07-13-2018, 11:48 PM
[table][tr][td][/td][td][/td][td][/td][/tr][/table]
i never had nobody touch me like i'm glass
Hazel wanted to say her experience of withdrawal was easier. She wished it was, at least. And maybe it wasn’t on the same level of intensity as her counterpart, but there was a certain amount of mentality that she struggled with; a certain reason why it made the room spin and her head ache. Why she leaned heavily against the filing cabinets, sweatpants slung low on her hips in a reckless, impatient fashion and breath coming heavy in the stead of trying to make it slow and rhythmic. Why she could feel the bond pulsing, itching, leaving her nauseous and jittery in the wake of his withdrawal. The withdrawal she knew was imminent the minute she realized he had let alcohol touch his lips again.
Because she used to be scared of him drinking. Terrified of it, in fact. The concept of him downing a bottle like Mother horrified the living hell out of her, thinking that the only aftereffect of it was violence and misery. As it turned out, she was only half right. And now? Now all she could think of was what he said in the stables that one day. About his souls, about Starrynight. About he’d never had a friend before and how he was unprepared for how said souls would react.
About losing her.
That was what struck her — right where she didn’t know could ache. All her childhood, Mother had tried to get rid of her. Or, at least, cover up her existence as much as possible. All Hazel had done up to this point was to try and appease people, to make sure that they didn’t have a reason to ignore her. She’d never considered the idea that someone might worry about losing her. She’d worked so hard to keep friends in the Ascendants, and upon learning that one of them actually wanted to keep her, too, she latched on. Literally.
Earlier that day, Hazel had been so terrified that she would lose Bastille to Playerone that her only mindset was to separate them. Because touching him? Touching him was like setting her hands on the sunset: warm and alive and steady with the thrum of a constant heartbeat. She remembered that heartbeat, pressed against her ear; remembered its rhythmic thudding, how it sped up and slowed down as Bastille cycled through emotions. She remembered feeling so lost and turned around that she’d clung to the first thing in her immediate reach that would ground her. And ground her, he did. That smoke and pine scent that clung to his shirt filled her nose with something other than alcohol — the rhythm of his heart and low timbre of his voice gave her something to focus on. She’d begun to associate Bastille’s touch with something unmovable...something rigid. It was slowly moving in, pushed by the fear of losing her best method of coping and her best friend as well as losing him because he would finally notice how broken she was.
And it made her nervous. Nervous because the deeper her connection to him ran, the harsher it would be to lose him. And she wasn’t just thinking losing his attention, his care. She would literally lose him. His laugh, his sarcasm, his wit; the way his eyes lit up when he rambled on about classical literature and how he loved that Ovid was a sarcastic shithole and the way he stood up for her; his care for others, his want to be a better person, his friendship with Arion and Octavia; the way he called her Princess and how he held her when her world felt like it might end and she couldn’t breathe. There was so much she wasn’t ready to lose, and yet? All of it hung on the edge of a cliff, tottering. Threatening.
Hazel had realized that somewhere along the line, she was really content with knowing that he was on his feet every morning. He might be hungover or sick via withdrawal, but he was still up. And that was...more than enough for Hazel to build on. More than enough to prove to her that he cared about his clan and his job.
That didn’t mean she wasn’t torn in half about this. She could touch him now, but was still scared of the potential he held. She wanted to give him his space to heal, but found that her fear of losing his want kept her near him almost around the clock. She also dealt with Titanium who, on a damn near constant basis, was whispering “You’re in love — get over yourself,” as well as her crippling self-depreciation.
Crippling self-depreciation that meant she was standing over a drawer of broken art supplies, staring at the one piece of paper that hadn’t been ripped to shreds yet: a charcoal sketch from some of her first days here. It featured Margy, Suite, and Bastille — the first people she met. Now Hazel couldn’t bring herself to tear it apart. She’d already cried over it once today, wishing she could go back to being that little girl who was so happy all the time. A girl who didn’t have head voices and nightmares that woke her up with a soft French lullaby on her tongue.
Suddenly the bond was warming, tugging, the fizz underneath her skin dissipating. She knew before he knocked who was on the other side of the door. He sounded wrecked and broken, and nothing at all like the happy-go-lucky Bastille she found earlier. Hazel felt the bond tug her towards her door, pulling it open to reveal a disheveled seraph on the other side. Her heart stuttered at the sigh of him, but that was beyond the point.
She wondered what he wanted. Was he here to talk about what she did earlier today? Because she really didn’t want to bring that up. Hazel wandered back to her filing cabinet, trying to step evenly with her shaky legs. She shoved a small stack of unfinished Ovid books out of the way, knowing they belonged to Bastille. She rummaged around in the drawer of broken things, sorting sketchbooks and broken erasers and pencils.
She didn’t say anything.
Because she used to be scared of him drinking. Terrified of it, in fact. The concept of him downing a bottle like Mother horrified the living hell out of her, thinking that the only aftereffect of it was violence and misery. As it turned out, she was only half right. And now? Now all she could think of was what he said in the stables that one day. About his souls, about Starrynight. About he’d never had a friend before and how he was unprepared for how said souls would react.
About losing her.
That was what struck her — right where she didn’t know could ache. All her childhood, Mother had tried to get rid of her. Or, at least, cover up her existence as much as possible. All Hazel had done up to this point was to try and appease people, to make sure that they didn’t have a reason to ignore her. She’d never considered the idea that someone might worry about losing her. She’d worked so hard to keep friends in the Ascendants, and upon learning that one of them actually wanted to keep her, too, she latched on. Literally.
Earlier that day, Hazel had been so terrified that she would lose Bastille to Playerone that her only mindset was to separate them. Because touching him? Touching him was like setting her hands on the sunset: warm and alive and steady with the thrum of a constant heartbeat. She remembered that heartbeat, pressed against her ear; remembered its rhythmic thudding, how it sped up and slowed down as Bastille cycled through emotions. She remembered feeling so lost and turned around that she’d clung to the first thing in her immediate reach that would ground her. And ground her, he did. That smoke and pine scent that clung to his shirt filled her nose with something other than alcohol — the rhythm of his heart and low timbre of his voice gave her something to focus on. She’d begun to associate Bastille’s touch with something unmovable...something rigid. It was slowly moving in, pushed by the fear of losing her best method of coping and her best friend as well as losing him because he would finally notice how broken she was.
And it made her nervous. Nervous because the deeper her connection to him ran, the harsher it would be to lose him. And she wasn’t just thinking losing his attention, his care. She would literally lose him. His laugh, his sarcasm, his wit; the way his eyes lit up when he rambled on about classical literature and how he loved that Ovid was a sarcastic shithole and the way he stood up for her; his care for others, his want to be a better person, his friendship with Arion and Octavia; the way he called her Princess and how he held her when her world felt like it might end and she couldn’t breathe. There was so much she wasn’t ready to lose, and yet? All of it hung on the edge of a cliff, tottering. Threatening.
Hazel had realized that somewhere along the line, she was really content with knowing that he was on his feet every morning. He might be hungover or sick via withdrawal, but he was still up. And that was...more than enough for Hazel to build on. More than enough to prove to her that he cared about his clan and his job.
That didn’t mean she wasn’t torn in half about this. She could touch him now, but was still scared of the potential he held. She wanted to give him his space to heal, but found that her fear of losing his want kept her near him almost around the clock. She also dealt with Titanium who, on a damn near constant basis, was whispering “You’re in love — get over yourself,” as well as her crippling self-depreciation.
Crippling self-depreciation that meant she was standing over a drawer of broken art supplies, staring at the one piece of paper that hadn’t been ripped to shreds yet: a charcoal sketch from some of her first days here. It featured Margy, Suite, and Bastille — the first people she met. Now Hazel couldn’t bring herself to tear it apart. She’d already cried over it once today, wishing she could go back to being that little girl who was so happy all the time. A girl who didn’t have head voices and nightmares that woke her up with a soft French lullaby on her tongue.
Suddenly the bond was warming, tugging, the fizz underneath her skin dissipating. She knew before he knocked who was on the other side of the door. He sounded wrecked and broken, and nothing at all like the happy-go-lucky Bastille she found earlier. Hazel felt the bond tug her towards her door, pulling it open to reveal a disheveled seraph on the other side. Her heart stuttered at the sigh of him, but that was beyond the point.
She wondered what he wanted. Was he here to talk about what she did earlier today? Because she really didn’t want to bring that up. Hazel wandered back to her filing cabinet, trying to step evenly with her shaky legs. She shoved a small stack of unfinished Ovid books out of the way, knowing they belonged to Bastille. She rummaged around in the drawer of broken things, sorting sketchbooks and broken erasers and pencils.
She didn’t say anything.
HAZEL ELISE CAELUM — THE ASCENDANTS — KUIPER CORPORAL — TAGS
© MADI
[align=center]
WITH EVERY HEARTBEAT I HAVE LEFT
i will defend your every breath; i'll do better