FIVE TIMES KISS E D FIVE TIMES KISSSSEDDDDDDDD
send me ‘ five times kissed ‘ for a drabble about five times our muses kissed
The first time is years ago. The 68th Games. The girl puts up a fight: the weedy, half-skeletal girl from twelve whom no one is placing bets on ( not with a score of 5 ), hauls a sword twice her weight round and nearly takes a career’s leg clean off. The tall, fit lad from two clatters to the ground and the whole room is silent - apart from the timid gasps, bated breath, and drunken hollars, from their corner. The blade plunges haphazardly between his ribs, with her little foot on his throat, and the shock of every mentor, escort & sponsor in the room is palpable. He buys bottles of champagne and liquor and a number of people are all too happy to join in on his ridiculous ‘generosity’ ( any excuse to celebrate with a drink ). He’s more interested in making idiots of the team from two than the brutality on screen, raising his glass to the pompous pair across the room and watching them lose their every bet - fools. Worn hands shove an almost overflowing glass into her dainty grip, after all it’s not everyday twelve manages any decent kill, let alone a career. A careless arm drops around her shoulder and before she has chance to take a sip he roughly grabs her face and kisses her messily ‘Drink up Ms. Trinket!’ he slurs with a belt of coarse laughter. He pays no mind to the incredulous looks of others, he’s more amused by the mix of shock & horror on her face as he knocks back his own glass.
Time elapses like a crumbling cliff face; slowly and then all at once, between the first and the second time ( It might have come sooner, but there was the risk of it clouding his signals as he stands on the bedraggled platform in the impasse between them, hands stuffed in pockets and eyes cast down the track. It’s an arm thrown loosely around her and a hold that promises more but does not deliver. He watches her go. Slowly strangling the notion of regret over the coming months until it is finally quiet. ).He emerges like a bear from it’s cave, wary and drowsed, to the small news. And for the first time he is truly speechless, standing in his doorway staring back at the woman on his step he was half-certain he’d never see again. Only half?He doesn’t sweep her into his arms, doesn’t cradle her face or make any great declaration of love for her; she has to ask to come inside. Her bags in the hallway ( she plans on staying? ) and a strained silence as he tries to form the obvious question of why onto his lips. This pretty little woman sat demurely and half-afraid on his tattered couch, in his tattered living room, with this tattered man. She should not look like she belongs there. She doesn’t quite fit. Doesn’t blend into the place with any comfort or ease. And he doesn’t want her to. He asks her why she’s here, tells her she’s demented, tells her she’s better off back home, and even though he says it he doesn’t quite believe it. Doesn’t really want her to go. Doesn’t know why. Just.. Doesn’t..Before long the years have disappeared into the void and they’re toe to toe, back to the verbal sparring matches of the old days because she’s her and he’s him and this is what they do. This is what they’ve always done. Except this time the air isn’t so salted between them, this time the look in her eyes is more of a knock to his ribs than a curse in his throat, this time she stands too close, this time he doesn’t back away.. She moves first. Eyes half-helpless and lips making one final stand. It’s a moment before his arms go to her, fingers curling around her shoulders and not holding her as tight as they want to. Because they are all casualties of war, all finding their way through, feet shuffling in ash, all mourning, all grieving something lost or left behind. And maybe this will go away. Maybe she will fix herself. Maybe she will realise coming back here was a mistake. That she was better of at home. That she will always care for him but not like that. Because feelings are fleeting. Because he kisses her back and feels her delicate fingers against the rough of his cheek and wants to scream don’t stay unless you don’t plan on leaving.
She stays. There’s a spare room she’s welcome to but it’s an awkward and ridiculous suggestion. Neither of them wants her in another bed. But this isn’t what he’s used to. They don’t fall asleep lovingly in each-other’s arms the first night she stays. It’s tense. Soft, but cautious. Strange. It makes him think of Thirteen where he would let her climb into his bunk when all the grey and war became too much for her. But this is different. This time there are no discoloured suits or fears for their lives. No bombs rippling through the concrete. Only muted heartbeats rattling in cages. When she wakes up the first morning he isn’t there. She finds him downstairs on the couch, wrapped in a blanket and a half-empty liquor bottle on the table.
He’s not sure how many times she’s seen it. But he’s sure she knows.He won’t fall asleep with her there. It was different in Thirteen, they were safe, they were protected, they were locked down and underground. They hadn’t allowed him his knife. Here, it was different. He can’t allow himself to forget, can’t sleep unless he feels the hilt of the weapon in his palm. That’s security. That’s safety. For the both of them. The couch is closer to the door than the bed. Anything that enters that house will have to get past him first.The third time he kisses her it is not with his lips.There are noises in the night and they come from within. Timid footsteps edge out into the hall, creaking open the sitting room door to see something; some shadowed figure thrashing in the dark. Something. Because it can’t be him. His throat tears open like a dying beast as his hand flies out, blade gripped tightly in his fist, stabbing at something only he can see. She’s heard it. But not this close. Seen it. But only out of the corner of her eye. Not like this. Never like this. It’s an expression that seems alien to his features. That ancient rage is familiar, but remains clouded by an almost child-like panic.She goes to him, she’s scared, terrified, the light is slammed on in the hopes it might stir him, but no. Her hands go to his arms. Mistake. Because it’s her he’s trying to protect; this thing has found its way into his home, but it’ll have to get past him first. He’s taller than she is, bigger, stronger. A deceptive strength in his wiry muscles. One jerked movement and he sends her slamming into the wall. Nothing broken. Nothing bruised. Just red and sore. A little nick in the skin of her forearm. A few drops of blood.The animal’s cries fade into hers and suddenly the world comes into view. His illuminated living room, books knocked from their shelves, the couch shifted back, a bottle smashed, liquor soaking the rug. Effie with her back pressed against the wall, cheeks damp and eyes looking at him as if unsure he’s really there. He is. He is. The knife clatters to the ground and hands go up, he doesn’t move from the spot. Stammered words and a stare that never once shifts from her. He catches sight of her arm and something twists in his chest. But she goes to him. Cradles his face and he doesn’t have to explain, he couldn’t if he tried. He’s afraid to touch her. He’s sorry. The phrase repeats itself on his lips til he’s scarcely sure of what he’s saying anymore. But she draws closer, wraps her arms around his neck and hushes him so sweetly. His face buries in her neck as he presses her to him, his own arms folding around her. Words slowly muffle against her skin, ‘sorry’s turning to soundless lips, to kisses; from neck, to jaw, to cheek. Worn fingers woven amongst golden locks as his lips roughly meet hers. She tastes of sleep and salt-tears, he thinks.
She accepts him sleeping on the couch. But in time he joins her. And without the knife.
A few weeks. A month. Two. Six.. A year. Maybe three.. People talk. Let them. She hates the geese, and the dog that hangs around the back-yard is a little ominous ( and completely filthy ), the kids live around the corner and share knowing glances whenever they make visits together, and he still drinks. He always will. She still doesn’t quite fit, all brightness and glitter, standing out like a sore thumb. But she’s his sore thumb. Or his pain in the neck. The house gets clean and it takes a while to feel like home without the layer of grime over everything. The curtains stay open. He gets used to the light.
He rubs his temples and tries to hold back a grudging smile as she flies into escort-mode when they announce the engagement; fluttering about and crying with joy and proposing plans. Plans that hover on purple smoke in the air between them all but that can’t quite settle on the dusty black ground of the district. It takes a while and a few gentle refusals from the kids, but they all begin to explain: the small ceremony, the simple words, the toasting, the tradition. The three of them sharing in their history, their own small culture, hearing about the little stories and nuances of their old world. It touches her. She sits, hands in lap, a smile curling the corner of her lips as she watches them. They’re all caught a little off-guard when he mentions his parents toasting, himself included. But they convince her that they do things differently here. But that she’s still welcome to wear her best frock.
He leaves for the Hob one morning with his boxes of eggs and cuts of goose-meat, rolling his eyes and making some comment at her curled into their tattered couch with her nose in a book, reading and researching the history of his old district as best she can with what she can get her hands on. When he returns in the afternoon, a few bottles of liquor, empty boxes and a full purse in hand ( as if she’d trust him to buy their groceries ) he finds her in the same position, nothing moved except the stack of books as she’s worked her way through them. Eyes tired and coffee on the stove. He teases they aren’t going to grade her at the ceremony, and with an uncomfortable ease it slips off her tongue. Features slide and insides freeze as he stands, staring dumbly at this woman in his kitchen; barefoot on the tiles, golden tresses curled and tied prettily behind her, edging on tiptoes as she leans over to stir the bitter brew. Tired eyed and carefully careless in her speech. A few silent moments pass before she looks back at him. Maybe. One day. I-I’m not saying right now but.. One day.. But that’s a promise he isn’t keen to make. He’s never been very good at keeping them. He can’t even palm her off with some rough, indecisive grunt. Just stands, eyes shifting away from her and it’s nothing less than awkward at best. For the rest of the day his voice sticks in his throat. But it’s been three years. ( Wait three more. ) She stayed all this time. ( She might leave tomorrow. ) I – .. I need her ( She doesn’t need you. )The evening settles in and they eat at the table. Not any old place like he used to. She’s made him civilised like that. They eat a half-decent meal. Not cabbage and old meat like he was so in the habit of. She falls asleep next to him, his bed is warm and he realises there was actually a time when it was cold as stone. When she wakes in the night her lithe form moves close to him and he observes the way her arms wrap round him, the way his own do the same without question, the way he strokes her hair until she falls asleep again on his chest. In the morning he feels her move, but she lets him sleep. Always has. Hears her pad back into the room and set some coffee down on the bedside table. She looks after him ( always has ). It goes on like this for the rest of the day. Everything hums, radiates with a yellow light. From the coffee she makes in an effort to curb his morning drinking to the ear-bashing he gets for the mess the dog makes of her living room. Her living room. Maybe she belonged here after all. He even manages to be amused at her remark of ‘Are you feeling well?’ when he offers to come to the Hob with her in the afternoon. They move through the languid crowd, people know their faces, Effie buys the goods while he takes questions about geese for new year. He begins to regret his little outing as the fresh air and light start to stick pins in his brain and before long it’s been two hours, and the little woman is far from in favour of him drinking in public. The man feels like some sort of pack mule and is wondering why he thought this was a good idea as she ladens him with a bag of vegetables, but when she says ‘What would I do without you?’ ..a dry smile creeps over his features. And over the armful of bags she’s bestowed upon him he kisses her for the fourth time, full on the mouth. Hears the faint gasp of one and the hushed mumblings of a few more in the moments before he breaks away. Almost four years. And she stares back at him with the mild shock of someone well aware he has never done that so far from their own home in all that time. He just smiles that coarse, knowing smile of his that might infuriate her if she weren’t letting out a quite chuckle as she turned away.
God, he was not built for this. Not for to-ing and fro-ing, not for coming and going, or watching and waiting, or listening and holding his own breath just to make sure he can hear hers. She tells him it’s fine, she tell’s him not to worry, but how can he not when she’s so small? So fragile? So dainty like her mother? Mother. That’d make him a father. A father. Every so often it strikes him that ten years ago he never thought he’d see the day. Fifteen years. Twenty. God… Longer… How does one petite little woman with sugar on her voice and paint on her lips trot into your life and turn it like a carousel? There’s less sugar on her voice now. She’s starting to sound like him. And oh, he does not let her hear the end of it. He catches her correcting herself when her vowels fall flat; tensing them like a muscle as she glares into the middle-distance. Jokes that he’ll have to start calling her his ‘coal princess’; which always leads to pearls, and endless laughter at her expense. Odd times the baby laughs as the joke flies by her ears and dad never fails to use it to his advantage. Though she shakes her pretty, scrunched up face at her big grey eyes and tells her that Daddy sounds silly, and we’ll make sure you speak properly. To which he can do nothing but agree. He doesn’t drink as much anymore. One night wrapped in a holed blanket on the ( still ) tattered couch with a dog at his feet and a pup on his lap he thinks about the woman upstairs. Alone. Whose voice he’ll probably hear to help her down the stairs in the morning, or make her something ridiculous at 3am. Or worse. Whose voice he’ll hear in the dead of night, after a low thud. Or a shrill screech. Oh, how he worried about her then. How he stared through the pitch at the vague glimmer of glass on the table and decided: no. Who closed his eyes and lifted the animal, half burrowed into his covers, onto his chest. Heard it’s meek whines at it settled itself again, with a hand atop it’s scruffy crown and another over its blanketed belly. For a moment forgetting it were a pup. For months reminding himself a baby cannot have a drunk for a father.He slept in the bed the next night.His timing was less than perfect ( when had it ever been more? ). For her last tri-whatsit he was a shuddering mess. No use to anyone. It seemed she regretted the choice more than he did; coaxing him with just a glass in the evenings, to take the edge off, to give him sense. She needed him. But not like this. ( He never did it when she could see. A glass in the mornings. After coffee. After breakfast. When she went to the bathroom for the umpteenth time that morning. And then before dinner. While he was alone in the kitchen. Two, three, four times a day, everyday, same time, same measure. Like medication. Because of course, he still drinks. He always will. And they have known that a long time. Whether they like the fact or otherwise. )But by the time she does wake in the night, with a screech, he is there. He is with her.
Looking back it doesn’t seem real. All the aching and effort and fear and tension seem nothing more than an impression. A strange space where time missed a beat and he doesn’t think it could have really been that hard. She’ll make an idealist of him yet. Though he isn’t sure he’ll ever get used to cold toes nudging him out of the bed in the wee hours. Midnight feeds. Or morning feeds. Or any feeds. He holds the bottle awkwardly and their darling in a crooked arm, always shifting; he’s never sure he’s doing it right. Though she doesn’t seem to mind. He’s not sure he’ll ever get used to coming down the stairs, pajama’s ( he wears those now ) still clinging to him, and his eye falling on the pair sat on the ground in the living room, a book unfolded beneath her chubby hands, and the way she looks up when her Mama goes ‘Look who’s here’.
The fifth time is in the ghost of a summer evening. His back pressed into the couch, her pressed into him, and their babe lying on her chest. Breathing the smell of soap and powder with the faint specks of dirt from the mess of animals that potter about the kitchen. His wiry cheek rests against her golden hair for a moment, eyes closed and drawing a contented breath. If he could go back ten years, to the jabbering Escort and the filthy Mentor, and tell them this was how it would be.. Ha, they’d never believe him. With a touch that seems impossibly gentle for his hand he runs his fingers over the soft, dark down of their daughters head, and presses a kiss to her mother’s.
