retrouvailles | gabs + ali

[gamemaker kelsier]

                                         
                                     
                                                        

I never even noticed how shitty the world is. I can't believe I never saw it before. I should have noticed it because that's all I can do now when I look around me. All I see is ugliness, people scraping by and for what? What reason?

The world we live in is disgusting and dirty, a layer of scum covers the bottom of the houses for a foot up in the slums. All our roads here are dirt, even when we clean the line, all of them just get dirty again. No one bothers anymore. Fences are covered in graffiti and the trashcans overflow because the District stopped sending workers around to pick them up from here. No one cares.

It's the slums.

No one cares about the slums or us.

It's disgusting. The world is really an ugly place.

I kick a rock all the way out of the slums and it bounces along the side of the road and hits fences and fire hydrants with loud bangs and clangs.

It's five in the fucking morning and I'm sweating like a whore in church already despite the fact that it isn't warm by any means. I'm just terrified.

It's just that it's my first day of school.

I mean, I've been back to school since I was stabbed and I almost died but I was only going for three days a week and even then I went home a lot of the time due to stress. My hair went half white from stress.

That's a lie, hair doesn't do that. That only happens in stories. My hair went white because I didn't want to walk into a rich kid school with brown hair. I didn't want to be recognized too easily. So I went to the market, the more underground one, I got my hands on some bleach.

Mam cried when she saw my white hair. She said I wasn't her handsome little boy anymore and I said I agreed with her.

I was scouted by a prestigious training school last week during physical education. It happens every so often that scouts come to the school and decide to take a couple of us. A lot of the time it's just to use us slums kids as training fodder. No one cares what happens to us, we're from the slums.

This kid I know knew this kid who was scouted by a training school and apparently he killed himself after one week there because it was so bad.

But I've got so much to live for.

The sun rises slow and sweet and peaks itself lazily over the rooftops of the middle class houses. I've got farther to go still. The school I'm attending is where the rich live. Mam was proud when she found out but she also knows I'm not doing this because I want to be trained. She knows I'm doing it to find the kid who stabbed me.

She thinks it's unhealthy of me to be holding onto it like this.

She thinks that I should just live and let go and that I shouldn't do anything about it.

That's because she always let Mom walk over her. When we left Mom, I was six years old and we left in the middle of the night, as quiet as possible so that Mam wouldn't have to confront her, so we wouldn't be inconvenient.

I want to make a fuss for once.

I'm tired of the Lutece's being walked all over.

My father had a sword and he swung it.

I will swing mine too.

When I reach the school I walk through the front door, pushing the glass double doors aside. I will not be silent anymore, I will not hide at the back of the class.

I will fight.

I will win.

I register at the office and the woman wrinkles her nose slightly at my faded clothing. I look at her manicured nails and pink lipstick. They're nice. Her personality is shit though. She holds my class schedule pinched between two fingers like I'm some feral creature. After she gives me a bag with my uniform I bare my teeth at her and leave to get changed in the bathroom.

The uniform is snobby and the collar is stiff and tight on my neck. Kids start to arrive and I watch from my spot in the hallway, leaning against the wall as they pass by. They all walk heads held high, noses in the air. I hate them.

I don't see him in the crowd, the one who stabbed me.

They all look the same anyway.

I go through my first two classes without a problem, no one comments on my presence. I sit at the back of the class for both periods, preferring to not have anyone behind me wher eI can't see them.

Third period marks the beginning of training.

When I enter the large training gym, I only get two paces before the instructor is introducing me. Makes sense. This is the class where they plan to make use of me I guess, the reason I got here in the first place.

"Class, this is Gabriel. He'll be joining us for the rest of the year. Please give him a warm welcome."

He pairs me up with some kid that has a nose for a face. I'm serious, his nose is so flat that it takes up the entire thing.

I tell him so and his fist comes flying at my face.

I dodge it and swing my leg into his side. He see it coming but it's too late for him by the time he does. I steal the air from his lungs like it's my goddamned job and I steal it well. He's hacking a lung up on his knees by the time I get my balance back.

The instructor watches from across the room. We're meant to be spotting each other's lifts, not having a sparr but he doesn't care.

No one does.

They just keep going on with their training as mr. flatnose here climbs to his feet.

Fucking monsters.

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

[presto][/presto]

It’s hard to breathe. Morning has come much too quickly, forgetting to remove the weights pressed against my chest. My legs are stiff as I swing them over the bed, old wounds and scraped skin sending fire up my skin. I must sink my teeth into my tongue to keep from screaming. I’m not too sure where I found the strength to stumble over to the mirror, holding myself upright with nails dug into the red wood of my desk.

Bloody trails make their way down my face, father’s bejeweled fingers having left a gash upon my forehead. It’d be easy enough to hide, I figure, pulling my bangs in front of the wound. Not that it matters here. We don’t ask and we don’t tell and that’s how things are meant to be. It’s not like I could hide the yellowing ring around my left eye from two beatings ago, it’s not like I even tried.

I don’t really know how I managed to make my way into the bathroom, leaving dark metallic stains upon a white cloth and pulling tight jeans around scarred legs. For a dying boy, I dress impeccably. Stacking sweaters upon my long sleeves to hide how slight I have become. To hide that every bone is hugged by skin turned translucent. I brush out knots in my hair left by restless tossing and turning and fitful sleep.

And I skip breakfast because I am rarely hungry anymore. I only eat to stop the spinning in my head and that is bearable this morning. Mother doesn’t look at me when I leave, weighed down by something much heavier than the bag over my shoulder. Even though we are the only two souls remaining in that house, she pretends I don’t exist because that is easier I guess.

I’m always so cold now. It’s as though when color left my world it took every last drop of happiness with it. Leaving the streets gray and the sky gray and the sun black and winter eternal. I’m late, by now, I think. I must have missed most of the morning lessons but my parents really won’t hurt me too bad unless I miss training. I don’t even think the teachers notice my absence anymore. Maybe it’s better that way. Maybe it’s better no one remember I exist. (Because it’d be better had I never existed at all.)

It’ll be at least another hour until I make it to school. My feet drag across the pavement, wearing a hole in the soles of my shoes. The familiar path is almost comforting, knowing that in the little flower shop on the street corner I will recieve the only smile I’ll get all day. I miss smiles. They are so bright and so warm, something hopeful that sends color through my veins like fire. A pain even more beautiful than the nails which slice through my skin nights when I cannot sleep.

”Same old, Deary?” a woman with dark silver braids and a wide toothed grin croaks, already reaching for the bundle of white roses she stores behind the counter. I can only offer her a tired nod, fingers pressing small green bills to the counter and holding the flowers to my heart as though they were a cure and I a dying man.

”Thank you so much ma’am.” Even my voice sounds tired, crumbling like porcelain and cracking like glass. I can see her brows furrow as I turn away, dragging a leg sprained by father’s love behind me. I can feel her eyes, her concern, press thickly against my neck and I exit before she can offer me any help. I don’t need it.

The alley is quiet today, the only carcasses remaining are those of the flowers that nobody knows I leave. Carefully, I arrange the new ones next to where I last saw the body of the boy I killed. I feel pathetic, sitting across from some flowers with my knees pulled to my chest. Imagining what the boy must have thought of me before light left his eyes. Before life slipped through his fingers like blood through mine. Surely he saw me as the monster I was.

”I wanted to ask you.” my voice is soft, barely there really, eyes glued to a single red brick where a boy once stood. ”What is it like to die? Like, not the dying part but… when it actually happens. Does that hurt too? Or is it kind of nice?” I bite back a sob, silence growing thicker as I talk to a dead boy. ”I think it’ll be nice, really. A relief. Living is… it’s been a lot harder since I killed you. I used to believe in a god, you know? But I kind of hope now, whatever happens, that when I die it’s just the end. I don’t want a heaven or a hell or anything. I just want to be absolutely nothing. You know?” He doesn’t. The boy I killed doesn’t know much of anything anymore. But truthfully he’s been a better friend than any of my living ones.

I’ve made it to training just in time (at least father has no excuse to break my nose again) the bell ringing shrill in my ears as the door slams shut behind me. A boy stands in the front of the class with pretty eyes and white hair. He’s not from here, too young to be a new student and I’ve seen hide nor hair of him in sixteen years of monotony. He’s a scholarship kid, most likely. I like those kind. They’re nicer than damn near every rich career in this room.

The teacher knows better than to pair me up with anyone, knows I’ll just stand there and get beat half to death (again) and it’s too much paperwork so he just leaves me be.

He pairs the new kid up with my little brother (one who is about twice my size, not that that’s any sort of accomplishment) a hot headed boy who’s always looking to pick a fight. And sure enough fists fly. It’s surprising, but not unpleasant, to see his ass get kicked by a transfer. That’d be enough to tear a nice little hole in his ego for a while. A smile cracks my lips as I manage to get to my feet, making my way over to where he’s clenching his fists, preparing to get his ass kicked once again. ”Hey Mill, teach says he wants you with Jack instead, if you can’t control yourself.” The lie is an obvious one but I think he’s too shocked I’ve spoken to argue, grumbling and lumbering off to where our big brother sat.

I lick my lips, looking at Gabriel as apologetically as I can manage. ”He’s kind of an asshole, sorry about that. You’re not hurt, are you?” I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes, I can’t meet anyone’s anymore.

[gamemaker kelsier]

I don't know what's more pitiful. The kid I've just beaten down to the mat or the one who's come to 'rescue' me. Or perhaps it's me. The kid so full of rage that his vision is spotting red as soon as he gets to throw a good punch.

I'm ready to hit him again.

Maybe I'm more like my mother than I thought. My fists curl up tight at my sides and my body tenses as the kid with a nose the size of the District looks between me and the skeleton boy who thinks himself a referee. I can see the calculation in his piggy little eyes, wondering if I'm worth it. It's like watching a diagram get drawn as I watch his expression change with the dripping of thought down into his head. He's taken one beating already. He doesn't need to be embarrassed again. The smaller kid is calm, almost looks rationale. He knows this too. This kid named Mil will slink off like he's been told to, like the good little piggy that he is.

It doesn't keep the simmering rage from trying to make it's way up my throat again as he bumbles off. Pissing him off enough to get a rise out of him had been easy.I hadn't meant to get pissed off in the process. I used to be patient. I used to use violence as a last resort, just like Mam.

But the world's a fucking shit show and so am I.

The only difference is that I know exactly how I became like this. I've been here for too long. The night that kid stabbed me, nearly killing me, that was a wake up call. I understtod then that the world outside my grandparent's tea shop was not the rosy place that I'd imagined it to be. After Mam and I left Mother, I thought that we'd be okay. I thought that we'd be safe. I was wrong. People are cruel. I was dumb. Like a tea bag that's been left to steep too long, the society that I live in has turned my soul a deep black.

So I shut my eyes and I count in my head until my fists uncurl.

I don't have much experience with anger. All I know is the remnants of myself that I salvaged from the death I almost had, marked by the angry pink scar on my stomach. The skin is knotted there, like a piece of wood with an affliction. Maybe the blade he pushed underneath my skin held poison on it's edge. Maybe I'm still dying but just different. I feel like this anger is going to burn me alive from the roots out.

When I think that I can handle myself again I open my eyes and focus on the boy in front of me. I don't know if he's stopping the fight for the kid's benefit or mine. I don't know if he expects me to be grateful. I don't think they're used to kids from the slums fighting back around here. I guess it's pretty well known that we're all a bunch of weaklings. Which is why some career thought me such an easy kill I guess. There's no bravery involved in killing a boy like me. Like I was. All that is, is cowardice.

I'm angry right now, I'm so angry.

The boy standing, no, shaking in front of me though looks like skin and bones. I don't think he's had a descent meal in weeks. His skin is pale too, it makes the bruises that he's trying to hide with a long shirt stand out better. Right now, with the amount of training I have, I could beat a kid like this into the ground. I should. He's like the rest of them, he's a career, one of the monsters that made me.

But what's the point in that when this 'monster' has already been defeated.

I loosen my fits and they uncurl at my side.

"That's bravery, Gabs. Knowing when to fight and when not to."

Choosing your opponents too. That's what Mam says. You shouldn't ever start a fight with someone smaller than you because you're likely to really hurt them. Use your strength to protect, not to harm. Not to harm.

Some people ignore those rules.

"I'm fine," I tell him stiffly, voice colder than I mean it to be, "You should ask him how he is." He definitely got it worse than me, I notice with a hint of pride as he sits down slowly beside a boy that can only be Jack.

I gaze at the kid in front of me fully, not hiding the fact that I'm staring. He obviously doesn't like being looked at. He doesn't look at me. He stands with his shoulders hunched inwards and keeps his eyes glued somewhere else. He looks like he's in pain actually, just by standing. Nothing like a regular career. He's not from the slums though, I'd have seen him around.

Still, I feel like I've seen him somewhere, he's familiar to me. The shape of his face and the way his mouth works. It reminds me of someone. He's a puzzle piece I can't place. My brow furrows in concentration as my head tries toplace him. perhaps he was a customer at the middle-class grocery store I work at. Maybe he went in once or twice.

That's got to be it.

I shake my head lightly as if to dispel the fog of concentration in there and relax my stance. I'm not here to make friends so I hope this kid doesn't want to be mine. On the other hand, enemies can be exhausting. With a sigh, I hold my hand out, smiling lightly, making the corners of my blue eyes crinkle up. "My name's Gabriel. What's yours?"

gabriel | 16 | district 1

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

[presto][/presto]

The gash upon my forehead stings, throbbing painfully with every beat of my racing heart. This boy, the one I had sent my brother away from, Gabriel, regards me with nearly as much disgust as he had my brother which I suppose I should be used to. I am a ghost, I do not belong with the careers and I do not belong with anyone else. That much is clear as his fists clench and unclench in front of me and I tense, fear potent in every rushed exhale. I wonder if he can smell it.

I was so sure that they were different, the few who come here from families that have not forced cruelty into their palms since their first breath. I suppose I am going to feel just how wrong I was. I just hope that he does not rip open the gash father left upon my skin last night, I don't think I can stand to lose much blood, a few crimson drops and my head begins to spin. A few more and all strength is sapped from a body which has none.

I've never made it past that point, but I figure death is the next step. (And I've always hoped that someone would kill me before I got around to it.)

My eyes are glued to the ground, examining the multi-colored mat beneath our feet. I barely sink into the foam anymore, the closer I come to death the lighter I've become. Yet there is still a thousand pound weight upon my shoulders, making every breath difficult under the strain. I cannot fade into nothingness like I crave, not with this potent darkness that has sewn itself to my shadow. It smells like death and it smells like hate, all the things I saw in that poor boy's eyes before I left him to die.

"I'm fine." He tells me with a voice that reminds me of the winter, but he does not hit me. His fists stay placed at his sides, making no effort to reach my flesh. I wish that was enough to quell the fear that runs like poison through my veins but I still stand and I shake, eyes rested somewhere on Gabriel's chin instead of the eyes that I fear will burn holes into my skull if I meet them. "You should ask him how he is." The boy turns his attention to Millicent, my brother having made it to his destination grumbling and whining the whole way.

He'll be in trouble for losing a fight and I know firsthand how painful 'trouble' can be.

"If he is okay now, he won't be by the time we get home." I mumble, picking at the hem of my shirt until it begins to unravel. "He's my brother and our parents aren't gonna be happy." This wasn't something I usually needed to explain, it was a rule of thumb in career families. Love is withheld for winners and champions, it is a privilege to be earned. I hope it's different where this pretty blonde boy is from, I really, really do. I give him a dry smile, still unable to force my eyes to his as they examine a crack in the wall a little ways behind his head.

There's really nothing to smile about but it seems the polite thing to do as we are plunged into an awkward kind of silence.

I don't care what happens to Mil anyway, he's just as likely to sick father on me after his beating for forcing him out of a fight. "He's kind of a shit brother anyway." I mumble, not sure if I even spoke loud enough to be heard this time around. I'm bad at that, making myself known or heard or anything. (Which I suppose is good, as I am little more than a nuisance now a days. A parasite.

I never really thought of myself as ugly until I killed a man but I think I might have always been this repulsive. Just repulsive and blind.

He speaks again, hand shooting out from beside him and earning a flinch. I'm not sure what his purpose was for a few moments, shock that his hand had not connected with my flesh nearly overwhelming as my eyes turn wide and glassy.

A handshake. Right. That is what he wants.

I try to force my hand out in front of me, watching his lips turn up in the gentlest gesture I have seen Gabriel make since arriving. He introduces himself, repeating a name that the whole class has heard yet somehow turns beautiful leaving his lips. It was special. Just for me. And that's somehow comforting.

My palm makes its way into his, grasping it as hard as I can manage. (Which is not very hard at all. The strength that once packed itself upon my arms and legs has dissolved into nothing, withering away without me.)

My name, he had asked me my name. It is hard to remember every word Gabriel has spoken when something as simple as a handshake takes so much effort. I'm so tired all the fucking time. "Alistair." I manage, voice stronger as I work the cobwebs away. "But please call me Ali, I... prefer that."

I don't really know if he cares what I prefer. Not much of anyone does. I have no power over what Gabriel does, or how hard my father hits me. I cannot control my brother's goads and laughs, the cruel ways they poke fun and I cannot stop mother from ignoring me.

The only thing I can control are the long scratches making their way up and down my arms and perhaps that is why I put them there.

It's been too long since I talked to anyone like this.

"Ah I hope... I hope I didn't bother you..."

My voice breaks and disappears within the wind that howls outside.