day five, part two: wicked game
The world was on fire, and no one could save me but you;
It's strange what desire will make foolish people do…
Hollister does not think much of their new haven.
To begin with, the abode is dank, reeking of mildew and water-rot. Though it is sturdy enough to put a roof above their heads, the walls are lined with holes and cobwebs, precarious wooden beams held up by carelessly-placed nails. When they entered the cabin, it took all of a single push to force the door from its hinges, and nearly twenty minutes of work to right it - a trouble that Hollister did not appreciate.
Worse still, the floor is obscured by bins of refuse, junk that he has no care nor desire for, and though Lethe scarcely seems to mind, he cannot say the same for himself.
(This is a rat's hole, not dissimilar to the buildings he so loathed back home in Twelve. If Hollister were to have it his way, the pair of them would be gone afore dusk. 'Tis no small misfortune that his ally does not share his opinion.)
Nonetheless, he shan't complain. After all, it isn't as if he's the one that's been left to disgrace himself by digging through hovel-boxes, and there is a decently-made bench on which he can perch. If he avoids the refuse, 'tis not such a rueful lot…
And, if nothing else, he now possesses time to work on his perturbance with the ruined fang inside his mouth. Or, as Hollister would prefer to term it: the abomination.
He hisses as the knife's edge scores into the edge of his lip, the split skin stiff from a yet-unslaked thirst. Blood bubbles up to mar the surface, thin lines dribbling back onto his tongue as Hollister's teeth clench down upon slick metal.
Blast and damnation. Though he's possessed of many a skill, accurate judgment does not appear to be one of them. Any attempts at fixing his blemish will be fruitless without a mirror, and Hollister has done damage enough not to press the matter. He withdraws the dagger, flat-edge weighing down his tongue as he drags it from his mouth, abandoning the task outright.
He shan't waste time on such insignificant matters. 'Tis a sure fact that cosmetics are trivial within the arena; why meddle with such matters when there's still murder to attend?
The Twelve boy sighs, allowing his mouth to shut. His hand returns to his lap, weapon still clasped tight between his fingers as his eyelids flutter closed, the pounding headache of yestermorn returning in sudden force.
(What is it that he's doing here?
What purpose is to be had sitting within a weathered shed, when there remains an excess of prey he is yet to hunt?
His lassitude is not so dismal as to leave him shambled -
not so miserable as to stifle him from acting on his urges, regardless of what Lethe may wish.
Death is not a thing to come to those sitting idle; betwixt his partner's rummaging and Hollister's willingness to abide a pause of action, he cannot help but feel put out at their lack of productivity.
Malaise or not, he ought be sowing discord,
not dithering about and dwelling on ennui when he has a Game to beat.)
He scowls, and the edges of his mouth droop, thoughts curdled in accordance with his blackened mood. The divot carved from his left fang still aches something fierce, not unlike the mark scored upon his neck, itching with the force of flea-bit decay. His skull begins to throb as he grips tighter to the knife, drawing it near to his vexed chest, bitter, always bitter…
"Thoughts?" Lethe's speech comes, sudden and abrupt. Without thinking, Hollister twists his arm to the side and hurls his dagger across the room, the snap of his wrist audible in the grimdark silence.
There comes a hit, and then a clatter. Metal rings as it collides with wooden beams, dropping to the floor shortly after it bounces from the edge of the window. Lethe watches the blade as it passes by, following its arc with his jet eyes, visage remaining utterly stoic.
"Hollister," he says, quiet enough to be disarming. "What was that?"
"'Twas a knife," Hollister answers plainly, not bothering to raise his head. Lethe blinks twice, his face belying nothing even as his aura oozes with irritation.
"Is there a reason you chose to throw a knife at my head?"
Though the question is calm, the glint of his gaze is anything but. Hollister looks up at him, mouth firmly closed. The dried blood from his split lip sticks to the sides of his chin, and he feels a sudden urge to lick it away. He cannot name a reason for his insecurity, but the thought of Lethe seeing him in such disarray is… humiliating.
"The knife," he finally says, exhaling slowly, "was not aimed with intent. Although I loathe to admit my shortcomings, your inquiry caught me by surprise. My thoughts were… elsewhere."
He turns his head, flexing his freed hand while his attention drops to stare towards a spot on the floor. Darkened marks in fragile wood, so akin to the abode where he'd resided with his almost-family, back in the days before his sentence. How many nights did he spend watching rain pool over those dull slats, dripping from holes in the Hargraves' shoddy roof? He's certain it was many, though the memory feels distant… nearly inaccessible, despite the fact that it was Hollister's mind which first conjured the image.
It's as if he's stuck in a dream - his head afloat with fog and uncertainty, regarding Twelve, regarding the arena…
"Are you alright?" Lethe asks slowly, and - oh, since when did the pair of them grow this close?
Hollister observes in silence as his ally crouches, sinking to the floor with his weight resting on one knee. The dagger he so casually discarded rests within one of Lethe's pallid hands, still at his body's side, and Hollister swallows, vulnerability striking him.
"I - I was attempting to even my fangs," he says in lieu of a real answer, unsure of why he's speaking at all. "When I fell yestereve - or earlier, I care not which day it was - I seem to have done myself damage. It's broken."
His lips curl back, the points of his incisors digging into his red-stained lip.
"I abhor the thought of appearing damaged."
(I abhor the thought of you seeing me damaged -
thinking me weak, untenable, incapable of holding composure.
There is no place in my armor for chinks to be sustained,
and had I more wherewithal, I would rid myself of them before I drew your notice.)
(I am not about to divulge asthenia to one I so revere.)
Lethe sighs.
"You're a wreck," he mutters, and Hollister has to rein in his own urge to snap a response, temper flaring on a dime's turn.
"'Tis not as if I asked for injury," he hisses, spine straightening as he adjusts his posture. He raises his chin, looking down his nose at the boy from Six. "Frenzy does damage to us all, but the fact remains that I am beyond falling victim to it. And mess or not, you look little better!"
Lethe scowls, his brow pinching at the center.
"And to think I was about to offer assistance," he spits, holding up the knife as reiteration. "This is why I hate dealing with people. You're all so prone to dramatism."
He pulls back, easing his weight from his knee and rising to his feet. With teeth gritted, he begins to turn, ignoring Hollister's shellshocked expression, the slight drop of his jaw and the fluster spreading through his cheeks.
(He cannot let Lethe slip away again. Certainly not on a note so queer as this. To do so would be calamity, when there are desires he needs to address… desires that Hollister is beginning to believe may be requited.)
As Lethe's arm swings back a touch, Hollister grasps hold of his wrist, calloused palm and spindle-fingers closing tight around his shifting bones. Lethe stills, but makes no move to throw him off, even as Hollister gets up from the bench, standing at a height far taller than his companion.
"I apologize," he forces out, squeezing Lethe's wrist harder, "for acting obtuse. Admittedly, I was being presumptuous."
"You were," Lethe agrees, his back still facing Hollister despite the renewed proximity.
"Sorry is not a word I often use," Hollister says, releasing his wrist. "Yet… I am sorry. Lethe, please."
He shifts his hand to Lethe's side instead of his forearm, touch trailing over khaki fabric and prickled skin. The caress is tentative, not so much filled with intent as it is an attempt to test the waters, but Lethe seems uninclined to the insinuation. Flinging Hollister's arm away, he pivots around to face him, hand coming up to hold a weapon against his throat, the pulse fluttering at the feel of cold metal against an exposed jugular.
"Did I say that you could touch me?" He questions. Hollister's swallows, looking into those black eyes, so full of bloodlust and brilliance that it nearly renders him speechless.
"I - no." The Twelve boy manages to respond, unused to the way his insides seem to shrivel, heart wholly aflutter. "May I?"
"Yes," Lethe concedes, without moving the knife. "But I'm doing your fangs first. Sit down."
Hollister's rouge deepens at the order, but he never has the opportunity to follow through. Before he can so much as step back, the knife has left his neck. Lethe's palms - one opened, the other still locked in place around the dagger's hilt - press to his chest and shove, forcing Hollister back to his place on the seat.
"Lethe, what -"
He starts to inquire, leaning back so his spine is pressed against the wood. Lethe follows his body down, lifting one leg to place his knee against the seat, then swinging the other up to straddle him, the position leaving him all but sat in Hollister's lap. He cups his chin with nimble fingers, thumb running along his bloody lip, trying to coax open the Twelve boy's mouth.
"Let me see those teeth of yours," he says, slipping his finger in to let the pad press down on Hollister's tongue, the side catching against the chipped nuisance. "Go on, don't be shy."
Hollister, half in shock, allows his mouth to go slack. Lethe's thumb pulls loose to push down on his lip, knife-blade returned to the place where he had originally leveled it.
There's no hesitation as the steel begins to scrape against bone, filing down the chip with a pragmatic type of precision, absolutely no hint of gentleness in how Lethe chooses to carve. Waves of pain radiate up through Hollister's face, his nerves screeching as Lethe's grip stays firm on his chin, preventing his mouth from slipping closed around the weapon that fills it. He can hear each push resound inside his ears, tiny shavings of lost bone dusting along his bloody lip and though Hollister knows it should perturb him, he cannot bring himself to complain.
(He has always detested the thought of being at a human's mercy, but there's something about this that feels right. Himself. Lethe. The circumstances of their association. He isn't one to nurture whimsy, but this fragile, tentative thing that he's grown keen to indulge… this sense of blooming attraction to the only human that may be near his equal…
He wishes to keep it.)
His fingers twitch against his leg, demanding to slip beneath the fabric of Lethe's shirt and trace the curve of his lithe back, divest him of his shirt if only so he can look at the expanse of his skin and think about covering it in bites. Yet no matter his own urges, Hollister keeps himself still, unwilling to push his seeming fortune.
It is enough for them to be close.
Enough for him to be held, caressed and coveted, with nails pressing circles into his face and blood falling free of his tongue. Bone dust clogs his throat, and he begins to choke, but Lethe's motions never halt, never bother to pause in the act of his sawing, stripping bits of tooth away and scraping down enamel.
He coughs, and Lethe holds him tighter, whispering reassurances to his ear - "almost done, Holly, you're doing so well" - until the knife (finally, blessedly) comes to a stop. Lethe pulls back as he begins to hack, fragments sticking in his now-dry mouth while he sputters and spits.
It must be a minute before he stops. Must be two before he finally begins to salivate, reaching up to wipe the remnants of dust from along his lip, Lethe watching him all the while, patient as he could possibly be. Hollister's tongue traces over his filed incisor, finding the tooth fully sharpened, the point significant enough to seem needlelike - despite being anything but.
"Better?" Lethe asks.
"A touch rough," Hollister concedes, then reaches forward, curling fingers into the other boy's shirt, hauling him close until their breaths mingle. "Though I suppose I shall manage."
He quirks his lips up, and though words sit stonelike in his throat, he needn't put voice to him. Lethe's mouth seals over his own, stifling his voice and sucking the breath out of him, teeth pushing down into his bleeding lip with little qualm.
"I hate this," he says, grinning against Hollister's lips, their foreheads pressed against one another. "I hate you."
Hollister laughs in the form of a sharp wheeze, his arms wrapping around Lethe's back, holding him in a way he's never held anything before.
"I know, Lethe."
I know.
(Be it hate or be it love, Hollister Crowe believes he's fallen.)
It's weird being disabled.
Well, maybe she's not really disabled - Argenta can't say for sure. She's got pieces missing, and from what people in Five said, that kinda qualifies her… but she's not sure there's a word to describe the feeling of having your own fuckin' eye get pulled out of your head. And that's what Two did, for the record. Ripped her eye out, nerves and all. Left her to cry like a little bitch with zero care for that fact she just maimed a child.
"I mean, seriously, can you believe that shit? Can you fucking believe it?"
She slams the pointy-end of her knife down into the top of the table, wood splintering around the point of impact. Beside her, Velezen's sitting with one elbow propped on the edge, nodding along as she rambles. He's been good about things, ever since their little scare with Eleven and the Careers and the bloody mess they'd trekked back from the woods after they got fucking murked… and she's glad for it, really. Glad, because at least somebody cares about all the shit she's going through, even if he isn't doing jack to try and fix it, and –
"And it's like, what if I get out of here? Doesn't matter, it's still fucking gone. Did Two even consider that? I'm gonna get out and I'll be maimed for the rest of my life, called a fuck-up and a freak just like that boy last year." She sniffles, her eyes (no, not eyes, . Because Two fucked her, she just took out that fucking sword and fucked her and she didn't even have the decency to get her booze first!) stinging with unshed tears, it's not fair it's not its not its not!
"Oh, the humanity," Velezen says, and Argenta socks him in the arm, not even bothering to quell the impulse.
"Don't mock me!"
"I'm not mocking you, I'm just saying shit happens." Zen replies, rubbing at the spot where her fist hit him, the faintest hint of a wince in his expression. Argenta smiles when she thinks of the bruise that'll form there later. Sweet, sweet revenge. It's not much, but it's still vindicating.
"If it means anything," he continues, "it does make you look more intimidating. Like, a twelve-year-old munchkin is creepy enough, but a twelve-year-old munchkin with an eyepatch? People are gonna run for the hills."
"Please, people in Five are too stupid to run," Argenta replies, though a smile starts to twitch on her lips regardless. Intimidating. That's a good look for an assassin. She wonders what Bruin thinks.
Maybe she'll ask him, once she finally blows this popsicle stand. Maybe, when she's home, they can talk about the Games and he can tell her about how much he enjoyed her trick in the bloodbath, pat her head and treat her to ice cream like he sometimes did when she did something right for him. Maybe he'll bring her home and let her chill on the couch 'til she feels better, and maybe he'll get her a real eyepatch, too. Vyn's is fine, but she'd prefer something more expensive. Well made, black, shiny… maybe leather. That's what would suit a Victor.
A Victor…
"Whatever. I'm bored!" Argenta exclaims suddenly, snatching her knife back out of the table and spinning around. She gives Zen a clap on the arm before hopping down off their bench, desperate for another distraction. "Wanna play a game?"
"Ooh, did someone say 'game?!'" Maevyn pipes up, poking her head out from behind one of the open doors. "I wanna do more cards! I'm gettin' real good at them –"
"Only because your girlfriend is a gambler," Argenta responds, rolling her eyes. "Besides, we played all night yesterday, and I'm telling you, it's no fun!"
"No fun?" Cordura shouts from outside, her footsteps echoing across the ground as she reenters the lodge's main. "No fun? What slander is this? I know you're a sore loser, Argenta, but that's no reason to be rude –"
"I'm not being rude, I'm being honest!" Argenta spits back, crossing her arms over her chest. "What's the point of poker if there's nothing to bet?"
"I mean, we've got our clothes," Velezen quips. Maevyn lets out a gasp as she slips out from the doorway, cheeks tinted with a blush of high offense.
"Zenzen, there are children present!" She exclaims, and next thing Argenta knows there's a set of hands plastered over her ears.
"Hey!" She cries, trying to bat Vyn's arms away, but the Four girl doesn't relent. Instead, she presses closer, right up against Argenta's back, and wraps herself around her like a blanket, resting her chin atop Argenta's messy hair. Across from her, Zen begins to laugh, raucous in his mirth. Argenta, unamused, can't help but pout.
"Trust me, Vyn, the kid's seen worse."
"Quit lying, she is a baby! Strip poker is out of the question–"
"I'm not a baby, I'm more mature than you!" Argenta bucks her head back to knock against Maevyn's chest, then wrestles her body free of her ally's arm-prison. Shooting her a dark glare, she shoves her hands into her pockets, backtracking to the table in search of Zen's protection. "Velezen, she's being mean."
"Am not!"
"Are too!"
"Children, children!" Velezen stands to his feet, hands raised in a pacifying gesture. "Let's take a moment to run through our options. Argenta doesn't want cards, so how about we play a bonding game?"
Maevyn looks to Argenta. Argenta looks back at Maevyn, raising her visible eyebrow.
"That could be… reasonable," she says finally, the words feeling like pebbles in her mouth.
"Fucking brilliant." The response is obviously sarcasm, but Argenta does her best to ignore it. Anything's better than Cordy's stupid, rigged cards. "How about twenty questions?"
"Oh, I know that one!" Vyn nods along, perfectly content.
Argenta, on the other hand, blanches.
"What the fuck are we, five? It's gotta be 'Never Have I Ever.'" She looks over to the fourth member of their party, who stands at the edge of the room idly examining her nails. "What d'you think, Cordy?"
"Oh, now you want my opinion?" The Eight girl asks, not bothering to raise her head. "I see how it is."
"Just because I think your idea of fun sucks–"
"That sounds like a you problem, demonling." Cordura responds, cutting her off midsentence. Still, she eventually relents, sighing and then dropping her hand with only a little bit of a flourish. "You do have a point, though. Twenty questions is laaame."
"Exactly! So we should play Never Have I Ever!" She looks to Velezen and sticks her tongue out. "I knew Cordy would have better taste than you."
"Hold up a minute, I never actually agreed." Cordura corrects, striding from the door to join the conflicted group. "Never Have I Ever is fun, but I tend to prefer the classics. How about truth or dare?"
Her hand lands on Argenta's shoulder, and the Five girl tries to keep from mentally smacking herself. Why didn't I think of that! She tilts her head up to meet Cordura's smirking face, returning the pleased expression with her own mischievous glee.
"Fuck yes, I wanna play truth or dare! But Zenzen has to go first."
"Sounds fair to me," the older girl agrees. Argenta giggles and turns to her District partner.
"Velezen, truth… or… dare?!"
"Why do you hate me?" Velezen asks, sighing as he settles back into his seat. Argenta continues to stare at him, smiling maliciously, and it must be getting to him because it doesn't take long for him to crack.
"Okay, fine. I'll play. But I don't take dares from miniature demons." He says, and the Five girl audibly groans.
"Seriously?"
"You know I could just not play at all, right?"
"Asshole," Argenta retorts. Velezen raises his right hand, flashing his middle finger at her. She turns her head away, pouting before she finally relents. "Whatever. Since you wanna be boring I'll just have to make the question interesting…"
Pulling away from Cordura, she starts to pace,stroking her chin, with her roughened bad she didn't pick Maevyn - she knows exactly what she'd have made the Four girl say, since she's apparently too wishy-washy to do it herself. Lesbians really are fucking useless.
"Okay, I got it," she says decisively. "First murder? And don't you dare skimp on the details, I wanna know everything!"
"Everything?" Velezen asks, reaching one hand up to push hair back from his face, glancing off to the side of the lodge. "Wow, I don't know, pipsqueak, that's sort of a tall order…"
"Well you can't back out now," Argenta singsongs, rocking back and forth on her heels. Zen shakes his head, not dismissive so much as fond, leaning back in his seat as he begins his answer.
"Believe it or not, I haven't killed that many people… but my first was my ex."
"Valid," Cordura interjects, prompting both Fives to turn their heads. She shrugs. "What? I'm just calling it like it is."
"Honestly, you're not wrong." Velezen chuckles. "I'd even go so far as to say he was asking for it, given he tried to murder me."
"He did not!" Maevyn leans forward, jaw slack at the new information. Velezen sighs and lets his arm slip back to his lap.
"Yeah, actually he did. Made up an entire fucking ritual to try and dispose of me just because I turned out to be a little too charismatic for his tastes. Naturally, I escaped, but Aurelio didn't exactly take that well… he exposed the cult, Peacekeepers got involved, a bunch of messy shit went down and I gutted him in an alley. And yes, Argenta, before you ask… it was bloody. I had anger to vent, and I stabbed him - could've been ten times, could've been fifty, I don't know and I don't really care after the kind of shit he pulled. Traitors don't get to ask for mercy; they don't deserve it. Aurelio didn't…"
He trails off, the silence of the lodge persisting even after Velezen's depiction draws to a close. Maevyn reaches over to set a hand on his forearm, and Argenta…
Argenta doesn't make a habit of regretting her actions. Nor does she see a point in others trying to regret theirs. Velezen killed his partner, and he was in the right for it - so why should he linger on details like guilt or sentiment? The guy sounds like a total jackass from everything she's heard, and Zen… Zen isn't.
(He shouldn't feel bad for taking out the garbage. She wouldn't. Bruin wouldn't…)
(She doesn't want him to cry.)
(She can't - she can't see him cry. Not over something so childish as this, a fucking petty game that she suggested because she was bored. It's not right for him to suffer over her decisions… her words…)
She pushes the topic away. The more distraction Zen has, the better he'll feel, right?
"Maevyn, truth or dare?"
Velezen's head raises at the sound of her voice, his fingers uncurling from where they've dug into his palm. "Da–" Vyn begins to speak, only for him to clear his throat, louder than strictly necessary.
"Ahem? You already had your turn, pipsqueak. Time to fuck off."
"Aw, come on! We're in the Hunger Games, Zenzen. Rules don't apply here."
"Hunger Games it may be, but right now we're playing truth or dare. Rules always apply." Velezen quirks his chin up, giving Maevyn a half nod. "Vyn, truth or dare?"
"You're so full of shit," Argenta snips back, but she's smiling as she takes up her previous seat, leaning over to rest her head on Velezen's shoulder. Surprisingly, he doesn't even bother trying to get her to move.
"Love ya too, Argie."
His hand comes up to ruffle her hair, the same way Bruin sometimes did when they were alone, sittin' out on his porch after she got done with his dirty work, and it's so nice just to be close to someone Argenta doesn't have words for it.
(She wishes they had met before. Back in Five, outside of the Games. They could've had a chance, if that had happened. Could've been siblings, for real instead of just for a moment. Argenta's never really had much in the way of friends… never had family to really care about her, 'cuz even with Bruin there was always distance, always this weird unspoken rule about the Ring and her and him and he was just waiting for me to fuck up, wasn't he? When the Quell hit, he couldn't pass me off quick enough, it's like he never loved me to begin with, it's like he never really wanted…)
"Dare!" Maevyn exclaims, snapping her out of her mind with a big ol' grin. Velezen's hand stays atop Argenta's head as his eyes flit between Vyn and Cordy, his lips beginning to curl into a devilish smirk.
"Dare? Are you sure?" He asks, and it's so obvious what he's thinking, his smirk all guileful and not secret in the least. Maevyn bites her lip, a flush coming to her cheeks, probably because she knows what's coming, she can't really be that airheaded, can she?
"Umm, yes?" The Four girl asks, and immediately Argenta begins to cackle, letting go of her brother and sitting up, pointing over at Cordy.
"Then we dare you to kiss her!" She all but screeches, Velezen clapping her on the back in encouragement.
"I'm so glad we share a braincell."
Argenta grins, leaning forward with a manic gleam in her eye. Even now she's pactically bouncing in her seat, the sexual tension growing thicker and thicker as Vyn and Cordura size each other up.
(It's so ridiculous she almost doesn't have the words for it. The pining, the infatuation, the drama? Hells does that take her back! There were always people she saw in the Ring that she just knew were full to bursting from all their lustfulness, and she had too much fun watching them lose themselves to it, making out during drug runs in the alleys around city main. Bruin hated it when she tried to push them on it, but they were just so funny when they got embarrassed!)
Maevyn takes her sweet time trying to stand, and Cordura's little different, moving closer with the speed of a snail, so godsdamned slow Argenta's ready to punch her. "Come on," she bemoans them, groaning without reserve. "All this suspense is gonna murder me!"
Cordura reaches out to take Vyn's hand in her own, stepping close-close-closer as Maevyn's face goes bright red. Argenta lurches up from the bench, hanging on the edge of her seat in disbelief, because finally, they're finally doing it and by the Capitol, she's going to fucking scream.
"Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss!" She starts to chant, all the way on her feet now with her hands clapped together. Cordura's free hand moves to cup the back of Vyn's head as she bends, edging closer, and ohmygod they're touching ohmygod they're so close, it's so cute, why the fuck is it so cute.
"Ready?" The Eight girl asks, her lips hovering just a millimeter from Maevyn's. Maevyn blinks at her, staring up like she's in shock, and Velezen smacks the table.
"Are you serious, Eight, she's been waiting for days now!"
Maevyn's pink cheeks turn a shade darker, rose becoming scarlet, scarlet becoming crimson, and even though it's been a century, that's enough for Cordura to take the hint. She tilts Maevyn's head back, pressing their lips together firmly as her mouth pries the Four girl's open, and it's sort of icky that she's using tongue but also yes, she's using tongue and Maevyn looks like she's about to pass out? It's perfect?
"It's perfect." Argenta concludes, nodding as she adjusts her (shoddy) eyepatch. She likes to think she's a pretty good judge on kisses, and this one's at least a seven, so it beats all the ones she saw in her neighborhood, especially with the girl across the street. "Do it again!"
"Actually, do us a favor and get a room," Velezen says, turning his head to try and avoid the very serious face-sucking happening between their companions. "I'm happy for y'all, but voyeurism's not one of my kinks, and we all know better than to indulge a child. Argenta and I can keep watch."
"Aw, what about the game?" Argenta asks, pouting (cutely). "We have to at least finish that!"
Zen rolls his eyes. "You're incorrigible."
"I don't know what that means, but challenge accepted." She beams. "Velezen, truth or dare?"
"For the last time, it is not your turn!"
"Truth or dare, truth or dare~" Argenta continues, bending to poke her District partner in his bruised cheek. "You better pick dare or I'm gonna shred all your blankets!"
"Cordura, I'm being attacked," the Five boy deadpans as Argenta gives him a pinch.
(Oddly enough, he doesn't get a response.)
"I dare you to eat a mothball!"
"I dare you to jam an arrow in your knee!"
"Truth be told, I can't recall how many people I've slept with."
"We used ta pick seashells from the waves and braid 'em in our hair!"
"Shut up, guys, I'm serious! Bruin and I killed thirty people!"
"I'm not sniffing Maevyn's underwear. Give me a different dare."
"Ask the sponsors to send a tricycle!"
"Taunt the careers!"
"Let our new pet spider crawl on your face!"
"He tried to cut out my eye. My own fucking father."
"I could've been a mommy..."
"Pretty sure my 'rents never wanted a kid."
"They only let me get the surgery so I would shut up."
The dares go and the truths come, their friendship winding down like clockwork until the arena's sun fades out of the sky. A game of opportunity becomes one of meaning, each secret freed making Vyn's shoulders a little lighter, until the Fives have exhausted their energy and she and Cordy have found refuge in a waking daydream.
They stand together, joined hands, and slip down the hall back to their quarters. Maevyn giggles all the way to their sleeping room, her fingers stroking over Cordy's, and her mind movin' at a mile a minute, so full of want she doesn't know how to shut it up.
(She's been in this place before: with Madora, seeking refuge. She can still feel her fingers wrapped around a frozen hand, water clinging to their palms alongside her living sweat, the beach's sand stuck to the soles of her feet, painted up and down her body like some half-made art, keeping her blanketed even as she felt exposed. Her vulnerability is different, here - new and tentative, and made all the sharper by Argenta's wild grins and Velezen's sardonic quips. They've seen the way she looks at Cordy, stars gleaming in her too-blue eyes… they've teased her with their whispers as they sat together in the morning, nudging shoulders and pointing at Vyn's calloused fingers, watching them move over Cordura's thigh in patterns that may have mimicked a heart. )
(Without ink, Maevyn can't be sure what shapes she's drawn on her partner's skin, but she isn't sure it much matters. Cordy is her love, and she means to show her that however she can - while there's still a purpose, and she still has time.)
Now the Fives are whispering outside the door, and she's hidden away behind it, Cordura's hands upon her body, touching-touching-touching…
"Cordy?" Maevyn whispers, tilting her chin up to stare at the Eight girl's eyes, half-green and half-brown like the very woods they've been left to. "Are ya gonna kiss me?"
Cordura smiles, and the look in her gaze is tender, more tender than anything Maevyn's seen.
"Yes," she says, confident as she always is. "I am."
And just like that, Maevyn Voydanoi is falling
all
over
again.
(she's drowning.
there's bubbles comin' from her mouth,
water churning hard around her as she floats up
on her back like a drifting corpse
and she's pale and putrid and full of hurt
but somehow this is okay.
she's s'posed to be here, at home in the sea
next to her lover, forevermore -
cordura looks at her and vyn just sees the coral in her bones,
the ripples moving under her skin
her body tastes like salt and maevyn craves it,
because salt's a bit of home and somehow
cordura is perfect.
this is perfect.
she sees blue and green,
blue green waves
washing over
bathing
baptizing
her sins carried away by the river
and oh how she wants it, she wants
this
this and more,
everything so long as they can be together
floating to the nether realm in this
cold dark sea
just the two of them.
bathed in blood,
made to live as eternal
sirens of the night, and this is what she is
dead, rotten
but cordy wants her nonetheless
wants her and she is an ocean
a vast, gaping, endless ocean
spilling into the bay with want
and need to be understood in a way beyond understanding.)
Maevyn's not always one to be quixotic. She tries to make the best of things when stuff gets bad, but she's learned pretty well over her eighteen years that optimism comes with a grain of salt. Acceptance meant sacrificing parts of herself to fit people's wants, and love's always been synonymous with loss, something' that drives her mad even as it fills her chest with warmth. Every pro in the world's got a con, and yet bein' here… she can't see it.
She can't see it, because of all the ways the tides coulda taken her after she got in the Games, they brought her to Cordura Faux. And now she's caught in a prison of arms, gazin' into mismatched orbs, each of them pools in which she could drown without minding a single bit. Cordura's smiling as she looks down at her, her lips pulled up into a sort of half-smirk that Maevyn can't help but find endearing, her firm hands bracketed on either side of Vyn's hips. They're so close that Maevyn can feel her breathing, can see every rise and fall of her sturdy chest and feel each beat of her heart and… oh.
(Is this what death feels like? Eternal bliss?)
Maevyn's never seen Cordura cry, but she can see water in the corners of her eyes. She smiles and Cordy starts to laugh, her half-smirk becoming a big ol' grin, full of pain and happiness and worry all at once. One of her hands moves up to cup Maevyn's cheek, thumb stroking along the hollow of her bone and dropping to rest upon her lips. Maevyn doesn't even think before she opens her mouth, sucks it in and runs her tongue over it, lashes fluttering as she gazes up at Cordy, and the heat pooling in her veins is more intense than anything she's ever felt.
She craves this woman.
(She'd die for this woman.)
(She's seen her at night, outside on the porch step. Cordy doesn't know that she watches, but Vyn's always watchin' her, wanting to know everything she does and everything she feels, her iron goddess with that spade-like heart, who never says what's on her mind. Even so close, there's a barrier between them, one Vyn can't push past. Cordura's not the sort to express most of her feelings, not the way she and Zenzen and Argie do, 'cuz even if she's full of hurt, she's been conditioned to repress.)
Maevyn doesn't know her story - not really, though she's heard bits an' pieces, about a father that only took and a sister dead for the sake of his self-indulgence - but she's found bits of it, etched on Cordy's skin and under the touch of her hands. When Cordura taught her how to play cards proper, Vyn could feel the scars on the pads of her fingers. She remembers linking their hands together nice an' tight, and Cordy had laughed, sayin' "how am I supposed to teach you if you won't let go of me?"
Vyn had grinned, and quipped right back: "maybe my instruction's gotta be even more hands-on," in her usual bubbly tone. Cordura smiled and kissed her neck, but when she turned, her eyes were hollow, fixated on her stack of playing cards. There was somethin' dark in her mellow expression, something Maevyn couldn't place. She'd squeezed her hand, nice and tight, yet Cordura's smile still seemed distant - as if her mind were somewhere else, far beyond the two of them.
She's distant even now. Only two inches of space stand between them, but Cordy's still beyond her reach. Vyn's smile becomes a frown as Cordura's thumb withdraws from her lips, and she hears her lover ask "what's wrong?"
She shakes her head. "It doesn't matter."
"It does to me," Cordura says. Maevyn blinks, all flutterbys once again, placing her hand on her goddess' shoulder, tracing fingers down her neck until her hand stops over Cordy's breast.
"I already told ya… I like ya, Cordy," she whispers. And oh, it sounds like a precious secret, spilling free in this cabin with just the two of them. "Do you like me too?"
"That depends," Cordura murmurs, stepping closer. Vyn is flush against her body, a strong hold on the small of her back. Her cheeks begin to heat and flush all red-and-pink as Cordy bends down to kiss her lips, her mouth tastin' less like salt and more like chocolate taffy, something sweet and savory all at once that lingers in Vyn's mouth like an addiction. "Are we talking friendship or something more?"
Something more, Maevyn wants to say, yet she can't make the words come out. Cordy's tongue slips past her lips and she moans into their open kiss, stretching up to weave hands around her lover's neck. Once they part to get some air, she giggles mirthfully, her thoughts escaping through her breathless throat.
(The more Maevyn thinks about it, the more she realizes that life is a l'il bit like an ocean.)
(Like… okay, it's not entirely like an ocean, 'cuz there's not usually that much water pouring down, even with the big thunderstorms. But it's still vast and tumultuous, still full of unknowns and waves that can sweep ya off your feet when you're not careful. The opportunities ya get are never exactly what you expect - which can be a good thing or a bad thing when it comes right down to it, but in this case…
It's good. It's definitely good.)
"You're so tall," she says. This time, Cordy brightens, kissing her again as she grins into her mouth, their breaths and hearts and thoughts mingling. Maevyn doesn't think she can ever let her go.
"Tall enough to carry a brat like you," Cordurawhispers. "Would you like that, baby girl?"
Maevyn giggles again. She almost doesn't wanna admit she would.
"I'm so lucky," her goddess whispers, hand running up her back, raisin' goosebumps all down her spine.
"What do you mean?" Maevyn asks, but Cordura just shakes her head, pressing a kiss to Vyn's temple.
"Nothing," she responds. "Just… glad I got a second chance. Not everyone does."
Maevyn doesn't know what she means, but she understands. Being here with Cordura is everything she's ever wanted…
And everything she never expected to have.
She doesn't speak as Cordura's hands slip beneath her thighs, hiking her legs up to bracket her sturdy waist. She doesn't even speak as Cordy pushes her back into the wall, her shoulders hitting the wooden beams with a thud she thinks oughta hurt more than it does.
Maevyn's legs wrap around her back as Cordura kisses her, hands running along the back of the Eight girl's neck, trailing over the outline of her vertebrae right up to her buzzed head, the shape of her skull familiar and unusual all at once. She curls fingers tight into her shirt, clings to her with all the strength inside her body, and just when she's ready to break she hears Cordura moan, low and sweet and entirely decadent… not to mention, just for her.
"I want you," Vyn says, unabashed in her desire. "I need you. Cordy, please, don't make me beg."
"Mm, but I think begging is a turn on," Cordura hums against her lips, and that makes Maevyn laugh.
Shameless, shameless… wanton and shameless. Who knew betrayal could feel so right?
"Please, then," Vyn whispers. "Cordy, please, please just take me. I want ya so fuckin' bad."
(and then her back is on the floor
her legs parted
shorts gone
shirt gone
left bare as the day she was born and
oh, this could be her salvation
this could be her breaking point -
she has everything and nothing in this crazy world,
but love has never been crazy
and vyn would not deny her lust.)
"I love you," she says, her hands on Cordy's head, buried in her hair, clinging to her like an anchor in this godforsaken storm.
"I love you," Cordura replies, just before Maevyn keens, wailing out with desperation, her need dismantled in the unseen dark.
(Yes. For people like them, life is an ocean. You get caught in riptides, tangled in seaweed, and sometimes the current drags you down. But drowning's not so bad if you've got someone else to sink with. She always thought it'd be Madora, but…
It's not.
It's her.)
All the pieces are beginning to fall into place.
Atlanshi Bleumoon. Cordura Faux. District Five and a girl named Maevyn, whose boundless optimism is wasted in the confines of the arena, much like Ansel's cunning. Twenty-three of them have been trapped here, destined to live out their final days within a dreamless bubble, and the one that survives will leave with a part of their soul torn away.
It could be him. Could be, if Ansel actually wanted it, but the truth is that he has no reason to leave the arena, no reason to exist at all besides the fruits of his pointless labor. Body-snatching, smuggling, distributing bags of nameless pills that only have the effect of numbing people out for a matter of hours - not an eternity, like he desires. Even the morphling can't do much but provide a temporary buzz where consciousness falls to the wayside. He'd know, because he's tried it; tried to find meaning in his myriad of mistakes, only for disappointment to strike when he was pushed back into reality.
He knows Xay is dead, because he saw them. He saw the light leave their eyes, saw the undertaker put them in the ground, not long after Ansel had shown up with their body, babbling nonsense as he bit down his tears.
At some point in his grief, he'd lost track of reality. Maybe it was when he found himself in the throes of denial, opening his eyes each day to an empty bed all the while thinking it couldn't be real. No, it isn't real, Xay's not dead - any moment now, they'll come back to me, walk through that door and call out a greeting, and I'll wrap my arms around them and kiss their hair and tell them that I missed them, just as I always do. They're alive, they have to be - they must be, and if they aren't, then I'll remedy it, breathe life into their bones and rebuild them from scratch because dead doesn't mean gone, they aren't gone, they're just… resting.
It was a nice fantasy, for a time. One might even say the delirium was welcome, because if Ansel could pretend everything was okay, then he didn't have to face the concept of being alone in the world, left to flounder in black waters without an anchor to weigh down his ship. Xay wasn't dead because Ansel said they weren't; and the more he said it, the more he started to believe it.
They'd spent nights together, in some of the junker's buildings near the dog-end of the District, running along hallways with bare feet and half-dead flowers woven into jewelry upon their necks. Xay would dart away behind crumbling, half-dismantled walls and Ansel would search for them, laughing as he peered around darkened corners and into loose-hanging closets, losing himself in the concept of being together, because when they were together, Knocktown felt almost bearable.
What is there to do when you lose the face that you've woken up to for the better part of a decade? What is left when the familiar becomes unreachable, and all you have to cherish is a person-shaped hole, filled by void and nothingness?
No. There's no point in winning the Games, when Ansel has nothing to live for. In fact, the only reason he's still fighting is because he's not the sort to simply die quietly. He's dabbling in the business of self-destruction, but suicide is beyond his realm of expertise:
When he goes, he needs to go in fire.
(He will take down as many people as he possibly can to satiate his molten anger. People he knows, people he doesn't. People who mock him and pity him, without ever trying to acknowledge his fractured mentality. In a place where murder is wholly legal, it would be sad not to take advantage of the opportunities he's struck.)
Past and present are irrelevant here; if he wants to rage, this is as good a time as any.
He's even got a set of perfect weapons, right here at his very disposal.
(They haven't noticed him, so far as Ansel's aware. Though Six and Twelve are formidable opponents, even they cannot see everything, and he's made sure to let them travel at a substantial distance before choosing to follow. The woods had been a bit difficult to navigate, when he was left so far behind, but they're predictable about making camp whenever weariness starts to set in, and tonight they've chosen a spot that's perfect: a woodland cabin with four walls and a shuttered door, simple enough to keep eyes on without heralding trouble.)
(Better still, they're close to Atlanshi - and when they find him, their attacks will be a profitable distraction.)
It's not so much that he wants Atlanshi dead, merely that his death will be a good means for Ansel's ends. Honestly, if things were different, he could see the possibility for camaraderie between them, stinging sentiments of (not) betrayal aside. All things considered, the Four boy has proven more reliable than Ansel could ever have expected; it's a relief in a society where honesty comes in short supply, and typically with extra stipulations.
While Ansel does his best not to allow guilt to taint his wrongful actions, he won't deny that losing Atlanshi will merit it. But he needs him to serve a purpose: incite action from the alliance he most wants to ruin, leave his District partner torn between pursuing her desires and pursuing justice. She and Atlanshi were close, he's certain of that, and when people care for one another…
Well. It's only natural for them to feel lost when an incident is without closure.
(If nothing else, Atlanshi's death might cause Maevyn to lose her wits, which is enough of a win for Ansel to assume this kill is worth the risk. He knows full well that Four is a threat - she's a Career, trained, uninjured, and part of a sturdy alliance with more power than he is able to contest. He wouldn't stand a chance against her in a typical fight. But if he can shift the odds enough to put dents in her armor…
It'll be the beginning of the end.
A compromised alliance is an alliance that can be broken; really, it's just a matter of finding the most brittle link.)
The hypocrisy of what he intends to do isn't lost on him. He knows the pain of a lover's grief, and yet he still intents to inflict it upon Cordura, if only because it will knock her down a peg in terms of her fucking ego.
She isn't better than him, regardless of how she wears her infamy like a badge, ever a faux-riche pretender. He admires her as much as he detests her for pulling herself out of the gutters - but admiration is not akin to compassion, and there are things she's said he cannot forgive.
(Her venom. Her revulsion.)
(Her stupid fucking morality trip after she'd spread her lies around, back on that second day of training. If he thinks about it long enough, he can still hear her voice - chiding him, disparaging… calling him a monster, and—)
"You're the embodiment of filth," she whispers, voice circling his ears. "Everything that's wrong with Eight stems from the poison of people like you."
Ansel scoffs, crossing his arms.
"And you're free of fault?" He questions, bitter to his core, and it only takes a moment for Cordura to turn around, her eyes blazing with murderous intent. Still, when the time comes to let it loose, all she does is exhale - give him a huff - and conjure up another scowl.
"Deflection again," she says, half-blithe. "How wonderfully contrite of you."
"Oh, yes, silly me. I forgot that valid questions were made for the sake of being contrite." Ansel taunts with a roll of his eyes, looking off to the periphery as Cordura opens her mouth. "Have you taken a look in the mirror lately? You're as stubborn as I am, if not worse. Why don't you grow up and start evaluating yourself instead of slinging insults at the people around you?"
Cordura sighs, turning away from him. Her teeth come out to gnaw at her lower lip, an expression of uncertainty painting her visage for all of a couple minutes. Still, it's enough for Ansel to know he's getting to her - he can see it.
"Maybe you're right. But it doesn't matter," she says, grabbing her uniform jacket and heading toward the door. "I don't have time for this."
She leaves without looking back, and Ansel stares at her until the door falls closed, placing another barrier between their parallel bodies.
"Yeah, maybe you're right too," he says, long after she's left him in their quarters. "Maybe I even agree. But that doesn't mean I'm willing to accede to it… or to you."
(You, who still possesses a few memories that are worth keeping, who has a life to return to, even if it's been dismantled. You, who broke the odds and made yourself important when we both started as nobodies, without name or face or reputation for District Eight to consider worthy of mention.)
Ansel frowns, and stretches out in the dirt, watching the lights inside the cabin flicker, Six and Twelve casting shadows on the wall in the shape of their moving bodies.
If he were even half the person he'd been back in Eight, he wouldn't dream of returning his wrath like this.
But things are different now. He's changed.
(Death will be a welcome rest after all's been said and done. Left to hang at the end of his rope, what is left for Ansel Zilliah to fear?)
Andre was right to call him a monster.
Cordura was right to disparage him.
(Poison is the only thing he'll ever be. He's been stewing in hatred half his life, after all;
it would stand to reason that nurturing grudges is about the only thing he's good for.)
(This one will serve to undo him, but that's okay.
Ansel knows himself well enough to know there's nothing in him worth trying to salvage.)
With his back still lent against the gnarled bark of a tree, Ansel tilts his head back, trying to ignore the shaking in his calloused hands, the way his fingers are curling tight and closing around dirt, desperate to hold onto something with little substance. He can hear Six and Twelve beginning to bicker again, one voice so thin and soft that it's almost silent, the other shriller than a dying birth, and fanciful in the words it chooses to spit.
He doesn't know them, and he doesn't want to. Right now, the only thing that matters is that both of them are relatively strong, and have experience on the front of killing. They'll make a distraction worth his planning - he's almost certain of it.
Tomorrow, when they leave and depart for the northern woods, they'll find the marks he left carved into the trees, near identical to those which he watched Atlanshi paint on the floor during training.
They're subtle enough not to seem suspicious, but transparent enough that they'll draw attention… just so long as Six and Twelve are willing to take the bait.
(And they will, they absolutely will. Without his fix for death and blood satiated, Twelve is likely to go feral. If Six has any sense, he'll be gearing himself up to kill the next tribute he sees. And if Ansel doesn't cover his tracks, that could very easily be him.)
(But…)
(No. He's not dying yet; not here, not now and not like this.)
When the time is right, he'll return to the ground. Six and Twelve may even be the ones to put him there. But for now, they're less his enemies than they are his allies - comrades forged in blood and hardened by the art of murder. They'll stand a fighting chance in whatever fray they're poised to enter, and as for Ansel…
He's gearing up for a hit.
(After all, if Atlanshi's fighting against the pair of them, he won't have room to watch his back.)
A/N: Wicked Game, playlist version by HIM.
Yeah, sometimes I like to fanservice. See y'all for the interlude. ;)