.
"I hate you, Rafe," her voice is barely above a whisper as she regards him, little trickles of tears streaming down her cheeks.
But Rafe feels an ounce of courage enter him as he reaches out, tentative at first, to place his hands upon her biceps, leaning down until she looks him directly in the eye, "you don't mean that, no matter how many times you say it. And that's what kills you, isn't it?"
"Rafe—"
Rafe Cameron is in utter turmoil as he moves his hands from her trembling biceps to her equally as quaking shoulders. She is shaking her head, pleading with him with those wide eyes, but he couldn't resist, not when she was practically begging for it. The melancholy in her eyes leaves him exhaling the remaining air in his lungs as he surges forward, his hands going to her cheeks, grasping at her in yearning, desperate to feel her close like she had been all that time ago.
But Kiara doesn't fight this time, having been drained from any and all remnants of the fight she had been putting up. She punches at his chest with a reckless abandon as he consumes her, his lips an ardent force against her own as he sends her walking back toward the general vicinity of the bed. She bites at his bottom lip angrily, so much so that she draws blood, much to her pleasure.
"I fucking hate you," Kiara gasps between kisses, her hands grappling at the front of his button-on, popping off the buttons with not-so-much as a second thought, "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you," she repeats her forlorn mantra as he presses her down into the sheets and crawls atop her, offering merciless nips at her neck as he travels downward.
"I believe it," Rafe growls back as she claws at any expanse of skin she can manage to find, finding a sense of purchase at the back of his head, nails burying into his scalp and forcing him to remain close, "don't ever stop either."
Time was nonexistent when it came to the feel of his lips on her skin, completely and utterly disarming her with every fervent peck that he has to offer. He had wanted this for too long, had craved her in so many ways, ways that he could finally release and within more favorable parameters than just coming into his fists after a strenuous day. He was absolutely ravenous as he greedily swallows each heady sound that she utters, humming his pleasure as she scrapes nails down the length of his chest, leaving him hissing above her as he envelops her into another heated exchange for dominance.
Time, like most things, was unforgiveable in the way that it could be interrupted in one singular action. And that it was, as the two are going rigid at the sound of approaching footsteps stomping ever-more closer to the bedroom. Just outside of the door sounds a knock, followed by another, then an accented voice stating that the door would be opening.
Kiara was quick in her haste to kick him out of the bed, ultimately sighing her relief when he slips off the comforter and onto the floor with a raucous thump. The door slides open to reveal a man with two separate plates of food to add to the blossoming collection within the room. Instead of crossing the distance to the table, he places it upon the floor with a shit-eating grin, as if the two were nothing more than mere mongrels. He spares the room a sweeping glance, one filled with disapproval when he notes the various objects strewn about, his tongue clicking his condescension.
And like that, without much fanfare, he exits the room, the only sound being the resounding click of the lock and like that, the two were reminded that they were prisoners, more than likely being marked for death if the diary didn't spontaneously appear within the next few hours. Rafe rises onto his knees to peer at the brunette still poised in bed, blinking up at her owlishly, but she is nibbling at the end of her thumb determinedly, sparing him a fleeting glance and a frown.
She just shakes her head, presumably to clear whatever thoughts she was having, her gaze flickering to the ceiling as if in some silent prayer. When Rafe shifts to climb into bed with her, to offer her something akin to comfort, she just shakes her head once more and says without much emotion, "don't, just don't."
Back to the metaphoric dog house he was, as the teen slumps back down onto the floor, fiddling with the buttons on his dress shirt. He could hear her shifting around above him, and he glances up for a chance to gaze upon her one last time, but to no avail; he does manage to catch her shadow on the ceiling as she pulls the covers around her form, fingers blindly reaching for the remaining lamp to bathe the room in darkness.
He bangs his head against the plush mattress, eyes clenching to a close: it felt more like one step forward, but a million steps back for him. And he knew that come morning, all progress would be forgotten and that he would be in the forefront of her unbridled disdain. Rafe snorts at that, oddly amused by the events, managing to temporarily forget that come morning, he may cease to exist if she refused to give up that goddamn diary.