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ooc oh hi muse
It was supposed to be a good day.
The end of a good day, at least. The end of a day where Hazel felt like watching the sunset melt everything it touched into gold and the fireflies blink in the coming dusk. The end of a day where she didn’t feel like curling up in her room, preparing for another night of avoiding sleep: drifting in and out of consciousness, dipping into the beginnings of nightmares and startling awake with a French lullaby on her tongue and sweat beading on the back of her neck. Those nights — the ones where she forced her eyes open until five in the morning and shadows moved like people and nothing seemed real — were horrible, and they’d been going on for weeks.
But real? Real was in the flood of liquid warmth that slipped down her spine, coaxing and easing her into an unfocused state. Real was in the taste of wine that stung the back of her tongue and the little voice convincing her that this felt good. That this felt damn good. Hazel slumped against the wall, skin warm and mind sated, not caring that her vision was starting to blur.
“Dumbass,” Titanium’s voice was like frigid ice that whipped across her brain: sharp and clear and stinging. “Too stupid to notice that the sudden happy-high came from your boy-toy’s wine cellar.” She leered, giddy on the impending panic upon Hazel’s realization. And Titanium got her entertainment: the slow creep of thought pushing through the haze, the sudden plummet of her heart through her chest. Titanium laughed, gleeful and wicked.
Hazel shook her head, trying to force the cackling from her eardrums so she could think clearly. Trying to force the drunken fog from her mind so she could orient herself. It didn’t take long — the hand that forced her to her feet; the voice that taunted he’s drinking again, he’s falling, and you’re not there to catch him; the little spark of anger and fear returning to simmer low in her stomach. Locating the source of the bond and finding its floodgates had grown easier, and Hazel hardly struggled to shut out the thoughts that weren’t hers.
Because goddammit — just like Mother. The promise, the relapse, the crying, the giving up, the apathy. Bastille was paving the same path for himself, and Hazel would be damned if she didn’t use her experience to help her — her — her friend out of it. Part of it might have been disappointment: the fall of her hope that he would be stronger than Mother. That he would endure it and take it and get past it. The withdrawals were awful, true; Hazel was being dragged through a lesser version of them. She knew. But may her soul rest in Hell if she hadn’t had faith in him.
The closer she got, the more she realized there was a different sort of warmth filtering through the part of the bond she hadn’t managed to close up. A warmth that was pulsing and comforting. A warmth that reminded her a lot of what she’d experienced on a certain day not too long ago. And then there was a new rush of something different — of something selfish and angry and hot hot hot. Titanium’s satisfied chuckle fell on deaf ears as Hazel fell to jealousy, knowing exactly what was causing the added source of warmth.
Admittedly, she tried to look nonplussed: strolling along, hands tucked in the pockets of her dress, bare feet skimming the ground inconsistently, almost distractedly. But it was clear she was headed in a certain direction, eyes and veins lit with an odd fire that felt like it was confirming fears she never let see the light of day: she wasn’t enough. She knew that logically, of course; Genevieve made that evident. But Hazel clung to the little idea that Bastille might see her differently. He stepped between her and Gen; he blushed when she laughed and stared at her scars with an odd mix of morbid curiosity and anger and shame. He spoke Latin with her — thought it was a private thing — and wanted to teach her to read English. He read The Iliad and The Odyssey to her late at night. He called her Princess, looked after Arion and held her close when all she could see was her Mother and kitchen knives digging into her skin.
So she hoped. And she thought maybe.
“Maybe is for daydreamers and idiots.” Titanium hissed. “He’d drop the act in a heartbeat if he knew how broken and damaged you really are — how those scars are just stitches across your ripped seams.” Hazel believed it. Hazel believed every goddamn word she said, because she knew it was true. People lied and people stole — but no one ever warned of a person who might steal her heart. It didn’t matter to her, not really. She still wanted to help him, still considered him a friend. Still considered him someone who deserved the help.
It didn’t take long to find them; their bond leading Hazel there like a odd game of “hot or cold.” She couldn’t say she was relieved upon discovering his aura was still icy blue, not flickering between shades like it was the last time. Titanium surely wasn’t pleased, a noise of a child’s pout echoing in Hazel’s brain as confirmation. Nonetheless, Hazel’s eyes fell to their joined hands, her own subtly playing with the fabric of her dress as she remembered the warmth of his skin pressed to hers; the sound of his heartbeat under her ear and the scent of smoke and pine that clung to his shirt.
Jealousy burned, hot and bitter in the back of her throat, sparking that impulsive anger that drove her forward. “Yeah,” She quipped, “you like Ovid because he’s a bit of an ass.” The gods knew she had picked that up from their time spent reading together: the little upward tilt of the corner of his mouth when he came across particularly wry. Hazel planted herself next to him, cross legged, her leg bumping against his purposefully. She wouldn’t pretend that her fingers weren’t shaking, that she was suppressing memories and fear as best she could. But the one memory of that panic attack had smoothed over her hesitation in touching him, knowing that the feeling was possible again if she just moved.
She hardly glanced at Player as she reached for one of his hands, determined and too far ahead to quit (too far ahead to start thinking, really). Player wasn’t the subject of her focus, despite Titanium muttering something about the other girl having the audacity to make a move on the boy-toy. Hazel could feel the strings of Titanium’s direct anger, pointing, demanding Hazel say something to Player, but Hazel bit her tongue. By then she’d attempted to gently pull Bastille’s hand away, instead gently pressing her fingers between his. And she could feel the heat spark, fuzzy and content, and she tried to let it wash over the fact that Bastille was drunk and basically flirting.
And then Player asked if he could teach her Latin.
And alarms blared in Hazel’s mind, annoying sounds that shrieked louder than Titanium. She recalled, not too long ago, stumbling upon Bastille coming down from a particular drug in the stables. It hadn’t been pretty, and there was certainly more to the story, but Hazel only wanted the one piece: ”I guess I figured you would be able to talk to Margy in Latin and learn from her and you wouldn’t be forced to hang out with me any more.” It had crowned the moment Hazel realized Bastille thought she was just being nice, and that he’d considered their shared language as something special. Now, Hazel felt obligated to preserve that. And while she spoke Latin freely with Margy, she reserved most of it for Bastille.
“Latin’s a great language to learn,” Hazel piped, smile all thought. “It’s the base of the five romance languages. Margaery would be a great teacher. She’s been fluent all her life.” Was Hazel being a bitter bitch? Yes. Was she doing a good job of pulling it off as sincerity? ...Maybe?
[sup]c) miithers[/sup]
[align=center]hazel elise caelum . nine months . the ascendants . golden girl . tags
ooc oh hi muse
It was supposed to be a good day.
The end of a good day, at least. The end of a day where Hazel felt like watching the sunset melt everything it touched into gold and the fireflies blink in the coming dusk. The end of a day where she didn’t feel like curling up in her room, preparing for another night of avoiding sleep: drifting in and out of consciousness, dipping into the beginnings of nightmares and startling awake with a French lullaby on her tongue and sweat beading on the back of her neck. Those nights — the ones where she forced her eyes open until five in the morning and shadows moved like people and nothing seemed real — were horrible, and they’d been going on for weeks.
But real? Real was in the flood of liquid warmth that slipped down her spine, coaxing and easing her into an unfocused state. Real was in the taste of wine that stung the back of her tongue and the little voice convincing her that this felt good. That this felt damn good. Hazel slumped against the wall, skin warm and mind sated, not caring that her vision was starting to blur.
“Dumbass,” Titanium’s voice was like frigid ice that whipped across her brain: sharp and clear and stinging. “Too stupid to notice that the sudden happy-high came from your boy-toy’s wine cellar.” She leered, giddy on the impending panic upon Hazel’s realization. And Titanium got her entertainment: the slow creep of thought pushing through the haze, the sudden plummet of her heart through her chest. Titanium laughed, gleeful and wicked.
Hazel shook her head, trying to force the cackling from her eardrums so she could think clearly. Trying to force the drunken fog from her mind so she could orient herself. It didn’t take long — the hand that forced her to her feet; the voice that taunted he’s drinking again, he’s falling, and you’re not there to catch him; the little spark of anger and fear returning to simmer low in her stomach. Locating the source of the bond and finding its floodgates had grown easier, and Hazel hardly struggled to shut out the thoughts that weren’t hers.
Because goddammit — just like Mother. The promise, the relapse, the crying, the giving up, the apathy. Bastille was paving the same path for himself, and Hazel would be damned if she didn’t use her experience to help her — her — her friend out of it. Part of it might have been disappointment: the fall of her hope that he would be stronger than Mother. That he would endure it and take it and get past it. The withdrawals were awful, true; Hazel was being dragged through a lesser version of them. She knew. But may her soul rest in Hell if she hadn’t had faith in him.
The closer she got, the more she realized there was a different sort of warmth filtering through the part of the bond she hadn’t managed to close up. A warmth that was pulsing and comforting. A warmth that reminded her a lot of what she’d experienced on a certain day not too long ago. And then there was a new rush of something different — of something selfish and angry and hot hot hot. Titanium’s satisfied chuckle fell on deaf ears as Hazel fell to jealousy, knowing exactly what was causing the added source of warmth.
Admittedly, she tried to look nonplussed: strolling along, hands tucked in the pockets of her dress, bare feet skimming the ground inconsistently, almost distractedly. But it was clear she was headed in a certain direction, eyes and veins lit with an odd fire that felt like it was confirming fears she never let see the light of day: she wasn’t enough. She knew that logically, of course; Genevieve made that evident. But Hazel clung to the little idea that Bastille might see her differently. He stepped between her and Gen; he blushed when she laughed and stared at her scars with an odd mix of morbid curiosity and anger and shame. He spoke Latin with her — thought it was a private thing — and wanted to teach her to read English. He read The Iliad and The Odyssey to her late at night. He called her Princess, looked after Arion and held her close when all she could see was her Mother and kitchen knives digging into her skin.
So she hoped. And she thought maybe.
“Maybe is for daydreamers and idiots.” Titanium hissed. “He’d drop the act in a heartbeat if he knew how broken and damaged you really are — how those scars are just stitches across your ripped seams.” Hazel believed it. Hazel believed every goddamn word she said, because she knew it was true. People lied and people stole — but no one ever warned of a person who might steal her heart. It didn’t matter to her, not really. She still wanted to help him, still considered him a friend. Still considered him someone who deserved the help.
It didn’t take long to find them; their bond leading Hazel there like a odd game of “hot or cold.” She couldn’t say she was relieved upon discovering his aura was still icy blue, not flickering between shades like it was the last time. Titanium surely wasn’t pleased, a noise of a child’s pout echoing in Hazel’s brain as confirmation. Nonetheless, Hazel’s eyes fell to their joined hands, her own subtly playing with the fabric of her dress as she remembered the warmth of his skin pressed to hers; the sound of his heartbeat under her ear and the scent of smoke and pine that clung to his shirt.
Jealousy burned, hot and bitter in the back of her throat, sparking that impulsive anger that drove her forward. “Yeah,” She quipped, “you like Ovid because he’s a bit of an ass.” The gods knew she had picked that up from their time spent reading together: the little upward tilt of the corner of his mouth when he came across particularly wry. Hazel planted herself next to him, cross legged, her leg bumping against his purposefully. She wouldn’t pretend that her fingers weren’t shaking, that she was suppressing memories and fear as best she could. But the one memory of that panic attack had smoothed over her hesitation in touching him, knowing that the feeling was possible again if she just moved.
She hardly glanced at Player as she reached for one of his hands, determined and too far ahead to quit (too far ahead to start thinking, really). Player wasn’t the subject of her focus, despite Titanium muttering something about the other girl having the audacity to make a move on the boy-toy. Hazel could feel the strings of Titanium’s direct anger, pointing, demanding Hazel say something to Player, but Hazel bit her tongue. By then she’d attempted to gently pull Bastille’s hand away, instead gently pressing her fingers between his. And she could feel the heat spark, fuzzy and content, and she tried to let it wash over the fact that Bastille was drunk and basically flirting.
And then Player asked if he could teach her Latin.
And alarms blared in Hazel’s mind, annoying sounds that shrieked louder than Titanium. She recalled, not too long ago, stumbling upon Bastille coming down from a particular drug in the stables. It hadn’t been pretty, and there was certainly more to the story, but Hazel only wanted the one piece: ”I guess I figured you would be able to talk to Margy in Latin and learn from her and you wouldn’t be forced to hang out with me any more.” It had crowned the moment Hazel realized Bastille thought she was just being nice, and that he’d considered their shared language as something special. Now, Hazel felt obligated to preserve that. And while she spoke Latin freely with Margy, she reserved most of it for Bastille.
“Latin’s a great language to learn,” Hazel piped, smile all thought. “It’s the base of the five romance languages. Margaery would be a great teacher. She’s been fluent all her life.” Was Hazel being a bitter bitch? Yes. Was she doing a good job of pulling it off as sincerity? ...Maybe?
[align=center]
WITH EVERY HEARTBEAT I HAVE LEFT
i will defend your every breath; i'll do better