sable hawkeye ; capitol - fin

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{ you maniac, you tortured artist, do you crave attention?

your shaking hands a consequence of how much you don't mention ;

sable hawkeye - twenty three - 🖤

x

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ılı.lıllılıı.ıllı

↳ currently playing ;;

[.intoodeep.] - [tip your waitress]

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ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ: ————•

song credit: dead poet society

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tell me that you want me around

He remembers being sixteen.

In a diner with his father, shoulders pulled in toward his ears to stave off the muddled ringing. Vertigo mounts in building pressure behind his eyes but he's not allowed to talk about those sorts of things. In all his father's stories, suffering is divine. So he bites a blasphemous tongue and smiles back at the man sitting across from him.

He'll be dead in six months. It's sudden. There one minute and gone the next. Heaped in front of the stove, the beads of his necklace skittering across the floor.

Sable tells his sister to count the clouds rolling by their window while he moves the body into the living room. Turns off the sink, still running, and finishes the breakfast his father had been cooking. Watched by blood-stained sclera of a patriarch propped up in his reclining chair. As his skin cools Sable blows steam off his sister's scrambled eggs, and lies when she asks if their Dad is okay.

They call it an aneurysm but that's an answer with loose ends. Cosmic bad luck, the fault of no one but a bloated blood vessel. His grandmother rejects it. Her hatred looks a lot like his father's, dressed up as an absolute truth. She blames it on his mother, and the rest of the family agrees. There's something innate about her that ruined him, it must feel so damn good to hate something other than a dead son.

He remembers visiting his father's grave.

Long after the funeral, of course. Sable wasn't invited to that. He was supposed to be back in his mother's District. Her home before his father had named himself her salvation and applied the pressure needed to make a diamond. She listened well, his father had told him, and that was why he loved her.

He screams and breaks his toe on the headstone; cries and trails loving touches along the hollows of his name engraved in granite. His knees are stained by the grass nourished by his father's decay, he blesses him with the heel of his boot grinding white petals into pulp. In spite of it all, he loves him. Like it's all he knows how to do.

He knows, now, those emotions got all mixed up in her.

Descending like an omen, raven hair pushed back behind her ears. Her cheeks are pink with autumn chill, her lips are plum. She rests her hand on his shoulder when he cries. It's the first time he's been touched with kindness in months.

Her name is Nyx and he will never love her. He'll spend four years telling himself he does.

She becomes cruel but so does he. Sable finds her rage familiar and welcomes the notches her teeth wear into his rib cage. Accumulating like secret scars, he holds them dear to this day. A reminder of what it'd take to be a good son. A red-tinged gaze bores into the back of his neck.

The curious thing about the dead is that they're never really gone.

Shattered dishes crunch beneath his heavy footsteps as he sweeps them up, silent, and she's screaming from across the room. Begging for him to look at her. That's all she ever asked of him in the end.

Sable learns to make a quiet place in his mind. That's where he goes whenever he's with her.

Their story isn't a pretty one, which is a shame. Nyx was a nice girl until she met him. He starts to consider that there's something innate in him that ruined her.

He remembers the diner, again.

It's weird because the bones of this place have stayed the same, but it feels warmer somehow. He no longer notices the hum of florescent lights, the acrid scent of burning grease forgotten in favor of fried food. Errant chatter doesn't muddle his thoughts into painful knots, it fades into the background as he pushes his food around his plate.

A light fixture hangs from a chain, screeching whenever the front door is opened. Even that manages to find a melody. Its a good place to burn the money he saves up playing songs on empty curbs with a stolen guitar.

Things got hard after the Capitol repossessed his dad's old house.

See, there's this boy. In a few weeks, when the owner catches him sleeping under a booth and offers a job, he'll learn his name is Indigo. Like blueberries and denim. For now, however, he's just a boy. With strands of blond hair always escaping their tie, coiling unkempt upon his temples from the heat of the kitchen. His smile is awkward and he laughs at his own jokes but people like him anyway.

Sable wishes he were more like him.

Or maybe just to laugh along.

He doesn't remember falling in love, it takes him a long time to figure that part out.

He works closing shifts because he can sleep for a couple hours in between cleaning and not disrupt too much. It's been a bad week full of summer storms. The alley he'd stashed his things in floods and it ruins his dad's best dress shirt. At first it doesn't bother him and he hopes that means he's finally done mourning a horrible man.

It's the feeble kind of strength one draws from a prayer.

Doomed to collapse under it's own weight.

He goes until his limbs get too heavy to command and finds a corner in the kitchen where he feels small and insignificant. Warmed by its unsleeping machines, he cries until there's nothing left but the utter satisfaction of being completely empty. Sable hadn't meant to fall asleep propped up against his old acoustic, but it's dreamless and deep.

Noise wakes him. He's not used to the morning rush, shrieking plates and roaring fire and barking orders and idle chatter. He claps his hands over his ears before he can suppress the reaction, the jacket thrown over his shoulders falls in a heap on the floor.

The details get fuzzy here, out of focus in favor of the shame making it's home in his stomach. Indy is busy cooking something Sable doesn't see, he says something Sable can't hear but his eyes find the jacket with this knowing gleam. He winks, then, in case Sable didn't get the message.

Like salt in an open wound.

Sable hardly looks at him as gathers up his things and leaves in a hurry. He doesn't mean to steal the jacket, but it's warm and well loved - Sable has never had anything like that.

He'll return it in a month, through a mouthful of apologies. Indy tells him not to worry about it and Sable spends the whole shift doing that anyway. Maybe Indigo notices, but more likely he sees an opportunity to ask about the guitar. The small talk bleeds into an invitation back to his apartment, an offer to hear him play.

Sable adores the way Indy looks at him as he performs. A thrilling kind of coming undone, being stripped bare to his calluses and the rhythm grinding in his chest. He explains how the feeling of it helps him hear the music, that high notes sting and low notes ache. He stumbles over the words a few times, cheeks burning when he offers to show him what he means.

He remembers watching him speak, wondering how those words would feel against him too.

And he throws up in an alley after he leaves, bitter grapes like the bottle of wine they nursed. He tries to rub the memories out of his fingers and scrubs at the blush crawling down his neck. Guilt gnaws as he wretches again; love should not look like lanky diner boys.

Whenever he calls him a friend, its with his tongue dug into the hollow of his cheek. He starts sleeping on Nyx's couch and tells Indy her name.

He starts writing songs, she thinks they're about her.

But he's always thinking of the scent of worn leather.

SABLE ⸸ HAWKEYE

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ripred_bot

*waves my hands in front of ur face* this is a cb. i promise.

1/2 rat cbs

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

this is a little guy, very small but large bork

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