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when i was younger
May. 14th, 2012 07:52 pmFic: Never Coming Back
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Summary: In which Dean is more than a little fucked-up,and Sam doesn't know what's best for him. oh, and they're all in an all-boy's private school where Cas is everyone's favorite English teacher that Dean eventually gets to sleep with him. AU.
Notes: many, many thanks to icelily01, who beta'd this with a lot of patience and efficiency, considering how abstract i was. thanks, cait. like i keep telling you, you're a superstar.
Part the first: When I was Younger
Later, they call the library an accident waiting to happen. The school governors, like circling hyenas, spot the opportunity to propose more renovations, and the bid to knock down the oldest buildings in the school is duly approved.
The charred shell of the old library, circa 1860 stands forlornly to the edge of the property. Students who sneak in revel in the memory of bright flames and coaly smoke, history being taken down brick by brick to be reclaimed by earth; the shattered walls and creaking wooden floors, the smell of ash lingering in the air like an old grudge.
Not much investigation is made into the cause. It was old; it was potentially dangerous, and could have injured one of the fee-paying students. A blessing in disguise, really. The vague testimonies of seeing a figurewith a hood drawn up and a can are dismissed without further thought.
Two weeks later, a student named Dean Winchester quietly transfers out of school. He doesn’t state a reason. No one asks.
In the upheavals of the physical appearance of the school, the crash of hammer against nail and bricks rising to form walls like a band of children hiding a dead body behind their backs, the truth hides, waiting, waiting.
(break)
He’s too pretty to be a boy. Pretty enough to get away with anything, as his mother used to say, as his father now echoes with a twist to his mouth, as if tasting the irony of his words. She called Dean handsome. John is the one who settles for pretty.
The students at his new school spot this immediately, as is to be predicted. Seventeen years old, with a hunter’s confidence in himself; he doesn’t worry about it. On his first week, he encounters three boys, all older, two bigger, and walks away with a black eye and a smirk. The boys don’t come back to school the next day. One’s ribs are broken, and the other two refuse to speak. All three flinch visibly and hold still ever afterwards when Dean Winchester passes by.
So it’s established; the pretty new boy isn’t to be messed around with. He’s given a wide berth; when he makes some comment with a cocky tilt of his neck, smartass set of his mouth, people give a strained smile, the slightest hint of teeth, and back off.
His teachers know him to be a smart mouthed, bright boy, too sharp for his own good like a shard of glass catching the light. His Form Master –Mr. Robert Singer- watches him from afar, feigning indifference.
His disambiguation of Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard borders on pornography, sparking violent controversy, though later his English master admits it to be one of the most cleverly-phrased papers he’s seen in his entire career. Subsequently, Dean’s sent to the Headmaster’s Office for improper conduct in a classroom on the second month.
And that’s where he meets Sam Campbell.
(break)
“Hey,” and Dean starts.
Across the beige carpet of the main office, just near the ceiling-high window that lets in all the sunlight that floods the room, stands another boy. He’s taller than Dean, bonier; his crossed arms look like blades. Despite that, his eyes are a wide, open hazel and his grin is summery and artless.
He doesn’t wait for Dean to reply, instead pushing his brown hair from his forehead and saying, excitedly, “You’re Dean Winchester.”
A black feeling touches Dean’s spine with fingertips of ice and he’s instantly on guard, but the boy’s still smiling like a six-year-old on Christmas. “You want an autograph or something?”
The kid throws his head back and laughs and Dean relaxes fractionally. Taller than Dean; younger than Dean, not everything that looks dangerous lives up to the promise, he reminds himself. “Nah,” the kid says. “You beat up Riddell, though. That does allow you celebrity status. I’m Sam, by the way.”
He moves forward, into the frame of the French windows and for a second Dean’s blinded. His handshake is warm, big hand enveloping Dean’s.
Sam’s smile is bright, and white, nothing underneath. He’s got hair that’s perpetually falling into his eyes, which are the color of autumn leaves. His tie is unscissored, entirely intact, and though he’s not wearing the poncy regulation knee-high grey socks (his are green; Dean’s have a pattern of ponies on them, and are bright pink. Socks are the school’s most expressive form of rebellion) his shoes are clean.
Dean considers him, and grins suddenly. Sam grins back.
(break)
Early winter, snow blocking the paths that crisscross the school like scars.Sam Campbell at the corner of his vision as he fights down an old, familiar rage, one that needed no name.
Sam’s fingers around Dean’s wrist, a patch of unbearable warmth on his chilled skin, Sam dragging him towards one building or the other, saying “c’mon, haven’t shown you that one yet, it’s so cool.” Dean follows, most of the time because he’s got nothing better to do.
He teaches Sam, this wide-eyed kid, how to make explosives from heads of matchsticks and cricket balls. His fingers curve around the leather, the harsh seams of the ball and for a second, he can almost hear the glass shattering into a million pieces of light.
Sam watches him all the time. Dean can feel it like a physical touch. Not aggressive, never aggressive. But something else.Something unnamed and not quite clean, not quite Sam. Dean pushes that thought away.
Strange kind of joy, climbing up to the roof of the Church tower where the rafters are loose and treacherous. Sitting on the edge, their words mixed with the cigarette smoke hanging in the air like a coded message from another planet. Sam tells him about his family, his little sister with leukemia and his preoccupied parents. At such an elevated height, Sam’s body looks less and less like a deathtrap, his jagged edges mellowed in the sunset, his legs long, endless. He looks at Dean, hungry for approval yet somehow content. Dean thinks, with sudden clarity and unforgivable indifference, he thinks these are the best days of his life.
Dean doesn’t bother to correct him. Later, when Sam’s fingers touch the back of his hand, careful, light touch, Dean doesn’t move. For a second, he stops breathing entirely, holds still, thinking on a loop, this is how you become immortal.
(end part one)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Summary: In which Dean is more than a little fucked-up,and Sam doesn't know what's best for him. oh, and they're all in an all-boy's private school where Cas is everyone's favorite English teacher that Dean eventually gets to sleep with him. AU.
Notes: many, many thanks to icelily01, who beta'd this with a lot of patience and efficiency, considering how abstract i was. thanks, cait. like i keep telling you, you're a superstar.
Part the first: When I was Younger
Later, they call the library an accident waiting to happen. The school governors, like circling hyenas, spot the opportunity to propose more renovations, and the bid to knock down the oldest buildings in the school is duly approved.
The charred shell of the old library, circa 1860 stands forlornly to the edge of the property. Students who sneak in revel in the memory of bright flames and coaly smoke, history being taken down brick by brick to be reclaimed by earth; the shattered walls and creaking wooden floors, the smell of ash lingering in the air like an old grudge.
Not much investigation is made into the cause. It was old; it was potentially dangerous, and could have injured one of the fee-paying students. A blessing in disguise, really. The vague testimonies of seeing a figurewith a hood drawn up and a can are dismissed without further thought.
Two weeks later, a student named Dean Winchester quietly transfers out of school. He doesn’t state a reason. No one asks.
In the upheavals of the physical appearance of the school, the crash of hammer against nail and bricks rising to form walls like a band of children hiding a dead body behind their backs, the truth hides, waiting, waiting.
(break)
He’s too pretty to be a boy. Pretty enough to get away with anything, as his mother used to say, as his father now echoes with a twist to his mouth, as if tasting the irony of his words. She called Dean handsome. John is the one who settles for pretty.
The students at his new school spot this immediately, as is to be predicted. Seventeen years old, with a hunter’s confidence in himself; he doesn’t worry about it. On his first week, he encounters three boys, all older, two bigger, and walks away with a black eye and a smirk. The boys don’t come back to school the next day. One’s ribs are broken, and the other two refuse to speak. All three flinch visibly and hold still ever afterwards when Dean Winchester passes by.
So it’s established; the pretty new boy isn’t to be messed around with. He’s given a wide berth; when he makes some comment with a cocky tilt of his neck, smartass set of his mouth, people give a strained smile, the slightest hint of teeth, and back off.
His teachers know him to be a smart mouthed, bright boy, too sharp for his own good like a shard of glass catching the light. His Form Master –Mr. Robert Singer- watches him from afar, feigning indifference.
His disambiguation of Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard borders on pornography, sparking violent controversy, though later his English master admits it to be one of the most cleverly-phrased papers he’s seen in his entire career. Subsequently, Dean’s sent to the Headmaster’s Office for improper conduct in a classroom on the second month.
And that’s where he meets Sam Campbell.
(break)
“Hey,” and Dean starts.
Across the beige carpet of the main office, just near the ceiling-high window that lets in all the sunlight that floods the room, stands another boy. He’s taller than Dean, bonier; his crossed arms look like blades. Despite that, his eyes are a wide, open hazel and his grin is summery and artless.
He doesn’t wait for Dean to reply, instead pushing his brown hair from his forehead and saying, excitedly, “You’re Dean Winchester.”
A black feeling touches Dean’s spine with fingertips of ice and he’s instantly on guard, but the boy’s still smiling like a six-year-old on Christmas. “You want an autograph or something?”
The kid throws his head back and laughs and Dean relaxes fractionally. Taller than Dean; younger than Dean, not everything that looks dangerous lives up to the promise, he reminds himself. “Nah,” the kid says. “You beat up Riddell, though. That does allow you celebrity status. I’m Sam, by the way.”
He moves forward, into the frame of the French windows and for a second Dean’s blinded. His handshake is warm, big hand enveloping Dean’s.
Sam’s smile is bright, and white, nothing underneath. He’s got hair that’s perpetually falling into his eyes, which are the color of autumn leaves. His tie is unscissored, entirely intact, and though he’s not wearing the poncy regulation knee-high grey socks (his are green; Dean’s have a pattern of ponies on them, and are bright pink. Socks are the school’s most expressive form of rebellion) his shoes are clean.
Dean considers him, and grins suddenly. Sam grins back.
(break)
Early winter, snow blocking the paths that crisscross the school like scars.Sam Campbell at the corner of his vision as he fights down an old, familiar rage, one that needed no name.
Sam’s fingers around Dean’s wrist, a patch of unbearable warmth on his chilled skin, Sam dragging him towards one building or the other, saying “c’mon, haven’t shown you that one yet, it’s so cool.” Dean follows, most of the time because he’s got nothing better to do.
He teaches Sam, this wide-eyed kid, how to make explosives from heads of matchsticks and cricket balls. His fingers curve around the leather, the harsh seams of the ball and for a second, he can almost hear the glass shattering into a million pieces of light.
Sam watches him all the time. Dean can feel it like a physical touch. Not aggressive, never aggressive. But something else.Something unnamed and not quite clean, not quite Sam. Dean pushes that thought away.
Strange kind of joy, climbing up to the roof of the Church tower where the rafters are loose and treacherous. Sitting on the edge, their words mixed with the cigarette smoke hanging in the air like a coded message from another planet. Sam tells him about his family, his little sister with leukemia and his preoccupied parents. At such an elevated height, Sam’s body looks less and less like a deathtrap, his jagged edges mellowed in the sunset, his legs long, endless. He looks at Dean, hungry for approval yet somehow content. Dean thinks, with sudden clarity and unforgivable indifference, he thinks these are the best days of his life.
Dean doesn’t bother to correct him. Later, when Sam’s fingers touch the back of his hand, careful, light touch, Dean doesn’t move. For a second, he stops breathing entirely, holds still, thinking on a loop, this is how you become immortal.
(end part one)
Past the cheerless towns
Apr. 26th, 2012 11:20 pmFic: Follow me down to the valley below
Fandom: The Hunger Games
Summary: Written for http://thgkinkmeme.livejournal.com/548.html?thread=58404#t58404 on the kink meme. Finnick finds himself on Cinna's doorstep after a rough night with multiple clients, only to find that the night gets rougher. Lotsa angst, exactly how we like it, kids.
Pairing: Finnick/Cinna
Rating: PG 13
Word count: around 1500
Follow me down to the valley below
Finnick falls asleep leaning against the door, waiting for it to open. His knuckles are curled loosely into a fist; his mouth mumbles soft secrets into the wood of the door, which is slowly dissolving under his skin, the mahogany shifting and swirling until it’s not solid anymore, just another illusion.
He has a recurring dream of the sea, one where the back of his mouth tastes of seaweed and water weighs his clothes down, dragging him to an unnamed place at the bottom of the ocean. He welcomes it now like an old friend, the confusion of the present relaxing into the familiar patterns of a childhood nightmare.
Then, something changes.
In his dream, Cinna’s there, looking, if not at home, then resigned with a dash of optimism. Where Finnick feels washed away, Cinna looks immaculate, right down to the gold eyeliner.
Finnick tries to tell him, you’re drowning, don’t you see, but Cinna shakes his head but doesn’t say anything. Finnick tries to push him towards the narrow bar of sunlight that’s filtering through the waves desperately but Cinna’s too heavy, he refuses to go.
Finnick is terrified.
Awareness comes in a lurch and the sharp sensation of freefalling. His hands go out automatically to break his fall, but it’s too late. He lies on the floor, sprawled and only half-awake. His legs are suddenly white-hot with pain, stars exploding across his vision. His skin feels peeled. He makes a noise of surprise and tastes blood on his tongue.
“Finnick, what-“ swears. Hands on his body, fluttering around, and a voice that is unmistakably Cinna’s says, “Fuck.”
He opens his eyes to take in the sight of Cinna kneeling beside him, expression warped with dismay. His eyes are wide, fear pouring from the uneven set of his mouth.
Huh, Finnick thinks foggily. Must be worse than usual.
Then the waves claim him again, and he passes out gratefully.
(break)
His temple feels like it has a knife driven through it when he wakes up. The searing pain has found time to settle into his bones, a persistent ache instead of the erratic, blinding bursts. He tries to open both eyes but only one complies; the other has swollen shut.
Survival kicks in, and he jerks to an upright position, only to fall back with a choked gasp as his spine seems to disintegrate at the movement, exploding in a burst of pain.
“You deserved that,” a voice says somewhere off to his left.
Finnick’s mouth twists in a grin that tastes bitter and poisonous. “Cinna,” he says.
He moves his head gingerly, recognizing the soft touch of Capitol pillows under his head. The whisper of silk against his skin slowly begins to register, no longer setting his frayed nerve endings on fire but consoling them.
“I’m on your bed,” he says. His voice sounds unrecognizable; like the rest of him, it’s scoured and split open, a ghost of itself. Experience tells him that the bruising of his throat will make him sound like this for half a week at least.
“You’re in my bed,” Cinna affirms, still disquietingly out of Finnick’s periphery. “In my room, in my apartment, in my life. And I distinctly remember you swearing that would never happen again.”
Too late, Finnick hears that telltale catch in Cinna’s voice. The robotic monotone of his earlier pronouncements fade and Finnick almost laughs at the irony of it all: Cinna’s livid.
But the pain’s too much, and there’s something new laced with the spikes of physical agony, something very close to suffocation. His chest hurts, but it’s a different kind of pain, heavier.
He tries to tell Cinna that, but the blanket of exhaustion descends and he goes out like a light.
(break)
Finnick squirms and Cinna snaps, “don’t be a fucking baby. Hold still.”
Finnick tries, but the sting of cold water is agony as Cinna washes his face with a wet towel. He can tell by Cinna’s expression that his face isn’t the worst of it. His nose feels broken and his jaw shattered, but his limbs feel split open and salted.
When Finnick’s nose begins bleeding again, Cinna cries, “what have they done, Finnick?”
They both tense, neither quite expecting his outburst. Finnick says, levelly, “what they always do,” and Cinna snorts without humor.
Afterwards, Cinna wraps him carefully in a fleecy white towel and guides him to the bed. A snarky comment hovers on the edge of his lips despite that he really can’t walk alone, but Finnick bites it back.
With almost all his bones feeling snapped, but clean now. Finnick smiles as he falls asleep.
(break)
A long time ago, Cinna didn’t look away when he smiled at Finnick’s jokes, his innuendoes, meeting Finnick’s gaze head on with a curved smile. A long time ago, Cinna met his eyes across a crowded room and grinned bright, young, crazy in love.
Finnick doesn’t remember much of those days; after all, survival’s his specialty, and those crowded weeks when Cinna leaned into him and curved his finger in his belt loop and joy shot through his veins like some unidentified narcotic are the kind of memories that can tear Finnick apart. He has them at a roped-off corner of his mind, buried deep deep deep where he might not stumble across them by accident and become undone.
They didn’t last, those weeks. Eventually, he came back home one day bruised and beaten, fucked through a whole night by the nation’s finest, and Cinna had waited until Finnick could walk on his own again before he left.
Few things stand out from that morning. The foremost is the wrecked set of Cinna’s mouth as he said, can’t take seeing you like this, it’s going to kill me before it kills you, don’t you see?
Cinna’s departure made something break in Finnick, that day. Not his heart, not precisely. More of a thin vestige of hope, hope that sprang up shyly whenever Cinna kissed the corner of his mouth and whispered, “you’re perfect, how’d you manage?” with genuine wonder in his voice. Hope that stirred when Cinna smiled and Finnick’s breath caught. Hope that he might find a way back to where he came from, after all.
(break)
Finnick drifts in and out of consciousness for the next couple of hours.
Once, he opens his eyes to the near-dark of the room, lit only by the flashing neon of the city outside. One of the walls of the room is glass, overlooking the traffic and crowds of the streets. The sky bleeds, pouring out noise and light above the Capitol, and for a second it looks beautiful and utterly broken, beyond all hope.
Finnick gets to his feet, ignoring the way the motion sets every cell in his body on fire despite his care. He makes his way to the window and stands there looking over at the broken shell of the city that destroyed him.
There’s a noise, and he turns around to face Cinna, who’s frozen in place in the middle of the room. There’s a steaming cup in his hand but it’s tilted dangerously, threatening to spill its contents over the edge.
They stare at each other, the rise and fall of their breath in perfect synchronization. Finnick wonders, heart thudding loudly, whether Cinna can almost see it too: that alternate reality where they are so ridiculously happy together.
Cinna says, “maybe-“ the same time Finnick says “Cinna, I-” and Cinna laughs, an small huff of breath.
Finnick experiences a slight terror again. A voice at the back of his mind screams, don’t let him speak first, but he’s too late.
“There’s morphling, do you think you need it?”
The magic shatters with an almost audible tinkle. Finnick feels deserted when Cinna begins moving around in an illusion of being busy, arranging the bed, setting the cup on the nightstand. He swallows back the words that are on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be let free. Those words have clawed at the confines of his mind for months, ever since Cinna left him: Cinna, I don’t think this makes sense anymore.
Cinna turns to face him finally. He seems surprised to see finnick still standing there, framed by the window. “Come on,” he says, moving to touch Finnick on the arm. “You look like you may fall over any second.”
Finnick implores, “Cinna.”
Cinna’s shoulders go up; he doesn’t meet Finnick’s eyes. He makes Finnick lie down on the bed, his movements wary, courteous.
Finnick tries again. “Why can’t we-“
Fast as lightning, Cinna presses his arm against Finnick’s damaged throat and Finnick cries out, his eyes watering. When the white spots fade from his vision, Cinna’s standing back, looking like he just got shot. “That’s why, Finn.”
When the blackness hits him at first contact with the pillow, Finnick makes no attempt to fight it.
(break)
He wakes up for brief spates, and every time, Cinna’s there, sitting beside him. Once he panics, because it doesn’t feel real to see Cinna so stationary, his profile so distinct in the night. No sketchpad; no bundles of material.
Once, Cinna touches the side of his face, the side he still has feeling in.
“Sleep,” he says.
So Finnick does.
(break)
The Avox wakes him in the morning and re-washes the cut on his face. There’s an empty cup on the night stand. Sunlight, brash and loud, crashes into the room.
Cinna’s gone.
Fandom: The Hunger Games
Summary: Written for http://thgkinkmeme.livejournal.com/548.html?thread=58404#t58404 on the kink meme. Finnick finds himself on Cinna's doorstep after a rough night with multiple clients, only to find that the night gets rougher. Lotsa angst, exactly how we like it, kids.
Pairing: Finnick/Cinna
Rating: PG 13
Word count: around 1500
Follow me down to the valley below
Finnick falls asleep leaning against the door, waiting for it to open. His knuckles are curled loosely into a fist; his mouth mumbles soft secrets into the wood of the door, which is slowly dissolving under his skin, the mahogany shifting and swirling until it’s not solid anymore, just another illusion.
He has a recurring dream of the sea, one where the back of his mouth tastes of seaweed and water weighs his clothes down, dragging him to an unnamed place at the bottom of the ocean. He welcomes it now like an old friend, the confusion of the present relaxing into the familiar patterns of a childhood nightmare.
Then, something changes.
In his dream, Cinna’s there, looking, if not at home, then resigned with a dash of optimism. Where Finnick feels washed away, Cinna looks immaculate, right down to the gold eyeliner.
Finnick tries to tell him, you’re drowning, don’t you see, but Cinna shakes his head but doesn’t say anything. Finnick tries to push him towards the narrow bar of sunlight that’s filtering through the waves desperately but Cinna’s too heavy, he refuses to go.
Finnick is terrified.
Awareness comes in a lurch and the sharp sensation of freefalling. His hands go out automatically to break his fall, but it’s too late. He lies on the floor, sprawled and only half-awake. His legs are suddenly white-hot with pain, stars exploding across his vision. His skin feels peeled. He makes a noise of surprise and tastes blood on his tongue.
“Finnick, what-“ swears. Hands on his body, fluttering around, and a voice that is unmistakably Cinna’s says, “Fuck.”
He opens his eyes to take in the sight of Cinna kneeling beside him, expression warped with dismay. His eyes are wide, fear pouring from the uneven set of his mouth.
Huh, Finnick thinks foggily. Must be worse than usual.
Then the waves claim him again, and he passes out gratefully.
(break)
His temple feels like it has a knife driven through it when he wakes up. The searing pain has found time to settle into his bones, a persistent ache instead of the erratic, blinding bursts. He tries to open both eyes but only one complies; the other has swollen shut.
Survival kicks in, and he jerks to an upright position, only to fall back with a choked gasp as his spine seems to disintegrate at the movement, exploding in a burst of pain.
“You deserved that,” a voice says somewhere off to his left.
Finnick’s mouth twists in a grin that tastes bitter and poisonous. “Cinna,” he says.
He moves his head gingerly, recognizing the soft touch of Capitol pillows under his head. The whisper of silk against his skin slowly begins to register, no longer setting his frayed nerve endings on fire but consoling them.
“I’m on your bed,” he says. His voice sounds unrecognizable; like the rest of him, it’s scoured and split open, a ghost of itself. Experience tells him that the bruising of his throat will make him sound like this for half a week at least.
“You’re in my bed,” Cinna affirms, still disquietingly out of Finnick’s periphery. “In my room, in my apartment, in my life. And I distinctly remember you swearing that would never happen again.”
Too late, Finnick hears that telltale catch in Cinna’s voice. The robotic monotone of his earlier pronouncements fade and Finnick almost laughs at the irony of it all: Cinna’s livid.
But the pain’s too much, and there’s something new laced with the spikes of physical agony, something very close to suffocation. His chest hurts, but it’s a different kind of pain, heavier.
He tries to tell Cinna that, but the blanket of exhaustion descends and he goes out like a light.
(break)
Finnick squirms and Cinna snaps, “don’t be a fucking baby. Hold still.”
Finnick tries, but the sting of cold water is agony as Cinna washes his face with a wet towel. He can tell by Cinna’s expression that his face isn’t the worst of it. His nose feels broken and his jaw shattered, but his limbs feel split open and salted.
When Finnick’s nose begins bleeding again, Cinna cries, “what have they done, Finnick?”
They both tense, neither quite expecting his outburst. Finnick says, levelly, “what they always do,” and Cinna snorts without humor.
Afterwards, Cinna wraps him carefully in a fleecy white towel and guides him to the bed. A snarky comment hovers on the edge of his lips despite that he really can’t walk alone, but Finnick bites it back.
With almost all his bones feeling snapped, but clean now. Finnick smiles as he falls asleep.
(break)
A long time ago, Cinna didn’t look away when he smiled at Finnick’s jokes, his innuendoes, meeting Finnick’s gaze head on with a curved smile. A long time ago, Cinna met his eyes across a crowded room and grinned bright, young, crazy in love.
Finnick doesn’t remember much of those days; after all, survival’s his specialty, and those crowded weeks when Cinna leaned into him and curved his finger in his belt loop and joy shot through his veins like some unidentified narcotic are the kind of memories that can tear Finnick apart. He has them at a roped-off corner of his mind, buried deep deep deep where he might not stumble across them by accident and become undone.
They didn’t last, those weeks. Eventually, he came back home one day bruised and beaten, fucked through a whole night by the nation’s finest, and Cinna had waited until Finnick could walk on his own again before he left.
Few things stand out from that morning. The foremost is the wrecked set of Cinna’s mouth as he said, can’t take seeing you like this, it’s going to kill me before it kills you, don’t you see?
Cinna’s departure made something break in Finnick, that day. Not his heart, not precisely. More of a thin vestige of hope, hope that sprang up shyly whenever Cinna kissed the corner of his mouth and whispered, “you’re perfect, how’d you manage?” with genuine wonder in his voice. Hope that stirred when Cinna smiled and Finnick’s breath caught. Hope that he might find a way back to where he came from, after all.
(break)
Finnick drifts in and out of consciousness for the next couple of hours.
Once, he opens his eyes to the near-dark of the room, lit only by the flashing neon of the city outside. One of the walls of the room is glass, overlooking the traffic and crowds of the streets. The sky bleeds, pouring out noise and light above the Capitol, and for a second it looks beautiful and utterly broken, beyond all hope.
Finnick gets to his feet, ignoring the way the motion sets every cell in his body on fire despite his care. He makes his way to the window and stands there looking over at the broken shell of the city that destroyed him.
There’s a noise, and he turns around to face Cinna, who’s frozen in place in the middle of the room. There’s a steaming cup in his hand but it’s tilted dangerously, threatening to spill its contents over the edge.
They stare at each other, the rise and fall of their breath in perfect synchronization. Finnick wonders, heart thudding loudly, whether Cinna can almost see it too: that alternate reality where they are so ridiculously happy together.
Cinna says, “maybe-“ the same time Finnick says “Cinna, I-” and Cinna laughs, an small huff of breath.
Finnick experiences a slight terror again. A voice at the back of his mind screams, don’t let him speak first, but he’s too late.
“There’s morphling, do you think you need it?”
The magic shatters with an almost audible tinkle. Finnick feels deserted when Cinna begins moving around in an illusion of being busy, arranging the bed, setting the cup on the nightstand. He swallows back the words that are on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be let free. Those words have clawed at the confines of his mind for months, ever since Cinna left him: Cinna, I don’t think this makes sense anymore.
Cinna turns to face him finally. He seems surprised to see finnick still standing there, framed by the window. “Come on,” he says, moving to touch Finnick on the arm. “You look like you may fall over any second.”
Finnick implores, “Cinna.”
Cinna’s shoulders go up; he doesn’t meet Finnick’s eyes. He makes Finnick lie down on the bed, his movements wary, courteous.
Finnick tries again. “Why can’t we-“
Fast as lightning, Cinna presses his arm against Finnick’s damaged throat and Finnick cries out, his eyes watering. When the white spots fade from his vision, Cinna’s standing back, looking like he just got shot. “That’s why, Finn.”
When the blackness hits him at first contact with the pillow, Finnick makes no attempt to fight it.
(break)
He wakes up for brief spates, and every time, Cinna’s there, sitting beside him. Once he panics, because it doesn’t feel real to see Cinna so stationary, his profile so distinct in the night. No sketchpad; no bundles of material.
Once, Cinna touches the side of his face, the side he still has feeling in.
“Sleep,” he says.
So Finnick does.
(break)
The Avox wakes him in the morning and re-washes the cut on his face. There’s an empty cup on the night stand. Sunlight, brash and loud, crashes into the room.
Cinna’s gone.
You are worth everything, even as you are
Apr. 21st, 2012 07:54 pmTitle: Where the chalk-white arrows go/ A house made of memory
Fandom: The Hunger Games
Pairing: Gale/ Peeta slash
Summary: A quiet little story about finding people.
Word Count: around 800
Notes: post-mockingjay au
Where the chalk-white arrows go
There’s nostalgia in the air, and you’re counting clouds as they pass unhurriedly by. It’s a wonderful thing to be doing.
You laugh slower now, a bit more guarded, but your smile is as ready as ever and it makes your face light up. It’s good to see you smile, he says. You should smile more, he says.
So you do.
Daytime, you test your hand in pictures made of sugar and color, memories melting in your mouth. Simple patterns to start off with; flowers with petals open to the sun, shy vines creeping up pillars. The knowledge that you have done this before makes it easier. Familiarity is something you value above all else.
And so this becomes familiar, and you hum to yourself, quiet neutral tune that swims tentatively from a roped-off corner of your mind. You don’t prod anymore at the bleeding wounds in your brain; your reward is this little melody that offers itself from the debris, like a shy child asking to be friends, and you say yes.
Later, when the sun sets and the world goes a shade of melting scarlet, your heart rate picks up, a little. You count the stepping stones across the creek and the fish streak beneath you, reflecting the terrible gold of the dying sun. You count your footsteps up the tended, grassy path up the hill to the small house made of stories.
You unlock the door and the world has settled down from the tumult of the sunset by then, fitting snugly into a shade of sweet, dark blue. Slowly, almost silently, you resume humming to yourself once more. You move around the kitchen, filling the kettle, setting the table. There’s a simple joy in this, a joy you’re beginning to recognize like an old friend waving from a distance. Away from the shrapnel and pieces of civilization, he’s calling to you; there’s a place where the sidewalk ends, where the grass grows soft and bright and you don’t have to be so broken anymore. It’s a good place to be.
There are no clocks in this house made of stories, of folk tales and memories. You’re glad about that, because otherwise it seems like the world is spinning on without you, as if it were a carpet being pulled out from underneath your feet. This way, you have time to cast about and find yourself from the memories this house is made of. You have all the time in the world.
Then, the quiet knock on the door, and you smile, wide and instinctive.
You smiling makes him smile, too, once you open the door. He’s not much older than you are, not much different, either. His big grey eyes narrow at the corners, and his the sweep of his jaw is strong, decisive. You will never mistake him for anyone else, not when the crowds are milling in, not when you’re drowning. He’s chuckling a little, too; “You’re ridiculous, you’re lovely,” and he says it like it’s a gift, something precious to be stored in the bottom of your pocket and reached for when you’re scared.
The two of you sit at the table designed for the two of you. You don’t speak while you eat, except for the millions and millions of words that simmer warmly in the air when your knees touch his, and he looks at you and smiles. Those are the words that need no voice, no translation. Words that aren’t words at all, but a general wish of well-being: hope you’re okay, hope we’ll be okay for the rest of our lives.
Rinsing the plates, passing them to him to be dried. Sometimes you switch roles, and it doesn’t make a difference. Routine is in the way your arm brushes his, the warm, enclosed space of the kitchen. Routine is in the familiarity with which he drapes an arm around your waist and kisses you, butterfly-soft, the suds on your hands drying and you smiling the whole time.
Outside, the stars jostling for space in the inky black sky, and he mentions that so many wishes must come true on nights like these. You slip your hand into his, and you look up.
This is joy, home. This is where you want to be, after all.
A/N: title taken from ‘where the sidewalk ends’ by shel silverstein, and quoted somewhere in the fic, too. Funny thing is, I used to hate that poem until peeta came along.
No dialogs in this fic, big challege. Hope I pulled it off. What do you reckon?
Fandom: The Hunger Games
Pairing: Gale/ Peeta slash
Summary: A quiet little story about finding people.
Word Count: around 800
Notes: post-mockingjay au
Where the chalk-white arrows go
There’s nostalgia in the air, and you’re counting clouds as they pass unhurriedly by. It’s a wonderful thing to be doing.
You laugh slower now, a bit more guarded, but your smile is as ready as ever and it makes your face light up. It’s good to see you smile, he says. You should smile more, he says.
So you do.
Daytime, you test your hand in pictures made of sugar and color, memories melting in your mouth. Simple patterns to start off with; flowers with petals open to the sun, shy vines creeping up pillars. The knowledge that you have done this before makes it easier. Familiarity is something you value above all else.
And so this becomes familiar, and you hum to yourself, quiet neutral tune that swims tentatively from a roped-off corner of your mind. You don’t prod anymore at the bleeding wounds in your brain; your reward is this little melody that offers itself from the debris, like a shy child asking to be friends, and you say yes.
Later, when the sun sets and the world goes a shade of melting scarlet, your heart rate picks up, a little. You count the stepping stones across the creek and the fish streak beneath you, reflecting the terrible gold of the dying sun. You count your footsteps up the tended, grassy path up the hill to the small house made of stories.
You unlock the door and the world has settled down from the tumult of the sunset by then, fitting snugly into a shade of sweet, dark blue. Slowly, almost silently, you resume humming to yourself once more. You move around the kitchen, filling the kettle, setting the table. There’s a simple joy in this, a joy you’re beginning to recognize like an old friend waving from a distance. Away from the shrapnel and pieces of civilization, he’s calling to you; there’s a place where the sidewalk ends, where the grass grows soft and bright and you don’t have to be so broken anymore. It’s a good place to be.
There are no clocks in this house made of stories, of folk tales and memories. You’re glad about that, because otherwise it seems like the world is spinning on without you, as if it were a carpet being pulled out from underneath your feet. This way, you have time to cast about and find yourself from the memories this house is made of. You have all the time in the world.
Then, the quiet knock on the door, and you smile, wide and instinctive.
You smiling makes him smile, too, once you open the door. He’s not much older than you are, not much different, either. His big grey eyes narrow at the corners, and his the sweep of his jaw is strong, decisive. You will never mistake him for anyone else, not when the crowds are milling in, not when you’re drowning. He’s chuckling a little, too; “You’re ridiculous, you’re lovely,” and he says it like it’s a gift, something precious to be stored in the bottom of your pocket and reached for when you’re scared.
The two of you sit at the table designed for the two of you. You don’t speak while you eat, except for the millions and millions of words that simmer warmly in the air when your knees touch his, and he looks at you and smiles. Those are the words that need no voice, no translation. Words that aren’t words at all, but a general wish of well-being: hope you’re okay, hope we’ll be okay for the rest of our lives.
Rinsing the plates, passing them to him to be dried. Sometimes you switch roles, and it doesn’t make a difference. Routine is in the way your arm brushes his, the warm, enclosed space of the kitchen. Routine is in the familiarity with which he drapes an arm around your waist and kisses you, butterfly-soft, the suds on your hands drying and you smiling the whole time.
Outside, the stars jostling for space in the inky black sky, and he mentions that so many wishes must come true on nights like these. You slip your hand into his, and you look up.
This is joy, home. This is where you want to be, after all.
A/N: title taken from ‘where the sidewalk ends’ by shel silverstein, and quoted somewhere in the fic, too. Funny thing is, I used to hate that poem until peeta came along.
No dialogs in this fic, big challege. Hope I pulled it off. What do you reckon?
