with rue ( @redemptioninterlude )
And Rue’s fucking barely able to move, she’s fucking floating, she’s ON HER KNEES, waiting for that, sweet uplift to drown out the sounds and the nightmares of what Lucy’s doing in that next room, she can’t breathe, only, she can in one sudden, horrible take. And it’s not like she can sleep anyways, not with Lucy going on like that out there, finally, stumbling to her feet and into the frame of her door, barely able to keep it together when it opens save a narrow eyed glare. “Can you keep it fucking down? I get that you can’t when you’re fucking whoever the hell you picked up off the street, but holy fuck Lucy, it’s like, 4 in the morning.”
fighting is something lucy has learned from her fathers, biological and adoptive. she couldn’t seem to escape turmoil even when brought into new homes, new families. and all of the new, new, new - it never made a new lucy. so if there’s one thing she’s mastered through childhood, it’s the ability to pick a fight. it doesn’t really matter what the fight is even about, at the end of the day, so long as it keeps going - that’s how you get the reactions you’re really craving.
what is it you’re craving , lucy ?
if she were better about all of this, she would be craving a way out. but she wants a way back in, she wants to carve herself back into rue’s heart. she wishes she could be the kind of person who could just say i’m sorry, and they could kiss and make up and all this could be over with. back to the way things used to be. all better. but it wouldn’t be all better, and she can’t bring herself to say it.
it’s my fault and i still can’t bring myself to say it.
first reaction achieved, rue has emerged from her room - and seeing her face is a small victory. they avoid one another most days now, it feels like it’s been ages since lucy could meet her eyes. when they look at each other, she hates her own heart for revving its fucked up little engine.
“we... need to talk,” lucy says, prickling as she tries to narrow down what about because yes, they do need to talk - but they’re not going to have the conversation they actually should be having right now. she locks onto the piled dishes in the sink, the disarray of the countertops - they’re both contributors, and their shared depression has definitely made the apartment look a little... worse for wear lately.
“we need to talk about the kitchen,” she says, more confidently now. “i mean seriously, are you just going to get high all day and leave me with everything a ruined mess, over and over again? you don’t even talk to me anymore, i don’t want to pick up after you like this...”
it’s a sore spot, because honestly, it was a jab about rue’s substance use that got them into this mess - it’s what she’s refusing to apologize for even though she knew she took it too far in the moment. it’s sure to burn worse now that she’s bringing it up like this. she hates herself for using it again to poke and prod - but it’s too late, what’s been said has been said.
“do we need a chore wheel, like, are we children? i can’t even find my big pasta pot for sauce night,” she goes on, motioning at the cabinet left ajar. “i don’t want to have to divvy out all our belongings and draw a freakin’ line in the sand between us, if you’d just talk to me like a person i wouldn’t have to yell at you to come say hi once in a while... but no, you just avoid me now, like you do everything.”
i wouldn’t have to fuck any guys to get your attention, either, lucy thinks but doesn’t say - because she knows that really would be going too far, edging into hate you territory and she is, deep down, already so afraid that she’s made rue hate her and it’s too late for them to ever recover from this.
