|[GOSPEL]| for the |[VAGABONDS]| :: lyulf/leah

[Deleted]

"We fear violence less than our own feelings. Personal, private, solitary pain is more terrifying than what anyone else can inflict."
_Jim Morrison

I am not my step-siblings' babysitter. I'm not responsible for the little fuckers; have no desire to be. I didn't choose for their father to marry Mom, sure as hell didn't choose for them to come thundering into our house like a goddamned squinty-eyed stampede, didn't choose to have to put up with sharing the shower with twice as many people or Baptiste keeping a meticulous notebook of things that piss me off for his later use. I didn't choose any of this, but that doesn't do anything to prevent what's already happening.

Ever since the Descartes Plague descended on our house, it's like everyone looks to me to keep our veritable hurricane of shit together. Idris, make sure your step-siblings are assimilating to their new school. Be nice to your stepfather even though he's an antisocial dick, Idris. Stop fighting with Baptiste, Idris, it's not his fault he's a hollow-souled little creep. Every minute I spend in my own home is another minute closer to me having a complete psychotic break, and it's not fair. Nothing has ever been fair for me. So I grit my teeth, I bite my tongue. I spend more time at the training center, make my morning runs longer. But I can't escape school. A truancy suit would put a nail in the coffin of me ever getting out of my hell-home until I hit eighteen and have the legal ability to run so fast and far that maybe I can finally make it out of Fyffe's shadow and my mother's expectations.

There's a storm in my step as I part the hallway like the Red Sea, people practically flattening themselves against their lockers to get out of my way. It's satisfying in a way that it probably shouldn't be. Fear's a decent substitute for love, and I've seen enough of what Fyffe has made of herself in search of the latter to ever want it for myself. Speak of the devil, she's the only one that doesn't recoil when I shove past her to get to my locker, Antoinette and Antoinette, right behind hers. Idris comes after Fyffe. Isn't that just the fucking story of my life, a metaphor that the school's alphabetizing system only cements. I growl at her as a greeting, yanking the lock out and throwing my math book away from me like it's on fire. My sister smiles at me. She has a beautiful smile. I want to punch her in the face until her bones turn to mush.

Snarling, I snatch my History book out of my locker and slam it shut, stalking off and trying not to think murderous thoughts. I'm pretty sure murdering your twin makes you even worse than your run-of-the-mill fratricidal maniac. Maybe I should ask Baptiste. It's only a matter of time before the fucker chops someone up to alleviate his empty-eyed boredom. Five minutes until the bell. I just have to make it through this period, and then I can go to training, get out, get away, lose myself in the ring of clashing steel and the satisfying thump of flesh on a punching bag. Fifty more minutes of teeth-gritting, and...

And it's too much to ask for a little bit of normalcy. It's only because I take the back way to my class in an effort to avoid getting caught in Fyffe's slime trail that I spot it out of the corner of my eye, the telltale flash of hair softer than my own and Lyulf's delicate little silhouette backed into a corner by some senior twice his size. My jaw clenches tighter. I try to keep my eyes fixed forward and my feet going one in front of the other. I am not my step-siblings' babysitter.

But I do have an extremely low tolerance for assholes.

One more trip to the office is an automatic suspension, but that's not what I'm thinking of when I throw my book to the ground with a loud snap, stalk across the hallway, and peel the puffed-up dickwad off of Lyulf with a guttural growl. It's all practiced motion from there, carefully honed Career reflexes, the proper form of a fist, draw back, piston forward, contact. The satisfying crack of knuckles on bone, once, twice, three times. There's something about watching a guy a foot taller than you hit the ground like a fucking sack of potatoes. Before he has time to get to his feet, I stomp down on his forearm, feeling radius and ulna creak in protest under the weight. "Here's the deal, fuck train. Next time you even fucking look at my brother wrong, I'll rip your goddamn limbs off and make you watch me feed them to my cousin's pet tiger. Do I make myself clear? Clearer than the used douche water that you obviously have sloshing around in your skull instead of a fucking brain?"

Brother. Lyulf may be a Descartes, but he's got that invisible Antoinette tacked onto the end of his name now. Dad taught me a lot of things before he died, but the first and foremost lesson was always that we look out for our own, Idris. That is our highest duty in life. I grind my foot down a little harder.

After a few seconds I get a pained groan and a quick nod, which is good enough. On to the next obstacle, my gaze rising to wrap like a fiery net around the witnesses in the hallway. "The same promise applies to any one of you shitdicks that tries to rat me out. I will find you. Understood?"

Silence.

"Good, now fuck off and go to class." I won't be going to History. My guilt would be evident in my heavy breaths and bruised knuckles, rumpled hair and hands shaking with the vestiges of an omnipresent rage. Skipping class will only get me detention, and I practically live there anyway. It's better than suspension and being trapped in the house all day. Sighing, I grab Lyulf by skinny shoulders and haul him to his feet, hands gripping the sides of his face in a way that's not as gentle as I wish it could be as I look him over for any signs of damage. "Ripred's left ass cheek, Lyulf, were you just gonna sit there and fucking take it?"

I know the answer to that. While I've got a major beef with Baptiste and I'm not overly fond of Dear Stepfather, Lyulf's a sweet kid. Not angry, not violent. Not like me. A frown carves its way onto my face as I judge him none the worse for wear and step back to pick up my book, raking a hand through my hair. "You've got to learn how to throw a fucking punch, kid. I won't always be around to protect you."

After I get the hell away from that house, they'll all be on their own.

[анзие (Anz)]

l a t e r i s b e t t e r t h a n n e v e r

They always make it about her hats. Always. And it's pissing her off. (Or as pissed off as passive-aggressive can be, anyway.) This particular group has a penchant for disguising their hatred for her by talking crap about her hats. (Sometimes it's her clothes, or her skinny frame, or anything about her that doesn't make a fantastic career - that is to say, everything.) No matter what she says they don't stop. "It's just a hat," she'll say, and they'll say, "It's a stupid hat." And they'll smirk and nudge each other and laugh like it's some kind of intelligent response. And how can I tell them it's not? She might be fed up with their shit about her hats but she's twice as afraid of what they can do to her outside the training ring.  So they make it about her hats and it rubs at her in all the wrong ways but Leah takes it. She takes it with as blank an expression as she can make, acts fearful in all the right places, hopes they don't start getting physical. (Sometimes, their words just really make her want to cry. But not this day, because this day she's not just Descartes; she's got a new name and a new stigma attached to her name, whatever it may be, and she has to play by new rules she hasn't quite figured out yet. Today, for the first time in a long time, Leah will hold their gaze and let them see that she's not fucking afraid even when she's not fighting back.) They're my hats, she wants so badly to tell them but doesn't, keeping her mouth shut (fear is always stronger than everything else she knows.) My hats, not yours. Her hats are usually adorned with feathers, but what is a hat without feathers? A boring old thing. Not fun, not different, and she'll have no place on her body to keep her feathers. That just isn't cool. Besides, Leah really likes her hats with their jaunty accessories; they look better with feathers garishly pinned wherever she can pin them. And Leah kind of wishes everyone will quit talking about her hats when she thinks -  knows - it's about who ze is, instead. If they'd only grow up and tell me to my face- But no, that wouldn't be easier at all, would it? Or wouldn't it? She doesn't know what will make her feel better, and maybe nothing will. Leah tries to fit in, especially in school, dressing as a boy would even when she doesn't want to, even when it makes her feel as though she's slowly tightening a noose around her own neck and it hurts but she does and smiles while she's at it; no one gives a flip. It's not like she's shoving it in their faces; though, she thinks, it might be why they don't want to make their issues about me with me. "Planning on stealing the exam papers?" Leah tears her mind back to the oh-so enlightening conversation and remains silent as she blinks up at her sneering tormentor. You look like a pig, she thinks. "Yeah? You wanna sell 'em, make some money, I hear you're all a bunch of thieves." Stay quiet, Descartes. Just a few more minutes before the bell. "You're gonna leave a bunch of your fucking feathers with a note again, yeah? Do you wanna know what I think? Let me tell you what I think." But Leah never gets to hear what he thinks because he's gone. It's not that he left her alone or anything of the sort; one moment the boy about twice her size is all up in her personal space, spittle flying from his lips as he leans in closer and closer in what's meant to be a menacing manner (but forcing her towards the ground anyway, with his strength as well as because his breath is disgusting and so is his face), and then in the next moment he's just... gone. It takes her three seconds to realize that he's not just gone, he's practically dangling from the white-knuckled grasp of one of Leah's new stepsisters. Idris? Leah stares (but everyone's staring so she's not alone). "Here's the deal, fuck train. Next time you even fucking look at my brother wrong, I'll rip your goddamn limbs off and make you watch me feed them to my cousin's pet tiger. Do I make myself clear? Clearer than the used douche water that you obviously have sloshing around in your skull instead of a fucking brain?" Fuck train? That's... creative, Leah thinks, then, Brother?  (It's kind of nice.) Leah tips her head to the side, keeping her eyes on Idris, trying to remember what she knows about her stepsister. Angry mother, is all that pops up, really; Leah doesn't do a lot of people-watching. Leah thinks she should offer some kind of hello but Idris is off again, snarling at the crowd around them. (Leah doesn't flinch like many of them do; it's not like Idris is yelling at her.) The hallway clears out in two seconds, which has to be some kind of record. Leah's about to greet her sister before scampering off to class (like a good little girl) when Idris yanks her up onto her feet by her shoulders and cups Leah's face. Leah freezes. (She's not gentle but it doesn't hurt.) "Ripred's left ass cheek, Lyulf, were you just gonna sit there and fucking take it? ...You've got to learn how to throw a fucking punch, kid. I won't always be around to protect you." Idris drops her hands (like she's done doing... whatever it was that she was doing) and steps back, looking more frustrated than concerned. "I didn't-" Leah starts to say, then stops. I guess it's kind of good that she stepped in. Even if Leah didn't ask her for help... "Thank you," she offers lamely, almost a shield against whatever's bugging Idris. "For the help."  I don't punch people, though. Not that saying that will make Idris feel any better, so Leah says instead, "I'm not very good at punching. Archery is more my speed." She smiles sardonically but lets it soften after a moment. "You're really good at it. Fighting, I mean."  Why did you help? Leah wants to ask her, Don't you know what they say? "We have class," Leah reminds her stepsister, making for her books (stacked neatly in the corner from when she saw her tormentor stalking up to her like he owns the damned school; no point having them wrecked). But she doesn't pick them up, just stays crouched and staring at the top. Math. Math is stupid. Math is boring and horrible and Leah can't make heads or tails of it. On the other hand... "You've got to learn how to throw a fucking punch, kid." Fighting is useful. Fighting with someone who clearly doesn't want to hurt her is also useful, because Leah can pick up some tips without fearing for her own safety. The rapid strikes, bloodless but messy nevertheless but fighting is always messy; one, two, three and suddenly he's down, dazed and stumbling as he gets the fuck away. "Maybe you can teach me," Leah says abruptly. "How to 'throw a punch'." And it sounds too harsh and demanding so she turns her gaze on her stepsister, making her expression as sweet and hopeful and puppy-like as she can. "Please?"

L y u l f - L e a h D e s c a r t e s

South look I posted! Also this is probably the longest post I've ever written wow. Not necessarily good though oops D:

[Deleted]

“Maybe we have to break everything to make something better out of ourselves.”
_Chuck Palahniuk

NO one typically thanks me. Everything I do always seems like it's done because it's expected of me as a member of this family, nothing that merits thanks, just enough to earn me a thorough bitching-out if I don't do something right. I never do anything right. I've learned to block out the disapproving stares and weightless words. It got to the point that they sunk in so deep that they weighed at my bones like liquid lead, and fuck that, fuck feeling like a steaming pile of shit because I'm not the perfect little princess my mother always wanted. I'll take having thick skin and an elastic heart over being something that's porcelain all the way down to my core. I have no desire to be something so easily conquered. Just look where it's gotten Fyffe, changing hands like a fucking football and planting her name in the mouths of subversive whisperers.

She never thanks me when I punch anyone I hear call her a slut, but maybe that's just because she doesn't know about it. Can't have the bitch think I'm doing it because I like her or some ludicrous crock of bullshit like that. It's my sister they're insulting, my blood. As much as I wish I didn't have to claim facets of my family like Fyffe and Baptiste, they all fall under that Antoinette blanket, and if I can't even protect what's mine from outside forces, I'm even more useless than my dear mother thinks I am. That's the only reason I protect them. The only reason. Self-actualization.

I'm a fucking liar.

Maybe Fyffe and I hate each other's guts now, but the bones of my knuckles chapped fighting for her nonexistent honor still remember spending nine months in a womb with hers, my machine-gun mouth still remembers reciting nursery rhymes in tandem with her voice, my damaged, lonely soul still remembers the few years it spent with company before everything went to shit and we both started down a path where the other couldn't follow. I'm not fighting for my own shattered self-image or because I have some sort of warped sense of hate-loyalty to a family that's so far gone that there's nothing I can do to save it (that's why, if I'm being honest with myself, if I saw Baptiste on fire I wouldn't piss on him to put him out). I'm fighting for my memories, fighting for the way things used to be like if I fight hard enough, I can bring them back. Still a little selfish. Still not really worthy of thanks.

That's why when Lyulf breathes out a soft utterance of gratitude, I whip my head around like someone's mashed me in the jaw with a goddamned brick. It's been ages since I can remember anyone directing those two words at me, so long that I'm not even sure what to make of them. And a thank-you followed by a compliment? Blasphemy. "You're really good at it. Fighting, I mean."

"Lots of practice and a whole metric shit-ton of unresolved anger issues," I snort, looking pointedly away so he doesn't see the grudging smile pulling at the corners of my lips. I don't do shows of affection or approval; they're too soft for me, delicate enough for me to turn into one of my signature fuck-ups and push everyone even further away than I already have. Still, a satisfied little glow kindles in my chest. Yeah, I am. I am really good at fighting. It's the only fucking thing in the world I'm good at, but I'll own it proudly nonetheless.

"We have class..."

"Fuck class." Rolling my eyes, I lean up against the row of lockers with a hollow thud, listening to the bell shrill loudly through the empty hallway. "I can't walk in like this."

In evidence, I hold out my hand, showing him how my knuckles have gone the raw red of impending bruises and two of them have split, the chapped skin gaping slightly but not enough to bleed. Between that and my rumpled appearance, any teacher with experience of my violent past would put two and two together faster than you can say 'suspension' and I'd be out on my ass, left to deal with the shitstorm of my mother's screeching outrage and my stepfather trying to step in and be some sort of disciplinarian. What a fucking joke. Discipline requires respect on at least one end of the equation, and that's not likely to happen anytime in the foreseeable suture.

"Maybe you can teach me how to throw a punch. Please?" Fucking hell, if I did I'd probably feel like I'd somehow handed a fluffy baby bunny a goddamned flamethrower. I've never given much thought to loss of innocence seeing as mine went away so young, but teaching Lyulf how to operate in a fight would feel almost... corruptive. Like I'd be taking something away from him.

I'm a moron. Hell yes, I'd be taking something away from him. Those bruises, that jumpiness when someone bigger moves too close, the dependency on me or anyone else to defend him when the assholes start to gather like vultures over a carcass. If anyone in our fucked-up caricature of a family deserves to walk around without fear of someone planting a fist in their face, it's Lyulf, who apart from being admittedly a little weird hasn't done anything in the entirety of the time I've known him. Any fights I get into, I bring on myself. I'll defend Fyffe, but a lot of the time she ends up getting what's coming to her. I can only hope that one day very soon Baptiste gets what's coming to him. But Lyulf? The only thing that poor kid should have coming to him is a fucking break.

"Okay, how's this," I nod contemplatively, taking Lyulf's question into consideration. I'll never be much good as a teacher. Don't have the patience, don't have the good manners. I'd be a fucking trainwreck if someone tried to give me a job at the Training Center. But for family? Well... the little shits do have a way of becoming exceptions. I'll give them that. "You and I get the hell out of here, hit up one of the old empty quarries, and I'll give you a quick lesson before we go home. You just have to promise to use Baptiste for practice and let me watch, yeah?"

[анзие (Anz)]

l a t e r i s b e t t e r t h a n n e v e r

Skipping class is for a good cause. At least, so it will be for the teachers anyway; they'd have less to worry about when no one is (when Leah isn't) there for their students to pick on. It means more silence even if it doesn't necessarily mean that the kids will pay them any more attention. Everything in class is routine, even in this new school. She can name the projectiles when they hit her, and roughly the time at which they'll start flying: eraser bits two minutes in, spit balls at the half hour mark, crumpled pieces of paper - that she does not take, absolutely not, she's got some semblance of dignity... well alright, only if she needs it - in the last ten minutes. None of her tormentors give a care in the world that the things they do to her are as much disruptive for everyone else as they are for Leah herself.  Some people have no consideration.   And if she's lucky she'll get maybe a shove to the floor when they make for the door at the bell, actions that are probably much approved here too. Career districts suck.  So "fuck class" indeed, even if it's probably best for the both of them - the bell rings shrilly, goddamned harpy-thing - seeing as they're already late. Besides, Leah's getting something out of it. "I can't walk in like this," she recalls Idris saying as she holds out a bruised hand, and Leah's mind clicks (too late). Ah. She'll get into trouble. She smiles. Idris is getting something out of this arrangement, too.  (It's important that they're on an equal stand, it's always important because Leah's all about the balance and Leah doesn't want to owe anyone anything. She's not going to be the one racing around on someone else's whim. Fuck that noise.) I always walk in like that, and it's blunt because it's truth and no one sugarcoats anything around here anyway. Besides, it's all in my head. "Okay, how's this: you and I get the hell out of here, hit up one of the old empty quarries, and I'll give you a quick lesson before we go home. You just have to promise to use Baptiste for practice and let me watch, yeah?" Leah can't help it: she laughs, bright and happy, laughs and keeps laughing until she's doubled over and sprouting abs. Then, Leah says breathlessly, "If I touched Baptiste I'll wake up the next day to find myself strung up on a tree with a noose around my fucking neck. But," she adds with a grin, "I guess it's a quicker way to go than death by schoolwork." I'll take that challenge, she thinks, and maybe she looks a little manic with hysteria in her eye and on her lips but no one ever said Leah Descartes was sane. Only weak. Bending to scoop her books back into her bag and slinging it over her shoulder, Leah says, "Let's get out of here, then."  She straightens and starts walking away, not waiting because she's bullied but a Descartes and she's got some kind of family pride even if she isn't proud of herself. But I'm Descartes-Antoinette now, aren't I? And she looks forwards to stepping out from the oppressed silence she has to force herself in (to receive one less bruise, to break one less bone). Outside it's freeing, but back home it's back to normal. (Laughter is freeing, too.) She thinks it's a little bit fucked how her silence is now her normal. No point getting upset over that, she tells herself sternly, inhaling deeply the moment they're out the doors. Ecstasy wriggles in her chest and tension falls from her shoulders. Ah, freedom. A smile touches her mouth and she tips her head back to the sun. "I hate school." The words are breathed on a sigh in a way that's not meant for Idris to hear - but they're alone and it's quiet, so she probably does. Leah glances over at Idris and notes her injured hand (again). Then she stifles a laugh before giving her an impish little smirk. "Did you want me to kiss your hand better, by the way?"

L y u l f - L e a h D e s c a r t e s

[Deleted]

“A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal.”
_Oscar Wilde

WHEN my mother told us that she was getting remarried, I broke the living room. Most of the damage has since been glazed over - the torn cushions have been patched, the splintered furniture replaced, a new pane of glass put in the china cabinet - but there's still a ragged hole in the drywall that's now hidden behind a bookshelf, a fist-shaped monument to my rage, the borders crusted with a rusty-dry bloodstain. Mother never got it fixed, just covered up before the Plague descended. A good enough metaphor, I suppose. We can't fix Idris, so we'll just cover her up, shove her behind a horde of step-somethings and pray that maybe she'll have the good grace to disappear.

Not fucking likely.

I had every right to get as mad as I did. The repulsive thing was that nobody else seemed to care, just laying down and fucking accepting that our mother was trying to drag us all forward into something that wasn't right. In that moment, I felt like the only one of us who even remembered Dad. It was a hateful thing to think that the rest of my siblings could move on so easily when for me, the loss was still a raw place in the center of my chest that blazed at the slightest provocation. I'f I'm honest with myself, it still is. There's a part of me that burns every time I look at his place at the table and see someone else sitting there, but I know better than to let it show. Displaying that sort of weakness is a one-way ticket to getting eaten alive.

"If I touched Baptiste I'll wake up the next day to find myself strung up on a tree with a noose around my fucking neck, but I guess it's a quicker way to go than death by schoolwork," Lyulf laughs, and I realize maybe that's why I can tolerate him a little better than the others. He's nurturing a raw, pained spot of his own somewhere, even if it's different than my own. There's a common ground there that I don't share with anyone, even my blood relatives, and there's something to be said for that. A security. A feeling of something falling into place that hasn't been there for a long time. "Let's get out of here, then."

"You don't have to fucking tell me twice," I bark out a laugh, graceless, ugly. I spent so many years being sad about Fyffe being the pretty one. From the time we were little girls in our matching dresses that made her look like a cherub and me look like a horse wrapped in lace, I was constantly accosted with the fact. I would never match her, not really. We may have shared a womb, but anything between us stopped there. I had to find other ways to succeed than beauty, and in the years before I discovered that there was power and purpose in beating the shit out of anything in sight, I was lost. After that, at least some part of me came to accept my broad shoulders and square jaw, my squinty eyes and mannish gait. There are still days when I feel like planting a fist in the bathroom mirror, but as I continue seeing the price my sister has paid for her beauty, they've started to become fewer and further between.

It's not hard to leave school. The administration wrote me off as a lost cause so long ago that they don't even bother trying to stop me from skipping out anymore, and Lyulf moves like a shadow, quiet, unobtrusive. We walk out the front door bold as brass and are off down the side streets in minutes, winding our way towards the far side of town where the exhausted quarries loom like spectres.

"Did you want me to kiss your hand better, by the way?" Lyulf looks over at me with a little smirk, and before I can help it, I let out a loud guffaw. I have an ugly laugh, just like the rest of me, loud and shameless and inconsiderate. I look down at my hands, broad palms and thick, callused fingers, knuckles chapped from far worse fights than this one. I never had anyone offer to kiss my scars and make them better. Dad would pick me up and dust me off and tell me to get back on my bike, go back at the punching bag, becausee tenacity was the way that champions were made. Mom... well, I know better than to think she ever cared enough to stop dressing Fyffe like her porcelain doll or later lamenting the loss of her one perfect daughter to debauchery and rumors to give a fuck about me or what I did. To her, I've never been anything but Fyffe's inconvenient afterbirth.

"Nah, I'm all right." Scoffing, I stop at the edge of an empty quarry, tossing my backpack in and jumping down after it, my feet scuffing on the rough stone floor. This place has been mined-out for years, but sometimes I come here on my runs, or to do some freelance rock climbing. There's a peace in the emptiness that I can rarely find anywhere else, and I heave a sigh of relief as I tilt my head back up to the empty sky. Freedom, no matter how short-lived. "Now hurry up and get your skinny ass down here before someone busts us. We're trespassing."

There's not as many school supplies in my backpack as there are training supplies, blunted weapons and bandages and spare bowstrings. It takes a few seconds to find a half-used roll of athletic tape floating around, and by the time I come back up with my trophy, Lyulf is near enough that we can talk without shouting. "We've only got two hours. If we're home late, the parents will ask questions, and that's the last fucking thing I want to deal with today. So this afternoon, we cover basic hand to hand. Tomorrow, if you decide to stick with me, we'll work on other shit."

But I know better than to think that he'll stick with me. No one has so far. Not even Dad.

[анзие (Anz)]

l o c k e d u p i n s i d e m y s e l f

Leah wasn't really expecting Idris to laugh, but laugh she does, unreserved and free in a way that causes Leah to falter and stare because it's unusual and beautiful to watch; it's happiness with an edge, the perfect mix of yin and yang and Leah's never actually seen Idris laugh like that. But then again she's known Idris for less than one per cent of her own life. (It's still unusual to see her without her trademarked scowl.) "Nah, I'm fine." And Idris is off without another word because they're at the quarry and, wow, that was quick. Not like you'd know, Descartes. You don't come to this side of town very often. Leah hesitates at the edge of the stone quarry where Idris jumps right in. It's not tall, per se, it's just heights and Leah's not a huge fan of leaping into things with her eyes shut (or without getting that rush of adrenaline that makes her a feel giddy and puts a wilder smile on her face). Heights are not her thing (they make her dizzy even while they cause ecstasy and that's all fine).  She teeters a little, feeling her stomach drop and her heart leap to her throat like a child clinging to its parent for safety. (And ze's always clung to Baptiste or their mother because Leah loves zir papa but papa's never actually stepped up to give Leah a hug.) For the briefest second it's like she's on the edge of a cliff and the rocky ground below turns into a bed of jagged edges, pointy arms reaching up to catch her.  She's alright, she says. Not after that fall she won't be. Leah steps back from the edge and rubs her eyes to clear the mental image of her stepsister taking the leap. Your imagination is pretty messed up, Descartes. Stop it right now. "Now hurry up and get your skinny ass down here before someone busts us. We're trespassing," Idris calls up to her, snapping her out of her thoughts, and Leah (finally) steps off the edge to join her. She lands, wobbles and catches herself on the cold stone-and-sand mix of ground. Whoa. "Heights," she mumbles to herself grumpily as she dusts off her hands and attempts to brush off her stupid jeans. "Who came up with heights anyway." Idris's head is buried in her backpack, hunting around for who even knows what. Leah takes the opportunity to look around. It's... bland. Quiet, which is good, but bland and tasteless with shades of gray and brown mottled over the landscape, all excavatable stone long, long gone. This place needs color, Leah thinks, then tips her head up and smiles at the sky. Well, there it is. "Gorgeous," she says to the widened yonder, lifting her arms up to the side to enjoy what feels like a brand new view. Idris's voice drags Leah's attention back to what they're meant to be doing. "We've only got two hours. If we're home late, the parents will ask questions, and that's the last fucking thing I want to deal with today. So this afternoon, we cover basic hand to hand. Tomorrow, if you decide to stick with me, we'll work on other shit." Leah drops her arms. "Sounds good to me," she says, peering at the dangling thing from her hands. Tape? Bandages? "Are you, um, expecting someone to get hurt?" she says cautiously. (Ze stuffs zirself back into the silence box, tucks zirself into the tiny, unobtrusive space that's long been zir home and it's not comfortable but ze's used to it, quietly braces zirself for the pain that's going to follow. Ze can be a punching bag but ze thought this was going to be something different - something better.) "You can leave that on your bag." She quirks up the corner of her mouth at Idris (stays quiet, stays calm, doesn't think, I should have figured she wants a stress ball, just keep your cool and walk away when it's done). But, fuck this hurts more than it should. Keep your cool, Descartes.

L y u l f - L e a h D e s c a r t e s

[Deleted]

“I no doubt deserved my enemies, but I don't believe I deserved my friends.”
_Walt Whitman

I'VE always been brash and reckless. It was something fostered in my by the closeness I had with my father, who in all reality had probably been hoping for at least on of the twins to pop out a boy but god me instead. In the early days of our childhood, he was close with the both of us, teaching us in tandem to tie our shoes, ride our bikes, stumble over words in books too big for us to understand. It took a bit longer for it to become apparent that I was closer to a son than Fyffe was, happy with girlish pursuits and makeup while the thought of them made me cringe. And so the first divergence of the Antoinette twins began. Dad still loved us both, but in different ways. Fyffe was his princess, his darling, and she was content with that. I was his fighter, his little pistol, and I was content with that. I learned how to throw a baseball and a punch, practically ran to the training center the day I was allowed to sign up. And when the day finally came around when the rumors followed Fyffe home, I became his last hope, a small assurance that maybe he wasn't a bad father.

And then, you know. He fucking died. That complicated things a bit.

I grit my teeth against the memories, pulling more supplies out of my backpack and almost forgetting Lyulf's presence behind me until he speaks up softly. "Are you, um, expecting someone to get hurt?"

And fuck, for a moment the poor kid looks so damaged that I almost forget what we're doing here, have to fight back some weird-ass visceral instinct to pull him into my arms and protect him from the big nasty shitshow of a world we live in. That might not be a good idea, though, considering that he's looking at me like he's anticipating me landing a right hook to his jaw. Ripred, what does he think I am, Baptiste? That I saved him from some bully just so I could bring him out here to whale on him myself? I exhale sharply through my nose, trying not to be offended. It's not me, probably. More likely it's just the conditioning that the poor kid's had living his life as the odd one out. The fact that Lyulf has to walk around expecting to get hurt makes me feel vaguely ill, because as much of a brutish, uncaring bitch as I'm capable of being, I don't like to see good people get hurt. People I've deemed worthy of happiness. People I care about.

"You can leave that in your bag," he says, voice bleeding out faux-confidence, and that little spike of pain flares up in my chest again, my hands dropping to my sides as I try to navigate what I'm feeling enough to articulate it.

I decide that it's easier to just not feel it at all, shaking my head sharply and grabbing him by the wrist, yanking Lyulf forward until he's standing right in front of me. "It's not to patch you up, it's to keep you from getting hurt."

Lips pressing into a thin line, I peel the athletic tape off the end of the roll and press it into his slender palm, beginning to wind it in complex patterns around his wrists and knuckles. "If you know you're going to be in a fight, you need to tape your hands. It'll lessen the impact your hands take, keep your knuckles from splitting. It also helps hold your bones in place so you don't break your hand if you hit something too hard."

I finish up on his first hand, moving wordlessly onto the other one. I can do this as quickly as tying my shoes, with my eyes shut, focusing on five million other things at once. And I can't help but focus on Lyulf's face, how that fear's starting to fade a little bit. Shit, am I really that scary? That'd be a good thing in the Arena, sure, but having my own family be terrified of me carries more sting with it than it probably should. Doing my own hands goes quicker than struggling with someone else's and in another minute or so I'm chucking the tape back into my bag, flexing my hands.

"Okay, we're going to start with the basics. Making a fist," I say gruffly, holding a clenched hand out in front of me. "Never make one with your thumb on the inside. You'll dislocate it the first time you hit anything, and it'll hurt like a motherfucker, believe me. Now you try."

Watching speculatively for a few seconds, I nod, taking a step back with a crooked smirk settling across my lips. "Okay. Now hit me."

Something tells me it would hurt less than being looked at like I'm something to be afraid of.

[анзие (Anz)]

look at me now, i'm falling

When Leah was much younger things were so much simpler. For example, Baptiste's brotherly concern was actually unconditional - at least to Leah's naive mind. Her older brother spending time with her was never more than spending time together with my little brother (because back then Leah had only been Lyulf until she realized that she was equally as happy as Leah the little girl as much as she was as the boy named Lyulf), and Leah has always appreciated the love Baptiste showed her. (Now, of course, it's hard to tell if Baptiste is using her for one of his grander schemes or if he truly wished to spend time with Leah.) Baptiste has never been a horrible older brother - if anything, Baptiste is the older brother than younger siblings dream of.  If you discount the whole manipulation part, of course. Nevertheless, Leah still holds much love and appreciation for Baptiste.  Except that right now it's not Baptiste tugging him closer by the wrist, it's not Baptiste assuring her that Leah is in good hands, that she needn't fear pain because he's got it covered, he's got the precautions necessary to stop the pain from actually happening (or at least, that's what Leah thinks the words mean) - it's Idris, and it's Idris twisting the tape around his hand with increasing complexity that Leah soon no longer has an idea where the tape is meant to go (left, right, center, or does this all really matter?). It's Idris saying, "If you know you're going to be in a fight, you need to tape your hands. It'll lessen the impact your hands take, keep your knuckles from splitting. It also helps hold your bones in place so you don't break your hand if you hit something too hard." It's Idris who sounds strangely like she gives a damn when Leah doesn't expect any. (Ze suspects that ze's beginning to look at her like she's the sole reason for the existence of light itself and ze struggles to school zir expression into something that's significantly less... creepy, ze supposes the word is. Even so, ze can't keep the smile from slipping onto zir mouth; ze ducks zir head to hide it from her.) Idris holds out her fist to show Leah what she's supposed to do, explaining in a gruff tone as she does. "Never make one with your thumb on the inside. You'll dislocate it the first time you hit anything, and it'll hurt like a motherfucker, believe me. Now you try." There's a brief pause as Leah mimics what she sees with her own hand, little pink tongue sticking out as she focuses. Then Idris says, "Okay. Now hit me." Leah's eyes dart up to her, startled. "Now?" she says, voice ratcheting up a few notches to become what she can only say is a squeak of surprise. "I thought you were going to teach me how to 'throw a punch'," she says, air-quoting the words before continuing, "not actually hit you."  Maybe Leah's making too big a deal out of nothing, but her tone is slightly scandalized even as she considers hitting her step-sister (who has actually been nothing but amazing to Leah, discounting all the swearing - but it's not like Leah hasn't sworn in front of her either. Guess we're just a family of potty mouths.) Either way Leah chews on her bottom lip as she folds her hands back into the fists that Idris showed her and eyes her.  "If you're sure," she says, her tone betraying how nervous she actually is about the whole thing. Maybe a dummy would be a better target, Leah thinks glumly, then shakes her head and settles into a stance that feels too awkward to pass for anything that even remotely resembles fighting form. She eyes Idris again, wondering where she can hit to make it as painless as she possibly can. This is, of course, assuming that you can actually hit her, Leah reminds herself sardonically, and her lips twitch into a tiny amused smile. I guess I should have paid more attention in biology. "Okay, well." Here goes nothing goes unsaid, and Leah throws all her strength behind her fist, aiming for Idris's shoulder. (She tastes blood and later, when she spits it out with a grossed-out expression on her face, she realizes that she had been biting the inside of her cheek when she hit out, her face screwed up in a look like she is the one in actual pain. Leah really doesn't want to chase Idris away.)

Lyulf-leah descartes

tada <3 After like. A month. D: