It's almost your birthday.
I tried to forget, but it crept up on me, like those things that creep up your spine and bury themselves at the base of your neck so they're always nagging the back of your mind.
It was an offhanded thought, when I glanced at the date and went 'oh it's almost his birthday' like it hasn't been three years since we last spoke. And I wondered what you've been doing, if you've been well, if you met a girl that you were willing to be more invested in and then, mostly, I wondered if you wondered about me.
And I wondered if maybe you missed me too or if you go 'oh it's almost her birthday' when you see the date nearing mine.
He tastes like ashes and decay, but she keeps kissing him anyway.
There’s something addicting about destruction and death, she thinks.
Maybe that’s why she keeps locking lips with the boy who tastes like sin,
Because he feels like a promise, like recklessness, and like adventure.
I want to pretend, even just for a moment,
that there is a universe,
where you and i are can be together,
without all the madness and chaos,
because i'm never going to love someone else,
the way i love you and it breaks my heart,
every time I hold you, and remember
that this is just
t
e
m
p
o
r
a
r
y
Summary: Au: Where Chase is the Mockingjay and Auguste is the dandelion.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
They were supposed to be back home, in District Twelve and inside one of their too large houses pretending to be in love. Instead, Chase was holed up in District Thirteen and Auguste was trapped somewhere in the Capitol, untouchable and unsafe.
He’d seen the propos, he knew that the Auguste Panem saw was suffering, hurting. Dying.
It was his fault, he should have been the one to that was captive or dead not Auguste.
“I don’t trust them,” Chase argued, grabbing ahold of Auguste’s wrist because he was afraid that if he didn’t, Auguste would go off with Nadia and they would be separated. “Something’s wrong. There’s something they’re not telling us.”
“You have to let me go Chase,” Auguste, ever hopeful and sweet Auguste, insisted. He eased Chase’s fingers from his wrist and drew his hand to his mouth. “This is our best chance of getting out of this together.”
“I know but - “ Chase started, only to have Auguste grab him by the neck and drag him down for a kiss. It felt different than all those other ones, the one’s Chase had instigated for the media, for their protection. It felt a lot like a promise...and a goodbye.
The idea made his stomach churn, even as the kiss itself made him melt.
“We’re going to get through this,” Auguste said firmly, resolutely. “Trust me.”
And Chase did, but maybe that’s why everything went to shit.
His arm still aches from where Archer had dug the tracker out of his arm. There’s an ugly, misshapen scar marring his skin but he doesn’t care because the ache of it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as the gaping hole left by Auguste’s capture does.
So, he wanders Thirteen aimlessly and ignores the schedules that get printed upon his forearm. No one has ever been able to control him before, he won’t let them now. Not when there are so many people looking at him as a symbol of hope and promise.
They’re all fools, Chase thinks, Auguste was always the promise of better days. I’m nothing but rebellion and destruction.
But that’s what they want isn’t it?
--
Chase starts making demands because he’s acutely aware of the power he yields. While most people don’t think he understands the effect he has on others, he does and he learns to weaponize it pretty quickly in Thirteen. So, he fights and demands and rebels until he’s promised almost everything that he’s claims he’s owed.
It’s a double-edged sword because the president makes a district wide announcement, proclaiming the protection of any recovered victors while also promising that they’ll die if he fails to live up his end of things.
People look at him, expecting shock or anger but instead they find stone. If they think that Chase Black is one to crumble under pressure, they are mistaken.
He didn’t win his games by being breakable.
(Except in those last five minutes, when Auguste tried to off himself to keep Chase alive and the desperation to save them both had become overpowering enough to make his resolve crumble.)
(It’s his fault Auguste’s life is at risk, because he rebelled and then he fell in love and now Auguste has to pay the price.)
The president sends a rescue team to get Auguste and the other captive victors, like Archer and Nadia, out of of the Capitol. Among the volunteers is golden-eyed Kaia, the one person from home than can calm his rapid pulse besides his mother.
He doesn’t find out until they come back and she’s sporting a broken arm.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he says lowly the night they get back.
They’re in one of the lesser travelled hallways of Thirteen. It’s largely unused because there was a tunnel collapse at the end two years ago. It’s not cleared for use so it sits and rots. Chase has her crowded against the wall, a strong arm holding him up with his hand pressed against the curved wall beside her head.
“Don’t be stupid,” Kaia snaps, fingers gripping his standard issue gray shirt tightly. “I can’t get you to pay attention to me if you’re always thinking about him. If he’s safe.”
Chase’s jaw ticks and he doesn’t deny any of it; he hasn’t thought of anything besides getting Auguste out of the Capitol and to safety since he was rescued. “Well,” he says lowly, smirk creeping across his mouth, “I’m not thinking of him now.”
And he kisses her, lets her grip at him until she’s pulling him down for harder, messier kisses but instead of thinking about her, about what they’re doing, or how they fit together....Chase is thinking about that last kiss beneath the electric tree.
In the end, it turns out that he can’t do anything but think about Auguste.
---
They let him see Auguste when he wakes, it turns out to be a disaster.
But he’s so happy to see him, to know that he’s alive and looking worse for the wear but still safe -
He doesn’t see the warning signs until it’s too late. Until small hands are wrapped around his throat and he can’t breathe.
Turns out the Capitol weaponized Auguste, just like it weaponized Chase.
Figures.
--
“Stay away from me,” Auguste snarls while Chase just stands there, a few feet from the edge of his bed. “You’re a monster. A mutt!”
The accusations hurt, but Chase stands rigid like a statute and takes all of the hateful things thrown his way.
“District Twelve is gone because of you. My family is dead because of you!” Auguste screams, thrashing against the bed and the restraints that keep him locked in place.
“Auguste,” Chase says carefully, his voice strained, tired, pleading.
“You’re a monster!” He shrieks in reply, blue eyes wild and crazed. “You’re going to be the death of us all,” he says, voice low, quiet, and dangerous. It’s not a threat or a promise, but a fact and Chase can’t begin to try and deny it.
Auguste was always the good one, the pure one, the one who should have been saved and now he’s just an empty shell. All because he loved Chase too much.
In the end, Chase says, “you’re right.”
Then, he leaves and doesn’t look back despite the way Auguste’s glare burns holes in his back.
---
Despite himself, Chase keeps a careful record of how many days it’s been since they rescued Auguste. He’s not allowed to see him, has to sit a far away from him as possible when he’s allowed to join the rest of the district during meal times. From what he can see across the room, or from behind the glass observation windows, his star crossed lover is fairing better.
He’s been paired up with this boy from Twelve, Colin he thinks, who is all sunshine and rainbows and many things that Chase isn’t. Something foreign and ugly coils around his heart whenever he watches the two together, with Colin bringing out shy smiles and pink tinted cheeks from the boy that used to look at him like he was the world.
It’s not jealousy. It’s not.
But Chase keeps his distance because looking at what remains of the boy he knew in Twelve, in the arena, is hard enough without seeing the hatred in his eyes when their gazes meet.
I deserve this, Chase thinks when he averts his gaze. I did this, this is my fault.
He was just trying to survive, not start a war.
---
Chase uses his influence to get him into the thick of things. What good is the Mockingjay if he’s just hiding instead of fighting with the rest of the rebels? He’s no good for Auguste, not when all he does is remind the boy of death and blood and war.
War, he thinks bitterly when he slings the quiver across his back and wraps his hands around his bow, war is all a ruined man like me is good for.
So he suits up in the specially built suit left for him by his stylist, partners with Kaia for all of the missions because they’d been hunting for years together. She reminds him of simpler times and they’re still so in-sync it hurts.
When they lose the hospital in Eight, Chase is filled with a righteous fury that overtakes him when he storms over to the crew that’d been filming his efforts in the districts.
It’s then that his charisma shines even though he’s outraged, furious. They took Auguste from him and now - now they Capitol’s killed hundreds of sick, wounded, innocents. He cannot forgive, not after this.
“If we burn,” he snarls, bow shaking in his hand, “you’ll burn with us.”
The propo is playing on every screen in Thirteen. He doesn’t miss the weight of Auguste’s gaze on him as he walks through the dining hall tight lipped and full of tension.
When he kisses Kaia later, she goes: “I’m never going to stand a chance while he’s like that am I?”
Chase doesn’t have an answer.
---
They secure District Two but almost lose Chase in the process when he tries to talk to one of the Capitol supporters down.
His suit saves him, but the refuse to let him go on any missions. Being stuck in the hospital is maddening, especially when he realizes that Kaia is slowly but steadily getting closer and closer to one of the president’s right hand men. That uncomfortable feeling arises again, the one he gets whenever he sees Colin with a smiling Auguste.
He shoves it aside; there are bigger things to think about.
---
At some point, Auguste asks to see him and for some stupid reason, Chase agrees.
“I don’t see why people love you,” Auguste says, looking Chase straight in the eye.
Despite his strengths, he cannot meet the gaze and instead looks at a spot on the wall just past the white of Auguste’s hair. “I don’t either,” he answers truthfully, swallowing down everything else he thinks he might want to say.
Come back to me.
I miss you.
I can’t stand to see you with him.
“I remember it raining and you - “ Auguste pauses, looks pained as he tries to work out his thoughts, the memories that have been perverted by the Capitol. “You were sitting by the school, soaked and bleeding.”
Chase’s voice is quiet when he says: “yeah, I’d gotten into a fight.”
“I patched you up, didn’t I?” Auguste’s brow is furrowed, freckles crinkling across his nose as it scrunches up.
“Yes,” comes out as more of a croak than a fully formed word.
“Why would I do that? What’s there about you worth saving?” Auguste asks, heat and hatred, fear, coiling in his voice. The words hit him hard and Chase visibly recoils.
“Fuck if I know,” he replies, quiet and bitter.
Then, he leaves, slamming the door so hard the wall rattles.
---
“I’m going to the Capitol,” Chase declares with his head held high and defiant.
“I’m sorry Chase, but I’m afraid you won’t be,” the president replies in that cold, calculated voice of her.
“I wasn’t asking,” he spits, palms slamming against the long table that separates them. “I am going to the Capitol and I’m going to kill Beryl.” He refuses to continue to be a pawn in someone else’s game.
He’s the king, he’ll defend himself.
“Either you let me go or I take matters into my own hands.” When he smiles it’s more of a sneer. “And I can promise you Laurelite, you won’t like what happens then.”
He can hear the venom in her voice when she hisses, “fine.”
Laurelite is a formidable leader, Chase knows that but he’s a natural born rebel and he knows how to weaponize himself. She’d rather have him with her than against her, so he exploits that.
Going to the Capitol is the only way he can find some peace.
And maybe Auguste can heal a little more without his presence a constant reminder of everything they’ve done. Everything Chase cost him.
He hopes Colin makes him happy.
---
They’re got a tool that gives them a map of the Capitol, outlined with all of the tricks and traps that they know of. Archer, who Chase didn’t even know was alive but is as bitter and angry and done with being controlled by anyone but himself, steps up next to him and snorts.
“Welcome to the 76th Hunger Games,” he all but snarls in a terrible impression of the late games host.
Chase glances at him from the corner of his eye, then back at the thing they’ve named the Holo. The bitter, feral victor from Seven is right. The map just looks like another, more destructive arena. He can’t even begin to pretend to be surprised.
He should have known.
Figures he’d never actually get out of the arena.
---
Hell breaks loose three days in.
For whatever reason, Laurelite drops Auguste off in the quadrant they’re currently hiding it. Most of the crew is confused but Chase isn’t. He sees the meaning for what it is.
She hopes that he kills me, he thinks and tries not to let his heartache as he watches someone - Suri, he remembers - shackle his wrist. If only she would be so lucky, he thinks as his whiskey-gold gaze meets Auguste’s blue-sky one.
Auguste looks a little more present, features less hollow and a little more whole. It’s startling and it hurts to look at him, so he looks to Kaia instead.
“Guess we’re not leaving now,” she says and he can’t miss the bitterness in her voice.
“We are,” he insists, lowly and quiet enough that it only reaches her. He can’t look away from their unwilling companion. “This changes nothing,” he insists, hearing the lie before the sentence leaves his mouth.
Auguste being here changes everything.
---
“We have to set up a watch rotation for Atwell,” Suri says in a sharp, no-nonsense tone then rattles off a list of shifts that don’t include Chase.
“Put me in rotation,” he says sharply when she’s finished.
“I don’t think that’s a wise idea,” Suri replies.
It’s Kaia who speaks up next, “I don’t think so either. If it came down to it, do you really think you could kill Auguste?”
Chase’s voice is rough, harsh when he goes, “Yes. That’s not Auguste anymore.” He doesn’t have to look at the other boy to know that his face is contorted by a confusing mix of emotions.
Auguste would do the same, if their roles were reversed.
(That’s a lie and Chase knows it, but Auguste had always been the good one of the two. Auguste would have been able to rescue him, bring back the Chase he knew and loved while all Chase does is ruin Auguste further.)
They put him in rotation and while he knows he’d do what he had to if it came down to it, Chase can’t help but hope that he never has to.
Some time later, Auguste’s sitting shackled to a pipe staring intently at the fire they build inside one of the abandoned buildings. “I don’t know what’s real anymore. Everything is tainted.”
Chase’s mouth opens to say something, but when he realizes he doesn’t know what to say he clamps his mouth shut and picks at his meager meal.
“Then ask,” Suri suggests, voice sharp and harsh sounding but they all know it’s just her general gruffness.
“That’s what Colin said too,” Auguste says softly and Chase can’t help it when he breaks the fork in his hand at the mention of the sunshine boy’s name. Auguste looks at him, everyone looks at him, but he only looks back at Auguste and he swallows anything he might say down.
No one follows him when he leaves the room.
“Chase is still trying to protect me,” he says very, very quietly. His voice is so faint that Chase nearly misses it, but he very distinctly hears Kaia answer.
“Real. It’s what you two do.”
She’s right, or at least....that’s what they used to do. He’s not really sure what they do now.
---
Someone sets off a trap and they lose James, he transfers authority to Chase before the pain overtakes him and he dies. The last thing he says is, “Don’t trust them.” Who he’s referring to, Chase doesn’t know but he listens because he doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to do.
Another trap gets set off and this time, a wave of black sludge comes surging towards them. No one wants to find out what it does.
Unfortunately, Auguste goes rogue and throws one of the men assigned to the squad by Laurelite into this sticky black goo that immediately triggers a series of spear chains that skewer him up when he tackled Chase to the ground. It’s Kaia’s quick acting that gets Chase back on his feet and the realization, the horror that blossom’s across Auguste’s face is devastating.
It’s all he can think about as his fingers curl into the back of Auguste’s shirt and he pushes him forward, up and away from the black sludge that’ll kill them if they’re not fast enough.
They barely climb high enough when the sludge stops crawling, lapping at the edges of their feet because there’s nowhere left to run. Chase still has a hand on Auguste, arm slung around his shoulders and instinctively tucking the boy into his body, until he feels the way he shakes and sees the way Kaia’s bright eyes are watching him.
He lets go, moves towards the window to peer through it incase the peacekeepers have shown up. “We need to leave. Now.” He barks, adrenaline in his veins and his heart in his throat. He can’t help but wonder what Auguste is thinking with the way he’s trembling.
“Yes,” Suri agrees, pulling her radio out and trying to radio Thirteen. Every transmission fails and her sharp eyes dart to the device tightly clutched in Chase’s hand.
“Give me the holo,” Suri insists, a threatening edge to her voice. Chase has been watching her, knows that she craves the respect and adoration that the higher ups seem to have but he doesn’t budge and doesn’t even let her get close.
“No. I’m the Mockingjay and I’m in charge now. I was assigned a special side mission. Kill Beryl.”
She doesn’t believe him and he can see the pricks of an argument beginning to form when Archer, of all people, speaks up. “He’s right, Laurelite sent him here with the intention to kill Beryl.”
Archer’s support is a surprise to Chase, but when he asks later the man merely goes I’m not going back to Thirteen and I’m not going to be a slave to the Capitol. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the best way to get what I want.
Suri looks displeased, clearly annoyed that once again she’s stuck as second in command instead of in command, but with the support of the others at Chase’s back she relents.
“Alright, we’ve gotta get going.” Chase says, eyes the color of whiskey gold skimming over the map of pods and traps. “Peacekeepers will be on us any minute.”
So, they run.
They almost lose Auguste again when his resolve shakes and bends beneath the weight of guilt from killing that man earlier. It doesn’t help that he nearly cost Suri her life when she shoves him forward and out of the way of a trap and he reacts by lashing out at her.
It’s only Chase and his impulsive kiss that bring about clarity to his hijacked boy. “Stay with me,” he pleads, sounding as broken and desperate as he feels while he’s clutching Auguste’s face, their lips centimeters apart.
“Always,” Auguste breathes right back, looking at Chase like he used to. The way he did when they were in real games and not this Capitol mindfield.
With his heart fluttering around his ribcage at a rate that can’t be healthy, Chase holds Auguste’s hand so tightly in an effort to keep him with him. For the first time since he woke up in Thirteen, Chase feels hope.
Later that night, he can hear Kaia and Auguste talking about him.
“Looks like you get the boy, huh?” Auguste’s soft voice wafts over to him, sends shivers down his spine because he hasn’t heard Auguste talk about him in that wanting tone in so long.
“Hardly,” Kaia’s voice cuts the air, sharper than she means and he can hear her sigh in the aftermath. “If you don’t get better, neither will he.”
Chase’s fingers grip at his cot and his jaw tenses so tightly that it aches after.
“He doesn’t love me. He never did.” There’s that bitterness in Auguste’s voice that makes Chase want to roll over, craddle the boy’s face in his hands and go, But I do. Come back to me. I love you. Instead, he squeezes his eyes shuts and tries to stop listening.
“Are you kidding?” Kaia’s voice is full of disbelief and, despite himself, Chase’s eyes snap open and his heart flutters against his ribs. “Of course he does.”
“No,” Auguste insists, word coming out in a hiss that stings Chase’s heart. “He doesn’t love me, it’s just an act.”
“I wish it was just an act.” Kaia says bitterly, voice quieting. “He’s never kissed me like that.”
“That was just an act too,” Auguste tries to counter but Kaia’s sad laugh quiets him immediately.
“No it wasn’t,” she sounds a little broken inside and Chase’s heart twists as he listens. “You looked at him like you used to and I could see the hope and love on his face. It’s been you for so long, I don’t think he’s capable of loving anything, anyone, the way he loves you.”
Auguste doesn’t say anything and Chase pretends like what Kaia said isn’t true.
(But it is, so true that Chase dreads the day when it becomes clear that Auguste doesn’t want him anymore.)
---
The team takes to the tunnels, with Jade’s avox brother leading them. The boy had been condemned to the tunnels as means of getting around the Capitol when he’d been a slave, doing janitorial work. It hadn’t been until they’d broken him out that he’d seen the light of day after four years. Jade prattles on, filling in the gaps that her brother can’t when Auguste tenses and stills.
His blue eyes are wide with panic and Chase is at his side immediately, with a comforting hand pressed against the small of his back. He should be cautious since Auguste is still unstable but when he grasps at Chase’s bicep he feels a relief he didn’t know he needed shuddering through him.
“Listen,” Auguste hisses. A hush falls over the group when they hear it, the sound of claws scratching against concrete tearing their way.
“Mutts,” Chase breathes, then, “run!”
It’s horrifying, these creatures that the Capitol has sicked upon them. Chase has flashes of the mutts that’d trapped them on the cornucopia with vague features and traces of their once human counterparts. He remembers Mirana’s eyes, haunting until he’d killed her twice. Salazem hadn’t been better, not when he’d torn into Auguste’s leg.
They’re hairless, with skin pulled tight against limbs that move the wrong way. Somehow, they’re a cross between four legged creature and something humanoid. If it were a human, it’s shoulders would be broken and yet, they move with an unnatural speed that has the creatures gaining on the group at an alarming rate.
A horrified screeching sound echos through the tunnel and Chase thinks his heart stops at the sound, only restarting when he sees Kaia pulling Auguste up the escape ladder that should lead them to safety. His relief is short lived when one of the mutts launches at him, claws biting into his shoulders and shoving him under into the gross, thick sewer water they’d been trudging through.
Bow in hand, Chase is thrusting it against the beast’s mouth, thrashing in the water only to hear a muted wizzing cut through the air and the beast falling off of him and sinking to the bottom of the tunnel.
“Move Black, move,” Archer is hissing at him, wielding his axes as best he can to ward off the onslaught. He’d always been a man built on the strength and survival of himself, but he’s no fool. He knows that without Chase, there is no future for him where he gets to live his life as he wants.
As his own.
Someone else screeches and Chase is halfway up the ladder rungs when he sees both Jade’s brother go down kicking and screaming, bullets shattering against concrete walls and mutt flesh. It’s not enough. There are too many -
Chase makes it to the top, pulling the holo out of his battle suit and muttering the self-destruct phrase. “Nightlock, nightlock….”
Archer is screaming Chase’s name and guilt twists like a knife in his gut as he drops the hollow, the final nightlock dripping from his lips. The holo drops, a countdown beeping from its display as Chase gets glimpses, flashes of the life Archer had chosen to lead.
Young and docile looking Archer as he’s interviewed for his games.
The predatory grin on his face and shining in his eyes as he tears the throat of the final tribute of his first game.
Wild and untamable Archer screaming in defiance when they’re all gathered for the quarter quell. “Fuck this,” he’d snarled, fists clenched tightly and arms held at his sides, “being victor meant I never had to go through this shit again, but look where we are.” Hatred and anger had always gone hand to hand with him.
A singular day in the woods that surrounded Thirteen, after he’d been rescued and one of the only times Chase was alone with Seven’s last surviving victor. Archer’s in what looks like hospital scrubs and Chase is dressed in his hunting gear. They’re only allowed five minutes of fresh air per Chase’s demands of President Laurelite.
“What do you want out of all of this Archer?” Chase had asked, sitting upon a rock with his arm slung over a propped up knee.
“The ability to build myself a kingdom,” he says dryly, the sarcasm dripping like venom from his throat.
“Seriously Archer,” Chase presses, both feet hitting the ground as he rises. His hand grips an elbow and Archer turns, dark eyes flashing.
“I want a world where you’re not a king and no one owns me but myself.”
The explosion brings him back, as does Auguste’s gentle hand on his arm and the concern on his face. “Chase,” he says in that soft voice of his, “we need to go.”
Everyone’s looking at him for direction, most of them looking a little hollow and bloody.
“Yeah, uh. Jade, you’ve got a contact here don’t you?” He says, remembering some of their early campfire conversation. He’d been distracted by Auguste’s sudden appearance but he’d still been listening.
“Yeah, follow me,” she says after a moment, the question taking too long to sink in. He doesn’t blame her, she just lost her brother.
All this rebellion does is take and take and take.
---
Jade’s contact turns out to be a former stylist who goes by the name of Dragonfly.
Chase can see why immediately; she’s got beautiful eyes, one green and one blue, with pale skin but scales decorating her neck and on her back there are what he thinks are fabricated dragonfly wings. He must be looking curiously at him because her gaze is trained upon him, the jagged scar across her face doing little to dampen the intensity of the way she looks at him.
“You used to be a stylist,” he says after an uncomfortable minute of staring back at her. Her lips quirk up in a sly grin, the scar making it jagged.
“Until Beryl decided I was unfit to be one. The scar was a parting gift from her soldiers.” Chase sees the hatred in her eyes and understands it with ease. Like Beryl had done to him and the other surviving victors, she’d taken and taken and taken from Dragonfly. “Tales for another time,” she says absently, then ushers them all into the cellar before their presence becomes known.
They’re eating from whatever canned food their host can provide them with, barely warmed over the small fire they’d managed. Earlier, Dragonfly had provided them with the news that Beryl was calling for the entire Capitol to evacuate to his personal home.
It’s time, Chase knows with a half-formed plan in his head.
“Kaia and I are going to go undercover during the evacuation, Dragonfly will provide us with disguises. This might be my last chance to finish what I’ve started.” He pauses to chew on his last spoonful of beans. His eyes are fixed on the fire because he’s not ready to look where he wants to, at Auguste because everything is still raw even if they felt like they were healing.
“I’m not risking any one else’s lives. I want you to hide as far on the outskirts as you can. If it comes down to it, I will provide a distraction to make sure you get to safety. I’m sorry I risked all of your lives for a foolish, selfish desire.”
“It’s not like we didn’t know what we were getting into,” Jade says, voice sharp despite the obvious grief that weighs her shoulders.
“We’re not idiots Chase,” Suri snaps, can crinkling in her hand as her head lifts, sharp eyes forcing him to lift his. “We chose to follow this path with you.”
Something uncoils in Chase’s chest and he sighs in response. It’s one that’s full of relief and some sort of weight slips from his shoulders, down his spine, and into the ground. “I know,” he says slowly, whiskey-gold shifting from person to person until his gaze settles on Auguste.
“My final and last request, assuming I don’t make this out alive,” he begins, lips quirking in a smile full of self-deprecation, “is that you keep him safe.” There’s no question who he’s speaking of. “If the mockingjay falls, Panem needs something to remind them of hope.”
The unspoken, maybe he’ll recover better if I’m not a presence, resonates with all of them even if no one vocalizes it.
“I want a nightlock pill,” Auguste’s soft but firm voice fills the silence that follows Chase’s request. “If I’m captured and you fail, I’m not going back. I can’t.”
Unease settles across the surviving members of their ragtag team, then Chase and Kaia share a look before she rips her pill out and hands it to Auguste. There’s something exchanged between the two fair haired, golden children that Chase loves desperately and it leaves an unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach.
It worsens when Kaia goes; “use it as a last resort,” because she’s looking at him instead of Auguste when she says it.
When did it become so obvious that Chase couldn’t live in a world without Auguste?
----
Things go to shit pretty fast, because while their disguises are exceptional it turns out that peacekeepers are combing the crowds. At first, it’s obvious that they’re just taking the children to use as some sort of safety net for Beryl, but as they get closer Chase can feel his heart thundering against his ribcage.
They’re going to be found out, they’re going to fail -
Parachutes drop from the sky and explode in the hands of the children who’d been gathered at the front of Beryl’s mansion.
For a moment the world drops out from beneath him and Chase can’t focus on anything because his ears are ringing but then there’s Kaia screaming his name with peacekeepers dragging her off and away from him. He gets jostled by the crowd of parents and panicked civilians who are terrified that the rest of the parachutes are bombs too.
“Kaia - “ Her name slips from his lips in a strangled form and suddenly he can’t see her anymore and it hits him what she was saying.
Shoot me.
He’d promised her that they’d do what they had to keep the other from becoming a slave of the Capitol again and he failed her - he was always failing somebody.
What a shitty rebel king he was -
A familiar face caught his eye in the wave of rebel medics that’d flooded the scene and dread fills him instantly.
No, no, no!
“M-Mom!” Chase shrieks and Lara looks up, pretty face crinkling in confusion -
The second set of bombs go off and all Chase can see is red and fire and flames.
It burns and burns and burns.
Chase hits the ground, flames licking up and down his back and spine and he’s rolling, trying so hard to put the flames out and - it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.
Wait. What about -
He manages to open his eyes long enough towards the space he’d last seen his mom. His stomach lurches when he sees nothing but charred remnants of the woman who was his mother.
If we burn, you burn with us! Chase had screamed defiantly and now, now all he can do is laugh. It’s not even a laugh, but gargled sound that dies only when his vision goes black.
He should have known he’d go up in flames.
--
It’s a full week before he wakes and the first thing he thinks is, Auguste was right. I’m just a mutt. A fire mutt.
His thoughts are distorted by the phantom feeling of flames licking up and down his spine, burning and singeing his skin. If Auguste thought him a monster before, he surely would now because there are scars littering his back, firm and ugly reminders of how he can’t even burn to ash like the phoenix everyone pretends he is. The medical team did their best to fix him where they could, but he wishes he hadn’t.
At least then, he’d look like the monster he was outside and in.
It doesn’t take him long to learn that they won’t let Auguste see him, despite the way his precious boy begs and demands and cries. They don’t let Kaia seem him either, but for some reason Suri gets to visit with her stern face and tightly pressed lips.
For a long while, the two just stare at each other like their wolves who can’t decide if their packmates or if their enemies. In the end, it seems that Suri thinks of him as pack when she goes. “I heard about your mother.”
Chase doesn’t respond, but he hasn’t said a word since he woke up and it’s been nearly two weeks while Laurelite and what’s left of the council sort out end of war things/
“I - “ Suri stops, fingers digging into the side of her hand when she swallows. “Lara was a good woman,” she says, more softly this time and Chase can tell that she’s sincere and it make his heart ache a little more. “The bombs they - “
Chase shakes his head, he doesn’t want to know. Suri seems to get it when she closes her mouth and nods instead. “President Laurelite is hoping to see you this evening. To discuss the terms of your agreement.”
He only nods, turning his head away shortly after because he’d rather stare at a wall than look at the face of someone who reminds him of all the lives he’s taken, and worse, the ones he’s cost.
Later, during the meeting Laurelite tells him that he’s still going to get to kill Beryl, in a public execution. It’s not what he wants, but he doesn’t argue because he’s still a little hollow and definitely reeling from his mother’s death. It was bad enough when the first games cost him his father, to lose his mother after a third time in the arena...it’s a wound that runs bone deep.
Then, the rest of the surviving victors are ushered into the conference room to make a decision and Chase is forced to look at all the people that remind him of the first lives he’d taken.
Why are we called victors when all we do is bring death. There’s no victory in death, he thinks then laughs awkwardly and bitterly aloud because that’s what he’d been championing for so long to realize he was wrong is humorous to him.
Maybe he would have never thought that death was the road to victory if he’d been given a real choice. Or if Auguste hadn’t been taken from him.
What was the point of surviving the games if there was no one left to rejoice with after?
“Chase,” Auguste’s soft and sweet voice wafts over to him and his gaze snaps over. He doesn’t need to say anything else for Chase to understand. They’d gotten so good at wordless communication another part of him aches at the reminder.
Still, he doesn’t respond and only clamps his mouth shut as he turns to look at Laurelite expectantly.
“The council and I discussed one final hunger games, using the children of the highest ranking officials. We found that it would be a suitable beginning when establishing our reformed society, but we also wanted to leave the decision in the hands of those that had been brutalized by it most. Panem’s surviving victors.” Her voice is clear and sharklike and Chase isn’t sure what to think of the news.
All around him people are praising or protesting.
He mostly just feels empty. A final hunger games...would that even be a true end to the chapter that was Beryl’s rule?
Nadia, Lorne, and Auguste vote no.
Rory and Pietro, who’d surfaced from captivity when the Capitol fell, vote yes. Aree, who had been Chase’s mentor throughout both of his games looks to Chase and says; “My vote is with the Mockingjay’s.”
It takes a long while for him to decide, his throat feeling like sandpaper when he utters his first word since he woke in the hospital. “Yes,” he says with a decisiveness that leaves the other’s devastated.
Chase makes it a point to avoid Auguste’s gaze when he stands and abruptly leaves the room.
He doesn’t need to look at him to know he’s disappointed and hurt, but Chase is hurting too and he’s never been as dangerous as he is when he’s raw and aching.
--
Chase has come to live in what used to be President Beryl’s home. He wanders aimlessly most days, barely eating and using too much morphling but he doesn’t really like feeling much of anything these days. He’s only still in the Capitol until all the pieces fall into place for Beryl’s trial and execution. Auguste’s been sent away for more therapy and recovery sessions back in Thirteen with Colin and a few other people who won’t trigger him.
One day, he stumbles into a massive rose garden greenhouse with two guards posted at the entrance. Chase tries to enter, but the barr him and say; “President Laurelite’s orders, no one enters.” Confused and curious Chase stands there with his mind racing when a soft voice speaks behind him.
“Let him through.” The voice belongs to Commander Cosmos, the rebel leader who Chase met back in Eight and again in Two. He likes her, because she cares more about the welling being and balance of Panem verses the power leading can bring her.
Chase doesn’t feel like he’s in shark-infested waters when he’s with her and she’s leading.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for Mockingjay,” Cosmos says, sounding weary. He nods and enters the garden.
Immediately, he finds Beryl. For some reason, it shocks him and he stands there with a gaping mouth.
“Ah, Chase. I wondered if I would see you before,” she says in an airy way and a wave of a hand. “Would you be so kind as to help me choose a rose for the execution?”
The request is odd, but the dynamic between Chase and Beryl has always been odd, so he complies and moves about the rows of roses carefully.
“I heard about your mother, I’m sorry for your loss,” Beryl says, long fingers toying with the petals of a bright orange rose. Chase’s snort must surprise her, because she looks up sharply at him. “Her death was not at my hands Mockingjay.”
The look on his face indicates that he doesn’t believe her and Beryl sighs in response.
“Come now, I thought we promised not to lie to each other Chase.” She looks disappointed and for some reason it strikes a nerve and he feels guilty.
“But you - “ he stops, because he’s not sure what he was trying to say. Chase is usually eloquent, but words seem to keep failing him these days.
“You and I both know that I’m not above taking the lives of children, but I don’t believe in pointless death. The war was long over and I was preparing to surrender when those bombs were delivered,” she explains, smoothing out her rose petals. Chase is trying to find the hole in her words and he can’t, it terrifies him. “Laurelite has been very adamant and clear in her desire to overthrow and replace me.
Chase can hear the echos of his last conversation with James as Beryl talks.
Anyone who isn’t with her is against her. You wield a lot of influence Chase.
Who do you want to replace Beryl? If your immediate answer isn’t Laurelite, you’re a threat.
Chase picks a pretty orange rose and holds it up to Beryl who hums her approval.
“We were too busy paying attention to each other to realize what was happening around us,” Beryl laments, plucking a petal from her rose before dropping it and watching it flutter to the ground. “Think about it Mockingjay, what did I have to gain from killing your mother? Nothing.”
Chase leaves shortly after when he realizes he has no argument.
--
The day of the execution comes and Chase dons his Mockingjay suit for a final time. On a balcony above the post Beryl is bound to is Laurelite, who is addressing the crowd and rattling off all of the things the former president is convicted of. Sentencing the woman to death, Laurelite informs all of Panem that she will be stepping into the vacant position of power wearing a smile that makes Chase sick.
He can’t stop replaying the conversation with Beryl even as he steps forward, his bow vibrating in his hand.
I thought we promised not to lie to each other Chase.
You and I both know that the game was over before the children even made it to my doors.
I’m not about killing children, but those bombs weren’t mine.
Those bombs weren’t mine.
Chase has a single arrow with him, that he notches then points at Beryl who is smiling at him with a hinting of knowing that makes his stomach sink.
I thought we promised not to lie, Beryl had said.
We did, Chase thinks and his bow tips up and the arrow flies. It lodges in Laurelite’s neck, sends her tumbling over the balcony and a riot erupts around him. People are pushing and shoving past him, both to get at Beryl but also to grab at the body of Laurelite. For a minute Chase stands numbly before dropping his bow and allowing guards to drag him from the scene.
In the aftermath of his decision, one made to prevent someone as cruel and twisted as Beryl from reigning, Cosmos is elected to lead which Chase finds to be a good choice. She’s a leader capable of rebirth and balance, Panem needs that in order to start again.
Chase returns to Twelve after it’s determined that he won’t go to trial and he thinks that maybe he’ll get a chance to just exist instead of having to fight just to survive.
--
He’s been back for a least six months when he exits his home to go hunting in the nearby forest and finds Auguste crouched over a bed of flowers just outside his house. There’s dirt all over Auguste’s pains, beneath his nails, and up his arms. His brow is knitted together in concentration, lip pulled between teeth in a way that sends Chase’s heart skittering.
Looking at Auguste reminds Chase of how he felt right before their first game ended, where he was panicked and desperate to keep them both alive. It reminds him of the fact that nothing is unsalvageable with enough time and love and patience. When he looks at Auguste, Chase remembers what it’s like to hope and how it was Auguste and his endless love and trust and faith in Chase that kept him going.
Falling in love with Auguste was inevitable, Chase realizes as he watches the snow-haired boy planting flowers in front of Chase’s home in Twelve.
“Auguste,” he says quietly, voice tinged with fondness and a touch of fear. “When did you get back?”
Startled, Auguste’s head shoots up and his cheeks burn read and Chase can feel his heart lurch and something twist in his stomach.
Oh, Chase thinks, oh I’ve missed you.
“Two days ago,” he says in that soft voice of his, carefully packing the dirt around the flowers before standing and brushing his hands off on his pants. Shyly, he tucks hair behind his ear and steps towards Chase. “They finally cleared me. They told me that I made enough progress with Colin, Suri, the others...you, that I could come back to Twelve.”
Auguste looks nervous, plays with his fingers as he looks up at Chase and Chase just lets a slow breath of relief ease out of him before he smiles.
“You look good Auguste,” he says, then looks around like someone is missing. “Did Colin come back with you?” The idea that sunshine boy might’ve makes Chase’s heart constrict like someone just stabbed it, but Colin is good for Auguste in a way Chase will never be.
And now, regardless of how he feels, Chase only wants Auguste to be happy. If happiness means Colin, then he’ll deal with it.
“Oh, um. No.” Auguste’s frowning at him but Chase can’t help the way his smile shines a little brighter and he seems to hold himself a little taller at the news.
“Ah, I’m sorry,” he says awkwardly, rubbing his face so he can hide his grin. “I - “ Chase isn’t too sure what he wants to say but he’s already started and figures he might as well commit. “You guys seemed good together.” He winces after, because it sounds as clunky and awkward as he feels.
“W-what? Colin and I - we weren’t - we never - “ Auguste is bright red now, stammering over his words like he can’t believe that Chase would even suggest they might’ve been a thing. “Colin and I were never together,” he says, smoothly this time. “He’s got a nice boy from Two that he’s courting. A, um, Bjorn I think? Besides, I was never really in a position to, um, want a relationship with anyone but…” He stops, but Chase gets it
It’s almost shameful how happy the statement makes him.
“A-anyway, where’s Kaia?” Auguste asks innocently.
Chase shrugs, stuffs his hands in pockets and chews on his lip. “Somewhere in one or two probably, doing political things. I don’t know. We don’t - “ Kaia and Chase hadn’t talked since the fight right after his mother’s death. She hadn’t meant it, but she’d been part of the ploy that set of all those parachutes. “We never really fit right, so she left and is building a new life for herself.”
Meanwhile, Chase’s busy trying to pick of the shambles of his.
“Oh. You don’t, um, mind that I’m back, do you?” Auguste asks tentatively and Chase just wants to pull him into his arms, kiss his hair and go of course not, come back to me please.
Instead Chase says; “No, it’s good that you’re back and doing better.” There’s a split second of hesitation before he goes; “Do you think that we could, maybe, start again?” Chase isn’t sure what he means exactly, but he hopes Auguste understands enough.
It seems like he does, because he nods and smiles brightly at Chase like he used to. “I’d like that.”
Chase returns the smile, then looks at the flowers that Auguste had planted. Dandelions and lilies, flowers that his mother loved and flowers that promise something akin to hope and new beginnings.
He loves them.
And Chase thinks that maybe this isn’t what he wanted when he made that first defiant choice to pick death over losing Auguste but he’s pretty content with how things turned out for the most part.
--
It takes a while, with lots of ups and downs between the pair of them, but slowly, preciously, Auguste and Chase grow back together.
It starts with group dinners with all of the people that have returned to Twelve. Chase provides the meat, Auguste harvests potatoes and herbs and other things from the small garden he started to keep his mind off of all the terrible things they endured during their time in the hands of that Capitol. Dragonfly has relocated to Twelve hand helps them cook while also mending the tears in their clothing when she can.
Sometimes, Colin and Bjorn visit and so do Nadia and Lorne and Suri and when they have dinners and drinks it feels a little less like they had to give up everything just to end up there. Chase still gets a ping of jealousy whenever he sees Colin with Auguste but it always dissipates when he sees the way that Colin looks at Bjorn.
It makes him wonder if that’s what he looks like when he looks at Auguste.
It’s always a look of pure, unadulterated adoration and love so immense that it pours out of every stitch and seam that make up the person that is Colin Hargrove. Bjorn is a beast of a man too, with an extremely formal way of speaking and manners Chase didn’t know survived the rebellion but he’s certainly helpful and Chase appreciates the pair of them more than he can ever express.
Auguste always seems a little more whole when he’s surrounded by his ragtag group of friends that are more a family than anything either of them have had before the war took everything. Things certainly aren’t perfect, but they're beginning to heal and Chase finds that matters most.
Kaia never comes to visit, but he gets updates about her life here and there when he reports in on his therapy sessions that became mandatory after he assassinated Laurelite. She’s got an upcoming wedding to a man she met in Two, someone from District Seven named Bellamy. He expects the news to upset him, because he did love her, but instead he’s simply happy for her because she found someone who tames the burning flame without extinguishing it the same way Auguste does for his own.
Recovery for Panem is slow, but Cosmos is doing her best to rebuild and establish a system that is more balanced and fair than anything else. She’s an excellent, if somewhat reluctant, leader and Chase endorses her wholly. Sometimes, she seeks his counsel and opinions and while he doesn’t want anything to do with leadership and government roles, he’s still the Mockingjay and he knows the kind of power that he wields.
Auguste holds a lot of influential power too, but Chase shoulders the burden because his precious dandelion boy has shouldered enough for one lifetime.
When it comes to the star-crossed lovers, growing back together takes more effort and time than Chase expects. At first, they’re careful to keep from being alone together because while Auguste is better he’ll never quite be healed and anything can trigger the episodes. He’s much better at managing them than he used to, but it’s still difficult to differentiate what is true and what is false even on his best days.
Chase is always patient though, providing the berth of space that Auguste needs when he folds into himself and tangles fingers into his hair because it’s one of the only ways he knows how to ground himself, because he owes Auguste that much. Auguste does the same when Chase is having a bad day, where his grief chooses to encompass everything that he is, or when the guilt becomes too much.
It’s the nightmares that actually bring them together, with Chase leaving his home to go to Auguste’s in the middle of the night when he’s plague with a dream about the arena or the ghosts of all the dead are sitting too heavily on his back. He’s hesitant at first, because what if Auguste doesn’t want him anymore, but Auguste always just lifts the blankets and curls into Chase’s chest when he crawls into the bed with him.
It reminds him of the days when they were on the Victory Tour and neither of them could sleep if they weren’t together.
It goes from there until one night, when Auguste had crawled into Chase’s bed instead.
The room is dark, with the curtain drawn tight across the window but the smallest sliver of moonlight still slips through and leaves a strip of white light across the bed. Chase’s back is pressed against the wall and Auguste’s pressed against his chest, with Chase’s arm slung across his stomach and his nose against his neck. The blanket lays across them both, just beneath Auguste’s shoulder and both feel comfortable and safe, a foreign feeling Chase never expected to have again.
Auguste shifts in his arms, pulls back a little so that he can look at Chase when he reaches up and tenderly strokes his cheek. Very, very quietly he asks, “you love me. Real or not?”
It takes a minute before Chase registers the question, because he’s half asleep and confused as to why Auguste’s warm body is no longer pressed against him. But when he answers, the sleep is cleared from his eyes and his thumb is pressing lightly against Auguste’s lip. “Real,” he says softly, brow furrowing as whiskey-gold searches his face. “Some days, loving you is the only real thing in my world.”
And when he scoots forward, draws Auguste’s mouth to his, Chase is reminded of that kiss beneath the electric tree that lit a fire in his belly and a yearning that he couldn’t explain. That feeling is present again, a warm and bubbling hunger that leaves Chase wanting when he pulls away.
Auguste’s hands are gripping the shirt he sleeps in tightly and he looks a little dazed when Chase shifts so that his hands are pressed to either side of Auguste’s head and his knees are on either side of his hips. “Chase?”
“I love you,” Chase declares, head dipping for another kiss because he’s been waiting so long and yeah, they’re still both a little broken, but he feels a little more whole everyday they’re together and he thinks it’s the same for Auguste. “I love you. I love you. I love you.” He breathes, punctuating every I love you with another kiss.
There’s the pinprick of tears gathering in his eyes, because Chase is so overwhelmed by his own declaration and how much he loves this boy who went through hell and back and still did whatever he could to make Chase happy and safe and whole.
“I’m sorry I took so long to figure it out,” he mumbles later, when he’s breathless and panting and so consumed with wanting more that he can’t think straight.
But Auguste just cups his face and draws him into a kiss that’s nothing but sweetness and love and perfection that Chase thinks he might melt. “Sh, it’s okay. It doesn’t matter. I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. I love you.”
As always, Auguste knows exactly what to say to calm his rapid fire heart and Chase thinks that maybe going through hell and back was worth it for this moment, if it meant that he got to keep Auguste with him for the rest of his life.
When they make love later, for the first time, Chase takes his time with everything because he wants to make sure he appreciates the gift that he’s been given. It comes full circle as Auguste moves atop him, when an overwhelming feeling of bliss crashes over him, because all Chase can think about how it was always meant to end like this.
Auguste has always been his promise of hope and new beginnings and Chase thinks that maybe, just maybe, they can heal and grow together.
Chase is still a mess of broken, sharp edges with gaping wounds that have never seemed to heal but when he’s at his worst, Auguste’s there with a reassuring hand on the small of his back and the press of his cheek against Chase’s skin. And Auguste still has bad days when he can differentiate between real and not real, but Chase is always waiting outside the door to offer support and together they keep a journal of all the things they experienced and everything they’re still going through.
It’s not perfect, but it makes things easier.
They recover together, tend to Auguste’s garden and forge in the woods hand in hand, eat meals together and spend nearly every night tied up in each other. The long road wasn’t something Chase ever wanted, but he can’t say that it hasn’t lead to something that he’s always needed.
Eventually, they reach a point in their relationship and their recovery where Chase is confident enough in himself, and them as a couple, to say yes when Auguste shyly asks for children. The idea of children both terrifies and excites him, because they’re finally in a world where he won’t have to be afraid that they’ll be reaped or that they’ll have to suffer through any of the things Chase had to.
But he also fears the day when he’ll have to explain to them his part in the rebellion and the games and all the things he did that he’s not exactly proud of.
Still, he thinks that he can manage one step at a time, day by day, as long as he’s got Auguste by his side.
i. you’ll fall in love with someone and you’ll think you’ll be together forever, but they’ll break your heart and leave you behind. they won’t always be a lover, but a friend whose edges aligned with yours until they didn’t and it won’t hurt any less, but maybe worse.
ii. you’ll struggle with trusting and expressing because you’ve spent a lifetime pulling your heart back into your chest, blood doesn’t suit your sleeves after all. people won’t understand, will come and go recklessly and puncture your heart a little more each time they leave.
iii. someone will call you fickle and it’ll resonate with you for weeks and months and maybe years. you’ll second guess every friendship, every cycle or pattern that you realized you developed because you’re terrified they’re right.
iv. people won’t understand you or how you think and you’ll spend a lifetime compromising yourself while others stay stagnant just to keep them in your life.
v. it is the nature of things to come in go in waves; just because someone is a constant now doesn’t mean they’ll be a constant later and the sooner you accept this, the sooner your heart will stop aching all the time.
vi. you can work your hardest and still feel like it’s not good enough; be patient lest you burn yourself into ashes
vii. feeling second best will become a constant and you’ll push people away, because what’s the point if they’re never going to love you the same way.
viii. still, you’ll give too much of yourself away because you don’t know how to love in any way that isn’t self-destructive
ix. and you’ll reinforce your walls in the aftermath, slather plaster across the holes puncturing your skin. every freckle, dimple, and mole are just spots from when you loved too much.
x. you’ll feel alone more than you think any sane person should, but that doesn’t mean that you’re broken it just means that you need to be a little more gentle with yourself. you are loved, don’t ever forget that.
Outwardly she is beautiful, radiant, with her pale skin, pale eyes, and sun-spun hair.
Inwardly she is ugly, wrapped in darkness that coils around her heart and spreads through her veins.
She is soft features, big eyes, sweet smiles, and innocence.
But that’s not right--
She is sharp teeth, harsh words, cutting edges. She is cunning, ruthless, decisive. She leaves destruction, ruin, and death in her wake.
Outwardly he is normal, plain, with his dark eyes, tan skin, and night-dipped hair.
Inwardly he is beautiful, brightly clothed in a light that blossoms in his heart and lines his bones.
He is sharp features, strong jaw, dark eyes, brooding stares, and too much life experience for a boy his age.
Wait that’s wrong--
He is soft grins, sweet words, dulled edges. He is strategic, diplomatic, encouraging. He is the promise of hope, rebirth, and a life after war.
He carries a weight like Atlas on his shoulders. She shoulders his burden with her own and ignores him when he protests.
He is more a soldier than a commander, but he knows how to lead when he must, and still he looks to her for guidance, assurance.
She is more a regent than a warrior, but she knows how to fight, grapple, and what it’s like to bleed.
He is her precious, loyal soldier boy who will follow her to the ends of the earth and she is his sun, his ocean girl bound to swallow him whole.
i.
In this one, she’s a princess and he’s just a lowly knight. She loves him, but not enough because there’s someone else. (He’s there in every lifetime too, the thread of his lifeline strewn across theirs.)
And they’re both so duty-bound that’s it’s almost laughable -- there are no lengths that they will not go to for the sake of their people.
(But there are no bounds to what he will sacrifice for her.)
In the end, he dies and she lives, hides her grief because her people need her.
ii.
They meet again when she’s sixteen and he’s twenty with blood crusted beneath his nails and the weight of the world resting on her shoulders. This time she’s a diplomat and he’s a foot soldier and they sneak kisses beneath the stars, hidden among the trees.
He rarely smiles in this life; his mouth clamped shut and jaw tightened into a hard line. But when he looks at her, with the sun in her hair and her hands on his face - the corners of his mouth twist upward in a smile so sad it’s devastating.
Because once again, this is a lifetime where she cannot be his.
(There is a girl this time, with a chip on her shoulder so deep it sets in her spine. She’s wild and fierce and on the road to destruction without his princess, so he lets go like he always does because he needs her but not like they do.)
iii.
In another one, they’re on opposite sides of the war and she is his weakness. He loves her, as he always does, and she turns herself into a weapon against him.
Her words are sharper than any blade, cutting past the bone and into his soul, shredding him up inside. Her fingers are wrapped cruelly around his heart but he does nothing to resist.
“Hurt me,” he says, rough fingers tight around slender wrists. “I’m already dying without you.”
“I’m already dead,” she’ll sneer and grip harder, ignoring the skittering of what she thought was a decayed heart.
“I’ll save you,” he’ll promise, determination aflame in his dark eyes.
And she’ll want it - for her skin to knit back together and for her life to stop pouring through the cracks in her flesh, to be free of the iron grip of chaos that pollutes and steals from her. She’ll want it so badly that her heart will kickstart and her lungs will fill with all that air she stopped breathing when she gave up rebirth.
But she will rebuff him and it’ll puncture his heart, fill his lungs with blood and desperation and he’ll drown in her oceans.
In the end, he’ll sacrifice this life to make sure she continue to live others and hope, as he faces down the cauldron, that next time they’ll get it right.
iv.
They almost do.
He’ll meet a girl with blonde hair and eyes the color of honey in a homey coffeeshop. She’ll look weary, haunted like the ghosts of a past she shouldn’t remember are crawling up and down the ridges of her spine. He’ll offer her a cup of tea and a shoulder to lean on.
She’ll accept and he’ll feel something inside him stitch itself together when she says, “okay.”
And it won’t be quite right because she’s in love with someone else, but she’ll love him too and he’ll think that’s enough.
Until the boy barrels back into her life and tears her up again. And he’ll pretend like his split lip has nothing to do with the guy’s bloody knuckles or that he didn’t break his hand punching a wall instead of a face. And he’ll love her until he thinks he’ll explode from the intensity.
But he’ll move to the sidelines when they come back together and he’ll carve a space for himself in their relationship.
And it won’t be the same, but it’s close enough.
He supposes.
v.
The motel room is small, cramped and the walls are stained a yellow that can only come from too much smoke exposure. The curtains don’t close, the wallpaper is peeling in the corners, and it smells of musk and mold but it’s all he can afford. There’s never been a life of his where he hasn’t struggled for currency.
But she’ll take his hand, tug him through the door and towards the bed and the shame that’s stained his ears red will recede.
“It’s perfect,” she says, when she crawls into his lap.
“Don’t lie, it’s awful,” he’ll laugh and press his nose into her hair.
“Maybe,” she’ll relent and laugh alongside him and he’ll think it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard. “But it’s here, for us.”
They don’t get many days, nights, like this but they don’t talk about it. And they certainly don’t talk about the white gold wedding band on her finger or how they have to travel two hours out of town for privacy.
He knows that they shouldn’t be here, doing this, not when she has a husband at home who works too much and he has a girl who expects him to propose but -
There aren’t many times in any of his lives that he allows himself to be selfish.
He hates these lives the most, because they make him feel dirty, rotten, scumlike. They sneak and hide, keep secrets from the rest of the world and he has to pretend like he’s okay when she leaves after every elicit meeting.
“Don’t go,” he says once. “Stay. Run away with me.
“I can’t,” she’ll reply wearing a smile so sad he thinks his heart might shatter from looking at it. “I have to go home. To him.”
“Don’t,” he’ll plead
“I love him Bell,” she insists.
“You love me,” he points out.
And she says, “but I love him too.”
Then she’ll leave and he’ll smoke a cigarette and pretend like he won’t run to her when she calls again.
(There’s always someone else after all.)
vi.
This one’s a life without him.
She spends it trying to figure out what’s missing.
vii.
Roles are reversed this time; he’s a king and she’s his lady-knight.
And they’ll steal kisses beneath the moonlight or hidden in the darkness of his chambers. He’ll take her to the garden hidden behind the hedges and profess his love. She’ll respond in kind but woefully reject him when he asks for her hand in marriage.
“I can’t,” she say with tears pricking her eyes and her knuckles white. “I don’t want that life.” She’s lived enough of them, she’s tired of ruling.
So he’ll say, “then we’ll run away,” because he’s willing to give up everything if it means that this lifetime is the lifetime.
“You can’t,” she’ll whisper and kiss him slow and sweet like her heart isn’t peeling apart into wisps the wind can blow away.
“But I will.”
“I know, but your people need you.” And it doesn’t matter that dozens of lives have passed, they’re both so duty-bound it’s absurd and if she asks, he’ll do anything. So when she goes, “stay, be the king they need,” he doesn’t argue.
He marries someone else, a princess from another kingdom for an much needed alliance in a time of war.
And then -
For the first time, she’ll perish before him, lost on the battlefield defending his name.
Lives where she dies first hurt the most.
viii.
They meet, they fall in love, she gets sick.
Terminal illness, her heart is failing and she can’t get a transplant because her blood type is rare and there are no donors. Time is running out and he can’t lose her.
He finds out they share the bloodtype, there’s an accident, he dies.
She gets his heart and tries not to cry when she finds out what happens.
“Idiot,” she’ll curse because he left her too soon and she was supposed to go first this time.
ix.
He’s smoking on the balcony of the room they have in Rome, elbows propped up on the railing and his back curved as he leans over it. He’s shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips and his thick dark locks are a curly, tousled mess on his head. Above him, the sky is a dreary gray with the promise of rain and there’s the gust of a cold breeze that sends shivers down his spine.
Behind him the doors are open and the curtains rustle from the wind. There is a woman laying on the bed, blankets pooled around her waist and strands of blonde hair splayed across the pillow as she sleeps. She’s beginning to stir, he can tell, so he puts out his cigarette and drops it in the ashtray that rests on the little glass patio table.
It’s too easy, natural, for him to lift the covers and slide back into bed. Instinctively, she rolls over and presses herself against him, body warm against his chilled skin.
“I hate when you smoke,” she murmurs sleepily, nuzzling into the skin above his ribs.
He chuckles, smooths her hair beneath his hands and ducks his head to kiss her forehead. “I know.”
There’s a half-packed suitcase by the wall with their clothing spilling out of it and Bell is amazed that they made it here.
For once, there were no hiccups along the road to finding each other and there’s so much happiness and love in him for her that he struggles with remembering a time when she wasn’t a constant. When she wasn’t his north star that he’d follow to the ends of the universe if it meant they got to touch.
There’s an imprint of her that he thinks has always been beneath his skin, written into his bones and dna. It’s hard to picture a life that isn’t this, with this girl he’s utterly smitten with pressed up against him filling the spaces and cracks he didn’t know where there.
Her wedding band glistens when it catches what little sun is peeking into the room and it makes him smile; wide and goofy like he can’t believe this is real.
“You’re my wife,” he says slowly, catching her hand in his kissing first her knuckles then the space below her ring.
“And you’re my husband. That’s what happens when you get married,” she says, a lilt in her tone that’s fond and teasing.
When she kisses him, she cups his chin and pulls him towards her. It’s as forward as she gets and it thrills him all the same.
He presses their foreheads together, dark eyes closing as he breathes her in. She smells like citrus and sunflowers and he thinks he doesn’t want to smell anything else again. “I know,” he says quietly, hands running along her sides beneath her oversized shirt. “I never thought we’d get here.”
Not because he doubted his love for her or her love for him, but circumstance has shown him that it’s not often that he gets what he wants. This time is different and it makes him feel like he can breath for the first time in...who knows how long.
It’s like crawling out from underground, when all you’ve ever known is dirt and grime and stale air only to find the stars twinkling above you and air so crisp and fresh it stings your lungs.
“I know,” she says quietly, mimicking his position with her nails scraping against his chest. “But we’d get here eventually.”
He exhales when he realizes she’s right. Everything about them has been building towards this moment, this life and after all they’ve done, they’re owed this bit of paradise.
“I got you,” he chuckles, stealing a kiss.
“Yeah, you got me.”
x.
Sometimes, he thinks he misses her in a life but then they bump shoulders, smile at each other across the train with sheepish grins and flushed cheeks. Sometimes, their time together is fleeting and they only get that singular glance where the world appears to halt on it’s axis and the people around them freeze before time jumpstarts and the moment’s lost.
Sometimes, he wonders if that one life was their only happy one, where the planets align and they get that happy ending their heart’s ache for. But then he’ll find her in a book store, a plant shop, or a lecture and all the pieces click together and everything feels like home.
He doesn’t mind, always pushes away the anxieties and fears that they missed their chance, that he should have kissed her harder, longer because there wouldn’t be another one. He keeps going, ignores the ache in his heart in those rare lives where she doesn’t exist, because he knows somehow, some day they’ll find their way back to each other.
They’ve sacrificed enough for the universe and he thinks they’re owed a little happiness by now.
Step One:
Meet a girl beneath the lamppost in the park, promise to help her find herself.
Take her hand and guide her through her confusion, the sweeping twist of amnesia filling the space of her mind.
Choose to make a deal with the devil and sell part of your soul.
Fall deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole.
Then, pretend you don’t know she’s in love with someone else.
Step Two:
Let the devil push her away, because he’s greedy and demanding that other half.
Watch her walk away and don’t chase her because you don’t think you deserved her anyway.
Try not to be bitter when you learn she left you for him, in the end.
Steel yourself and snuff out any of the ‘light’ she thought she saw in you.
Step Three:
Rebel, rebel, rebel because it’s all you’ve ever been good at.
Make your descent into darkness and make a deal with a demon. (They’re stronger than the devil anyway.)
Forgo sleep, become a workaholic and build your walls and muscles instead.
Ignore your split lip and bloody knuckles, fight until your knees cave beneath you.
Then, try to find something you think you can believe in instead of her.
Step Four:
Become a monster, who’s monstrosities lie beneath the surface of a handsome face, a charming grin.
Lose yourself to the darkness wrapped around your heart.
But remember to claim yourself as one of the good guys.
And learn that maybe there’s no such thing as a good guy.
Step Five:
Wake up plagued with nightmares and find that time has rewound.
You’re eighteen again, with all the weight and knowledge of your 25 year-old self.
Chase her this time, travel to her house despite the storm.
Tell her you’re going to follow whatever path she takes, because your destiny is tied to hers.
Then, convince her you need to get out because when the demon collects what’s owed, both of you lose.
Step Six:
Take a leap of faith and start a new life, forge new identities from the scraps of your last one.
Grab her hand and take off running, don’t look back because your demons are behind you.
Believe that the two of you can make it, that if you’ve got each other then survival is easy.
And discover that you’re wrong because you don’t know who you are anymore.
Step Seven:
Cling to her because she’s all that you’ve got left.
Struggle with resentment and bitterness, because she finds herself and you’re still lost.
Put on a mask, wear it like a second skin and act like everything's okay.
Accept that the weight you carry is crushing you and you’re barely surviving.
Then, leave her because you can’t keep pretending anymore.
Step Eight:
Destroy, destroy, destroy and self-destruct because you don’t know what it’s like to feel anymore.
Let her save you again and again and again.
But still reject her when she tries to take your hand.
And walk away from her again, because she deserves better anyway.
Step Nine:
Swallow the jealousy and bile that rises in your throat when you see her with someone else.
Remind yourself that you left her and you don’t have a right to be mad if she’s happy.
Hate the man anyway because it’s your destiny that’s tied up in hers.
Indulge in the temporaries you’ve surrounded yourself with.
Then, drink until you can’t see her face when you close your eyes.
Step Ten:
Taste the mouths of boys and girls, dabble in sexuality and promiscuity.
Ignore the ping in your chest that goes, it’s not the same, it’s not the same.
Reject anyone that reminds you of her; no blue eyes, blonde hair, shy smiles.
Entangle yourself in people with sharp tongues and sharper nails.
Step Eleven:
Hit rock bottom and try not to laugh bitterly when she comes to your aid again.
Tell her you don’t deserve her, that you never did because she always shone brighter than you did.
Try not to cry when she says you’re wrong and holds you when you do break.
Let her take you home and curl up against her like you used to.
Then, leave in the morning before she wakes up because you’re just going to hurt her anyway.
Step Twelve:
Discover your other self, learn about his past and his memories and his heart.
Relive her death, deaths, with memories that transcend lifetimes banging on your temples.
Spiral out of control, bruise your knuckles and break your bones.
Destruct, destroy, and break apart because you’re grasping at straws that turn into sand in your hands.
Step Thirteen:
Look for her when you should be looking for yourself.
Let your heart rattle against your ribcage when you think you find her.
Hold back the disappointment that shakes your bones.
Find him instead, break open the skin of your fist and watch yourself bleed.
Then, clean yourself up wash, rinse, and repeat.
Step Fourteen:
Patch yourself up, hide the cracks in your skin with the press of bodies against yours.
Lie to yourself, tell yourself that you’re okay, that the pressure isn’t bearing down your shoulders.
Say the man means nothing, to her...to you.
Realize that maybe he has a place in your destinies too.
Step Fifteen:
Run to her because in the end, she’s the only constant in your life.
Understand all threads will always lead back to her,
And admit that you don’t want to know who you are without her.
Apologize and repent, over and over again.
Then, let her take your hand and believe her when she says, we’ll figure it out together.
your thirteenth birthday falls on a warm spring day; the sun is bright, the sky clear, and all of the flowers are in bloom.
it is also the day that Persephone dies.
you find everything about it fitting and poetically ironic.
the day goes like this:
you wake at first light, sun creeping through the tears in the fabric of your tent, rub the sleep from your eyes and stretch your weary limbs. your muscles ache, as they’re prone to nowadays, but you ignore them and dress yourself. your armor feels too heavy on your shoulders and the steel of your blades too comforting against your skin.
you visit the table that has maps and war plans scattered across the wood surface, your eyes glance at the calendar set in the corner. you frown when you realize what day it is.
you do not like your birthday.
so you turn the calendar down, straighten your spine, and focus on work.
you have battle plans you must discuss with your soldiers, people you need to heal, and you think you’ll lead today’s hunt, or at least the foraging expedition. you need more herbs, plants for your healing mixtures and for poisons.
you do not mean to stumble upon the goddess, in a open field littered with flowers. she doesn’t recognize you, doesn’t realize that you are the feared war queen, Conquest, because she smiles at you warmly when she plucks a pink flower from the grass.
“this would look lovely in your hair,” the goddess comments casually, extending the flower like an offering. you don’t accept it and she sighs. “I’ll weave you a crown instead,” she suggest and you think you might be looking at her in wonder because she smiles so gently, pats the grass beside her and gestures for you to sit beside her.
you can see why Hades kidnapped her, swallowed her into the underworld like a greedy man. Persephone is beautiful, in a gentle way that will haunt you days after her death-- you’re suddenly questioning your desire to slay all of the god, but then you remember what they’ve done to your people and your heart hardens all over again. her hair is light colored, like yours, but tinged with green or pink or blue or purple depending on the flowers around her, her eyes are the prettiest shade of green you think you’ve ever seen-- pale but sparkling and it creates a fluttering in your stomach that reminds you of the day you met War. she is small, barely bigger than you are and you cannot tell if that is her natural size or if she’s shrunk herself to make you more comfortable in her presence.
you’re moving forward, settling in beside her with your feet tucked beneath you before you realize what you’re doing. she smiles so brightly, so warmly, at you when you join her that you cannot keep from grinning back in return.
you watch as her fingers twists flower stems deftly into the makings of a crown. you are mesmerized, duly wonder if this is how people watch you when you stitch up their wounds.
“what is your name little one?”
your mouth opens, then snaps shut because you cannot tell her the truth. you cannot bear to have the illusion shattered so soon. you’re forced to look away, cheeks flushed from the earnest way Spring looks at you. there is an all consuming warmth that spreads through you when she reaches out and pushes your hair from your face.
“Livia,” you lie-- it’s not like she can learn the truth.
“well, Livia, I am Persephone.” you swallow the I know, I’m going to kill you, that tries to spring out your mouth. “thank you for joining me.”
“you are lady spring.”
she smiles sweetly at you in response and your heart lurches and your stomach flips. you do not understand the way she makes you feel, but it’s a warm and possibly happy fluttering in your belly and you think you’d like to keep that feeling. “I am, Livia,” she reaches for you, tucks loose hair behind your ear and you cannot keep your cheeks from growing red. “you are a child of spring aren’t you?”
you cannot look at her, instead you focus on the grass beneath you. you pluck a long blade and twirl it between your fingers. “I am,” you whisper, ashamed.
“you look like one,” there is nothing but fondness in the goddess’s voice and her fingers trail down your cheek, cup your jaw. her gaze rakes across your face, takes in your sun-spun hair, lightly tanned skin, and bright but hardened blue eyes. there’s a heat to her gaze that you notice, but don’t understand, so you focus on the blade of grass in your hand pulling it apart at the seam.
“I do not feel like one,” you admit, pulling away and turning your face so she cannot see you frown.
it occurs to you that this is perhaps the most intimate exchange you’ve had with another person since your mother passed. it does funny things to your stomach, your heart beats erratically, and too many parts of you are warm, flushed. you don’t like the confusion she stirs in you, but you cannot figure out why.
“Livia,” she murmurs, soft and sweet, and your heart lurches unexpectedly.
“lady spring.”
Persephone looks at you carefully, smiling sweetly all the while before looking at the expertly woven crown in her lap. “come here.”
you comply immediately.
she settles you between her thighs, facing away from her so that she can card her fingers through your hair. her touch is soft and gentle, like everything else about her, and you relax against her. the goddess hums happily as she twists and pulls and weaves your hair.
in the end, it’s a delicate crown that wraps around your head and she threads flower stems through the gaps. “you look beautiful,” she tells you, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
your cheeks flush and a pool of warmth settles in your belly. “i am nothing compared you you lady spring.”
“hush Livia,” the spring goddess scolds, “you are beautiful.”
you do not think yourself to be such, with your blood stained hands and the scars that litter your skin, but beneath her gaze you flush because - if Persephone thinks you beautiful, then perhaps you are.
i had a dream; where i dreamt you were here and you were mine. and when i woke - there were tears on my cheeks because you were there but you weren't mine.
conquest breeds war, war becomes pestilence, and pestilence leads to death you learn. the pair of you are lethal, because you are strategic, cunning, and sharp edges that cut bone deep; he is deadly, brave, and made of steel. you are radiance, brilliance, and creative where he is understanding, perceptive, and intuitive. where you are hot-headed, reckless, and rash; he is level-headed, calculated, and calm.
two sides of the same coin.
you kill and conquer and destroy anything that dares stand in your way. Hermes, Hephaestus, Persephone, Artemis, Apollo, and now even the almighty god-king Zeus are all evidence of your capabilities. Even Hades, fearsome god of the underworld, quakes in your presence, though you know it is not just from fear.
beware the godslayer, bred by Jupiter and a roman princess, for the gods will fall to their knees and beg her forgiveness, are the whispers that sweep across the lands. beware the wrath of the knight that rides at her side, for she is the blade and he is the force behind it.
it should not make you proud, but it does, knowing that your reputation breeds fear in your enemies. you do not take pleasure in death but there is a swell of something in your chest whenever you get vengeance.
letting go is easy, in theory, but in all practically it’s difficult-- impossible even.
it’s human nature, you suppose, to grip so tightly the things that you want until you don’t know how to uncurl your fists and let them drop. it’s a learned behaviour, you think, to rationalize things, justify behaviors, and make up reasons to forgive, forgive, forgive. it’s self-loathing, you decide, that keeps you locked into place, playing things over and over again while you try desperately to figure out what went wrong, why you weren’t good enough, or why you can’t move forward.
history has a way of repeating itself when you’re too stubborn, too foolish, too blind to leave it in the past where it belongs.
physically letting go is a hell of a lot easier than emotionally or mentally. it’s easier to force your fingers to loosen, to pry them off of whatever you’re clinging too than it is to tell yourself that you did everything you could and they still wanted to leave you behind. it’s harder to admit that you couldn’t have done anything different or better than it is to hold your head up high, put on an impassive expression, and pretend that you’re alright.
there are some things that you want so desperately that you try and try and try again even when the results always the same. you do things differently here and there, but it doesn’t matter because they don’t love you the way you want to be loved.
accepting that they’ll never love you the way you love them, or the way you deserve to be loved, is always easier said than done.
it’s painful, heartbreaking even, to watch people filter in and out of your life when you’ve never had anything solid or stable. it hurts to see people you love leave you behind without glancing back or going about their life like you never mattered, like you were never important.
(the rational side of you knows that’s not true, but the emotional side of you can’t see anything but your grief.)
it’s the circle of life, you muse, where people leave you behind and you leave others behind and someone, somewhere, doesn’t know how to let go.
oh, it’s a vicious cycle that you wouldn’t wish on anyone.
(but you know everyone is trapped in it.)
letting go gets a little easier as you grow older, you realize, because you learn how to cope a little better. you start to recognize the signs of an unhealthy relationship or a toxic person before you’re in too deep. you come to terms with the fact that no matter how negatively people react to you, you’re not a bad person and you’re only human, you’re allowed to make mistakes.
you remind yourself that you are allowed to walk away if the situation, or person, is detrimental to your health and happiness.
you assert the fact that you’re lucky to have people who love you, unconditionally and even when you fuck up, and people are lucky that you love them, because your heart is so big, you are selfless more than you are selfish, and you love so much you burn to ash because of it sometimes.
you learn how to let go; how to properly release a person’s tight grip on a part of your heart, how to coax your fingers open and blow away the remains of something in shambles, and how to mend the tattered pieces of yourself back together afterwards.
there’s always a dull, persistent ache that settles in your heart, buries itself into the threading of your bones but, like with everything else, you learn to cope with it. you figure out ways to stitch yourself together despite the once gaping wound that claimed your chest, broke open your ribs.
there are pricks and invisible scars that cover your body, but scars tell stories and you’re tired of being ashamed of yours.
you’re not so open in the aftermath of learning to let go, to move on, and hope you’ve learned something for all your troubles, but you think you’re coming to terms about the person that you are and the person you want to be.
still, letting go is fundamentally easy and terribly difficult in practice and there is too much learning left to do.
excerpts from a book I’ll never write #37
I’m still learning how to let go, even when I think I’ve mastered it.
Do you ever think about the people in your life and how you love them, but you don’t feel like you can rely on them?
It’s disconcerting to realize that you know so many people and you claim so many as yours but you lack people you trust enough to turn to when you’re having bad days. You lack people you’re comfortable enough with you go to when you’re sad, depressed, or feeling a little empty without worrying that you’re being a downer, that you’re being a bother.
Do you worry that people only love you when you’re happy or good company?
I do.
I’ve come to realize that I don’t trust people to see me at my worst. I’m not sure anyone outside of my family has really seen my lowest points and even then, well I’m not sure they’ve seen it either because I take to hiding myself away when I’m angry, upset, sad.
I’m really good at pretending to be okay and it’s a problem, because I’ll have days like yesterday where I’m doing fantastic, great! And then I’m inexplicably sad. Last night was bad, if I’m honest, and I’m glad that Sam was insistent on not letting me wallow in my sadness because I’m still a little bit sad today but I feel better than I did.
I wonder how people who have healthy, good relationships with their parents feel. I wonder if they’d even be capable of imagining how difficult it is for those of us who have shitty family relationships. I know you’ve heard about my rocky relationship with my family and I’ve heard about yours, but it doesn’t stop it from sucking any less.
You feel like a failure if you cannot do the things your mom wants you to do.
I feel like a disappointment because I’m no closer to getting a degree than I was when I graduated about five years ago. I am no closer to knowing what I want to do with my life than when I was sixteen.
Growing up, my family sorta treated me like I was stupid, because I didn’t share the same interest as them and didn’t share the same time of intellectual knowledge as the did--do. So I somehow managed to trick myself into thinking that the only way my parents could be proud of me is if I did awesome in college and I paid for everything myself.
So when I fucked up and more or less failed a semester because I couldn’t focus, because I didn’t like my teacher, because of a number of reasons, I felt like a failure. I felt like the only thing my parents were proud of me was school-- which I know isn’t true, because there’s a lot for them to be proud of.
But there was a point in time where my dad told me he was so proud of me for going to school and doing well and paying for it all on my own and it was the first time he’d told me he was proud of me for something in...god knows how long.
And I imagine you know how that feels, maybe not about school but about something like that with your mom.
You are nothing like your mom and I’m not really like my parents and it creates a lot of conflicts for us.
We understand, intellectually, that there is a lot to love about us and that our parents are proud of us for more than just one thing but, emotionally, we struggle with accepting that knowledge because we’ve grown up as less than.
We’ve grown up without proper support structures, without someone to turn to when we’re hurting and have them understand why we’re feeling the way we’re feeling. OR we’ve grown up without having someone who doesn’t need to understand but doesn’t chastise us for feeling something other than what they want us to feel.
We’ve grown up trying to live up to expectations we never wanted and aren’t capable of fulfilling and it crushes us every time we miss the proverbial finish line.
We cling so tightly to the friends we make because we’re desperate to create the family we want.
At least I do.
I struggle with letting go of toxic people in my life because I care so much about them that it hurts to know that they don’t care even half as much. I struggle with admitting that they’re being shitty, because I’d rather believe in the best of people. It takes a lot for me to get fed up with a behavior and it’s always surprising to the person when I call them out on their shit.
And then I’m the bad guy.
And it’s so terribly exhausting.
I’m not sure I’ve ever really had anything stable in my life that I loved and there are days where I feel like I’m never going to be stable the way I want.
It’s a terrifying prospect, but then I remember that there are people out there that I haven’t met yet, who will love me the way I deserve to be loved. Who will pick me first and never make me feel like I’m second best. Who will see me at my worst and still stand by me anyway.
There are people out there like that for you too.
People suck and hate to admit when they’ve made a mistake or when they’re in the wrong, I used to be one of them and I’m stubborn as hell, but a part of growing up, being an adult, and living life is accepting that you’re going to make mistakes.
Accepting that you’re not always going to live up to the expectations of others.
Knowing that you’re going to do something you shouldn’t and then have to face the consequences and that’s okay as long as you take responsibility for your actions. It’s about accepting that people are going to blame you for things that are not your fault, out of your control, and that’s okay because you know who you are and there are still people who love you even if they don’t.
I know there’s a lot less communication between us since you’ve gone through Impact and your other training, or since you’ve moved states but that doesn’t mean I love you any less.
I’m still here for you, when you need me, but if I’m a little distant it’s because I’m learning how to talk to the newer, bolder, you who is still figuring yourself out after realizing that hey, I like girls. Or it’s because I’m dealing with my own disastrous life that I’m trying to clean up.
Things aren’t ever going to be truly easy, I don’t think, but it’ll always get better if you want it to.
It’s okay to be sad and to let people know that you might not be as well put together as they think you are. It’s okay to show the chinks in your armor from time to time. It’s okay to want to reach out to someone and let them know that you’re in a dark place and you’re afraid.
It’s not going to be easy and yeah, you may feel clingy or needy or bothersome, but they love you, I love you. I’m here for you. I will always be here for you because I know what it’s like to feel like you don’t have someone you can reach out to and hold on to when you’re lost in your own head, or grappling with your demons.
Some demons can’t be quelled alone.
Some burdens are meant to be shared.
Some bridges can’t be crossed without help.
Sometimes you can’t handle the sadness or insecurity or doubt by yourself.
Sometimes you’ve got to ask for help and take it when it’s offered.
you do not belong.
you do not fit in.
you are just the girl who lived in the floor for sixteen years.
but that’s not right, you’re so much more than the timid girl scared of being convicted as a criminal simply because you were born.
you are bright, curious, and stubborn.
you are neither a sky person or a grounder.
you are an in-between-- not quite an outsider but never quite belonging either.
a contradiction perhaps-- you like that, because it means you’re unpredictable.
you are fierce, brave, and dangerous.
you take to life on the ground like a bird in the sky. you learn to fight, battle, hold your own.
get knocked down, get back up and fight.
that mantra replaces the one that kept you safe beneath the floor.
I am not afraid.
eventually the two combine and the new phrase becomes your battle cry.
I am not afraid. Get knocked down, get back up. I am not afraid, now fight.
the lines of your identity are constantly crossed.
ai laik Okteivia kom Shaikru.
ai laik Okteivia kom Trikru.
ai laik Okteivia kom…
ai laik Okteivia.
you do not belong.
you are not a sky person or a grounder but a contradiction, an outsider, an in-between.
you are a child, a woman, a gona, a force of nature.
you are clanless, but you are loyal and you still have your people.
(Bellamy, Lincoln, Raven, Jasper, even Clarke.)
you are a Blake.
you are born of the Ark, but have only lived since you stepped from the dropship and onto the green grass of Earth.
you belong to your brother, to Lincoln, but really only belong to yourself.
you do not belong to any one thing.
you were born in space, but you are a child of Earth.
you do not fit in, but you belong. you belong to the Earth, the life it’s given to you thrumming through your veins, and the Earth belongs to you, to the girl who was the first person from space to step foot on it in 97 years.
ai laik Okteivia kom graun. ai laik Okteivia.
I am Octavia of the Ground. I am Octavia of Earth. I am Octavia.
you are Octavia Blake, you belong to yourself and that is enough.
Rory and Jayce come together like a wildfire, a small spark that erupts into a roaring flame that consumes everything around it. The thing about wildfires though, is that they burn until nothing’s left but scorch marks or they’re doused by heavy rain, and they got a little bit of both.
Rory always thought she’d be the one to get burned, because she’s used to catching fire and burning out like an imploding star, but Jayce is the one to go up in flames, scorch marks along his back, while she gets hosed down and saved before she becomes ashes.
your mother dies when you are seven with a spear jutting from her belly right in front of you. the greeks are raiding your home and your mother, in the confusion and danger, is too busy trying to hide you away instead of letting you fight with the others.
“you’re just a child!” she screams at your protests. “you will not be fighting, we need to get you somewhere--” she doesn’t finish because a spear pierces her body, through her back and out her stomach, and she sags right before you.
you don’t even realize you’re screaming until someone-- you don’t know who --is ripping you away from her body. there are arms around your midsection pulling you back, but you struggle and squirm-- reach desperately for your mother. tears are streaming down your face and you’re vaguely aware that your throat is sore, raw from all your shouts.
“let me go! I need to save her!” you cry, hiccup. your healing skills are limited, because you favor war games instead of playing healer, but they’re there. you can save her, you can save her. “I can heal her! let me go! mom! mommy!”
you’re hysterical in your grief.
“it’s too late,” a soothing voice whispers in your ear as their grip adjusts and traps your arms beneath theirs. it doesn’t stop you from kicking and wriggling around, but you’re being pulled further and further away from where she’s suspended. “she’s already dead.”
you can’t really see through your tears, but there’s a pang in your chest that tells you they’re right. she hasn’t moved since the weapon entered her body, limbs hanging limp and body only staying upright from the way the spear sunk into the soil, blood trickles from her mouth and her eyes are glassed over. you refuse to believe it.
you haven’t stopped screaming, sobbing, in the three days it takes to survey all of the damage and collect the dead. you help, move mechanically through the motions of the basic stitches your mother taught you, but the tears still streak your face and too many people look at you with pity.
you hate it.
the day they pile all of the bodies together for a funeral pyre-- because there are too many to bury --is the last day anyone sees you cry. your jaw sets in stone and your blue eyes-- once bright, innocent, naive --go dark, harden, to match the resolve that solidifies your spine.
no more weakness.
you are still a child, but you are a child of wartime and you’ll be damned if you let someone die while trying to protect you.
At first going to Hogwarts is daunting; it’s the school of legends, home to both the villain of Second Wizarding War and it’s Hero, and Cassadega is sorely out of place. Lacking both a British accent and heritage, she’s nothing more than the one of those foreign kids. Ostracized by her highly judgmental housemates, the 10-year-old feels the weight of her homesickness immediately.
She seeks friendship in the other isolated exchange students and takes comfort in knowing she is not alone. They band together more strongly than she expects and she finds that despite all the nasty things her fellow Slytherin said about the other houses, they’re alright. Even that Gryffindor girl.
She misses her parents and her brothers more than she will admit but her new friends help soothe the ache left by the homesickness.
