05-29-2018, 09:31 PM
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[sup]c) miithers[/sup]
★ WHEN MY HEART IS MADE FROM GOLD AND FORGIVENESS SEEMS TOO BOLD
Hazel wanted to turn in the other direction and walk. Walk far, far away.
Actually...scratch that. She wanted to whack him with whatever bottle of vodka he had been drinking from.
Which was odd. Normally, this situation would terrify her - as it had when Margy had downed a few too many glasses of wine. And the fear was still there, itching along under her skin and crawling through her hidden scar. The smell of the cheap vodka stung her nose and the back of her throat, making her eyes water. Her heart rate sped up, beating faster the more she realized what exactly was going on. But now it wasn't just fear that thrummed in her veins, but irritation. Anger. Something she had repressed for a long time.
Hazel had seen the group from afar and come to investigate, taking a break from the shady spot in Margy's garden where she made bracelets to interact with her friends and be social. She had noticed Bastille earlier, but thought nothing of it and went back to her string; he was obviously avoiding her, after all. There was no need to anticipate a visit from him any time soon. But then there was a girl - a pretty brunette with an athletic curve to her body - talking to him, and...close. They were very close. And Bastille had a blinding smile on; and the girl would blush and giggle.
And that was wrong. Very, very wrong.
Hazel didn't know what part of the scene she was talking about - Bastille smiling that wide or the girl being that close to him - but it was definitely a sharp turn of the norm. Anything that severely out of place meant something was not right, and Hazel needed to know exactly what it was, because this was Bastille. And if there was anything she had learned about him in the past couple days, it was that he did not let things go lightly. Especially when said things were important to him. Hell, he still carried Starry's pendant around his neck. There was no way a smile that wide and that alluring could dance across the lips of someone so utterly dev -
And then the smell of alcohol.
Sharp, potent, strong and memory-inducing on the back of her tongue.
And Hazel had stopped dead, thumbs stuck in the loopholes of her overall shorts and bracelets half-tied around her wrists. Then electricity seemed to shock her body, the transgression electrifying the scar underneath the bandana on her wrist. Because now she could feel the creaking floorboards of her old home under her bare feet. She could hear the clink of glass in the next room over as Mother mixed drinks for nonexistent guests. She could smell it. She could hear Mother's drunken slurring, and her own, quiet words. And then came the explosive anger: the rage, the yelling, the demands. There were doors slamming and locks clicking and glass breaking and blood on her arms and legs and her face stung and she couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe -
Then she was back. And there was no blood on her arms. There was no broken glass on the floor. There was just the outdoor breeze and the blue sky above her head, and her leader, sitting drunk on the floor with some girl. Her heart was still speeding, pulse racing. Her head was still spinning. Hazel closed her eyes, breathed in deep, counting, fighting the onslaught of another panic attack - and it was a mistake. The smell became stronger, and she had to open her eyes or risk being swept into another panic. A real one.
She prepared herself for the wave of black that would engulf her; the wave that usually came with lack of proper oxygen and blackouts and flashbacks. She waited, watching as Rosie observed from a safe distance, as Margy walked over and talked but ended up caving and grabbed the vodka bottle for herself, as Luna scowled at Bastille and as Suite tried to coax everyone into some form of sobriety. She waited for the knock of the ground against her knees, for the quiet hum that would sweep through her head and the buzzing in her ears.
But it never came.
What greeted her instead was an old enemy - an old, red, vicious enemy that Hazel had locked away a long time ago. It zeroed in on the girl's fingers resting against the inside of Bastille's wrist, dragging the small touch all the way back to her panic attack over a week ago, when Bastille had grabbed her and held her close and Hazel felt like she was hugging the sun because his fingertips were scorching burn marks into her skin. But it felt good; objectively terrifying and paralyzing, but good. She had never felt so warm in all her life. She could hear his heartbeat and feel the rise and fall of his chest and even though his proximity had been suffocating, Hazel wanted it again. Goddammit, she wanted it again. The concept made her heart slam into her ribcage because she had no idea how to approach what she wanted, but in that moment, she knew that this random girl was getting it and she wasn't.
Jealousy bubbled hot in her throat, and Hazel was unconscious to it. She felt the shift in her chest - the change of weight, the sudden switch of balance that seemed to throw her orientation. But it didn't matter. There was this thing that curled in low against the back of her spine and spread through her veins like hot water. She couldn't believe Bastille was sitting here, wasted, when he was responsible for the entire clan. When he was responsible for looking after them and taking care of them and fucking protecting them, of all things.
Like Mother was supposed to.
But then Mother started coming home later and later, drink in hand and pumps wobbling unsteadily. And Hazel would stay far away - wouldn't make a sound - because she was terrified. Terrified for her life, for her future, for her person. And Mother started just like Bastille.
Torn between the two, Hazel looked downright murderous in the sudden uncharacteristic flare of her aura; the golden halo around her glowing hotly with her anger and bitter upset. Her eyes seemed to pulse with an unearthly gleam, molten and disappointed and scared and lost and angry. Thank the gods that Suite steered the girl with her dark brown curls away, or else Hazel might have found the sharpest object nearby and thrown it at her head.
And in that moment, where anger flowed off her in waves and her impulse control was nonexistent, Hazel immediately sat down in front of Bastille, fixing him with an unwavering stare. Not even the change in his eye color was enough to deter her, even though she had no idea what he meant. "Apud ipsum est tibi esset commodum condonares?" She demanded, the foreign language slipping out without prior notice. "Beati estis nunc? Quia ecce vere beatus." Her voice dripped with every emotion rolling through her system, and it all came out in Latin until she could steel her tongue and scowl at him.
"This isn't what Starry died for," She snapped. Deus, he looked so dopey and passive right now. For once in her life, she wanted to see him get angry, because even that would be better than...this. "You're wearing his pendant but you don't seem to feel its weight. If you did, then maybe you could take a minute and reevaluate everything you just did. But if you don't want to, that's fine," She dug her nails into the skin on her knees. "See how well you do at his memorial tomorrow. See how much people like seeing a hungover leader."
And okay, that was really harsh and cruel, but Hazel was so fucking scared he was going to end up like Mother. She would do anything for just the opposite - anything to keep him from going down that path.
("are you pleased with yourself?"//"Are you happy, now? Because you look really happy.")
Actually...scratch that. She wanted to whack him with whatever bottle of vodka he had been drinking from.
Which was odd. Normally, this situation would terrify her - as it had when Margy had downed a few too many glasses of wine. And the fear was still there, itching along under her skin and crawling through her hidden scar. The smell of the cheap vodka stung her nose and the back of her throat, making her eyes water. Her heart rate sped up, beating faster the more she realized what exactly was going on. But now it wasn't just fear that thrummed in her veins, but irritation. Anger. Something she had repressed for a long time.
Hazel had seen the group from afar and come to investigate, taking a break from the shady spot in Margy's garden where she made bracelets to interact with her friends and be social. She had noticed Bastille earlier, but thought nothing of it and went back to her string; he was obviously avoiding her, after all. There was no need to anticipate a visit from him any time soon. But then there was a girl - a pretty brunette with an athletic curve to her body - talking to him, and...close. They were very close. And Bastille had a blinding smile on; and the girl would blush and giggle.
And that was wrong. Very, very wrong.
Hazel didn't know what part of the scene she was talking about - Bastille smiling that wide or the girl being that close to him - but it was definitely a sharp turn of the norm. Anything that severely out of place meant something was not right, and Hazel needed to know exactly what it was, because this was Bastille. And if there was anything she had learned about him in the past couple days, it was that he did not let things go lightly. Especially when said things were important to him. Hell, he still carried Starry's pendant around his neck. There was no way a smile that wide and that alluring could dance across the lips of someone so utterly dev -
And then the smell of alcohol.
Sharp, potent, strong and memory-inducing on the back of her tongue.
And Hazel had stopped dead, thumbs stuck in the loopholes of her overall shorts and bracelets half-tied around her wrists. Then electricity seemed to shock her body, the transgression electrifying the scar underneath the bandana on her wrist. Because now she could feel the creaking floorboards of her old home under her bare feet. She could hear the clink of glass in the next room over as Mother mixed drinks for nonexistent guests. She could smell it. She could hear Mother's drunken slurring, and her own, quiet words. And then came the explosive anger: the rage, the yelling, the demands. There were doors slamming and locks clicking and glass breaking and blood on her arms and legs and her face stung and she couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe -
Then she was back. And there was no blood on her arms. There was no broken glass on the floor. There was just the outdoor breeze and the blue sky above her head, and her leader, sitting drunk on the floor with some girl. Her heart was still speeding, pulse racing. Her head was still spinning. Hazel closed her eyes, breathed in deep, counting, fighting the onslaught of another panic attack - and it was a mistake. The smell became stronger, and she had to open her eyes or risk being swept into another panic. A real one.
She prepared herself for the wave of black that would engulf her; the wave that usually came with lack of proper oxygen and blackouts and flashbacks. She waited, watching as Rosie observed from a safe distance, as Margy walked over and talked but ended up caving and grabbed the vodka bottle for herself, as Luna scowled at Bastille and as Suite tried to coax everyone into some form of sobriety. She waited for the knock of the ground against her knees, for the quiet hum that would sweep through her head and the buzzing in her ears.
But it never came.
What greeted her instead was an old enemy - an old, red, vicious enemy that Hazel had locked away a long time ago. It zeroed in on the girl's fingers resting against the inside of Bastille's wrist, dragging the small touch all the way back to her panic attack over a week ago, when Bastille had grabbed her and held her close and Hazel felt like she was hugging the sun because his fingertips were scorching burn marks into her skin. But it felt good; objectively terrifying and paralyzing, but good. She had never felt so warm in all her life. She could hear his heartbeat and feel the rise and fall of his chest and even though his proximity had been suffocating, Hazel wanted it again. Goddammit, she wanted it again. The concept made her heart slam into her ribcage because she had no idea how to approach what she wanted, but in that moment, she knew that this random girl was getting it and she wasn't.
Jealousy bubbled hot in her throat, and Hazel was unconscious to it. She felt the shift in her chest - the change of weight, the sudden switch of balance that seemed to throw her orientation. But it didn't matter. There was this thing that curled in low against the back of her spine and spread through her veins like hot water. She couldn't believe Bastille was sitting here, wasted, when he was responsible for the entire clan. When he was responsible for looking after them and taking care of them and fucking protecting them, of all things.
Like Mother was supposed to.
But then Mother started coming home later and later, drink in hand and pumps wobbling unsteadily. And Hazel would stay far away - wouldn't make a sound - because she was terrified. Terrified for her life, for her future, for her person. And Mother started just like Bastille.
Torn between the two, Hazel looked downright murderous in the sudden uncharacteristic flare of her aura; the golden halo around her glowing hotly with her anger and bitter upset. Her eyes seemed to pulse with an unearthly gleam, molten and disappointed and scared and lost and angry. Thank the gods that Suite steered the girl with her dark brown curls away, or else Hazel might have found the sharpest object nearby and thrown it at her head.
And in that moment, where anger flowed off her in waves and her impulse control was nonexistent, Hazel immediately sat down in front of Bastille, fixing him with an unwavering stare. Not even the change in his eye color was enough to deter her, even though she had no idea what he meant. "Apud ipsum est tibi esset commodum condonares?" She demanded, the foreign language slipping out without prior notice. "Beati estis nunc? Quia ecce vere beatus." Her voice dripped with every emotion rolling through her system, and it all came out in Latin until she could steel her tongue and scowl at him.
"This isn't what Starry died for," She snapped. Deus, he looked so dopey and passive right now. For once in her life, she wanted to see him get angry, because even that would be better than...this. "You're wearing his pendant but you don't seem to feel its weight. If you did, then maybe you could take a minute and reevaluate everything you just did. But if you don't want to, that's fine," She dug her nails into the skin on her knees. "See how well you do at his memorial tomorrow. See how much people like seeing a hungover leader."
And okay, that was really harsh and cruel, but Hazel was so fucking scared he was going to end up like Mother. She would do anything for just the opposite - anything to keep him from going down that path.
("are you pleased with yourself?"//"Are you happy, now? Because you look really happy.")
★ — hazel — "speech" — seven months — the ascendants — tags — ★
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WITH EVERY HEARTBEAT I HAVE LEFT
i will defend your every breath; i'll do better