ccrleone

[ccrleone]

apollonia's theme fucks severely

[ccrleone]

MICHAEL CORLEONE

THE GODFATHER(1972) dir.Francis Ford Coppola

[ccrleone]

META   +   carmela [ cause i need to know more about this man's relationship with his mother ]

inspiration taken from this scene here.

𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐍’𝐒 𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐒𝐘 𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐄, michael corleone traversed along the snow-packed trail connecting house to house. the other end waved an orange afterglow filtered dimly through crystalline glass. flickered like a warm beacon. a crow cawed nasally, somewhere in the papery spines of white-birch lined along the corleone property. frozen twigs entangled themselves in a complicated web. they shivered against the wind. hopeful, come spring, when their icy layers would melt & detach from another. free.

the compound’s nightly prelude seemed a strenuous quiet. ghostly bursts of gun-fire haunted the land & left a hollowed grave of ruined family portraits & fractured loyalty. the latter, of which, bled like an open wound without pressure. michael’s learned to withstand the abrupt sting from ripping off a bandage, but this was a slow, tedious stitch. thread into skin; nimble fingers at work for the sake of his mother’s gracious vitality, but perhaps by his own twist of the knife; sacrificing infection in morose favor for the scar. the anticipation of such had sunk into his chest, his nerves, his hands, his eyes --- every rot interfered with the accuracy of his age at thirty eight years old. 

a filmy chill of mercury smothered michael’s olive oil skin. the air whipped gently against his cheeks. he stuck his hands in the pockets of his black pinstripe suit. the white of his undershirt & cuffs glowed faintly under the stifled glimmer of the moon.

1959. an excruciating turn of the year —  the pop of celebratory champagne like the sound of pulling teeth. synchronized laughter rumbled the floor. confetti spat onto the crowd. michael shook hands with tinseled strangers, looking as though he’d escaped a snowstorm. the after-taste of cake turned sour on his tongue. his heart thrummed violently, like a bird batting its wings inside his rib cage. his lungs had chilled to blocks of ice. numbness pooled into his stare, hazy & distant, but fredo would appear within the crowd, always, shocked like a feeble mouse in the tranquilizing hold of a python --- the clamminess of fredo’s suit beneath his palms, the crackling composure stretching through michael's facade of rescue, remembering damned confession. the longer he lingered, the more his chest threatened to cave-in. he'd only felt such pressure once during the war --- heavy, almost desperate, but lest he surrender to the vulnerable voice that paced between hatred & pity (lest he found the strength to turn) michael pulled back & planted a kiss as firm & stiff as the vow of death.

the remains of michael's forgiveness waned, like the looming victory after a war. the ricochet of bullets had ceased, but their echo persevered past duty. mimicked the sound of forgotten things now important & in need of care — heard simply, but too far away to be heard --- are you a good father? a good son? a husband? are you still a brother? 

the light of his mother’s den drew closer & beckoned him away from the cold.

❝ bona sira, ma. ❞ his voice is gentle around the corner, albeit unsure, drifting along the dark of the hallway. the distant pop of the fire illuminates the aging beauty of his mother’s silver hair. she hums softly, like a simmering tune. the room is affectionate; pillowy drapes, floral cushions, & the smell of woodsmoke. michael’s footsteps inch forward. she yawned. the dreamy flare of the fire cast him into a distant time when they both knew a younger self. why he needed her as a child then, he couldn’t recall, but the same shame disturbed her now; impeded upon a moment’s rest. yet, the natural fatigue of her eyes glistened rustically, mindful of her son’s intrusion — her head tilted, aware, inviting without cause.

michael slid a cushioned stool over, closing the gap. his knee brushes against the side of the blanket draped over her legs. he grips the arm of her chair, soothed by the firmness of it. the fire’s reassurance melts away the chill along his skin. warms his ears & coats the surface of his eyes; reflects them like glassy, still pools. his hands clasp together. words linger patiently within the opulence of her antiquity. 

❝ dimmi na cosa, ma,  ❞ (tell me something ma,)  his head dips. lips weakly quiver in sudden fragility — for how could he speak of his father’s implicit turmoil without divulging his own? & furthermore, where along the timeline of the corleone empire could michael diffuse that which has already come. he wets his lips.  ❝ chi pinzava papà, 'nfunnu 'nta lu cori?  ❞ (what did papa think, deep in his heart?) 

mama mumbles her response, outrightly tired. michael’s brows furrow. the knot inside his chest coils tighter as he attempts, once more, to decipher the string of his own doubt trailing along the timidness of his tone.

❝ era forti … ❞  (he was being strong …) he inhales sharply. ❝  ... forti pi la so famigghia. ❞ (strong for his family) her nod fuses to michael’s thought. cares for it as he steels through, like a clumsy man along a tight-rope. he rubs the top of his thumb. ❝ ma essennu forti pi la so famigghia, putìa…? ❞ (but by being strong for his family, could he …) his voice dimmed. ❝ perdiri? ❞ (lose it?)

her tongue clicked, sympathetically linked to the chain of her son’s worry, though bound along a different piece — it did not equate the same weight or rattle the same sound, but held a power all on its own, of which, michael knew, but neglected in the fog of decisions & that gut-wrenching ache. her answer glides, like it’s the only conceivable torture eating away at michael’s marrow — if there lived anything else, what did it matter if she shared a private plea for her son’s soul every day at the toll of God’s bell?

❝ stai pinsannu a to mugghieri... a lu picciriddu ca persi. ❞ (you’re thinking about your wife … about the baby you lost.) she holds his arm. ❝  ma tu e tò mugghieri putiti aviri sempri n'àutru figghiu. ❞ (but you and your wife can always have another baby.)

michael begins to shake his head. gently splices in the bulk of his dread. ❝ no, no, no. vogghiu diri, perdiri la so famigghia.  ❞ (no, no, no i meant, lose his family.)

❝ ma nun puoi mai perdiri a to famigghia.  ❞ (but you can never lose your family.)

his head nods lightly, though his lips remain fixed in an uncertain line. his stare glazes over, as if he’d forgotten, momentarily, how hopeless it was inside that dark tunnel fredo carved with his own carelessness; leaving michael with nothing but the shriveled guide of his own mercy & the echo of paternal footsteps much too large & honorable to fill, like an unreachable dream — & like an early morning lover, melancholia caressed his face. suffocated the darkness behind his eyes until it turned a dishonest shade of blue against the bright dawn, where he’d force himself to sit up in bed, try & focus on the silent snores of his wife, despite how distant the sound blew from over her shoulder. the more he resisted, the louder lake tahoe’s waves rocked against the shore. cutting into the sand with undeniable rhythm. a razor-sharp hiss.

how could she pray for his soul without looking deep inside the wound to know what color bled? in her own recollection, she knew the shade by many names.

michael was only an illusion, then. a fast-approaching thread as the corleone power knitted itself through the neighborhood, one elicit deed at a time. mama corleone knew the extent of vito’s influence, though she did not pry nor did she wish to, unless a spark of selflessness pinched at her youthful heart; for she carried the love of her heritage & the love of michael’s father within the same beating heart — she lived a friendly bystander, feigning ignorance to her husband’s choices ( & inevitably, her sons' ) lest her assumptions tread under that which brought the luxury of never knowing hunger or any physical threat upon her children’s health. they would see the world as vito told, past the gritty steam of hell’s kitchen & she was grateful. her unconditional love remained content in the separation of her pain from her men, because afterall, they did not wish to share hers — what could a mother say to her son when he’s already fallen into a pit of damnation lit by his own flame? when no such resolution extinguished that which michael kindled without reserve. --- unbridled fear clawing at the stained flesh of his greedy ego.  

michael’s head hangs low. the warmth of the fire slowly dies away. falls into charred remains. 

❝ li tempi cancianu. ❞ (times are changing).

[ccrleone]

THE GODFATHER PART II 1974, dir. Francis Ford Coppola

[ccrleone]

THE GODFATHER PART II (1974) dir. Francis Ford Coppola AL PACINO as Michael Corleone

[ccrleone]

Your writing will always feel awkward to you, because you wrote it.

Your plot twists will always feel predictable, because you created them.

Your stories will always feel a bit boring to you, because you read them a million times.

They won’t feel like that for your reader.

[ccrleone]

[ccrleone]

i could add a few more stages to grief if they let me

[ccrleone]

AL PACINO as MICHAEL CORLEONE | THE GODFATHER PART II (1974) dir. Francis Ford Coppola.

[ccrleone]

i know i don't need to apologize for my absence, but that being said, ya girl overwhelmed herself socially for a bit there & needed to take a step back; had to give my other hobbies some love too --- tentatively anticipating a revival. what to know? just consider this a fresh blog. anything from the past has been wiped (with the exception of a few threads) & interactions will be minimal because boundaries are important, & i 100% support having them. i still enjoy my mutuals on the dash, even if we don't write. also, my portrayal of mikey has grown exponentially & i have my bestie to thank for that (sav that's u) so the love for michael only grows.

but enough of that, i hope you guys are thriving however that means to you. wishing y'all the best <3

[ccrleone]

continued from x. / @arthisan

       ARTHUR’S JUSTIFICATIONS SCATTER ALONG THE TABLE,   joining dried glasses of water  &&  playing cards aligned to the game of war. genuine interest threaded the needle of their conversations, but limited space  &&  repeat victories (michael: 3 arthur: 2) evoked boredom. politely unspoken. restlessness filtered through glazed eyes. patriarchal words, deep  &&  disembodied, share droning locutions past barriers of walnut-stained wainscoting. fingertips tapped against the table once, twice, three times, four … a mantra propelled into grey matter; tenacity  && complacency packed into dense granules. forward lean slight, michael’s head shakes side to side, momentum pathetic, relying upon an incidental smirk conned in mischievous certainty. the final nudge to his friend’s conscience. 

❛ nah. if we stay inside the compound, there’s not much pop can do.  ❜  offers permission. headstrong reassurance against the lie, dimly white as eggshell, passing through the gentle gaps of his teeth. he imagined future scolding — the bull-dog jowls of his father shaking in dismay. michael, listen to these meetings. michael, think about your future. michael, michael, michael... the younger corleone’s speech hastens. picking up the cue for a change in scenery, he stands, slides his chair in.  ❛  besides, you’re a guest. and i ought to be a good host.  ❜

absent of a second glance, michael leads paces ahead, grips the handle  &&  pulls the door towards him. boyish dither tilts his head. pupils fidget across wells of white. he shifts, half-guarded behind the door, sacrificing initial departure. reverie stretches across his smooth face upon witnessing polished curtains of lavender && mauve mantled to arthur’s skin like a fine quilt. an odd heat stirs inside his chest, spreads up the length of his neck && blooms against pale olive-brown cheeks.  fist clenches upon thigh. pressure welcomed, but weak in distraction. michael corleone hadn’t anticipated the sunset so soon. 

temperate hands tug on the handle behind him, footing clumsy; an understanding so foreign, instinct deafens blushed ears. or is it the wind? mellow whisps tenderly swipe invisible fingertips against the younger corleone’s skin, returning mundane color. wooden earth  &&  floral soil overwhelm with pleasant after-taste.  the vast freedom of four gardens, a small labyrinth of a courtyard,  &&  various fruit trees posed as the corleone compound — a diorama of envy to the outside world && a prison all the same. regardless, the wide yard challenges him; a rerun of youth after twenty years. fresh purpose itched at the bottom’s of michael corleone’s shoes. they had a lot of ground to cover before supper. 

he shoves past arthur’s shoulder, nearly toppling them both to the earth. quick to regain composure, michael's methodical in his jump. recovers well. turns his head, buzzing for one last look before serving arthur a big fat plate of dust.

❛   race you to the oranges!   ❜

[ccrleone]

THE ESSENCE OF GOOD COMPANY allows cigar-toned hues relaxation in basins of white. the expansion of pupils black as charcoal is swift. diluted in the blink of gratitude, nonetheless evident in the subtle rise of habitually straight-laced lips. hardened fingertips smooth over stainless steel, thumb between grooves && divots, strap dangling like a chandelier as the piece is turned with thoughtful inspection. he searches for potent reason --- how a fine accessory framed itself in the shadow of his image --- before abandoning any conclusion, settling upon sincere humility in the truth --- arthur thought of him.

the sheen of the clock's face opts a pleasant reflection, capturing the glimmer within michael corleone's eye; subdued with another blink, only at the behest rambles of his friend. still, a flicker of graciousness hidden beneath thick lashes lifts through.

❛ didn't mean to get me something ... ❜ michael reiterates, charming erroneousness burrowed within a gentle pause. ❛ and yet, it's in my hands ... ❜ his cigarette long stubbed out, thin smoke trails simmer from arthur's cigarette, enticing michael for another. the scorched color of orange winks at him as he traces matte white paper, nearly to the end, where lips meet filter && smoke, but his gaze halts, retreats to still hands clasping pristine silver. a faint prickle rises up the back of his neck. ❛ i do have a few, but i don't have this one. ❜ an admission of ownership. no way in hell he'd return this gift.

&& it is then, beneath years of generational placidity, an identical look ( the one arthur acknowledged with a playful scold ) surfaces; stretches && tugs comfortably along the thin strait of michael corleone's lips; a smile displayed countless times for countless reasons --- each one aged by mutual understanding, nurtured like a fine wine.

michael's two-bedroom home sat barely off the compound; next to connie && carlo's. two house's from the corleone mansion. under the shelter of personal refuge, michael permits the extension of his gratitude. lifting it higher, shielding his teeth, until the pressure pops through && exposes the slight bottom of his front row. his cheeks pop. ❛ it's a nice piece, arthur. thank you. ❜ he glimpses the silver, admires it once more, before it's tucked away for safe-keeping. he'd wear it at dinner tonight. the family were expecting mama corleone's eggplant parmigiana, && in preparation, as a good son should, he'd planned a special outfit in respect. arthur's gift would complete the sentiment.

something pokes him in this shift of movement, ultimately stealing every bit of saliva housed beneath his tongue. in an effort to gain it back, michael clears his throat. ❛ i found something the other day. holiday, or not ... it's yours by address. ❜ his fingers tap the table once, glancing at arthur for a secondary stall, before he reaches into his breast pocket, unearthing a sepia-tinted envelope; the travel of time having gently crumpled the edges. a blot of blood faded into its papery skin.

michael's fingertips push against the letter, sending it off, as it was destined to be. hesitancy sits atop his chest, && upon this building pressure, soft buttery sunlight glides through the kitchen windows, painting arthur's existence in a luster of calm && familiar trust. the letter stops at the end of the table. michael lets go.

❛ this was in my pocket ... when i was wounded. found its way back to me. ❜ no luck to be had. michael corleone guarded that helpless piece of paper, much like his country, once upon a time.

@ccrleone ♥︎

❝ don't look at me like that ... ❞ his attempt at earnestness is unreliable , for the way faint amusement easily meddles with the slope of his lips . a small simper finds its way through a tough canvas , even as he stubbornly remains with a desire to be as direct and unceremonious as possible — something taken and mimicked from his own foil . though , with lack of practice , it gets too entangled with his own inner trepidations towards untouched territory . in the end , he just looks coy . ❝ i saw it in the window walkin' by a shop today ... ❞ a watch . not the flashy kind , but still eye - catching enough to the average aficionado . simple and pristine . what dignified would look like if it were a piece of jewelry . ❝ i know y'already have a few , but i dunno ... somethin' about it just reminded me of you ... ❞

something is there for a second , a fond , considerate twinkle in his eye , a reminiscent look that was once reserved for the man next to him if they talked in terms of ' once upon a time . ' it is there , but before it is then quickly whisked away , shrugging from his shoulders as he turns and reaches over to rekindle a neglected cigarette in the nearby ashtray . a fleeting moment , as they always are these days . he simply avoids its onset before it can get ripped right out of his hand , a tightly wound grasp . in a matter of seconds , his intentions cave . ❝ and if y'hate it , we can take it back . it's not like i meant to get ya somethin' anyway . ❞

[ccrleone]

     PLUMES OF THIN SMOKE RISE LIKE VEILS. fresh && familiar, shared along practiced silence; limitless whips of burning paper carelessly sting pools of white, float down the back of his throat  &&  lay smoky earth along his tongue. bitterness swallowed, the cigarette hooked between michael corleone's index finger hangs loosely, teetering above the edge of the chipped ashtray. neutrality coats short-words. the gravity of elapsed time all too evident within arthur's pause, drawing out reserved gratitude. michael catches arthur’s glance, fixed to an invisible disturbance away from him.

through hazy layers of vice, penny-tinted eyes wait, settling upon arthur's face, comparing in amicable curiosity, the visage he left four years ago. wrinkles etched along his forehead. muscled jaw lines where pudge once spread. puddles of blue, distant, living in another room, hang idly. no longer taut with youth. from the first puff alone, he remembers him, remembers everything, but in the throes of his own suppression, he recognizes the man's trance. cumbersome  &&  merciless. no different from sleepless nights or sudden solitude. an innocent reach. a glimpse into arthur’s life, post sicily, is a sullen reminder of what’s been lost. 

a quick tap  &&  burned tobacco flops into the ceramic basin, mirroring similar patterns of past disposal. the cigarette settles between michael’s lips once more; ember igniting in life. a puffy cloud of nicotine sucked in as fast as it’s released. arthur’s answer carries an air of falsehood, only suspect by the swift unclogging of his throat, but news of pragmatic independence diverts michael’s surmise. mention of the economy, michael withholds an eyeroll. such standard thinking, believing pezzonovante’s matched the public’s best interest — arthur’s best interest, manifests disgust within thin lines of a frown, flitted by another puff of his cigarette. his father’s crackled voice echoes, like a witness to michael’s successful approach of thought. 

❛  the family’s good. ❜ a man of candor, business was gaining traction towards uncharted territory — legitimacy. departing old worlds for new. cleansing dirtied hands under the promise of a justified era. stained, but clean, nonetheless,  &&  with the don’s approval, michael’s plan gave an estimate of five years to completion. every year before — pop’s shooting, sonny’s death, fredo’s disappointing lifestyle — aided to the subsequent prediction of the corleone family’s fall, but the truth reached far above. exceeded any fictitious newspaper headline. allies. friends. all would be called upon in the passing of the patriarchal torch.

❛ i work for my father now. he's been sick. very sick. ❜  an air of the past slips itself into michael’s speech, masking hypocrisy for professionalism, perhaps expectation. lineage responsibility. he stubs out the cigarette, leading into his choice of words. opting for business, rather than reunion; the latter gnawing at the back of his skull like a ravenous creature. eyes, the color of arthur’s table, search him in this bout of silence. the intricacies of his blue-collar attitude double down for michael corleone’s visit. 

❛ i’d like to ask you how the factory is. if you know of any plots for a union strike. any information you provide now … consider the corleone's in your debt. ❜  favor for favor. explanation once spilled from a younger, sarcastic tongue in a boyhood fit to his father’s friend’s son – his best friend –  after interrupting an important meeting between the don and some senator. words mocked. deaf on teenage ears --- in the garden, the sky held a pristine shimmer above them. casting its innocent glow upon eyes  &&  hands unexposed to the soiled underbelly of the mafia. isolation was michael's wish. running off to the marines was a start. sicily, however, forced him with an ignorant hand, as nurturing as it came to be in the years forth.

hands fold over themselves, resting atop the table. upon civilian ears, the promise of debt loomed more as a threat than a gift. adding a kinder incentive, michael corleone's expectation for the truth lies irrefutably in the preservation of arthur's trust --- if not from michael, at least the family.

❛  is there anything i can do to help you? ❜

in seclusion , he attempts to put himself back together again , seizing the kinks of his appearance and ironing them out , as best as he can with what unhelpful conditions he's in . he tucks in his shirt a little better , smooths out the flyaways of his misshapen hair and , before he forgets , puts his arm on , in a way that makes him hope it'll miraculously blend in with the rest of his body , as if metal and flesh can be seamless enough for the kind . with michael , he has his expectations . though , between two men of war , perhaps both now know certain discrepancies between past and present are better left unaddressed .

when he returns , he shines a better smile than before , appearing more confident in his approach . a sigh quietly leaves his lips as he perches himself just adjacent to his old friend , but comfortability is all to feign his withered insides , while nerves , at his core , remain in a bunch . an offer to smoke couldn't be more well - timed . easily , he accepts , waits patiently for the flame that follows before he allows the cigarette to reach his lips .

upon the first puff , he almost forgets where he is , as if his own whereabouts have remained a mystery even to himself . a living room could be just a living room , until one ventures on and remembers what transpires behind the nooks . when michael asks him that question , he idly glances to the closed door , plain and unsuspecting , next to the staircase , knowing where his answers lie , how they feel something close to the weeks and days before an imminent demise . call it sympathy pains , the phantoms of despair that loiter not only just in the vacancy of his arm , but his brain . he wallows in this , as clearly as it seems , though more than he would like to admit .

so , looking at michael again , he still lies . ❝ great ... ❞ he flicks ash over the ashtray between them , clears his throat to avoid a hoarseness that creeps up in his voice . ❝ been settlin' in with the folks , lookin' for a place of my own in the meantime . it's a funny thing , gettin' reaccustomed in this sorta economy . i mean , i hear things over here are 'sposed to be on the up-and-up now . ❞ he takes another puff , receding from a ramble before it can go on for too long . long and methodical , enough to make his eye twitch against the graze of smoke . it ensues a beat of silence , and then — ❝ m'sure it's been treatin' the corleones kindly ? ❞

[ccrleone]

a wrong decision is better than indecision.

𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐄 ; it stretches itself, word by word, across michael corleone’s porous mind. eyes like pennies – devotional inheritance — widen in softness. his chin lifts. his shoulders relax. high above, a canvas of faded blue melts into affluent hues of gold, enveloping the don && his heir. the corleone garden offers a show of rest. solitude performs its soliloquy; pausing in the gaps of valued fatherly wisdom  &&   permitting michael corleone’s perception to wander; not with aimlessness, but duty. rationale. a wrong decision defined itself, did it not? what factors lend credence to faulty decisions over hesitancy? wasted time. severity for the answer to an unknown. raised stakes. cost opportunities. sure, there was logic in that, however, the finalities of both housed discomfort ; not within the thin battle-line of morality, but the guarded stronghold of leadership.

his tongue quivers. teeth bite at soft tissue. michael swallows his first words — defying their disrespectful taste  &&  spitting out doubt. the don’s word held gospel ; indeed, many wayward souls sought his counsel, like forgiveness from a priest . michael views his father. aged by the hands of man's violence. validity fixed between grey brows. wartime experience buried within the wrinkles of his visage, soothed only the fruits of his labor. don corleone's words are truth. still, curious opposition surfaces from the back of michael's throat --- a son’s eloquence disguised with a protege's tone.

           ❛ — but, could that indicate weakness? could either? ❜

[ccrleone]

continued from here. /@arthisan

𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐍’𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐒. borderline destructive. support impersonates threat && his ego is fooled. enemies manifest without intervention beneath the warm light of guidance golden rays slip further && further from his worth, until darkness envelopes his skin. but closure masks shame. he no longer burns under the disappointing gaze of a friend. instead, finds solace in the delusion of ignorance, repeating i’ll find my own way out. i’ll find my own way out. 

tolerance treads loosely within michael corleone’s patience. conviction circles brown hues. offering a gentle stare. hiding remnants of frustration. uncovered truths distilled from the don — pop — shadow every protested word. every refusal. && therein again lies the familiarity housed between two men. ignorance for freedom. a glimpse of memory digs into his skull. bitter && cold. twisting the sides of his mouth. foaming in silence.   ❛  i have done nothing that wasn’t already a matter discussed, ❜ he retorts. infliction absent. michael shifts his weight, leaning into arthur’s reluctance.  sifting through blind layers of courage. ❛ you knew this was coming.  ❜

sins of the father — michael’s resolution lies within the test of his own power. his own strategy. still, their friendship no longer branded a resilient gleam of shared hope. a calculated mess of circumstance — most of which, if every part, was not arthur’s blame.

            ❛ arthur --- i offer advice. i offer reconciliation to your debts. i come to you not as a business man, but as a friend. one more refusal and there's not much else I can do for you. ❜ 

[ccrleone]

continued from here. / @arthisan

𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐒 — 𝐀𝐑𝐓���𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄, come && go. spring with necessary life only to find refuge beneath the rubble of the past. forgotten, soon. in place of another && another && another. a vicious cycle to the eye.. informal demands of nostalgia allow hickory hues to sit in silence. his mind trained properly in reaction when familiarity emerges. when memory reads its script, as he paraphrased himself — calm knocks at a wooden door. hands in pockets. casual. 

         the door, in wait, swings open. buried within ironclad bone, recollections of a distant time, perhaps, a better time, smooth out any surfacing wrinkles of confusion. lips slack without feeling. eyes crease at the corners — it’s the most he can offer —  despite what is, in fact, a pleasant reunion. justified in the gaps of lost time, michael studies him. deep, dark circles hijack once bright, ambitious beams. the drastic misfortune of his left arm. michael recognizes the strain on his face. the merciless claim of time. he understands it all too well. 

        michael grants arthur’s perplexity with courtesy. aware of his intrusion. he aims to keep their reconciliation short, for it is not their final hello, && the invitation brings a faint flush of warmth to the organ beating inside his chest. their contact remained distant --- purposefully cut off. that’s how it needed to be. his bodyguard monitors the block from a sleeping car. entering the house, following behind the other, his mind busies itself in the wake of arthur’s own embarrassment. michael corleone ponders if trust lies within the innocent fumblings of his old friend. 

         a man’s home was a public, yet private, part of his life — the don’s heir didn’t wish to impose. michael’s perception heightens in the small of the room. eyes careen the minimal space – mark the ashtray on the coffee table.  controlled breathing taking up as much space as the couch && coffee table. he’d stay as long as a cigarette burned. younger years would grant two, three cigarettes. a beer. enough to account for the miles between new york && houston. nothing personal now. just needed to be. quiet footsteps pitter from the corner of the room. hands release their hold. clasp in front of his jacket. arthur — fixed with a metallic hand && somewhat composed from minutes before — gestures to the couch. unable, or unwilling, to refuse, michael takes a seat comfortably, despite his waist-coat; a reminder their needs of time differed greatly.

       ❛ thank you for inviting me into your home, arthur. ❜  he fishes for the cigarette pack inside his pockets, plucking out two sticks. promptly handing one over.  ❛ unexpected, i know … ❜ he disguises the reality of his statement within the placement of the pack on the table. retrieves his lighter. spoken with the cigarette balancing between his lips. michael chooses his words carefully. for the sake of authenticity. he could at least give arthur that. ❛ … good to see you. ❜ 

        the flame meets the ends of the smokes. he knows better. still, with a single puff of tobacco, small-talk reigns. casual camaraderie is frowned upon outside the family. that’s just how it needed to be. 

        ❛ how have you been? ❜

[ccrleone]

WHAT THEY LOOK LIKE.     narrow profile. his skin is a clear olive-oil brown. professional. extremely hygienic with combed-back hair. stands at a 5’8. not at all a heavy-set fellow or tall, but his presence radiates danger. behind his cold stare, he is ferociously thinking three steps ahead. fiercely independent. accustomed to danger; rarely do his hands shake in the presence of a threat. his brown eyes pop like an innocent doe, but as he grows older && stress follows him like a shadow, the bags under his eyes become more pronounced. deep circles seem to suck the joyous, dreamy life from his eyes, shrouding his stare in darkness, almost like death. his lips become paler overtime. as the book quotes, michael possesses handsome features that most would think looked beautiful on a girl.

WHAT THEY WEAR. ( I added this one as a continuation of the appearances) united states marine corp captain’s green uniform. predominantly dressed in button-down shirts && colored ties. thick sweaters. charcoal flannel three-piece suits. clad, neckband shirts with bengal stripes && button-down collared shirts. woolen flat caps — particular style known as a “coppola”, pinstripe double breasted suits. black overcoat with padded shoulders built for a powerful profile. homburg hats. elegant gold watch. plain white-gold wedding band. 

most famously wears a gray dupioni silk suit with black && white flecks. double forward-pleaded suit trousers with front pockets. black leather belt with a rounded silver-toned single prong buckle. the white shirt consists of a long point collar && buttoned barrel cuffs. a thin, black silk tie. light gray tassel loafers && black socks break the traditional grey dupioni suit coordination.

WHAT THEY SMELL LIKE.    clean, sophisticated, && slightly masculine. a classic aftershave with notes of citrus && vetiver && hints of leather. a cologne that presents polished && controlled persona. light whiffs of cigar && cigarette smoke. whiskey && red wine underlying hints of dark chocolate. 

WHAT THEY TASTE LIKE.   a kiss from michael corleone is full-bodied, like a dry red wine && after pulling away, one would recognize a slightly bitter aftertaste, like nicotine mixed with the earthy blend of tobacco. 

WHAT THEY SOUND LIKE.  calm && controlled. reserved tone with a subtle coldness. most often speaks deliberately && understands the basis of a professional conversation (speaking to persuade && inform) his speech pattern is typically measured with authority && calculated delivery. low pitched. enunciates clearly && with impact. minimal emotional infliction, unless otherwise angered. uses emphasized pauses for tension && strategy. 

WHAT THEY FEEL LIKE.  michael’s hands are rough && calloused with a hidden softness to his palms. his skin is warm, yet there is a detached lack of emotion in the caress. however, should michael && his partner lock eyes, there is a sense of secrecy. an intimidating feeling akin to electric jolts of respected personal power as one graces their fingertips along his skin. deep touches give a lavish && expensive, yet polished, intimate ruggedness. further time spent with michael may bring a surge of adrenaline coursing through one's blood, as if touching a ticking time bomb without a precise countdown.

tagged by: the ever lovely @afteriimage (ty ty <3)

tagging: @andolini, @arthisan, @wandercr (or your multi!), @pro26ctor, @godstrayed (for sofia? or any muse of your choosing, but we love a murderous mafia queen)