lowercase on purpose.
inspired by ladder song by the ever lovely lorde.
/
words. they slip through her lips like the bills the mailman used to push underneath the door every day. she stares out the window, at the columns of smog blending together. they intermingle, absorbing each other. he listens, his lips curled delicately in thought. finally, no more words come, and the smog pillars still waver indefinitely on the horizon. she begins to drum her fingers against the glass, and asks if the smog will ever go away.
he knows what she really means.
/
their first kiss is bitter, ugly. his teeth scrape her lips, and her breath is molded, her tongue soft and too curious. her bottom lip bleeds and his tongue curls up over itself, and she looks at him, head cocked. her lip throbs, and she licks up the blood dribbling down her chin.
they stare at each other for ten long moments, and they do not move. a splatter of shadows moves across their frozen bodies as the smog clouds outside the window are blown through the sky by a soft gust.
kisses taste like death she thinks, and she wonders why she loves them so much.
/
everything always starts with blood. a drip, a drop, a splatter, a smear, a streak, a spurt, a dribble, a waterfall. it does not matter. everything starts with blood. birth. death. sex. knowledge. pain. the games. a reaping. twitching hands on a train, cutting open her fingertips on the cutlery. a dress made of wires on a chariot, digging into her apparent spine. biting her tongue when they tell her that you're special, honey. {she's not twelve years old}. scraping her filed nails against her palms as caesar guffaws. that's just the beginning. everything begins with blood.
the games begin with blood. the cool gusts of wind carry chunks of six-girl's skin and flesh and blood seven pedestals down to her. the countdown is forgotten by all except her as they stare at the gaping hole in the ground, at the red streaked snow and sky. the gong rings, and she's already grabbing handfuls of the tools she needs before any of them even move a finger.
special.
{she's not twelve years old}
/
their first time is rough, choppy, uneven. they're both tired, weak, inexperienced, fumbling for meaning and understanding and fulfillment in bitter, bloody kisses and gnawed away fingernails tracing old scars. they are quiet, limbs awkward, bodies bony, breaths quick and rattling.
the lay curled together, trying to fit together like two gears. her elbow juts into his stomach, and his chin digs into her forehead. they do not fit together. they are jagged, rough, not part of any machine, their own gears, their own entities.
she clutches the sheets to her chest, and he turns his back to her. heat fills their cheeks, and he gives a defeated sigh. they never work. they never will. they never will.
/
wires coil around her fingers, and his fingertips are splayed across a perfect glass screen. they weld and sand and tweak and hammer and design and adjust, sparks flying and burning tiny holes in their clothes, grease slathering itself across the undersides of their arms. this is the only place that they work. this is the only place where there is no blood. they fit together creations of wonder, holograms and dials and systems and codes and machines, watching the metal flow together, the projections shimmer, the buttons glint, and the wires gleam.
her stomach is scarred. these are the only things that they can create together. sex is meaningless, speculations about future families pointless. the only future they have is each other, the jagged halves that don't quite fit. but there's no one else quite as jagged as them, so there can't be a better fit out there, can there?
/
two desks, side by side. huge screens, scraping the heavens and then some, flash with statistics and health assessments and most of all the wide eyed outliers and hungry, crackpot careers. two people, dwarfed by the screens, watch with bated breath every year as wide eyes bug out and hunger is sated and all they can say is "maybe next year" even though they know it will never come.
she watches, wanting to squeeze her eyes shut and look away and do anything but look look look look look as their girl stares at the sky. she's on her back, like she has been for a week. her ribs point upwards towards the heavens, and her last breaths leave her lungs as her eyes stop glistening and her fingers stop weakly tapping the grassy ground and her flat chest stops quivering.
she cries and cries and cries and asks when the smog will finally clear.
soon, he croons, when he really means never.
/
A/N: This was just a little Wiretee that I wrote a while ago, and I need to clear up some space on Doc Manager so I'm posting it xD That's the partial truth, but I wanted to put out a little something since I haven't put any new content on this story in ages. I hope you enjoyed it, since Wiretee is pretty much my invented THG OTP, although Clato is up there and I really need to write Clato sometime. Thanks for reading, and drop a review if you're able, I would love to hear what you thought of this!