my heart is reckless // ghosty

[Stare]

so then we grew a little and knew a lot
and now we demonstrated it to the cops
and all the things we said
we were self-assured

It shouldn't have surprised anyone that Kestrel was sneaking out that night.

What should have been surprising was that even after a fight with her mother, she was polite enough to do so quietly. There had been nights when she'd made sure the entire neighborhood knew she was leaving her house, but on that night she silently slid on her boots, shoved her flats and candles into her bag, and grabbed her violin off her bedside table. She even made sure that the front door didn't bang behind her before burying her nose into her scarf and bracing herself against the winter cold, her case clutched tightly in already numb fingers.

As she trudged out into the snow her eyes narrowed into slits against the wind. She hated winter. Hated the snow that erased all color from the world, hated the way the sun almost never shone, hated the icy hell she was banished to for months on end. The chilled dampness was already leaking in to soak her socks and freeze her toes, but she gritted her teeth and marched on. She needed to get away from the house, away from her mother, away from everything. She was just so tired of the world.

Eventually she noticed a shadow looming - something slightly darker gray than its surroundings. Her eyes lit up. An old shack. As she got closer she noted the intricate patterns frost played on the windows and the way one of the shutters hung loose. A shed, or maybe a cellar. Her fingers ran over the splintering wood. Abandoned? Her eyes darted around and saw a larger shadow nearby. A house, probably. For a moment she hesitated, then tried the door. It was unlocked. She glanced one more time over her shoulder.

They probably wouldn't care, anyway.

As soon as she was inside she unwound her scarf and shrugged off her jacket, kicking the snow plastered garments carelessly onto the floor. It was dark inside and smelled distinctly earthy, but she could tell there was room to spare. Perfect. She kicked her boots to one side, cringing when they hit something metal, before sitting on the floor and peeling off her wet socks, grimacing as she tried to curl her numb toes.

Eventually she made her way over to her bag and pulled out the candles, setting them randomly on different surfaces and lighting them carefully. The owners would be none the wiser if she spent an hour there and left it the way she'd found it, but they'd certainly notice if she burned the whole thing to the ground. The candles cast a warmer glow on the area, and even though the cold was still present, the walls sheltered her from the frigid wind and kept everything fairly dry. It felt almost cozy, in a way. She smiled as she slid on her flats and popped open her case, settling into the familiar role of freedom. There was no mother to roll her eyes, no father to radiate that silent disappointment, no expectations for propriety or decency. There was only her.

And slowly, softly, she began to play. The notes came easily to her, a memorized tune she'd learned years ago. Her feet began to move as if on their own, stepping in time with the music until she slipped into adagio. The music quickened and so did she, falling into pirouettes, arabesques. Falling into freedom.

But then there was a noise that stopped her suddenly, a banging outside that she swore made her heart freeze. She lost her balance and nearly tumbled into the wall, grip tightening protectively on her violin. She felt all the color drain from her face and wondered briefly, foolishly, if she could simply run and pretend she'd never been. But no, the candles were still lit, her clothes lying on the floor. Her shoulders sagged.

"I-I'm so sorry," she called out, surprised she was able to speak at all. "I thought - or, I, um, I didn't think - I mean - I'm really sorry, I'll leave."

'cause it's a long road to wisdom
but it's a short one
to being ignored

[ghosty]

[googlefont=Marck Script:400]

Bailey Vocatus Life in the Vocatus household is never quiet. Someone is always doing something that makes a noise, let it be making the new kind of beer that the Capitol wants for some ridiculously expensive party, or having the bar open, or even when everyone's sleeping. Always noise. And Bailey, he doesn't like the noise that seems to be rife in the house. For a change, the work for one day had finished, and they were still on the same day that they had started on. And leaving the noise behind him, he slipped outside, hoping before anyone could notice his departure. He always went out for a walk if the noise got too much. Before his fuse blew out. And considering his long periods of working, the fuse is narrower than a hair-width from breaking, Like even the faintest touch from a gnat would shatter it into a million peices. But the sneaky alcohol that he takes normally prevents such events happening, increasing the fuse beyond what it would do normally. And his tiny flask in his pocket, sloshes around, the liquid inside a relief from his life.  Even in the cold winter air, Bailey wandered slowly through the District, beyond sight of the pub, which seems to take more and more of his life away from him, and him giving more and more of his effort into being the best brewer in the family, despite his age. And it's paying off, learning all the abilities that are required to make his alcohol some of the best in the whole of District 9, and quite possibly, the best in the whole of Panem. But only more effort will get the results that he wants. A couple of years ago, on either the first or second of these walks, Bailey found a tiny shack, one that no one seemed to live at, and the perfect place to sit and be alone to his thoughts, and alcohol to take effect and let the fuse of his life to recover, to get his energy stores back up and running. It's his tiny little shack of heaven. And that was where he was headed. No one in his family knew he left the house at nights, that he entered this place to be himself, all by himself. And no one knows the real him. But this time, the shack was alive; the flickering calmness of candlelight, the tappity tap! of feet dancing, all topped of with the sound of a single violin, the tune full of joy, and the tune changed, it's speed increasing, and the feet increasing it's variety and speed to match. And Bailey's hand knocks on the door in the politeness his parents drilled into him. And the music and the dancing stopped almost as soon as he tapped the door. And a woman's voice calls out ""I-I'm so sorry! I thought - or, I, um, I didn't think - I mean - I'm really sorry, I'll leave." Considering the courtesy that his mother said he should do to all women, he talks back to the woman. "I don't own here, I just come here for some relief from my family. You can stay." And making sure before he does so, he calls out again. "Is it alright if I come in?" He wants to meet the girl that made the normally solid, focused face into a beaming smile.  wc: five hundred and sixty five.

[Stare]

falling like a snowflake on the road
heavy like your footprints in the snow
turning like a wheel that moves the soul
burning like a star that guides you home

When she heard the youth in the voice Kestrel felt relief flood through her despite herself. Her sigh drifted as a whisper of white against the cold. After a moment she righted herself, pushing off a wall and smoothing out her shirt and hair. Her heart still fluttered wildly in her chest and the adrenaline burned painfully with nowhere to go.

Being interrupted in a dance was like being yanked from a dream. She focused on the flicker of the candlelight against the worn walls, trying to recenter her thoughts from when they'd gone wild and free. It was why she loved to play so much. Music was something that filled her so much that there wasn't room left for worrying or thinking. Sometimes, when the notes hit a crescendo and flew through her veins as she twisted up into a perfect arabesque, she swore that the world disappeared and she was among only the ether. The moment always ended - it had to - but it never failed to leave her feeling breathless and starstruck.

Her mother would never know that feeling, to dance and sing with the stars.

After a few beats of silence she collected herself enough to glance outside and try to catch a glimpse of the intruder. The candlelight caused a glare, though, and all she could see was her own reflection. Sunken eyes, pale skin, wild hair. She blinked at herself before puffing out another sigh, brushing her bangs out of her face. As usual, she looked the part of a disaster. Sometimes it seemed that was all she was ever good at - making a mess of herself.

She wondered for an instant if she could refuse to let him come in. She'd run from her home to escape the disapproval, and she was certain once the stranger saw her candles and violin he'd assume the same things her parents did. Accusations of insanity certainly wouldn't do anything to improve her mood. Her eyes flickered shut and for a moment she heard their voices echoing in her head. You embarrass us! You make a mockery of the family. What will people say when they see who we've raised you to be? Her mother, of course. And then her father would come in, more gentle but still disappointed. Always disappointed. What will you do with music, Kes? They'll never take a district citizen as entertainment in the Capitol. Be practical. His words, though spoken more kindly, cut her sharper than her mother's did.

And she'd responded as she always did. To hell with practicality. We can all see how far it took this family.

She hesitated only for a moment before moving toward the door. The place wasn't hers, either - she could hardly refuse to let him in. Swinging it open, she winced against the cold and instantly skittered back into her kingdom of candles, brushing a bit of fallen snow from her hair with one hand while protecting her violin with the other. She saw the silhouette against the storm. Definitely male, taller than her, but she couldn't make out his features. "I'm sorry," she repeated, feeling foolish when she realized she had no idea what she was apologizing for. That was another thing she was good at. Looking foolish. "I - I come here for that, too. Relief, I mean. From my family. Also."

Idiot. Heat spread over her face and she took another step back, startled when her elbow upset a shelf and one of her candles fell over. It was extinguished before it hit the ground, but its glass vase shattered instantly. She cringed, gaze darting toward the stranger before she carefully set her violin aside and dipped down to inspect the mess, hoping her face was hidden enough that he couldn't see how red it was. She reached to begin gathering the pieces and then hissed in pain when the first one sliced her finger, drawing her hand back sharply.

"I, um," she began awkwardly, cradling her hand to her stomach and looking up at him again. "I'll clean this up and leave. If you want to be alone, I mean. I'm kind of a mess." Her laugh was only somewhat forced, and it eased her own nerves a bit. "In case you couldn't tell already."

‘cause i swear when you get there you’ll belong
sending up a flare to guide you on
siphoning the best times that we’ve known
and spiralling their outlines in the snow

[ghosty]

[googlefont=Marck Script:400]

Bailey Vocatus The silence was stark, especially considering the music that once filled the tiny shack. Bailey waited patiently until the person inside opened, the cold no longer even registering for him; curiosity stopped that sensation as soon as he heard the violin strings . And Bailey realizes that his mother wouldn't be happy that he has a) he creeped out of the home, at night, and had b) met with someone in a shack that she doesn't know exists, quite a distance away from the pub. And he will strive to make sure she does not find out, whatever the cost. It'll normally involve bribing either Everclear, or Tequila to tell Mom that Bailey was there all night. But for that to happen, he has to be at home before his Mom calls him to awake in the morning. And that, quite possibly, can be whenever the hell she wants. But the door swung open, almost surprising Bailey with the speed that it did. But considering the way that he interrupted her mid flow in her music, it was understandable, and he had been expecting it. "I'm sorry. I - I come here for that, too. Relief, I mean. From my family. Also." Despite himself, Bailey wanted to tell her there is nothing to be sorry for, that he should be more sorry for interrupting her. And he went to take a look at the girl inside, but before he could, she backed into the shack again, back out of the cold. He walks through the door slowly, as if not wanting to startle an animal. But no animal was involved; he didn't want to damage the shack anymore than it already is. The wind was bad enough as it was, let alone making it worse. And then, Bailey hears a smash! Peeking his head around the door, he sees a smattering of glass upon the floor, and a candle, the wick burnt through, and used. The girl bends down and starts to clear up the glass. And stepping in, the first thing he sees is her cutting her finger on a bit of glass. Lurching up, she says "I, um, I'll clean this up and leave. If you want to be alone, I mean. I'm kind of a mess. In case you couldn't tell already." Bailey sniffed in a laugh, so not to seem to laugh at her. "Ain't we all? No, it's always nice with a bit of company out here." Considering the amount of blood peeking through her fingers, that was more important than the silence that being alone gave to sort out her hand. "And anyway, I wouldn't of let you leave until we make sure your hand is alright." Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out the silver flask from within, and takes a swig. Reaching is hand out, he offers, "Want some brandy?" wc: four hundred and eighty.