you needed love, i needed you — celeste & sunny jb
Feb 19, 2022 3:35:15 GMT -5
Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Feb 19, 2022 3:35:15 GMT -5
S A M S O N
"Celeste Bere."
It's been a new moon since Samson's seen her.
In the morning, he thought of her, just once, when his aunt laid a woven cloth before his mother's tomb, asking for an ancestral blessing before the Reaping. He remembered her then, his fingers curling into his palms in reflex. As sudden as it had come, the thought was washed away in a cup of grain alcohol.
Minute by minute, she would become just another girl, like a thread fraying over time, and he would never think of her again.
Celeste returns to him all at once.
When she walks up on the stage, his first memory is of when they slept under the willows, morning dew soaking his clothes, her hair tickling his face in the shade of weeping trees.
Then, his second thought is the lick of fire, of the fever of July, when the earth was hot and dusty, and all that grew in the sun had withered in the summer like a sickness.
She is all memories. And she is here in the flesh.
Celeste is quiet.
Suddenly, he knows what will happen before it does.
His third memory is the orchard. Not of her, but of the peach that was at his feet, the fruit disemboweled, flesh spilling to a procession of ants carving into it like a living scalpel. Somehow, he can't picture her face the last time they met. His eyes were only full of rot, the golden beams sprayed across them, the silence ringing in his ears before he left her.
There's a strange feeling in his chest, like he can't get enough air no matter how much he inhales. And now, Samson feels himself moving through the crowd, pulse swooshing in his ears, the district herded to the square like sheep by the peacekeepers, barely enough space between the people to push through to the front for a breath.
When he gets there, she's already being pulled into hands, pulled from him, pulled to the faraway place.
Celeste says no one's name.
The air ripples.
He feels like screaming.
He feels like holding her by the shoulders now and screaming at her to please please just be fucking cruel for once in her life, to be selfish to survive. And in the orchard, a moon ago, when he was cruel and when he was selfish, when he hurt her and wasn't sorry because it was what he needed to do – she was only silent then too.
But he just stands there, and her name dies in his throat.
When the peacekeeper opens the door, she looks so small sitting by herself in the Justice Building, flickering before his eyes like a candle.
But she had always been like gravity, and he's there, in front of her already. And then in the next moment, he's pulling her into him, arms wrapping around her until she's tucked against his chest in a way that feels familiar.
It was always like this, a girl like a weakness, a sore spot, a pull that moved him and he hated her for it.
He still does.
A month in the grave means nothing after all.
He holds her, one more time, he thinks, even if doesn't deserve it.
"Why did you fucking do that?" Maybe he means to sound angry, but there is only fear, only a soft whisper almost lost in the folds of their clothes as he holds her, breath shaking. "Tell me why, why –?"
It's been a new moon since Samson's seen her.
In the morning, he thought of her, just once, when his aunt laid a woven cloth before his mother's tomb, asking for an ancestral blessing before the Reaping. He remembered her then, his fingers curling into his palms in reflex. As sudden as it had come, the thought was washed away in a cup of grain alcohol.
Minute by minute, she would become just another girl, like a thread fraying over time, and he would never think of her again.
Celeste returns to him all at once.
When she walks up on the stage, his first memory is of when they slept under the willows, morning dew soaking his clothes, her hair tickling his face in the shade of weeping trees.
Then, his second thought is the lick of fire, of the fever of July, when the earth was hot and dusty, and all that grew in the sun had withered in the summer like a sickness.
She is all memories. And she is here in the flesh.
Celeste is quiet.
Suddenly, he knows what will happen before it does.
His third memory is the orchard. Not of her, but of the peach that was at his feet, the fruit disemboweled, flesh spilling to a procession of ants carving into it like a living scalpel. Somehow, he can't picture her face the last time they met. His eyes were only full of rot, the golden beams sprayed across them, the silence ringing in his ears before he left her.
There's a strange feeling in his chest, like he can't get enough air no matter how much he inhales. And now, Samson feels himself moving through the crowd, pulse swooshing in his ears, the district herded to the square like sheep by the peacekeepers, barely enough space between the people to push through to the front for a breath.
When he gets there, she's already being pulled into hands, pulled from him, pulled to the faraway place.
Celeste says no one's name.
The air ripples.
He feels like screaming.
He feels like holding her by the shoulders now and screaming at her to please please just be fucking cruel for once in her life, to be selfish to survive. And in the orchard, a moon ago, when he was cruel and when he was selfish, when he hurt her and wasn't sorry because it was what he needed to do – she was only silent then too.
But he just stands there, and her name dies in his throat.
When the peacekeeper opens the door, she looks so small sitting by herself in the Justice Building, flickering before his eyes like a candle.
But she had always been like gravity, and he's there, in front of her already. And then in the next moment, he's pulling her into him, arms wrapping around her until she's tucked against his chest in a way that feels familiar.
It was always like this, a girl like a weakness, a sore spot, a pull that moved him and he hated her for it.
He still does.
A month in the grave means nothing after all.
He holds her, one more time, he thinks, even if doesn't deserve it.
"Why did you fucking do that?" Maybe he means to sound angry, but there is only fear, only a soft whisper almost lost in the folds of their clothes as he holds her, breath shaking. "Tell me why, why –?"
