06-27-2018, 03:39 PM
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[sup]c) miithers[/sup]
★ I NEVER HAD NOBODY TOUCH ME LIKE I’M G L A S S WITH A MOON BIRD KISS
This was the point in time where Hazel found herself on the edge of something very, very dangerous: another panic attack, or completely shutting down. Heart rate climbing, memories surging, breathing erratic; she was stuck staring at this band of skin on her arm, marred by a fault line of ugly pink. It was raised more than the scars that covered her hands and freckled the insides of her thighs. More uneven, too, like a kindergartener that couldn’t cut on the dotted line.
Hazel remembered staring at the wounds that used to stain that spot, over and over; thinking it would never close, that she would bleed out on the floor of her room. She remembered thinking about how ugly it was, and how she never wanted to see it or let anybody else see it. So she’d tied a bandana around it and acted like it wasn’t there, even if her fingers automatically flew to fiddle with the fabric in the face of something distressing.
Now it was uncovered; out in the open. Hazel felt naked.
It took her too long to register that Bastille was forcing the bandana back in her direction. She flinched when he thrust it at her, swiping it away from him as quickly as she could. She could practically taste his disgust, her brain convinced that it was the only logical - the only sensical - reaction to the cursed mark. Could see the disgruntled disdain in his icy blue eyes as he realized she was flawed — that she was broken, cracked like an ancient vase. She almost couldn’t handle the fact that he would forever look at her differently, that her chances at a clean slate were ruined. That she would never be able to start a new life here.
She folded the fabric over her arm with some difficulty — her shaking hand and lack of three arms making the process frustrating. But after it was done, Hazel closed her eyes, letting her head fall back against Arion’s stall door with a small thud that rattled the hinges. She sucked in a breath, cradling her arm against her chest. You’re okay, She reminded herself, dragging her bottom lip harshly underneath her teeth. You’re fine, you’re alright — it’s okay. Calm down, calm down, calm down. Breathe.
Cracking her eyes open, Hazel looked across to where Bastille had pressed himself against Octavia’s stall door. He looked miserable; Hazel could practically feel it rolling off of him. It was different from the shock she had witnessed in his expression a few moments ago. She dragged thin fingers over her face, tracing her jawline and tilting her head to rest her lips against twined fingers, watching him. She couldn’t connect his misery to what transpired moments ago; couldn’t draw the line to what she had been expecting him to say or do. Because yes, he was coming down from a bad trip, that much was evident. She wasn’t expecting an eloquent speech, but she was expecting...something. She didn’t know what. Blatant disgust, maybe. Refusal to talk. It seemed she was getting both of those things, but not in the way she expected. It seemed more internalized, more self-inflicted, and...Hazel was at a loss.
Part of her wanted to help and comfort him, despite he had just broken her number one rule — again. He looked awful and in pain, and it was distressing to watch. But at the same time, Hazel could remember that another part of her was still upset with him. Still furious that he had yelled at Margaery so harshly, so venomously. His words had essentially rendered Margy lifeless — a walking corpse. She wanted to yell at him so badly, make him feel her frustration and disappointment and upset. Now she was confusing concern for anger, and it was itching, crawling up her arms and under her skin. She couldn’t pick between the two, couldn’t separate them like she should be able to. So she bit her lip, scraping teeth against it and pressing the pads of her fingers as hard as she could against her arms.
Hazel can hear him apologizing, and it was irritating, because she knew he was apologizing for accidentally taking her bandana, but she wanted it to be for everything else. She wanted him to apologize for avoiding her and Margy and Suite and for yelling at Margy and she wanted him to be sorry for the alcohol and the pills. She wanted — needed — him to realize what he was doing; she wanted him to realize that he was starting to scare her, and she wanted him to know why because maybe then he’d stop. Maybe he’d stop and everything would go back to the way it was.
Then he says something else, and it had Hazel frowning. I know you don’t want to be near me, he said. Hazel pressed the palms of her hands up her shoulders, reaching for her hair as her forehead hit her knees. That was...so, so wrong. She wanted more than anything to be near him again: to see his smile and listen to him read. She hated watching the conflict in his eyes every time he looked at her, and she hated knowing that he was actively avoiding her. She felt the anger at it bubble, frothing in her chest, sparked by something unknown but it glows, red hot.
“That’s stupid,” Hazel ground out, exhaling, “I do want to be near you.” Because fuck everything else, Hazel really liked the boy she met in her first couple days in the Ascendants. “I want to be near the boy I met in my first few days here. I want to be near the boy that wanted to teach me to read English and speak Latin with me and — and I think it’s you,” She swallowed, “but I don’t know.”
Because she didn’t know. She truly didn’t, and it was objectively enraging. “But you’re making it really, really difficult, now that...now that you smell like alcohol more often than not.” Hazel let her head fall back against the stall door again, knowing her voice was borderline irritated. “I don’t know where it came from, okay?” She finally admitted, chewing on her bottom lip. “I don’t understand when this even happened. One day everything is fine and you’re okay — we’re okay — and the next, your eyes are changing colors and you’re avoiding me and yelling at Margaery.”
Hazel finally blinked at him, the gold in her eyes hardening. “You told her such awful things, Bastille. And yeah, I know. She told me. She looks like she’s dead, you know? I can feel how cold she is.” Hazel sighed harshly, lowering her legs to cross them. She dropped her hands in her lap, tracing over the scars engrained so permanently in her skin. “I don’t — I don’t know what I did for this to happen, alright? I don’t know if it was me, Margy, or Suite and I don’t know how to fix it, but Deus, Bastille, I want to help fix it. You’re so different, taking these pills and drinking like your life depends on it and not caring and — “ Hazel abruptly cut herself off, gaze falling away from him. “You’re starting to remind of someone I knew, and...I don’t want that for you. How they ended up, I mean. I never want that to happen to you.”
Maybe she was being too soft; maybe she was telling him too much. But she didn’t care. There was a better person in him somewhere; a person capable of feeling and caring and Hazel wanted to talk to that person again.
Hazel remembered staring at the wounds that used to stain that spot, over and over; thinking it would never close, that she would bleed out on the floor of her room. She remembered thinking about how ugly it was, and how she never wanted to see it or let anybody else see it. So she’d tied a bandana around it and acted like it wasn’t there, even if her fingers automatically flew to fiddle with the fabric in the face of something distressing.
Now it was uncovered; out in the open. Hazel felt naked.
It took her too long to register that Bastille was forcing the bandana back in her direction. She flinched when he thrust it at her, swiping it away from him as quickly as she could. She could practically taste his disgust, her brain convinced that it was the only logical - the only sensical - reaction to the cursed mark. Could see the disgruntled disdain in his icy blue eyes as he realized she was flawed — that she was broken, cracked like an ancient vase. She almost couldn’t handle the fact that he would forever look at her differently, that her chances at a clean slate were ruined. That she would never be able to start a new life here.
She folded the fabric over her arm with some difficulty — her shaking hand and lack of three arms making the process frustrating. But after it was done, Hazel closed her eyes, letting her head fall back against Arion’s stall door with a small thud that rattled the hinges. She sucked in a breath, cradling her arm against her chest. You’re okay, She reminded herself, dragging her bottom lip harshly underneath her teeth. You’re fine, you’re alright — it’s okay. Calm down, calm down, calm down. Breathe.
Cracking her eyes open, Hazel looked across to where Bastille had pressed himself against Octavia’s stall door. He looked miserable; Hazel could practically feel it rolling off of him. It was different from the shock she had witnessed in his expression a few moments ago. She dragged thin fingers over her face, tracing her jawline and tilting her head to rest her lips against twined fingers, watching him. She couldn’t connect his misery to what transpired moments ago; couldn’t draw the line to what she had been expecting him to say or do. Because yes, he was coming down from a bad trip, that much was evident. She wasn’t expecting an eloquent speech, but she was expecting...something. She didn’t know what. Blatant disgust, maybe. Refusal to talk. It seemed she was getting both of those things, but not in the way she expected. It seemed more internalized, more self-inflicted, and...Hazel was at a loss.
Part of her wanted to help and comfort him, despite he had just broken her number one rule — again. He looked awful and in pain, and it was distressing to watch. But at the same time, Hazel could remember that another part of her was still upset with him. Still furious that he had yelled at Margaery so harshly, so venomously. His words had essentially rendered Margy lifeless — a walking corpse. She wanted to yell at him so badly, make him feel her frustration and disappointment and upset. Now she was confusing concern for anger, and it was itching, crawling up her arms and under her skin. She couldn’t pick between the two, couldn’t separate them like she should be able to. So she bit her lip, scraping teeth against it and pressing the pads of her fingers as hard as she could against her arms.
Hazel can hear him apologizing, and it was irritating, because she knew he was apologizing for accidentally taking her bandana, but she wanted it to be for everything else. She wanted him to apologize for avoiding her and Margy and Suite and for yelling at Margy and she wanted him to be sorry for the alcohol and the pills. She wanted — needed — him to realize what he was doing; she wanted him to realize that he was starting to scare her, and she wanted him to know why because maybe then he’d stop. Maybe he’d stop and everything would go back to the way it was.
Then he says something else, and it had Hazel frowning. I know you don’t want to be near me, he said. Hazel pressed the palms of her hands up her shoulders, reaching for her hair as her forehead hit her knees. That was...so, so wrong. She wanted more than anything to be near him again: to see his smile and listen to him read. She hated watching the conflict in his eyes every time he looked at her, and she hated knowing that he was actively avoiding her. She felt the anger at it bubble, frothing in her chest, sparked by something unknown but it glows, red hot.
“That’s stupid,” Hazel ground out, exhaling, “I do want to be near you.” Because fuck everything else, Hazel really liked the boy she met in her first couple days in the Ascendants. “I want to be near the boy I met in my first few days here. I want to be near the boy that wanted to teach me to read English and speak Latin with me and — and I think it’s you,” She swallowed, “but I don’t know.”
Because she didn’t know. She truly didn’t, and it was objectively enraging. “But you’re making it really, really difficult, now that...now that you smell like alcohol more often than not.” Hazel let her head fall back against the stall door again, knowing her voice was borderline irritated. “I don’t know where it came from, okay?” She finally admitted, chewing on her bottom lip. “I don’t understand when this even happened. One day everything is fine and you’re okay — we’re okay — and the next, your eyes are changing colors and you’re avoiding me and yelling at Margaery.”
Hazel finally blinked at him, the gold in her eyes hardening. “You told her such awful things, Bastille. And yeah, I know. She told me. She looks like she’s dead, you know? I can feel how cold she is.” Hazel sighed harshly, lowering her legs to cross them. She dropped her hands in her lap, tracing over the scars engrained so permanently in her skin. “I don’t — I don’t know what I did for this to happen, alright? I don’t know if it was me, Margy, or Suite and I don’t know how to fix it, but Deus, Bastille, I want to help fix it. You’re so different, taking these pills and drinking like your life depends on it and not caring and — “ Hazel abruptly cut herself off, gaze falling away from him. “You’re starting to remind of someone I knew, and...I don’t want that for you. How they ended up, I mean. I never want that to happen to you.”
Maybe she was being too soft; maybe she was telling him too much. But she didn’t care. There was a better person in him somewhere; a person capable of feeling and caring and Hazel wanted to talk to that person again.
★ — hazel — "speech" — eight months — the ascendants — tags — ★
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WITH EVERY HEARTBEAT I HAVE LEFT
i will defend your every breath; i'll do better