it's all chemicals anyway ; bea & holt blitz

[[nyte]]

h o l t   f i e r

Underneath neon haloes, Holt Fier is anything but holy. After a long afternoon spent getting absolutely shitfaced he descends into an evening of much of the same. Boredom soaks into his veins, impulses of electricity and adrenaline are too sweet to be ignored.

It's not enough to just get drunk. It's not enough to crash a couple parties and kiss boys with girlfriends and girls with boyfriends. Sure it temporarily staves off the hunger, it's fun while it lasts and even better when he can be around to watch the fallout. It's not what he really wants, though.

That's what he's searching for at the bottom of all these bottles, when he throws up in some trust fund kid's potted plant and then takes a shot of whiskey out of his grandmother's vase.

It's fucking unbearable. This discontent that sits inside of him, making him a mess of frayed nerves and shitty behavior.

Tonight is particularly bad and Holt pities everyone except himself. His minds already gone fuzzy, memories more like a patchwork of jumbled emotions than anything concrete. He's been talking to a guy for twenty minutes and just now realized it, the entire conversation falling to dust between them the second his eye catches a head of blonde hair.

It's an Alcott alright and decidedly not the charming one with the false smiles.

Beatrice, quiet and considerate - he's got no reason to hate her aside from her last name.

And, of course, Holt doesn't buy into their families' bullshit -

until its convenient.

"Howdy neighbor!" He sidesteps the guy he's been talking to, forgetting his face the moment it's out of sight. His elbow hooks around her shoulder, pulling her close enough that she can smell the alcohol that's gone sour on his breath. There's no kindness in his eyes and the promise of something worse settled on an easy grin. "What a coincidence I find you here," He's slurring, "I'd completely forgotten you existed! How's it hangin'?"

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

^♢ beatrice alcott _♢

Most nights, the parties in District Two follow a certain routine. Boring as it might seem to some, Bea has always abided by a strict code of tradition. A blue dress and her grandmother's pearls for armor, white wine to drown all of her dizzy thoughts. In the quietness, it's easy to remember the things that terrify her. A bone breaks in her memory, like the sound of boots stomping across a marble floor. Her eyes lift to meet her next distraction before she can consider choosing flight over fight.

"Howdy, neighbor! What a coincidence I find you here."

The boy's words teeter dangerously close to becoming incoherent, but she still greets him with a dry smile all the same, no spark of joy in her gaze. "Well, I'm literally here every weekend, so no. Actually it's not." She glances down at her beverage, runs her fingers along the rim of her glass, feeling the whistle move through her soul as if she has become hollow. The familiar nuisance makes his hateful comments, and she pays them no mind. "I'd rather be forgettable than a drunkard, Holt. What will people say about your memory?"

She imagines being erased from time, and it's not half as scary as imagining being hated for an eternity. Shamed for all her worst decisions. Her frown is meant to mock him, turned downwards delicately at the edges, flower petals unfurling like blades hidden under silk. There is always more to the picture than meets the eye. Bea stares at Holt dismissively, then takes a quick swig of her drink. Everything looks so much prettier when it's falling apart.

"You're writing your own tragedy, Fier. At least make yourself sound more interesting."

[[nyte]]

h o l t   f i e r

It might hurt if he were still capable of hurting. Beatrice burns beneath him, words that worm under scar tissue going idle before they hit nerve. At least that frown makes her worth looking at, no matter how well kempt it is. Still not honest but closer to it than he’s ever seen her. His chest aches, hungry because he always is. His thoughts are so much freer on the verge of a blackout, pooling out of his mouth like an oil spill and just as flammable.

”Every weekend? Only place they’ll still invite you?” His smile stretches because he’s awfully proud of himself for that one. His arm falls from its place around her shoulders. She keeps prodding at him, pressing brands into the base of his throat. Carving out words that were scarred there already. A drunken tragedy.

That was kinder than he deserved. He hasn’t pushed her far enough.

”You’d make for a good Fier with all that preaching.” Something honest slips out on those words, the hint of a secret he hadn’t meant to tell. Lucky he’s too blitzed to realize it. His fingers drum on the rim of a red solo cup he’d swiped from a passer-by, a long sip of the mystery liquid revealing that it’s almost entirely vodka. His throat screams when it hits his stomach so he takes another gulp to drown it entirely.

”Tell me, doll, what would make me interesting?” He leans in a little with the words, bringing himself closer to her height to emphasize how small he has to make himself to do so. He looks into her eyes without seeing, he’s not searching for anything within them. He just needs a reason to ignite, something to make the impulse to hurt her a little less cruel. ”I’m dying to know.”