terms of bridges burned {anzie}

[Deleted]

It took a brave soul to admit that they needed more than just what they themselves could offer, and if this stood true, than I was indeed a coward. For every night I came home to four walls and the embrace of two parents, with food at a moment’s call and a blanket to wrap myself in. It was a house I never hesitated to call my only home, though I slept often in unknown beds and awoke to people’s whose names I couldn’t even recall. Those places were only locations on a map, they were not a home. And it was this home that brought a slight smile to my face as I took the steps two at a time on my way in, drawing the key out of my pocket and unlocking the door without one last glance on the sunset that lit up the sky behind me. However, I failed to notice the drop of atmosphere in the room which I entered. Of course, it wasn’t unusual for my parents’ heads to be turned in somber conversation, but something about the flickering glances and anxious whispers caught my attention in the slightest. It wasn’t until my father’s stammering voice broke the silence that I truly caught on. “Where have you been, Finnegan?” Oh, I’ve been across the world threefold and back again in a twenty-four hour period, yet I’d never pause to admit it. I’ve seen maps charted on sheets and stars in another’s eyes and a horizon unmarred by a fallen humanity. Oh, how I have seen it all. “Nowhere important.” A chuckle falls short and silence resumes, the three of our gazes intently locked one upon another, no one daring to breathe or further, speak. But it’s the defiance to meet my eyes in its entirety that sends my gaze from my father to my mother, and for just split second I had the privilege of staring directly into the eyes that mirrored my own, and for the first time in quite a while, I saw tears brimming at the corners. I never felt that I was very close to either of the two, but in this moment I felt closer to my mother than I ever had in the past. And I suppose she felt the same, for she was quickly pulling me into an embrace similar to the same manner which I had pressed Leon Krigel’s shattering body against my own. “You need to leave, Finnegan.” And at first I don’t believe it, chuckling quietly while continuing to hold tightly to my mother for she was all I had of home now, for the four walls were quickly crumbling and I was destined to lay dead under their weight. But despite my locked fingers and irregular breathing she breaks from my grasp and returns to my father’s side, a tear falling down her cheek without reason to be, and one look at my solemn father tells me this was not a question, but a demand. I never even had time to ask why. I sat on the curb for a minute or two, fiddling with the loose string at the seam of my jacket for a minute while I let thoughts flicker over options for the night. I could, in theory, sleep here, on the side of road for a night or so, for maybe the morning sun would shed light in the minds of my mother and father, and only then they would reconsider their stupidity and recover from their impulsive thoughts, pulling me in through the door once again to tuck me back against the sheets in which I had become accustomed. However, I couldn’t convince myself to commit to this plan and so I found myself subconsciously wandering in the direction of Uriel’s two-tiered home. Now was a time in which I wanted only to sleep, and that would not come to pass for I would be hovered over with taunting remarks and a satisfied smirk. I could hear his voice now, snapping off phrases such as “so the great Finnegan Hood has been dethroned,” and those of the sort, and with the state of my mind, I’d probably kill the boy then and there. As the night descended upon me I found myself with my back pressed to the brick walls of a building that hadn’t seemed to have seen human contact in the last decade. And though it wasn’t necessarily the most ideal place to hunker down for the night, it did what was absolutely necessary, and with heavy heart and mind I finally let thoughts dwindle until exhaustion set in and took over any will of consciousness I had left. (They hadn’t even told me why.) The sunrise doesn’t give me closure, either, and so with it I pull myself to trembling feet, attempting to rub the stiffness of the previous night from my neck as I uncertainly made my way out of an alley I never wished to see again. This was no way for the great Finnegan Hood to live, and I simply could not do it even an hour more. I could tell Uriel that I had gotten into a skirmish and that I only needed a place to stay in order to prove a point, but the boy was much too smart and would see through my lie before I had even finished it. And by crossing his name off the list I came to its end, pondering only one other name that might take me in and not give me hell about it. Leon wouldn’t mind the companionship, hell, I’m sure he’d be more than willing to let me take up residence for a day or so until the whole situation blew over. Only one problem remained: Leon Krigel was nowhere to be found within the confines of District Four. His own shattered soul had been yanked off once again to advise two poor bastards on the art of living to tell tales of the war, and I’m sure his advice had been subpar. See, there was no real trick to it all, for the ones who survived: Leon, Colgate, Saffron—even, they all tossed aside what they were in order to receive what they needed, and in the end I feel confident in saying that they indeed regretted it. Every victor wished to be dead at one point or another, and there was no art to this in itself. But regardless of the state of his mind and those he had locked from it, I had been given the privilege of access, not only to the thoughts which lay hidden away with dust as a companion, but to the front door of his home as well. Even upon hitting the teenage years I never considered myself as anything close to awkward, but walking up the steps of the Krigel home with knowledge that the one who I wished to be around was nowhere to be found, I could honestly say I felt more out of my element than ever before. I still couldn’t name most of his family, even after spending time around the dinner table with all of them a time or two, so when Nat answers the door I’m comforted enough that I can address the boy by name. He questions me with a raised eyebrow and an amused smirk, but says nothing as I walk in, only that Leon’s bound to be home today and that as per usual I showed up at a time that was nothing short of inconvenient. Yet this is all I hear on the matter for he goes off on his own way and I on mine, winding through quiet halls until I come upon his room, turning the handle with a touch gentle enough as to not draw attention to my own whereabouts. It’s quiet here, and if I stare at the ceiling long enough I can pretend that these four walls are something I can call home too.

[анзие (Anz)]

[newclass=.LeonKscroll]background:transparent;[/newclass][newclass=.LeonKscroll ::-webkit-scrollbar-thumb]border-radius: 5px background-color:rgba(254,222,123,0.2);[/newclass][newclass=.LeonKscroll ::-webkit-scrollbar]width:5px;[/newclass][newclass=.LeonKscroll ::-webkit-scrollbar-track]background-color:rgba(239,172,65,0.2);[/newclass][googlefont="Unica One:400"]

Leon Krigel
so glad we've almost made it
so sad they had to fade it

[attr="class","LeonKscroll"]

His heart is heavy as he dragged his exhausted frame through the door he is not yet used to pushing open (where he used to pull); and he's heavy like he's run the thousands of miles back to Four, back 'home' to this unknown ground surrounded by unfamiliar walls and the people he once knew like the back of his hand watching him like a stranger in their home. Leon struggles along on his own.

And he wouldn't consider it reaching out but his hand was extended for mere minutes towards someone else when he stood upon the Hood family's doorstep the moment he returned to hear that Finn is... out. Out. Always away from home like a child cursed with wanderlust, and Leon follows his lead walking aimlessly throughout the district because home has never been a place but a person, even if that person does not want him around but to pity him.

But he's 'home', now. Leon's 'home' and itching to give someone (Finn Soap Arbor Mace Julian Saffron - anyone) a night call to tell them how it feels with Zelphyr no-last-name's death weighing heavily on his heart - and Jay. Jay.

Is it for the best?

They'll only tell him things he doesn't want to hear. They'll understand but their words will hurt. And maybe that's not what he wants right now, fuck all that he needs.

Nat greets him with an odd look and then a hug tight enough to break his ribs; Leon can barely return it in strength, his false arm tapping awkwardly against Nat's skinny back while his good one attempts to tame it. His little brother gives him a look like he knows what Leon's trying to do and just says, "Arissa and I are making dinner. Mom's out. And Finn's here."

Leon's eyebrow rises slowly. "Huh," he says, and the smirk he gets in response tells Leon that Nat knows exactly when Leon got back and where exactly he's been - looking.

"He's in your room. I'll get you when dinner's ready." Giving his brother a cross-eyed look and a stuck-out tongue to make him smile, Leon starts towards the stairs. Behind him, Nat says, "Don't be too loud, we can hear everything."

Ripred fu-

"Shut up," Leon mutters, the tips of his ears turning red before he can escape the wicked laughter from his evil little brother. Jeez.

Outside his room he pauses, stalls, fiddles with his hair and his collar before taking a deep breath-

And stops. Shakes his head at himself, thinks, Stop that. It's just Finn. Finnegan Hood - you grew up with him.

First adored him.

First kissed him.

First... everything but the one thing that Owen-

(And even a year later it hurts to think his name.)

-that he was freely given - that he took.

I can't ask you for my heart back at all.

Leon opens the door and steps inside.

"Hey."

(A casual word, flippant like he didn't spend hours wandering the streets with his hood over his head - looking.)

[Deleted]

The sheets of Leon’s bed bring back memories of the last full day we spent together, his frame pressed against mine until my arms could no longer hold the frail boy. I was never one for tactile comfort, and this had shown with every robotic movement and awkward gesture I made, eventually settling for holding him so tightly that he couldn’t move enough to cause me to shift, and thankfully, he had been okay with this. I suppose it had been comforting in a way for him, to be held so tightly that he no longer felt like he was falling, because I feel it’s safe to assume that this was the only sensation Leon Krigel had experienced as of late. Maybe it had started when he lost what he had just found. Maybe it had started the moment I shook his hand in the training center. Maybe it had started years before then, when a simple kiss had sealed a fate bigger than either of us. Whenever it had started didn’t matter I suppose, but what mattered was that it hadn’t stopped. And what made it even worse was that it would never stop, not until Leon Krigel was buried six feet under. It’s a nightmare that never ends, and it seems that my own had just begun, and wouldn’t end until I was safe under the same standards. It was at these times, when it seemed that I was falling from my own cliff, that I’d retract to the comfort of my own home, closing in the four walls around my body until I scarcely had space to move, but now, those four walls were the root of my problem. If Leon Krigel was falling apart himself, could I expect him to hold me as well? No, because Finnegan Hood never needed anyone, not even a boy who would give him the world and more if he asked. But maybe this one time, Finnegan Hood wanted something like that. Maybe Finnegan Hood relied more on others than he cared to admit. Maybe he wanted to rely on Leon Krigel more than the cared to think. “Hey.” The sight of the boy in the doorway causes my attention to snap back from where my hand lays on the sheets to where he stands, and my gaze has a hard time meeting his as I attempt to lift my eyes. There’s been a score taken the last forty-eight hours, and at the moment, I was not ahead. There’s a struggle between mind and mouth as I attempt to spit out words tipped with a metal defense to hide from the fact that I no longer had a home to my name, but between each inhalation there’s a pause, and I settle for nodding in his direction instead. There’s silence now, and I refuse to avert my gaze from his, watching as he moves with a pace that isn’t human, but with a glance to his arm, I remember the former isn’t entirely true. (Was it more than only his arm that didn’t function as before?) Eventually, it feels as if we’re competing for the silence rather than basking in it, so I break the stare and fidget with the sheets again, tugging at a loose string until it lengthens between my fingers. “So, Krigel, how was the Capitol? Safe to assume they treated you a bit better this time around? But it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t spoken in the same nonchalant tone his greeting had been. Rather, it was forced, catching in my throat as I struggled to spit it out. Even with his dulled sense of reality—partially due to the drugs and partially due to his own will of memory—Leon Krigel knew me well enough to realize something was amiss. His knowing when my thoughts were misaligned was a weakness of mine, as well as my want of a home and my need of the boy who’s hands trembled as much as my heart. But for now, I could only pray he knew none of the three, not only for my sake, but his as well.

[анзие (Anz)]

[newclass=.LeonKscroll]background:transparent;[/newclass][newclass=.LeonKscroll ::-webkit-scrollbar-thumb]border-radius: 5px background-color:rgba(254,222,123,0.2);[/newclass][newclass=.LeonKscroll ::-webkit-scrollbar]width:5px;[/newclass][newclass=.LeonKscroll ::-webkit-scrollbar-track]background-color:rgba(239,172,65,0.2);[/newclass][googlefont="Unica One:400"]

Leon Krigel
so glad we've almost made it
so sad they had to fade it

[attr="class","LeonKscroll"]

Silence is both comfortable and not, feeling - mostly now, these days - like a cold hand trailing over tired muscles and up the indentation of Leon's spine. He'd become very acquainted with silence in the arena, his nights alone on the desert interspersed with moments of what he'd thought then was calm but revealed itself - on the final day - to only be a monster lurking in the dark. He tried to make it his friend on those lonely days in white-walled rooms, the beeping of surrounding machines barely reaching his ears as Leon first tried to summon the will to move a muscle (and later gave up to choose absolute stillness, hearing only his own automated breaths and sometimes - if he listened closely - the beating of his heart).

The silence between them now seems to be waiting with bated breath, delighting in some despair that Leon can't yet put his finger on. He doesn't press it - doesn't want to. Despair can always wait, after all.

It's patient.

(Which is more than Leon can say about himself.)

“So, Krigel, how was the Capitol? Safe to assume they treated you a bit better this time around?"

The words caught, stuttered, fell short of the aim. The words are the forced sort of lightness - and that's what Leon can't put his finger on yet. But he doesn't mind; Leon's lips curve in a wry little smile, appreciating Finn's attempt to normalize... this. Whatever it's supposed to be, anyway, be it comfort in each others' presence or just- just something that they had. What are we, Finn? A man starved for safety and one who pities him enough to provide.

No, that's not the question he ought to ask.

"You could say that," he says lightly as he crosses the room to undo the many bands wrapped around his wrist. The false hand struggles with the knots, but Leon turns his back on Finn to stop him seeing the look of frustration crossing his face even as he continues, "It was practically a holiday - they fed me so much food. I even gained some weight." Which, Leon notes to himself, Nat will be proud of, even if Leon isn't sure it's not for the hours he spent in the gymnasium bruising his knuckles on the sturdy punching bag. And Colgate, Leon thinks a little bit bitterly. He should have hid his stuff better. If it wasn't for Trix-

Well.

He'd have been in a much worse state.

Leon drops the bands on his desk and passes a hand over his eyes before turning to study Finn closer. What are you thinking, Finnegan Hood?

"I stopped by your place. Your parents said you were out."

He's not quite sure why he's telling Finn now - or at all - but it seems important. Leon toes his shoes off and crosses to the bed, climbing on carefully to settle against Finn's warmth.

His hands are cold.

(Home, sweet home.)

[Deleted]

“You could say that. It was practically a holiday—they fed me so much food I even gained some weight.” Upon further inspection of the boy in front of me, I could tell this was at least partially true (at least I couldn’t see his ribs through his shirt unless I really stared). He fidgets for a while, and at first I watch, intently focused upon each movement he makes, until the obvious discomfort my glare brings about causes me to turn my gaze back to the sheets, and again I pick up the task of pulling the string from before, and this time it comes off into my hand. I wrap it around my finger until it cuts off the circulation, slowly unravelling it until it comes away curled and frayed. Between its color and state I’d almost forgotten about poor Leon Krigel, and it’s not until he speaks again that I remember my location and place. “I stopped by your place. Your parents said you were out.” I can feel every muscle tense and my breath hitch until it’s not coming in even breaths, and I attempt to push the latter out evenly again while relaxing each muscle, beginning with my toes and working upward, all the way into my hands which have the string still grasped tightly between two fingers. He was speaking in too nonchalant of a tone to have realized what they meant by “out,” and this only makes it worse, for now I’m supposed to explain the fact that I’ve got no clothes or dignity or address to my name, and if there’s one thing Finnegan Hood can’t admit, it’s that he has nothing. But I do have something, and it happens to come in the form of a boy who’s now pressing his body against my own, and it’s this that causes my body to relax a bit more. I run trembling fingers through his light hair, while the other hand snakes underneath his shirt to rest against his stomach. He’s warmer than I, and it seems that where blood once ran has been replaced with ice. We sit there in silence again, for a moment or two, while I contemplate how to allude to my own lack of home without giving it away, without giving myself reason to relive my previous night spent in the alley, racked with sobs shed for the sole reason that I no longer had the support I so heavily depended upon. I suppose some would argue that it was because I loved my mother and father, but love goes in both ways, and if this had been true, than my soul would not have been kicked to the curb and I wouldn’t have to contemplate this now. No, true love doesn’t even have to be thought about. And it’s not thought about when I press my head to the top of Leon Krigel’s, letting out a deep breath before finding some kind of voice that would match the one that usually spoke with confidence and vanity. “Did they happen to mention how long ‘out’ would be for?” I tried to follow it with a chuckle, some sort of indicator that this period of uncertainty didn’t bother me at all, but it comes short, stopping and starting in a way that’s almost mechanical, like some kind of wind-up toy, like some kind of Leon Krigel. Takes one to know one, I suppose, and I’m only sure that Leon Krigel knows. But then again, when didn’t he? I put this off, however, and continue to fill the silence of my own mind with the thought of tracing imaginary lines across his stomach, letting fingers trace a prettier picture than any piece of temporal art. Skin was a medium that spoke in a deeper, wiser voice than any paint or pastel, and I imagine all the hands that have made a mark on Leon Krigel before. (One too many, I assume).

[анзие (Anz)]

[newclass=.LeonKscroll]background:transparent;[/newclass][newclass=.LeonKscroll ::-webkit-scrollbar-thumb]border-radius: 5px background-color:rgba(254,222,123,0.2);[/newclass][newclass=.LeonKscroll ::-webkit-scrollbar]width:5px;[/newclass][newclass=.LeonKscroll ::-webkit-scrollbar-track]background-color:rgba(239,172,65,0.2);[/newclass][googlefont="Unica One:400"]

Leon Krigel
so glad we've almost made it
so sad they had to fade it

[attr="class","LeonKscroll"]

The truth is that with Finn, Leon has to try.

It's not even something he does voluntarily - it's almost out of habit, maybe, because he's been trying so hard with Finn that sometimes others seem to be but wisps of nothing but smoke where Finnegan Hood is the guiding will-o, darting forwards and beckoning Leon forwards like some sort of siren, like some kind of lover.

(In contrast Owen is the dancing ember from sparking fire, leading him stumbling until he vanishes into nothing and Leon is left in the dark on his own.)

But Leon hates that he does - never wants to try with Finn, wants it to be easy and nice and everything it was with Owen. Except that it's almost impossible; Finn equates with unattainable, a word Leon has long associated with him - from the very start, from the very first time he laid eyes on Finnegan Hood he started trying.

It's pathetic.

And this is no different. Whatever it is they have between them - it's no different from those early days with cautious hands and careful lips; it's a feeling no different from when he used to wait with bated breath with his eyes on Finnegan Hood.

(But Leon loves it all at once, shamelessly tucks his face against Finn's shoulder and breathes in the scent of home.)

“Did they happen to mention how long ‘out’ would be for?”

Leon lifts his head at the false, empty laugh, brows furrowed in vague concern. The look on Finn's face was... strange, quite like he's not sure what to think or say. That in itself is strange because in the time Leon has known Finn, he's always known what to say. He's always been in control.

Even at the start, Finn's been in control.

Leon doesn't look away even as Finn's hand trails over the sensitive skin of his middle. Leon exhales slowly, curling his fingers in Finn's shirt (except, on closer inspection, it's actually his own, and Leon has to bite - bite hard - on his cheek to keep from smiling. Because it's nothing but pity.) "Something you want to talk to me about?" he says, breathing the words against Finn's cheek.

He's always needed a wild heart, and Finn is nothing but wild.

"Your turn to share, Hood."

[Deleted]

Leon’s always been a pusher. No, not a drug pusher (though lately, that’s been true as well). But he’s always been the type to know what people were thinking, yet not say it himself. He always made the confession come from the mouth of the guilty, rather than showing his knowledge off. It was like Sherlock Holmes making the murderer speak his case before he reveals, showing that he not only has the knowledge of the case, but the power over those involved as well. It was smart in a way, that is, when you weren’t the one accused. Too bad I was standing on trial with Leon Krigel dangling the pieces of my case right in front of my nose with the intention of spilling every one. “Something you want to talk to me about?” Yeah, I suppose there is, yet I can’t bring myself to say it so I keep my head resting atop his, hoping that my lack of response will bring about a change of topic. But he stays quiet, trained and focused upon what he’s discovered. “No, not really Krigel.” But like every word I’ve spoken it falters, stumbles, and breaks in front of him. There’s no avoiding what’s already come to light, and he knows this as well as I. “You’re turn to share, Hood.” There’s another push, another shove towards cracking any wall I’ve got left, and between every passing second it’s another break, another tear, another grain of salt in the open wound that’s been left upon my skin. But the problem stands that there’s no easy way to bring up what I’d like to say, and the more I avert my gaze the more I realize that this won’t get easier as time passes by, and the room begins to spin as I clutch tighter to his body, thoughts swarming one into another as I replay the events of the previous day. There’s nothing left, no home, no pride, no— “They kicked me out.” No place to call my own. It’s silent again for a moment, and with each passing moment it’s getting harder to breathe as I fight back each tear that’s threatening to spill over and start a flood. There’s nothing to hold onto besides the boy pressed against me, and so I grab, clinging to his sleeve, his body, anything that I can hold to remind me that I’ve still got something. I just need something. But it’s upon my holding to him that the first tear falls, spills onto my—his shirt and sets the pattern, for now it’s just a river flowing rapid, washing away any hope of composure or dignity. I’ve never broken before, never been laid out in front of another in a way so vulnerable. How fitting would it be that the one time it happens it’s in front of Leon Krigel himself, the one who I’ve equated with broken since he struck down Siren Baitwell. (But oh, aren’t we all just a little more than broken?) This is the same scene that played out the third day, when Leon and Owen had held each other so tightly in hopes that they could put each other back together. (But oh, my friends, what’s broken is never fixed again.) I couldn’t convince myself of this, however, for my grip hasn’t loosened and my mind hasn’t cleared, and it’s as if I’m running through the fog with no sense of direction, only knowing that I’m trying to leave, trying to get away— “Leon, I don’t know what to do.” And truly I don’t for my heart of stone has shattered and is left in a much more vulnerable state, replaced with glass that’s cracked already and threatens to pierce any flesh that’s left, though it can’t be much, for I’m practically torn apart as is. I can only grab tighter to what’s sitting in front of me, and that threatens to break too.

[анзие (Anz)]

[newclass=.LeonKscroll]background:transparent;[/newclass][newclass=.LeonKscroll ::-webkit-scrollbar-thumb]border-radius: 5px background-color:rgba(254,222,123,0.2);[/newclass][newclass=.LeonKscroll ::-webkit-scrollbar]width:5px;[/newclass][newclass=.LeonKscroll ::-webkit-scrollbar-track]background-color:rgba(239,172,65,0.2);[/newclass][googlefont="Unica One:400"]

Leon Krigel
you can be the outcast
or the backlash of somebody's lack of love

[attr="class","LeonKscroll"]

When the heart falters it is a reminder of mortality, and Leon's constantly racing heart has been faltering all this time to match the beat of Finnegan's own, just enough to keep himself alive. Except now Leon's not quite so sure that he's the one in the other person's footsteps.

He's never seen Finnegan Hood break like this - or at all. He's always been the embodiment of casual confidence, the very definition of aloof, and to see him vulnerable throws Leon off balance, and Leon isn't sure his world isn't sitting on its side.

(His world has been sitting on its side for a year, now, despite his struggles to right it. Maybe he's gotten used to it; maybe he'll get used to this.)

Their silence is pregnant, but Leon is content within it, content waiting for Finn's response.

"They kicked me out. Leon, I don't know what to do."

In the moments that follow, Leon's fingers slide across the inside of Finn's elbow, nails scratching lightly over sensitive skin (and he wants to press a kiss to the gentle pink marks he's left behind, but presses his lips against the edge of Finn's sleeve instead, a sorry apology). In his wildest dreams he would have expected the truth from Finnegan Hood's lips, but he should have expected that the truth would be heavy as blocks of stone laid across his back; should have expected them to latch themselves like life-sucking limpets upon his own heart. Leon breathes slowly on Finn's skin, imagining that he's making a mark on the tanned canvas, leaving himself permanently etched upon the other boy. 

And Leon should pick it up, pick it all up to start again like they can have second chances, like they can return to a home they'd never had to begin with. And maybe they can be each others' medicine, turn each other into what they want each other to be. Be strong, be brave; and Leon can feel Finn's warm heart beating, can feel Finn's life at the tips of his own fingers, and it is a comfort, it is Finn. He should make this better, if only he knew how.

We could run away and pretend the last eighteen years never happened, Finn. We could start over on our own. Just us.

The words would never leave his tongue, but Leon presses them silently on Finn's shoulder, maybe hoping one day he'll look at himself in the mirror and see.

"Stay with me," Leon says, and damn if he doesn't sound bereft, hopeful, uncertain and totally over his head all at once. He clears his throat and repeats the request, softer but more firmly all at once. "You'll always have a place here."

(How pathetic he is, what a sorry figure he cuts; a victor metaphorically on his knees, looking upon the one thing he'd never caught the attention of until almost a year ago - when he started living on borrowed time, borrowed from twenty-three others - twenty-four, twenty-five, now, with more broken children added to the list and even more to come.

There is always more to come.)

On a whisper he's not even sure Finn can hear, Leon says, "Please stay with me."

[Deleted]

“Stay with me. You’ll always have a place here.” But the world said the same to those it buried beneath its foot. We’re all dead men walking, I suppose. Only some take longer to bleed dry than others, and Leon’s been bleeding dry for over a year now. I could join him—bleeding dry for an admiration undeserved. And that’s all it was. Undeserved, like each successive breath I took and each touch laid to my skin. It’s this same touch that causes me to shy away with nowhere to go, and instead I end up caught in place, breathing heavily as a nail, two, three— skims the sensitive underside of my elbow. There’s vulnerability here, and that’s scarier than any loss of home or body bled dry. But I can’t help but think, can’t help but ponder what life would be like if I took up residence under the Krigel home. It would mean more awkward conversation with a family who probably didn’t long for my company, anyway. On the opposite side of the spectrum, it meant security under one whose word (although broken and stuttering) carried more weight than anyone’s. Then again, what security does spoken word really offer? More than I have now, at the least. “Please stay with me.” It’s only then that I realize I’ve remained silent until this point, with one heart latched to my sleeve and the other crumbling behind the walls of a fragmented chest. But this simply couldn’t be right for I was strong and I was unbroken and I was something more than the one I held tight. Tragedy knocks us from a sense of security down to the level which we scorn with a beguiled heart. And though I try desperately to take hold of the situation and grab the sense of confidence that hides in the furthest corners of my heart, I can do nothing but watch him. I can do nothing but watch as he presses his lips to the place he’s just marked, as if he’s claiming something that’s yet to be touched, yet to be broken. (But Finnegan Hood simply can’t be broken because it’s his job to break others, to crack and to mar. In the same way he’s marked Leon Krigel. Finnegan Hood is two parts pride and one part sarcasm, and that leaves no room for the weight that’s pressing upon his chest—no room for the irregular pace of the breaths that can’t quite be taken normally.) I don’t speak simply because I cannot manage the words. Instead I lift his chin with a trembling finger and nod while meeting his eyes for a second before taking the same position he had assumed just weeks ago. And though I craved the confidence that ran with a steady step and a head held high, now was not the time that the urge played dominant. Right now what I yearned for was a home, and Leon Krigel had only managed to offer four walls and a roof. That was good enough for now, I suppose. The first tear doesn’t fall until I’ve pressed my head firmly into the crook of his shoulder, but the first breaks a barrier and it seems as if what’s been tucked away in dark rooms and shady handshakes has finally been brought to light. It leaves me feeling exposed, spread open for any to see though only one pair of eyes had access to the raw, bare-bone nature of my heart. It had to be Leon Krigel. Incidentally this was the same thought that coursed through my mind at his name being drawn just a year or so ago, but now it’s under slightly different circumstances. See then he had himself to save and I was playing only a game, but now the tables were turned and my strategies had been overturned at his luck. But that’s the game we’re all playing, really—a game of luck and nothing more. It’s my move and I’d try to snark—try to slip out a “I owe you one, Krigel” or “I guess this is okay for now,” but I can’t manage the best of these so instead I press myself as close to his own body as I can and sob, not only for my sake, but for his as well.