Gladiators :: [Antoinette/Descartes Blitz]

[L△LIA]

"Pass the potatoes." There is no please, no question mark. This is the deadpan voice of tedious boredom and the only thing saving you from wanting to kill yourself just so something will feel like it's happening, is the satisfaction of knowing how annoyed dear sister Idris will be that you not only demanded instead of asked for the seemingly innocuous potatoes, but that you couldn't even be bothered to be polite about it. The genius in tactics like this is how neither your father nor your new step-mother realize even for a moment the kind of war games being played out before them. Tonight the dinner table has already been declared a battlefield and you're not one for taking prisoners. These are not the eyes of pity, despite the targets laid out before you being siblings instead of strangers, be it step or otherwise. There will be blood in exchange for your boredom, even if it matches what runs in your own veins. Before Idris has the opportunity to call you out for being a fucking suckbag or whichever incredibly witty remark she's loaded her trigger-happy machine gun of a mouth with in retribution for your petty needling, you've already decided it's time to go big or go home. Seeing as you're already home, that only leaves you with one option. "Lyulf, you should have invited your new friend from school over to dinner." You don't dislike your little brother, despite the fact that you saw an upperclassman beating the shit out of him in the hallways earlier today and kept on walking, because you weren't in the mood to dirty your knuckles. Besides, Idris was only a couple steps behind you and there was a strange logic in the back of your mind reassuring you that it would have been twice as cruel to deprive her of her favorite past time which, funny enough, seems to be something of a shared hobby between her and Lyulf's new friend. "How many times has mother mentioned that she'd love to meet all of our friends?" Despite the deceptive phrasing, this also is not actually a question and there's certainly nothing polite about it.

[Deleted]

“Our generation has had no Great War, no Great Depression. Our War is spiritual. Our Depression is our lives.”
_Chuck Palahniuk

THE thing about family dinners is that they're supposed to be enjoyable. Classic. Pretty little picturesque pieces of an ideal life that I haven't known since a long time before they put my father in the ground. This? This isn't a family dinner. It's a fucking misguided Vaudeville show. If I could draw little red and blue lines between everybody denoting who likes and hates whom, our kitchen table would be blanketed in a purple haze. The Antoinette-Descartes clan: a picture of the degradation of the Panemite family.

I manage to bite back any commentary I might have had about Baptiste's complete lack of table manners, opting instead to display my own complete lack of table manners by practically throwing the bowl of potatoes across the table at him. Eyes narrowed. A silent assertion. I'm watching you, you little creep. Tow the line.

And of course he doesn't, bringing up the source of my bruised knuckles and Lyulf's nervous look in that slimy, subtle way of his. "Lyulf, you should have invited your new friend from school over to dinner. How many times has mother mentioned that she'd love to meet all of our friends?"

"Seriously, Baptiste, back the fuck off," I snarl, knowing that I'm playing into his hands but not caring. Nobody knows why his seemingly harmless statement makes me angry. Truth be told, nobody probably cares. I'm always angry. They'd take more interest if I was calm. "You don't even know what a friend is; you're a fucking soulless android."

I know what he wants. For the incident at school to be made known, for the parents to explode on me for beating the living shit out of yet another richly deserving shitwad that had it coming. Well, someone has to be responsible for Baptiste not getting what he wants. I'd rather be written off as a bitch than let him have any satisfaction. "Just shut up and eat your goddamn potatoes; no one cares what you think."

[анзие (Anz)]

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

Family dinner is always a silently stressful affair, more so now that family dinner involves the newly Descartes-Antoinettes (or is that Antoinette-Descartes?) to play nice (play family, like they're children, like they're three and four and five and someone has to be the mummy and it's never going to be Baptiste or anyone else). Nice isn't exactly the most obvious word in his siblings' books.  "Pass the potatoes." It's Baptiste. Bored, blank, designed to fan someone's conveniently short temper (Idris), Lyulf can tell that he's preparing himself to battle in some kind of fucked up war they've silently declared the moment they met. The Descartes-Antoinette war, where words are as much weapons as guns and roses, and battles are ambushes that they're all prepared for. Only Lyulf isn't quite sure who's side he's meant to be fighting on. Not that I want to play on any of their sides, it's ridiculous. And now that the battle's begun, he kind of wants to excuse and hole himself up in his room (he has a room to himself now, which is amazing on so many counts). Best not to remain in the line of fire. "May I be excused?" But it's silent like it almost always is. He probably won't be excused. Family dinners. Psh. The potatoes fly past Lyulf from where Idris sits, mercifully not splattering everywhere. (He had half a mind to duck when Idris moved.) Lyulf watches them go by through his lashes and thinks that it's almost funny, the way the bowl skitters over to Baptiste, like it's rushing to serve. "I'm late! I'm late!" If the situation wasn't as tense as it is, Lyulf might laugh. (He might have held his breath briefly, thinking that Father or Mrs Antoinette - it's hard to think of her as mother, even though they're married - might reprimand either of them for bad behavior but they don't seem to notice. How can they not notice?) Baptiste might not be throwing food back at Idris but that doesn't mean he's not putting into motion his next plan of attack, whatever it may be.  Baptiste, what are you thinking? Lyulf doesn't have to wait very long before  Baptiste plays his next hand.  "Lyulf, you should have invited your new friend from school over to dinner. How many times has mother mentioned that she'd love to meet all of our friends?"  Subtle. Hurtful. As usual. Lyulf shrugs silently and lets it slide over him like water (it's his brother, it's Baptiste, he's got to have some kind of leeway because otherwise Lyulf might end up hating him). He hopes it'll slide off the others, too, hopes someone will change the subject because while the fighting makes him nervous no one'll listen to anything he has to say. Idris has other ideas, and when she opens her mouth it's like gunfire in Baptiste's direction. Is she playing her own game, like Baptiste usually does? Everything has a reason for his brother, or so Lyulf thinks. Baptiste doesn't seem to do things without a bigger picture in mind. "Just shut up and eat your goddamn potatoes; no one cares what you think," Idris finishes, every feature on her face ablaze with anger.  Don't fight on my account; that's not the kind of prize I hope I am. It's interesting but stupid and cliche and no one in the room is in love with him anyway. That would be... different. Lyulf clears his throat. "He wouldn't have said yes, because I wouldn't have asked," he says blandly, hoping to smooth over the situation. "I'm not that kind of person." He offers his sibling half a smile, hoping beyond hope that Baptiste won't bring up the covered bruise on his neck where large paws dug into his flesh like they were about to tear out his throat. (He had strength and that's what everyone thinks makes a good career.) "Besides, he wasn't all that interesting." At least, not while he was dragging his pathetic hide away from Idris. "Um, how was your day at school?"

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

UM OOPS THAT WASN'T A BLITZ POST D: Anzie needs to start reading titles on linked posts before posting. Sorry about that. I'll cut down, I promise.

[gamemaker kelsier]

I'm certain I didn't sign up for this shit. Not the whole acting like we're a happy family charade that's going on here. We didn't even do family dinners when my poor excuse for a father still lived. As soon as my acclaimed mother told us, hands on her hips, that Sunday nights were family dinner nights, I swear I almost threw up in my mouth. My stomach churns, this is sick, uncalled for. No one wants this, we don't want to get along with each other. I'd literally rather be pulling out every single one of my own toenails then have to sit beside any of the people gathered here tonight. They don't give a shit about me, I don't give a shit about them, that's just how this is.

The very last thing I want is to be sitting between Bapfuck Descartes and Shitris Antoinette. She falls far too easily for his teasing, every single time. She always does, it's the easiest thing in the world to bait my sister. Her temper is fouler than mine, and she loses it so easily. No wonder he teases her so, it's fucking hilarious to see her snap. I'm just not in the mood for it tonight. I look up and see the vein in my mother's forehead already throbbing. Things are not turning out how she'd hoped at all, but what the fuck does she think, thinking we can be a happy family together? We were broken to begin with.

"Will you two step off each other's dicks? You're nauseating me with your flirting," I growl over the piece of roast I'm trying to saw in half. I bring the knife back and forth with enough force that the entire plate should be snapped in half by now if it weren't for the thickness of the slice. I just want to finish this horrid meal so that I can be on my way. A girl can't go home for even a minute without being roped into some 'family bonding'.

[L△LIA]

Insults fly and in the aftermath, yours is proven to be the mouth of an angel, while the Anotinette twins reveal tongues as wicked as your half-hearted soul. Little Lyulf knows better than to throw himself between the bullets, a lifetime spent growing far more used to your backwards sense of bonding than your half-siblings can comprehend. Despite the way your words so often sound to people who do not yet know you well, tonight's conversation hasn't been the least bit malicious on your part thus far. If anything, pointing out that you were paying attention to the kind of day your brother was having is something like showing you care; nothing holds your attention if it hasn't captured a fraction of your interest as well. Your ensuing whisper to Fyffe is just loud enough so Idris will have the pleasure of overhearing, yet hushed enough to evade your parents, and this attention to detail is why your father has always believed you to be the most upstanding of young gentlemen. Unlike the flares of surrounding tempers, you know how to operate behind a flawless facade of law-abiding courtesy, which is only contradicted when you choose to allow a glimpse of something more honest. "I'd be happy to flirt with you for a while instead, dear sister." There is nothing familial about the way the exaggerated endearment slips off your tongue, eyebrows arching as you turn to look her dead in the eye with implication. The edge of the butter knife tap-tap-taps softly against the the table as you speak, underwriting your words with a Morse code message the girl before you can't possibly translate, but perhaps has a gut feeling about anyway: If she hops off, will you hop on? Finally, this is beginning to feel slightly more entertaining than cheap shots at Lyulf and when you spear a soft-bellied boiled potato onto your knife, you can't help turning to lock unblinking eyes with Idris as you take a slow-motion bite. The corners of your mouth twist up with satisfaction as you chew, swallow, and eventually close off your android stare from the world for a moment. "Delicious." The compliment isn't for the cooking, but it hurtles down the table for the benefit of mother's ears anyhow. Meandering back to pick your brother's meek attempt at conversation up off the ground, you dust it off and begin cutting into the pot roast on your plate as you reply. "Unfortunately, I haven't yet been anywhere near as fortunate in my efforts to make friends in our new school," in this scenario of friendship, it's safe to say that you are not the one hoping to be slammed into lockers, but your voice turns saccharine sweet as you glance around the table with the kind of smile that knows how to make the evil tongues of the Antoinette children falter, "but at least I have all of you."

[Deleted]

“Our generation has had no Great War, no Great Depression. Our War is spiritual. Our Depression is our lives.”
_Chuck Palahniuk

I'M not sure what made the Descartes-Antoinette parents think it was a good idea to cram all of their fucked-up progeny under one roof. We Antoinettes had enough of our own internal affairs issues before the Plague descended, and now... Well. The more accurate definition of 'dinner' is 'utter shitshow.'

"Will you two step off each other's dicks? You're nauseating me with your flirting," Fyffe chimes in like either Baptiste or I give a solitary flying fuck what she thinks of our conversation. Maybe it's because she's used to her opinion mattering to her boy toys. Baptiste doesn't care because I have a sneaking suspicion that he's not capable of caring. I don't care because I'd just as soon slap Fyffe right across her pretty little face as look at her, dig my nails deep into her cheek in the process, keep her blood under my nails for a few days to give me something satisfying to look at until the scars solidified. Bet she wouldn't think so highly of her shitty opinions if she was as ugly and irrelevant as her unfortunate twin.

"I'm surprised you know enough about stepping off a dick to suggest it," I lash back, my tongue on fire and my fist clenching white-knuckled around my knife. The Brady Bunch is having pot roast and boiled potatoes. I am having tofu stir-fry with carrots and wheat noodles. The price I pay for being able to kick ass and take names. I don't even remember what real-people food tastes like. It would be as easy as breathing to toss the eating utensil in my hand across the table and embed it in the wall an inch from Baptiste's head. But we've had to fix the drywall on three separate occasions in the past few years from the same sort of situation, and Mom is already starting off on a tirade about my mouth. A can see a silent statement in the curve of my stepbrother's mouth. Tread carefully, Idris, it says. You're walking on a wire, and I am waiting below with sharp teeth and wicked claws and more shit on you than you have on me. Pick your battles.

But I've never been good at picking my battles or treading carefully, which is why I scoff loudly as Baptiste whispers something to Fyffe and continues on with his mockingly polite conversation. I don't understand how people can't see him for what he is. Maybe it's because I feel too much that it's easy for me to spot the hollowness in my stepbrother, the unsettling way his smiles never meet his eyes. Or maybe I'm just surrounded by fucking idiots. That one seems more likely. "Maybe you don't have any friends because you're a goddamned creep. I get the fucking heebie-jeebies just looking at you. Kill any small animals lately?"

[gamemaker kelsier]

When I was younger, it never bothered me for one minute what people would say about me becasue my father always told me that the only that mattered was family. He always said everything would be okay as long as we still had each other to love and trust. I ate that shit up like it was medicine to my soul. It only bothered me when one by one, my sisters and brothers began to look at me like they believed the rumours they heard about me, like they all thought it was true. It was only when I heard one of them whisper 'slut' at my back that I gave up on all of those lies. Turns out the only one I can trust is me. Even my twin sister, I didn't do anything to that manfaced bitch, hated me and hates me still. I've found it easier to utterly detest her back for her betrayal than to try and talk some sense into her.

Let her boil in her jealousy and stew in her spite. It hasn't bothered me for a long time. I make sure she sees it when I wrap my hand around Baptiste's knee and give it a squeeze, letting my hand run up a few more inches and down until I pull it away again to pick up my fork. I can't pretend to understand the stupid tapping sounds he loves to make, but I get the meaning behind his suggestive look all the same. "Oh Baptiste," I begin sweetly,pouring on the syrup for the benefit of mother and sister alike. Leaning in closer, I whisper my sweetness back at him, knowing that Idris will be pissed off that she can't hear. I look down at his lap and then raise my brow in a mockery of him, "You'll never be half the man your mother was."

I turn back to poke at my peas, despite myself, I glance across the table at Lyulf and offer a small smile. I'm not sure why. We haven't spoken once sine he got here, I've never felt the need to even acknowledge him before. However, he seems like an okay kid and so far, he hasn't given me any problems about my lifestyle. I'd rather smle at him than horse face anyway. Speaking of, "Iddy, I'm impressed. I didn't think you even knew the mechanics of it. Good for you." I give her a charming smile, and then wrap my hand around my fork in such a way that I am ready to stab it into her hand if she makes one dangerous move. I've had enough of her childish tantrums at dinner.

[анзие (Anz)]

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

Well, Lyulf thinks as he spears a broccoli on his plate with his head ducked down in a pathetic attempt to avoid confrontation, It could be worse. Though Lyulf never wants to see what's actually worse than Baptiste and Fyffe sniping shots while Idris goes all out with explosive rounds. I guess if they started trying to kill each other, that would be a lot worse. Interesting, but worse. It'd probably be bloody and gross. Nope, no desire to see that. Particularly if he's meant to join in, which he doesn't want to. I'm not going to play any of their games. Don't drag me into any of it. He feels like it might be a bit too late to tell them that. Baptiste speaks to him, picking up the tinny thread of conversation he'd left floating around somewhere, "Unfortunately, I haven't yet been anywhere near as fortunate in my efforts to make friends in our new school, but at least I have all of you." Because you never get pushed around. "Maybe you don't have any friends because you're a goddamned creep. I get the fucking heebie-jeebies just looking at you. Kill any small animals lately?" Ouch. Lyulf's eyebrows rise just a little but he keeps his eyes on his plate, pushing the food around. He'd lost his appetite at Fyffe and Baptiste's exchange he won't even pretend to understand, and the broccoli looks a little bit lonely on his plate so he gets it a friend. (It gets dunked in the gravy bowl by accident in passing, but that's fine.) Lyulf lifts his gaze off his plate to stare at his brother (is that Fyffe he can see smiling at him out of the corner of his eye? He peeks and his lips tug upwards briefly before he looks back at honey-tongued Baptiste). Maybe he's just a little bit suicidal today, or maybe Idris's company has rubbed off on him somewhat, but he's never spoken up in the midst of war before. And it's probably not the best idea he's ever had but he says, "You are lucky, 'Tees, I hear some kids would kill to be a part of our delightful family." A childhood name for childish play and he tips his head to smile at his brother in a way too warm and a little adoring to be fully sarcastic. "Don't you just love us?"

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

[L△LIA]

You're a real charming bastard when you can be bothered. The very same things that drive a person over the edge about you in the beginning have a way of turning on them the moment you're taken for granted, thinking they've connected all the wayward dots and made sense out of you. None of them realize until it's too late that you've spent your time getting under their skin. Strategic. Calculated. An infinite series of small gestures and ideas that eventually come together to create an inescapable web. What makes you dangerous has nothing to do with fists or weapons buried in the hearts of small animals, it's just that, like Idris, that's where people want to draw the line. Blood, bruises, and broken bones are the holy trinity of fear and when those surrounding you come to realize your hollow eyes have little-to-no interest in carving up their bodies, a mistaken sense of safety sneaks in. You won't hurt them, they tell themselves. What narrow minds and definitions people have. "You've got me there," your reply to Idris is nonchalant as you shake your fork at her, pot roast speared across the tines, "the death of an animal is weighing on my conscience, now that you mention it." With a smirk still hanging on your lips from Lyulf's puns, you shrug and take a bite out of your sarcastic confession of guilt. What people ought to tell themselves is: you won't cut them up and devour them for dinner. Not literally, at least. The jabs and insults of the evening are deflected off the armor of just how little you care and even Fyffe's cheap dig at both your dead mother and a particular facet of your anatomy cannot wound you. Whatever your weaknesses, she'll only find them after she offers up her own to you, for yours is a strange heart that hinges on borrowed emotions. After all, you only know with certainty that you're under someone's skin once you begin to feel the wounds of your psychological attacks echoing back to you in a bond that reverberates in the pauses between your breaths, the way your little brother's quiet sighs ring in your ears even when you ignore them. Yet, the hand of the girl caressing your thigh seems to think she already knows your endgame, but in the grand list of things you're beginning to decide you want from your step-sister, she's on the wrong track. Everyone thinks it's always about what can be done to a body, but the part of you that shamelessly burns beneath Fyffe's touch is your sixth sense for secrets. Her skin is half a degree warmer with masked panic that one day someone will know... something. When you softly laugh off her whispered attack with a hint of shockingly genuine amusement, it is another infinitesimal fragment of proof that you have no intention of wounding her. Not so easily, anyway. Not so gracelessly. Not when you want under that warm skin so you can feast on whatever it is she's keeping hidden away.

[Deleted]

“Our generation has had no Great War, no Great Depression. Our War is spiritual. Our Depression is our lives.”
_Chuck Palahniuk

THERE is an endlessly long list of reasons why I don't like Baptiste Descartes. I haven't liked him since the moment I met him. I don't typically give enough of a damn to consider myself a good judge of character - why waste time investing myself in people when they're never going to reciprocate? - but there was a nameless something about Baptiste that crawled uncomfortably beneath my flesh the first time my mother had her paramour haul his brood over to be introduced to us. Well, it was nameless at the time. Now, it's a fucking encyclopedia set.

He's a slimy little shit, that's reason number one. A close second is how buddy-buddy he is with Fyffe. Disgusting. Speak of the blonde bombshell devil, she fixes me with a self-supposed clever smirk. "Iddy, I'm impressed. I didn't think you even knew the mechanics of it. Good for you."

I want to lunge across the table and scoop her fucking eyes out with the dessert spoon nestled carefully above her plate. Our mother's best china would look much nicer in red. Instead, I fix her with an uglier version of her smile, something that will never be as winning or entrancing as she can make it, feeling that realization slide down my throat like a delicate sip of battery acid. "I know, right? And to think, I didn't even have to touch any of your sloppy seconds to learn. All I had to do was pay attention in health class."

In the midst of all of this, I shoot a half-worried glance at Lyulf, firing off a few loaded words of his own. A brave effort, but the kid's playing out of his league. As much as I swore that I didn't give a shit about my step-family in the beginning, Lyulf is the last person I want to see get caught in a crossfire that's almost as ugly as I am. Reflexively, I reach over and lay a hand on his arm, like I could somehow step in front of him as a shield against the incoming shitstorm. The parents have gone expectantly silent, waiting for the breaking point we all know is coming. The only question is who it starts with.

"You've got me there," Baptiste grins, waving the bite of roast on the end of his fork around. "the death of an animal is weighing on my conscience, now that you mention it."

"You think you're so fucking clever, don't you?!" I half-shout, slamming my fork down and rising from my chair with the force of a hurricane. "You twist every fucking word that someone says to you and it's so irritating, fuck!"

Third place. That's the third place winner in the compendium of why I don't like Baptiste Descartes.

[L△LIA]

There's no challenge in Idris when the mere fact of your existence is enough to send her whirling up from her chair in a tizzy of rattled annoyance and ricocheting verbal shrapnel. Since the first moment the corner of your mouth twisted itself up for her, you have sent shivers down her spine. Sometimes it's amusing to be able to shake a person without wasting so much as a single thought on them; other times it's a dull affair without a sense of reward. Tonight falls somewhere in the middle and so the only thing her disbelief earns her is another shrug and a frown so sarcastically exaggerated that you still manage to look like a coy Cheshire, floating upside down in your seat at the dinner table. "Well, I'd be lying if I claimed to be an idiot. You wouldn't like me much for that either." Stretched teeth and the nonsensical riddle of your words echo softly against the bowl of potatoes, a dish of butter, and a basket of bread rolls. Despite the authoritarian heads of the table, this is not a place where you will encounter any true repercussions for your sly tongue. Someday, perhaps, but not here. "You know, we had a grandmother who used to say things like heebie-jeebies." Picking up a dinner roll, you split it in half and begin nonchalantly buttering it up, as if the shadow of a trained killer wasn't splitting your neck in two as you speak. "Do you remember that, Ly? Heebie-jeebies." There is some piece of you that recognizes how you should feel a little intimidated by the girl threateningly towering over you with her aggressive stance as you lean back in your chair and casually cross one leg over the other, recounting a deceased grandmother you weren't particularly close with. As if anyone has ever been close with you. "That's not something I would have expected to hear out of a mouth like yours, Idris." The end of her name hisses out from between your teeth and you take a bite before picking the basket of rolls up once more and politely offering them over to Fyffe. "Do you know where your sister gets her clever vocabulary from?" Feeling intimidated is, perhaps, beyond the reach of your emotional capacity and you wonder idly if that too is worthy of a shiver.

[анзие (Anz)]

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

There's always that spark that catches on the smoking remnants of last round's battle, stirring the not quite dormant fury and poking still-fresh wounds into an inferno of anger. Lyulf would say that there's no time in between fights, no window of opportunity for tension to calm even a slightest bit but there is and it's not like none of them are ready to fight anyway. Their house is constantly a war zone and Lyulf is starting to get used to it. Assimilation, he thinks grimly and exhales a soft breath. It's not necessarily a good thing. The hand on his arm startles him only slightly; Lyulf glances over at Idris, wondering what she wants. Is that concern? No, her expression is hard and tense like she's waiting to do something - pull him out of the line of fire? Why would you do that? But he's probably imagining things (goddamn mushrooms) and she maybe just wants him to shut up and not take the party away from her. Fine then.  He pats her hand. He got the message. Across from him, Baptiste's sarcasm comes swift and easy, a shit-eating grin on his face as he waggles his fork at Idris. Lyulf bites his lip to stifle his expression, caught somewhere between a smile and a grimace. And, like a clockwork, Idris snaps, the flimsy illusion of playing nice shattering into a million pieces with her furious snarl, "You twist every fucking word that someone says to you and it's so irritating, fuck!" "That's Baptiste," Lyulf says without thinking, and blinks over at his brother. "Oh. Um." Shut up, Descartes. "You know, we had a grandmother who used to say things like heebie-jeebies. Do you remember that, Ly? Heebie-jeebies." Lyulf remembers (warm hands, the smell of her perfume, being inferior in the face of Baptiste's picture perfect reputation but not minding as an adoring younger brother).  "She used to say that about us when we got in trouble." Meaning Lyulf because Baptiste has always been better at talking his way out of things. Adds, "Idris isn't old," because that's what he thinks Baptiste is implying (but who really knows what Baptiste thinks?).  He breathes in and looks down at his plate again. Subconsciously, Lyulf has been stabbing his fork down into them both over and over, and they look scarred, and for a wild moment he thinks they're going to burst into flames. That won't be fun. "Can you both just calm down a little bit?" Lyulf says abruptly, lifting his head to meet first his brother then Idris in the eye. Lyulf likes his brother; Baptiste has been nothing but supportive of who ze wants to be, be it Lyulf or Leah, and Baptiste has treated Lyulf well, has been a good brother and, at times, a confidante and friend. And yes, fuck, Baptiste has his faults but he's a package and ze's learnt to take the bad with the good. And Lyulf might not have readily accepted it so soon but ze likes Idris, too. She's all rough and tough but he thinks a part of her genuinely cares about her family's well-being. Besides, she stopped that asshole from roughing zir up too much when no one else would, and she taught zir to fight when no one else wanted to. "It'll be kind of nice if you can just not tear at each other's throats for five minutes." (He doesn't know why he speaks because speaking gets zir in trouble and silence is safe. But silence has a too fucking harsh environment to stay in.)

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

[nyte]

H o l l a n d  A n t o i n e t t e

"I'm a mother, not a saint"

The tension could be cut with a knife. No matter the intentional clatter I made with various dishes as I maneuvered about the delicate tile, their tones were unmistakably hostile and nearly impossible to ignore. Alas, the roast still marinating in the oven to be cooked at 300 degrees fahrenheit for 6 hours was not going to tend itself and I'd be damned if these children's bitching would ruin the perfect meal I had prepared.  I am never one to give into a child's tantrums, no matter how many there seem to be. I couldn't quite make out the words thrown across the table -a lovely oak piece with a dark finish. to be polished weekly with olive oil-though Idris's tone assured me they were less than pleasant,lost on my where that child got her mouth if only on her end. A sigh escapes me, gloved hands tracing their way across my forehead. Beads of sweat clinging to a bright surface.  The oven's heat radiates around the room, trapping itself within plaster walls. I couldn't stand another second in this inferno, my head had already begun to spin. With nearly half an hour until my meal would be fully complete, I made my way out of the kitchen, which by now had caused a slight throbbing at the base of my skull.  The heels strapped tightly to my ankles create a marry tune as I make my way into the dining area. A sly smile dances across pursed lips as my hip finds the doorway with gracious ease. I let out a sigh, ensuring my presence is not lost on them. "Fucking hell you guys are loud." who said profanity was only for the young.  I slowly remove the gloves still suffocating ivory palms, throwing them to the marble floor. My eyes dance from child to child, desperately trying to piece together an image of what could have possibly when on while I was slaving away for their lazy asses.  I pride myself on the non-authoritative tone I take with the children. Preferring to be more of a friend than a mother though I am fully capable  of being one, if the situation calls for it. Young at heart, is that what they call it? Free from the confines of age and as frivolous as I wish to be. If an argument breaks out, damn right I'll join in. I'm a mother, but that doesn't make me inhuman. To let that define me would be the death of my soul as we know it. Simply unacceptable.  I will defend my children to the death. But most of the time, I don't agree with them. Stubborn little shits they are. perhaps i do know where my children's love of profanity originated, not that I much care. I'm a mother, not a saint.  Millions are Lost from home  In the swelling Swelling on  Running round and with a thunder To bleed from thorns Leave a light, a light on

district two female thirty-seven married made by Anzie

[L△LIA]

Families have ways and means of passing traditions along and those outside the circles often have a difficult time understanding. Whatever it is you were trying to imply about Idris (it's all so easy it's borderline boring and if she slips from your mind for a moment, just like a physical fall, you aren't going to rush to catch her), you give it up without hesitance in favor of other thoughts. Her mouth was given to her by her mother and although the elder Antoinette may reign herself in a little more than her daughter, a thrum of laughter catches you off-guard as she makes an appropriately inappropriate contribution to the conversation. Simple. To the point. A hint of something that feels like winning in relation to whatever those thoughts and verbal jabs were about that you can't be bothered with remembering right this second. Catching Lyulf's eye, you wink and grin, because there is something entertaining about this being the woman your father fell for. "Me, Ly?" The mock-shock drips as thick as honey in your voice as you shoot a joking whisper his way, "and here I was just thinking about what a remarkably well-behaved mouth I have." It's been long enough that your brother probably can't remember much, if anything about your mother, but she couldn't have been like this. Maybe that's the point. His first wife was one person and Holland Antoinette is very much another, saving everyone here from getting the wrong kinds of expectations in their heads. It's why their step siblings are struggling so much more, still clinging to ideas of fathers and brothers and sisters that the Descartes half cannot and will not ever personify. The days of being tucked in at night are long past and your parents have no more intention of trying to dredge up those days than you have of taking Idris out for ice cream the way you did Lyulf, back when he was still young enough that sugar and piggyback rides could earn you his allegiance for life. Regardless of whether or not the short fuse across the table from you can wrap her head around the idea that this tradition of being brazenly irritating may be as new as the hyphen in your last name, there are plenty of other things she has missed out on as well. You already have more unconditional love than you've ever actually needed, so she doesn't have to understand a damn thing. The only thing you care about being universally true between you and every member of your surrounding family, both new and old or then and now, is that you always get what you want from them.

[анзие (Anz)]

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Lyulf's new stepmother's mouth wasn't quite what he expected when he first met her. Still isn't, despite the numerous (four) dinners that feel like they last weeks when in fact they last at most an hour (before someone cracks and goes, makes excuses and shoots glares, storms off with a sharp verbal jab over their shoulder). Her words are less venomous than Idris's (or so it seems, but maybe it's because Idris is speaking to Baptiste and Baptiste won some part of Lyulf's desirable heart when they were children - though nowadays it often feels like they've regressed back to childhood - at, "Do you want ice cream?" and, "You can sleep in my bed if you're scared."), but it's easy to see where Fyffe and Idris learned their language.

(Lyulf doesn't quite know what to expect, and while ze doesn't remember Mother ze imagines her to be tall, classy and elegant in swishy gowns of silk because why would Mother have anything less?)

So at Baptiste's whispered jab Lyulf has to stifle a giggle, covering his mouth with his hand, slightly ashamed for laughing at the woman his beloved father married but unable to resist Baptiste's undeniable charm (ze's been Baptiste's little brother for so long and what cruelty his jokes once held are now cushioned with use and familiarity). Just like that his irritation and anger is gone, the buttons for his malleability pressed just right under his dear brother's careless humor. And maybe he should be a bit more concerned about how easy it is for Baptiste to soothe him but at the same time it's so difficult to care when someone else does.

"You do swear less than she does," Lyulf murmurs, the remnants of a smile clinging desperately to his lips. He gives his brother a look that borders on childlike adoration and silent commiseration and wonders if Baptiste will tell him a story about Mother tonight, even at their age.

(It's simple things, little gestures like this that solidify the idea Lyulf's siblings care.

Then they all fall back into old habits.

Just like they always do.)

and oh, you know there's something that i can never say.
coded by anzie with reference to skye@caution2.0

Lyulf-Leah Descartes

i live in my own darkness with giant birds of prey.