07-24-2018, 02:52 PM
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i never had nobody touch me like i'm glass
Hazel’s fingers danced against the wires, pressing them into the fret board with practiced pressure, giddy from her excitement. She wasn’t as skilled as Suite was, so her fingers slipped and strayed to the wrong strings every now and again and she’d have to start over. It didn’t really bug her, though; not like it should. The music itself was plenty enough to wash over her anxieties, happy to play wherever her fingers took her.
“So tired of sleepin’ alone,” her voice cracked, “so tired of eatin’ alone. I need to ask her what’s goin’ on — are we goin’ strong?” Hazel felt her skin flush as she dropped the legato, this certain verse of the song more speaking than singing. It was odd; she felt far more comfortable singing than she did speaking lyrics. Perhaps it was the separation that music provided, letting her find difference between the world of sound and reality.
Hazel had pulled the ukulele tight to her body again, watching her fingers on the frets — a rookie move — when a young voice interrupted her. Golden optics shot up, falling on an unfamiliar boy. She smiled automatically, though she pulled her legs closer to her chest, her fear of hurting him accidentally flaring at the base of her spine. She ignored the splinter of rock underneath her hand, trying not to frighten the boy off.
“Salve, hospes, paras. Hello, stranger.” The Latin was an accidental slip of tongue, something prone to happen when she was nervous. “Yes, I’m the one making music,” She echoed, suddenly aware that she might be bothering others. “Apologies if I’m being too loud. Suite just got this for me, and I haven’t set it down since then.” Hazel smiled sheepishly, rubbing the tips of her fingers that had long since grown numb. “I should probably find something else to do before I play my fingers off. Anyway...I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Hazel. Who’re you?” She was jumping all over the place with her wording, stumbling over introductions and rambling excitement.
She pressed herself against the bunker wall once more, fingers falling back to the strings despite what she had just said. Absently fiddling with random notes, Hazel looked the other up and down. He looked young — Hazel wondered if he joined on his own, or if he had siblings. Maybe a mother. Perhaps Margy and Suite had already taken him under their wing. Goodness, had she really shoved herself that far into the shadows?
Then a line pulled, stretched tight; drew her attention to the side, where Bastille stood, seemingly headed to the bunker. But he wasn’t moving — just standing, just staring. It was odd; she hadn’t seen much of him. She could feel him trying to keep his distance, could feel the itch under her skin grow the more he seemingly avoided her. He was doing it on purpose, as upsetting as that was, and she’d forgotten that their link was more than just a locator.
Now they had run into each other again, and Hazel braced herself, ready for the rush of everything and then the whiplash of nothing that would race across their bond. Her fingers stilled as her gaze locked on his, and then it was silent. Static.
She saw the realization in his eyes — felt her heart drop as she followed his train of thought, knowing exactly where it was going — and closed her fingers tight around the neck of her ukulele. Whether it was out of reflex or defiance, she didn’t know or have time to think about. Because something primal slammed into her mind, deep and bloodthirsty and animalistic. The earth fractured under her other hand as darkness clouded their bond, obscured her thoughts and eroded her mood.
Briefly, vaguely, Hazel felt the memory of them pressed against the stall doors resurface; of his gravelly, miserable voice as he confessed to the struggle of holding Pollie back whenever he was faced with the concept of losing her. Of the anger, the lack of focus, the challenge between knowing what was him and what wasn’t. Now Hazel could feel exactly what he had described, and it was suffocating. Consuming, drowning her in this rage —
Then it was gone, dissipating as Bastille promptly turned on his heel and left. Hazel wasn’t aware that she’d been stone still the entire time, gaze locked and fist white-knuckling the neck of her instrument in an effort to find something to ground her. Never mind the earth that had split further, fracturing from the focal point of her hand. But the moment he broke eye contact the tension in her spine melted and she could breathe again.
Hazel watched him go, something like sadness welling in her throat. You never lost me, She’d told him. She wanted to tell him that he never would, but hadn’t managed to get the words past her lips. Now she felt guilty that she wasn’t right there, able to give him what he needed. She swallowed, shoved away the tears that clogged her throat and the misery that welled in her chest.
Turning back to Alex, Hazel offered him a shaky smile. “Sorry,” she apologized. “are you new to the Ascendants?”
“So tired of sleepin’ alone,” her voice cracked, “so tired of eatin’ alone. I need to ask her what’s goin’ on — are we goin’ strong?” Hazel felt her skin flush as she dropped the legato, this certain verse of the song more speaking than singing. It was odd; she felt far more comfortable singing than she did speaking lyrics. Perhaps it was the separation that music provided, letting her find difference between the world of sound and reality.
Hazel had pulled the ukulele tight to her body again, watching her fingers on the frets — a rookie move — when a young voice interrupted her. Golden optics shot up, falling on an unfamiliar boy. She smiled automatically, though she pulled her legs closer to her chest, her fear of hurting him accidentally flaring at the base of her spine. She ignored the splinter of rock underneath her hand, trying not to frighten the boy off.
“Salve, hospes, paras. Hello, stranger.” The Latin was an accidental slip of tongue, something prone to happen when she was nervous. “Yes, I’m the one making music,” She echoed, suddenly aware that she might be bothering others. “Apologies if I’m being too loud. Suite just got this for me, and I haven’t set it down since then.” Hazel smiled sheepishly, rubbing the tips of her fingers that had long since grown numb. “I should probably find something else to do before I play my fingers off. Anyway...I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Hazel. Who’re you?” She was jumping all over the place with her wording, stumbling over introductions and rambling excitement.
She pressed herself against the bunker wall once more, fingers falling back to the strings despite what she had just said. Absently fiddling with random notes, Hazel looked the other up and down. He looked young — Hazel wondered if he joined on his own, or if he had siblings. Maybe a mother. Perhaps Margy and Suite had already taken him under their wing. Goodness, had she really shoved herself that far into the shadows?
Then a line pulled, stretched tight; drew her attention to the side, where Bastille stood, seemingly headed to the bunker. But he wasn’t moving — just standing, just staring. It was odd; she hadn’t seen much of him. She could feel him trying to keep his distance, could feel the itch under her skin grow the more he seemingly avoided her. He was doing it on purpose, as upsetting as that was, and she’d forgotten that their link was more than just a locator.
Now they had run into each other again, and Hazel braced herself, ready for the rush of everything and then the whiplash of nothing that would race across their bond. Her fingers stilled as her gaze locked on his, and then it was silent. Static.
She saw the realization in his eyes — felt her heart drop as she followed his train of thought, knowing exactly where it was going — and closed her fingers tight around the neck of her ukulele. Whether it was out of reflex or defiance, she didn’t know or have time to think about. Because something primal slammed into her mind, deep and bloodthirsty and animalistic. The earth fractured under her other hand as darkness clouded their bond, obscured her thoughts and eroded her mood.
Briefly, vaguely, Hazel felt the memory of them pressed against the stall doors resurface; of his gravelly, miserable voice as he confessed to the struggle of holding Pollie back whenever he was faced with the concept of losing her. Of the anger, the lack of focus, the challenge between knowing what was him and what wasn’t. Now Hazel could feel exactly what he had described, and it was suffocating. Consuming, drowning her in this rage —
Then it was gone, dissipating as Bastille promptly turned on his heel and left. Hazel wasn’t aware that she’d been stone still the entire time, gaze locked and fist white-knuckling the neck of her instrument in an effort to find something to ground her. Never mind the earth that had split further, fracturing from the focal point of her hand. But the moment he broke eye contact the tension in her spine melted and she could breathe again.
Hazel watched him go, something like sadness welling in her throat. You never lost me, She’d told him. She wanted to tell him that he never would, but hadn’t managed to get the words past her lips. Now she felt guilty that she wasn’t right there, able to give him what he needed. She swallowed, shoved away the tears that clogged her throat and the misery that welled in her chest.
Turning back to Alex, Hazel offered him a shaky smile. “Sorry,” she apologized. “are you new to the Ascendants?”
HAZEL ELISE CAELUM — THE ASCENDANTS — KUIPER CORPORAL — TAGS
© MADI
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WITH EVERY HEARTBEAT I HAVE LEFT
i will defend your every breath; i'll do better