As If Death Itself Was Undone // [Kire]

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

______________________

You don’t have to be a ghost
Here amongst the living

I miss being home.

And that’s kinda weird, ‘cause when I’m at home I don’t much like it, especially with all the pressure to be.. you know, normal. My family wants me to wake up and be all perky and smiley and silly, sorta like I used to be, and I feel guilty that I’m disappointing them. It’s been four years, for fuck’s sake.

I should be fine by now.

Except I’m not, and whenever I’m at home I feel like my entire family stares at me like a fucking train-wreck about to happen. I used to work hard, ya know? I used to be better than this. Now they’ll be lucky if I so much as leave my room, and it just makes me feel worse that I’ve gotta be around people that care about me. Having expectations about my state of well-being only makes me more stressed, because I know I’m failing them.

I’m failing at a lot of things. Like the tribute I was supposed to be mentoring? I didn’t even really talk to her before she was thrust into the Arena, though I know that her name’s Maya. I know that I could have done more to help her – maybe I could have given her some advice – but the only way I know how to win the Games is to care about something so much that there isn’t another option but victory, and even that’s useless.

Every tribute’s got something to care about. They’ve got families and friends and people to love, and they die all the same.

(I killed them, all the same.)

Anything I could have said to Maya Xiaoqing is useless, anyway. I’m shit for a mentor, and I can’t do anything about it. Here’s to hoping she gets out alive and gets back to the people she cares about, because I sure as hell can’t do anything to help her win.

District Nine is a joke, and I’m just the best punchline we have.

Despite that, despite everything, the Capitol is no less uncomfortable. The sleek-floored training center feels more like a tomb than a hospitable place to spend the day, and there’s not a lot of places to go that aren’t ruined by old memories. The rooftop is quiet, but it reminds me of Siren. The 9th floor is too full of people trying to make my experience worthwhile, and it’s hard not to think back on how much I was worried before the Games ever started, sitting in those chairs and staring at the same walls.

I had to get out of that place, so I've traveled to the outskirts of the District and found this inn, which doubles as a bar. It’s a real quiet place to sit, and it’s even themed after the various Districts. There’s a lotta stuff created from plain cedar, making it almost look like the inside of an old house, and there’s a fireplace in the corner with a bunch of warm armchairs. I can tell that they’re made to look more worn than they actually are – one of the bartenders even calls them vintage – but I can tell that not a lot of people use 'em.

In fact, there’s only a couple of people here. I don’t mind; the sound of the fire is comforting, and I’m left to sit by the fire in peace, using a knife to carve away at a piece of soap that I stole from one of the cabinets in my room. I order a drink a little while after I sit down, ‘cause I’m feeling a little less numb than I really want to be.

Here, the world is almost empty. There’s me, the fire, the knife, and a buzz creeping through my bloodstream, and I feel that this is the way the world should be.

For a moment, I feel like I could be fine after all.

[Kire]

Cordelia Iraen Eaglebrooke
Seems that I have been held, in some dreaming state
A tourist in the waking world, never quite awake

I haven't dyed my hair in nearly two months. Once more I'm my natural shade of blonde and once more people immediately recognize me for who I'm not. "Siren Baitwell!" they call, reaching for me to see if I'm real. I am real, but she's not. My flesh is solid when they grab my wrist or shoulder, my body gives off heat when they're near me. I live and breathe as they do.

She doesn't.

Today had been overwhelming, almost as though everyone on the street had been waiting to see me, to see the not-dead girl Siren Baitwell. No matter what I say or do, no matter how different I try to make myself, they still only see her. I had to run away from it for a while, somewhere where people would leave me in peace - or at least not stare at me and shout a name that is not mine. There was a place that I would retreat to, a place few bothered to go to because it wasn't the fancy and flashy clubs that lined Style Street. Sitting on the edge of the Capitol, it was its own world. Everything to do with the place was based off of the districts, which was a good portion of the reason why it was nearly always empty. In all honesty I didn't know how it had managed to stay open - there was almost never anyone inside - but I was glad that it did.

It was my sanctuary.

Even on my way to bar I was confronted by the gullible and the clueless. By this time I should have told everyone in the entirety of Panem who I was not - that person being Siren Baitwell. We happened to look alike, and suddenly everyone takes that to mean I must be her. True, I am nearly identical to the late District four female tribute, but that was where the similarities ended - or so I told myself. I could never match up to her, and I didn't want to try. After all of this secondhand fame I was tired of being the name on everybody's lips, even if it wasn't really my name they were speaking.

The bar was blissfully silent.

I got a quiet nod from the bartender, who immediately started getting together my usual drink. For a moment I shut my eyes and let the noiselessness fill my ears and head and body. Feeling calmer and more peaceful, I made my way to my usual spot next to the fire. It was particularly necessary, especially at this time of year, but the homeliness of it was was attracted me to sit there. The bartender brought over my cocktail, setting it down on the little table nestled between the chairs. "Your Sea Breeze, Iraen." I smiled at him, placing the money on the table to pay for it but he waved it away. "You look like you've been heckled all day, no need for me to add to it. It's on the house." He walked away before I could say a word in protest, so I gave in and returned the money to my wallet.

It wasn't until I took a sip from my drink, and set it down again, that I noticed there was someone else sitting by the fire.

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

______________________

You don’t have to be a ghost
Here amongst the living

Though I’ve never been to this place before, it feels kinda like home. Not exactly the same, but close enough that it feels like a safe haven, and I find myself ordering another drink and sitting back down, turning back to my soap carving with the goal of finishing it before I leave for the night.

See, I don’t really know what I’m carving until it starts to take shape. There’s a photo of the ocean framed on the wall – likely a nod to District Four among the other intricate details of the place - and I realize after a few minutes that I’m carving a wave. The soap smells like lavender, or at least I think it does. District Nine doesn’t have a lot of anything that’s grown fresh, not with the refineries and all. The scent makes me feel calm, but that might just be the alcohol securing its hold on my mood.

When someone sits down in the chair opposite me, I feel a rush of annoyance. I want to be alone, in peace..

I look up to see who it is, and I jump a little in surprise, the knife grazing over my thumb.

My heart pounds in my chest, and my eyes go wide.

Siren Baitwell.

It can’t be. No – she died. She’s gone.

But here she is, right here.

A million thoughts rush through my mind in a second, and I feel a flood of emotion pooling somewhere in my chest, threatening to break free.

Are the Games a sham? Do none of the tributes die, but simply go into hiding in the Capitol? Is this real? Am I hallucinating? Fuck – I’ve done it, now. I’ve gone so crazy that I’m hallucinating people from my past, and there’s no way now that I’ll ever go back to normal. My mind is broken beyond repair.

I didn’t.. I didn’t love her.

(God, I can feel myself staring. What if she’s real? I’m gonna look like an idiot.)

I pinch my cheek to make sure I’m not dreaming, and when I draw my thumb back I realize that it’s beginning to drip with blood from where the knife slipped. There’s probably a stain on my face. I hurry to rub it away with my sleeve before she looks this way, but she’s not, she’s not looking, and that only makes me feel more like.. like she isn’t real.

She’s not real.

She’s not real, and I wanna hide my face in my hands until her image goes away.

In truth, I didn’t love Siren Baitwell, but she felt like my only hope. And now.. now I’m the only person in this goddamn bar, staring at the face of the girl who made me think that I could be truly alive, not a shell of a person, and right now that shell’s cracking open and everything’s bound to break free. That pool of emotion hiding in my chest is gonna kill me. It’s gonna kill me, ‘cause there’s a knot in my throat and I keep thinking back to how it felt to hold Siren Baitwell’s hand, how it felt to hope for her survival, how it felt to send her my bubbles and watch her face light up..

I can’t help anyone win the Games, ‘cause I was Siren Baitwell’s shining ray of hope, and I failed her too. And it feels so awful that I wanna cry right here and now, ‘cause my life’s gone to shit and I don’t know how to fix it, and it’s so much worse now that I remember how much hope I had, and how great it was to feel anything at all. My life doesn’t compare to what it couldda been, and there are days when I wonder why I even fought to live at all.

I watched her fall, and there’s nothin’ I could have done about it.

I’m such a piece of shit. I could have done something more. I could have helped her. I could have.. I could have loved her.

I hide my face in my hands as everything I’ve buried down deep breaks free, and I feel my face contorting in an ugly way – god, stop it, STOP – but I can’t stop the breakdown from happening. I ball my hands up in my sleeves and cover my face as my hands shake, and I feel like standing up and running away.

Go away.

This isn’t real.

Make it go away.

God, I can’t handle this.

I pull my hands away, but she’s still there.

Go. AWAY.

I rub away at my eyes till I see stars, but she’s still there when I open them.

My throat and my mind feel raw as I look at her over my hands, and my eyes are all puffy and red.

She isn’t going away.

Seconds tick by as I kinda just stare at her, holding my chin up even though I don’t feel brave at all.

”You aren’t.. real,” I say, my voice threatening to break.

[Kire]

Cordelia Iraen Eaglebrooke
No kiss, no gentle word could wake me from this slumber
Until I realize that it was you who held me under

There's a sound like someone's strangled a cat and my head whips around from gazing after the barman. Sitting in the chair beside me is a man, hands pressed into his eyes as though to keep them from falling out of his head. I was waiting for that moment - it could be any time now - when he would pull his hands away and make some stupid claim that I was Siren Baitwell. This had happened enough times for me to know the outcome, but never here. I suppose it was bound to happen eventually, I come here so often and everyone knows her face.

Sometimes I wish that I could have had any other face, that I might go and get some surgery to hide her nose, change her cheekbones, mold her chin. Instead I don't, I simply let myself become overwhelmed with the endless flood of people that called me by the wrong name. Her name is like a tide that has grabbed me and dragged me away from shore. Where I once stood solidly on land I was now being yanked by an undertow until I was lost at sea. I could almost taste the muddy water and hear the thunderous rain, could almost feel the burning in my lungs and see the rugged sky. It was all I could do to keep from gasping and choking on a memory that wasn't even mine.

Across from me there's a spluttering noise and I wonder if he might be sharing my thoughts. First I share someone's face, and then someone's mind. Was there nothing of me that was my own? His face is still covered by his large-palmed, long-fingered hands, much more elegant than mine. Siren's had seemed so much more graceful than mine do, even though side by side they would have been the same. The man doesn't seem to realize the blood that has leaked from his thumb to leave a red patch on his cheek. The tip of his thumb was starting to be stained red, but even with what little I understood about the human body I could see that it was a minor wound.

I don't know if I should take another sip from my drink or not. On one hand, I could use the little bit of inhibition, but on the other, the colour from the fruit juices made the cocktail a colour rather similar to the blood smear on the man's face. I can smell the coppery tang and suddenly I'm having trouble breathing, as though something is stuck in my chest.

I decide to take that sip.

Setting the drink down, I turn to look at the man once more. His face is still hidden, but his sleeves now cover his hands. When I shift in my chair it makes a small creaking sound. I can't help but try to figure out who this man might be. His hair is a dark brown and styled short, he's lanky like a baby giraffe and I would have to guess he was one hell of a height when he stood up. Familiar. Almost too familiar. A name, a face, just at the edge of my mind but I can't grasp it. I keep looking at him, waiting for the moment he drops his hands so that I can see if I really know him or not.

My cocktail calls my name again and I respond.

As I put down the drink I see the man shift. His hands grind his eyes as though to wipe everything away, everything that he's seen and would see. Apparently it doesn't work on me because a moment later he's staring at me through his fingers and I glimpse pale eyes. Something shocks through me but I still can't place his name, or anything about him. As his hands drop we both stare at each other for some time in silence, trying to figure the other out. A name is there, it's on the tip of my tongue and his face is one I know, and know well. I've seen him before, again and again on television and on billboards.

That's it, his name i- "You aren’t.. real."

"Oh for the love of..." My voice trails away, and so do my thoughts on his name until I look at his eyes again. They're puffy and red but there's still a look to them that drags the name from the back of my throat. "Colgate." It's not a question. I know who he is, after seeing his face all over everything for an entire year, and then the continuous commercials for Soap Brand Soap, it had only been a matter of getting a good look at him in order to place who he was. As for me, well it seemed like he had made the same mistake as everyone else.

"I'm bloody real." I snatch up my glass with a bit too much energy and only avoid spilling on myself with a quick - and undignified - slurp of the liquid off of the side of the glass. No, I am not the elegant Ms Baitwell, despite the rest of the world not realizing that. "But I'm not her."

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

______________________

You are flesh and blood
And you deserve to be loved
and you deserve what you are given

I stare at her, and she stares right back, and my heart’s going crazy at the thought that she’s real.

Any second now, she’ll tell me.

I study her face, searching for something. Some sign of recognition, some gut reaction that she knows me, but what’s there is an empty expression, one of bewilderment rather than a mental connection. She’s got the same blonde hair, the same nose, the same shape to her chin. It’s the eyes that are different – not so much in their color as in the way she’s looking at me, less concerned and more annoyed.. But she looks to be the same person. Dressed differently, to be sure, but..

(Any second now.)

Her face changes when she speaks, and my heart sinks when I hear the sound of her voice. It’s clipped with a Capitol accent, and it’s not.. not the same. "Oh for the love of..." She trails off.

”Colgate.”

I snap to attention when I hear my own name, but my brain still feels raw and my thoughts are scrambled.

Colgate is my name. Not Soap. Soap was a boy’s name, a boy who worked in the factories and got teased by the workers every day, a boy who counted things for fun and went home every day smiling with crooked teeth, despite everything.

Colgate killed six people.

To hear her say my name is to be brought back to reality, and I pull my hands down from my face and lean forward in my chair, looking down at my drink on the table, at the knife on the floor, at my mismatched socks. Anything but her face. I let her words pass through me like a blade, and I lean my head forward in my hands, glaring down at the floor.

”I’m bloody real,” she tells me. ”But I’m not her.”

I know it was foolish to think otherwise.

I feel like an idiot now, and I shut my eyes, sitting there silently as I let the information sink in. It feels like a loss all over again, and I think that’s the worst thing about having hope: when it’s taken away, it won’t come back again.

And, it seems, neither will Siren Baitwell.

The pain in my chest turns to numbness, and I lean over and pick up the glass that I’ve neglected. I take a long drink and look over at her, and now I don’t know if I should say anything at all. Clearly I’ve somehow offended her, and I don’t really know why.

I find myself staring again when I set my glass down, and I can’t help it. In a normal situation I would feel ashamed, but after a couple of drinks I don’t care as much as I should.

”Who are you, then?” I ask, somewhat stronger now, picking up the knife and fidgeting with it in my hands. ”How do you look so much like her?”

Images of gruesome plastic surgery play through my mind, and the thought makes me angry. Did she change herself to look more like Siren? That’s the only answer I can fathom.

”Are you doing this to hurt me?” I ask, anger rising in my chest to replace the pain.

[Kire]

Cordelia Iraen Eaglebrooke
Felt it in my fist, in my feet, in the hollows of my eyelids
Shaking through my skull, through my spine and down through my ribs

I was waiting for the denial. They always refused to believe that I wasn't Siren and so each time I told them the truth they would argue with me. As though I wouldn't know who I really was. Perhaps I don't. This man, this victor, is different though. He's lost for what to do or say and I see him jump when I say his name. A flash of contempt zinged through my nerves and I fight the sneer that wants to leap onto my face. How could someone so lost have ever found his way to victory.

Not that I'm much better off.

He's leaning forward, closer to me but not intentionally. His head is dipped away from me and I realize how much he doesn't want to look at me. Odd, normally people always want to stare, to see if I were really her. They always thought I was, no matter what I did or said. I suppose they wanted to believe in the magic, that the Capitol had enough power to return the dead to life. Perhaps they had always thought the Games were all an act, an elaborate play, and the actors were kept after in some lavish palace. Fools. There's no way to hide hundreds of people who were supposed to be dead from the populous. Though, the rumors surrounding some of the avoxes, and then with my own appearance, there could be grounds for that suspicion.

That doesn't make me Siren Baitwell though.

I see his eyelashes flicker down to hide those pale - and somehow quite startling - eyes of his. Some part of me was glad for the moment of relief. There was something about looking into his eyes that sent a shock through me, setting me on high alert and making me overly aware of myself. Was that because he had lived through so much? Could I feel some remnant of that fear-filled existence in his gaze? People have said that eyes are the windows to the soul. It sounds like poetic rubbish to me, but perhaps there was more truth in that saying than I gave credit for.

The moment is broken as his hand grasps a glass I hadn't noticed before. His long fingers wrap around the drink and bring it to his lips in a movement that held so much control. Apparently he didn't have as much control over the sip he was taking, because I heard his loud swallows as he took a long pull from the glass.

His eyes are on me again.

I feel a shudder starting to crawl up my spine but I do my best to hide it. There's something in the way he's looking at me that makes me feel like I'm missing some important bit of knowledge. There's some disconnect and I don't know what it is. He sets the glass down without taking his eyes off of me. "Who are you, then?" My lips twitch - at least someone finally accepts me at my word.

There's a knife in his hand all of a sudden and the shiver in my spine is back.

Only he's not threatening me with it, or at least not blatantly, but instead twisting it between his fingers. "How do you look so much like her?" I would like the answer to that myself, and about to tell him so I was interrupted by the storm that rolled into his eyes. He seemed to bristle like some beast and stared me down like he was about to charge me. "Are you doing this to hurt me?"

The accusation, something I've heard a few times before but never like this, causes me to forget the knife in his hands. "Now why the fuck would I do that?!" My hands are gripping the arms of the chair so my knuckles turn white. I'm not sure if it's anger or fear. "And why the fuck does it matter to you that I look like Si-" for the first time in my life I choke on her name - "like her." The last two words lack some of my conviction, brought down by my sudden insecurity. "What did she matter to you, she wasn't even your district."

Then I remember the bubbles.

I fall silent, looking at him steadily as my anger drains away. Colgate, known by most as Soap until his victory, had been well known for his bubble-blowing antics in the 66th. I only now put together that piece of knowledge with the moment that Siren had received a bottle of bubble solution. Without thinking, a small smile pulls at my lips.

"Bubble boy..." The name tugs my mouth into a bigger smile, but there's a pressure pulling the tips down again. In that nickname is a lot of joy and a lot of sadness, and somehow I know it beyond what I had seen on the television. I could almost see it in his eyes. Connection, love, and loss, all summarized into two words.

I'm silent for a long time as I try to remember how to breathe properly again, trying to get rid of the sudden weight that filled the air. My eyes can't hold steady on his face for very long before I'm overwhelmed and turning my head away to get a grip on myself.

"I'm Cordelia Iraen Eaglebrooke." Finally I bring myself to look into those eyes, once again feeling the sharp zing race through each nerve. "I don't know why I look like her." I still can't say her name, and it shames me. The words are blocked behind the bulk of her name and life, jammed in my throat so tight that I can't swallow.

"They've called me her name ever since..." He knows, and I know, so there's no need to say it. My fingers curl into fists and I press them into the arms of the chair. Normally I am so able to tell the world her name, and tell them that there is no way I could be here because I'm alive and she... well she isn't. This invisible hand around my throat, stopping me from saying those very words, was beginning to choke me - and I was beginning to get frustrated. "But I'm not her, I'm not her, fuck it all."

Every time I had compared myself to her. Every time I had wished I could be as strong or as brave or as fierce as she was. I couldn't be her because I could never match up. "Sorry to disappoint you." The raw edge in my voice might pass for a harsher sarcasm than I had used, but I doubted it. I have to hide my face behind my glass to keep him from seeing the angry tears in my eyes.

I hope the second round's on the house too.

And the third.

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

______________________

You are flesh and blood
And you deserve to be loved
and you deserve what you are given

Anger swells in my chest at the thought that she might have made herself look like Siren on purpose.. and why? To become famous in the Capitol? Perhaps she simply envied the way Siren looked, and wanted to copy every alluring detail of her face. That seems more likely, but it doesn’t make any of it better; if this woman stole the face of a dead girl, I can only imagine how troubling her own life had to be in order to put on somebody else’s.

(But why is she upset?)

”Now why the fuck would I do that?” she asks, tensing up in her chair. I’m thrown off by the sudden outburst, and I’m dragged back to the reality that the personality that once matched this face isn’t the same. Not at all. This woman’s got anger seeping out of her pores, and this is the first time in four years that somebody’s actually stood up to something that I’ve done. My eyes go wide and I find myself sitting back in my chair, daunted by this woman who isn’t afraid to defend herself.

”And why the fuck does it even matter to you that I look like Si-.. like her. What did she matter to you? She wasn’t even your district.”

I’m taken aback by her boldness, and I open my mouth to say something, but there’s no simple explanation. What am I supposed to say? I met Siren Baitwell on the roof of the training center, just one night, and I told her that I would try to help her win. I had a big crush – and god, it feels so embarrassing – and I thought she was gonna come back from the Arena. I thought.. I don’t know, that she would care about me, and I could see her when we were in the Capitol, and I would be happy. Or at least I wouldn’t be sad or numb or whatever this is, because she would make things a little bit better.

The reality probably wouldn’t have worked out like that, but I guess the ifs and maybes don’t matter much now.

While I’m trying to find the words to explain what Siren meant to me, the woman drops silent. I’m torn away from my thoughts when she mutters two words that drag me back into the past, words that I didn’t think I’d ever hear again in my whole life.

”Bubble boy..”

And she doesn’t say it in an endearing way – it’s more like she’s finally placing the connection – but nobody’s called me that since Siren. It reminds me of Soap, of being young and naïve and silly ‘bout all sorts of stuff, and it makes me want to curl up into a ball and take a train back to the past, where I can joke with my brothers and sisters and come home from work feeling too exhausted to worry about anything at all. We were hungry back then, I know, but I was different. If not for the fact that my entire family was starving to death, I probably could have grown up to be happy and kind.

The thing is, this woman in front of me is smiling – and not even like a shy smile, you know, she’s straight-up grinning from ear to ear – and it seems her mood has changed faster than the weather, and I don’t even understand why. Was it something I did?

”I’m Cordelia Iraen Eaglebrooke,” she tells me, and I feel a little shock when she looks right at my eyes, probably ‘cause I’m not great at this whole eye-contact thing. ”I don’t know why I look like her.”

So she didn’t change herself to look like someone else. I study the different shadows of her face, searching for something that stands out as different, something separate from Siren Baitwell, but I bet she could convince just about anyone. Hell, she could have been smuggled into the Games in Siren Baitwell’s place and nobody would have noticed the difference. I feel all odd staring at her, but I’m having a little trouble fathoming her existence right now, and for a minute I try to pretend like this is the girl from District Four in front of me, but the illusion fails.

”They’ve called me her name ever since..”

Yeah. Ever since.

”But I’m not her, I’m not her, fuck it all,” she says, her hands turning to fists. ”Sorry to disappoint you.”

I’m three years past disappointed and I’m circling back around to a feeling of emptiness, and the buzz from the alcohol is numbing the worst of things. Cordelia hides behind her glass for a minute and I do too, taking another long drink as I try to reorganize my reality.

When I look at her, it’s hard not to see the same beautiful girl I met three years ago, though I guess I know now that this woman doesn’t want to be compared. She wants to step out of the shadow of the tribute she never even met, and I’ve hindered that goal by comparing the two.

”I’m sorry,” I say in a hurry, setting the knife down on the table. ”For, you know, all the questions. It’s not.. “ I trail off, gathering my thoughts.

”It’s not like I talk ‘bout her a lot, and it’s weird for me. But she did kinda matter, and that’s why this isn’t easy, seeing your face. This is..” uncharted territory ”I don’t know, I guess I just.. I cared about her, you know?” I can feel the alcohol pulling the words out of my mouth, words that I wouldn’t utter aloud if not for the inhibition. ”I mean.. I had a crush, it was stupid, and I thought she was gonna make things better. But she died, and now you look just like her.. and I don’t know. I don't know. I messed up.”

[Kire]

Cordelia Iraen Eaglebrooke
And I could hear the thunder and see the lightning crack
All around the world was waking, I never could go back

The flash on uncertainty on his face gave me a strange sense of victory, and of guilt. He's lacking for words and I have too many. What little liquor I had drunk had gone straight to my tongue it seemed, unlocking and locking topics never changed before.

When I meet his eyes it's like we both felt that jolt leap up our spines.

His eyes are studying, narrowed slightly as he seemed to analyze everything about me. I felt like I was under a microscope, flattened between two glass slides. The image of an all white room rises up behind my eyes until I blink it away to find that he's still staring at me, almost transfixed. The moment we break eye contact to hide ourselves from the other is a relief that allows me a chance to breathe. It's short lived and once again I'm zapped by his gaze as it returns to me. "I’m sorry," in the pause we both take a breath and he places the knife on the table between us. It feels like an offering of peace, and still a veiled a threat. I'm not sure which one concerns me more. "For, you know, all the questions. It’s not.."

I have no idea what's going to come out of his mouth yet. Whatever I may have thought when he first spoke, it had been completely wrong. I guess we were both finding out that first impressions aren't always right. "It’s not like I talk ‘bout her a lot, and it’s weird for me. But she did kinda matter, and that’s why this isn’t easy, seeing your face. This is.." I nearly jump as he starts speaking again. As his words begin to flow I realize that the liquid inhibition has gripped his tongue too and is beginning to tug an unheard confession from him. Both of us were saying more than we had ever intended tonight.

"I don’t know, I guess I just.. I cared about her, you know?" I shrugged one shoulder, barely moving. I could understand. "I mean.. I had a crush, it was stupid, and I thought she was gonna make things better. But she died, and now you look just like her.. and I don’t know. I don't know. I messed up." Even if I had wanted to interrupt him there was no opportunity. It was a stream of words that sprayed us with icy truth, drenching us in the past. Unthinking, I went to reach out and touch him but changed my mind midway through and gripped my glass instead. What little was left flowed down my throat to add to the humming at the back of my eyes.

I glanced at the bartender and caught him giving us interested looks. It seemed that he knew who both of us were and had been silently trying to guess where this conversation might go. I casually tipped the glass to show that it was empty and he gave me a smile before going about making me another. My gaze returned to the man before me. Those few seconds had bought me a chance to think, but my mind was still rather blank.

"I-" is all I manage before a fresh drink is placed before me and the empty glass removed. I tried again, "It's not stupid." I couldn't figure out what more to say, but I knew that was the truth. Whatever he thought, caring for another person wasn't stupid. "Sometimes you just need someone, no matter who they are. Just someone to share with, experiences and thoughts and life as a whole." I don't know where I'm going with this but, since I wasn't daring to hug or comfort him with a touch like I instinctively wanted to, it was better than nothing. Silence would leave us sitting here in awkwardness for a long time. Best to fill that gap.

"Sometimes family isn't enough."

Now I didn't know whether I was talking about him or myself. My parents were loving, but now that I was viewed as an adult they had grown more distant. As it was, there were things I could never share with them - like my obsession with a girl who looked exactly like me. She's the one thing we have in common, maybe that's why... why we were now suddenly so free with our words and our thoughts when any other time we'd have kept them locked away and worn our other face.

I feel more like myself than I ever have before.

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

______________________

I am the same, I'm the same
I'm trying to change

For a moment, I think she might be reaching out to comfort me, but she grabs for her glass instead, and I feel silly thinking that this woman – Cordelia – feels any inclination to care about the things that I’ve told her. After all, just a moment ago she was nearly yelling at me, defending herself as I accused her of stealing somebody else’s life. My complaints don’t matter – not to a Capitol woman, at least – and I immediately regret saying anything at all.

With a pinpointed glance at the bartender, I think she might even be getting bored with my hopeless rambling, and that hurts. I’ve already said too much; I feel an urge to shut my mouth and end the conversation right here and now, but she looks at me again.

(God, that’s too much to handle.)

It hurts, ‘cause I keep forgetting who I’m looking at. And even when I remember, it’s kinda like staring at the sun because it’s too bright, and I feel an urge to focus on the knife sitting between us on the table. The soap I carved out is pressed against my leg where it fell onto the chair, and I pick it up and lay it beside the blade to get it out of my way.

”I – “ she begins, pausing only to accept a drink from the bartender, who seems to be avidly watching our conversation from afar. ”It’s not stupid.”

Those sound like the words of somebody who doesn’t know what else to say to someone who’s hurting, like.. like maybe she’s too afraid to tell me yeah, that’s ridiculous, and you need to figure out your problems. My own words feel ridiculous when I think of how she must see me, and I want to take them back.

”Sometimes you just need someone, no matter who they are. Just someone to share with, experiences and thoughts and life as a whole.”

No matter who they are.

The words strike a chord in my chest, and I nod, rubbing at my temples. A year after I won the Games, I wasn’t in any better shape than I was when I left the Arena, and I thought.. well, that if I didn’t have the power to be happy, then I would need help from someone else. And though I just had the one conversation with Siren, that conversation was enough to spark my imagination until the day she died, and that kinda hope was so strong that nothing could rival it. I remember picturing the day that I would see her again, you know, and I would congratulate her on her victory and reassure her that everything gets better. And I would get to know her, and I’d have someone to lean on.

Her death shook up that fantasy, and most days it feels like I can only rely on myself. My family tries to help, but it’s hard ‘cause they don’t understand as much as they try to.

Sometimes you just need someone.

That’s just as true now as it was then.

"Sometimes family isn't enough."

Something in her voice tells me that she isn’t referring to me anymore. She seems to be pondering something, but the silence is too rough. I could handle silence when I was talking to Siren, but with this woman I feel the urge to keep talking, erasing the silence with intoxicated rambling. The quiet makes me smile, if only to erase the awkwardness, and I look down at my thumb, which has thankfully stopped bleeding.

”You’re right about that. I wasn’t really.. in the best shape back then, and I needed someone who understood, and my family has never done a very good job of it. I always feel like they expect me to be different than I am, you know, and that just makes things worse. And with.. with Siren, she needed someone too. Going into the Games is fucking terrifying.”

I trail off, feeling odd saying these things to a Capitolite, someone who’s likely watched all of the Games since birth and been surrounded by people who reveled in them. I feel awkward talking about myself, so I decide to turn the conversation around, taking another pull from my drink.

”You sound like you’ve had to deal with this kinda stuff before. Well not.. I mean not problems from the Games, but you know.”

I trail off, not understanding what I’m trying to say.

[Kire]

Cordelia Iraen Eaglebrooke
Cause all the walls of dreaming, they were torn wide open
And finally it seemed that the spell was broken

There's a small pinching in his brows that places a seed of guilt in my gut. As I speak I see something click with him and he nods. I watch his long fingers make circles over his temples, the depressions in his skin swirling with the movement. His brows ease a bit, but the guilt is still nestled into my stomach like a child. With each passing second it begins to grow and slowly it will become a living, breathing thing. I didn't think it would take nine months, though.

The smile that finally lifts the edges of his mouth is so forced that I can feel the strain from where I sit. Inside my womb, the child named Guilt shifts. His eyes drop and the buzzing in my veins lessens a bit, so I take another sip of my drink. "You’re right about that." He's talking to his thumb, though I know he means the words for me. " I wasn’t really.. in the best shape back then, and I needed someone who understood, and my family has never done a very good job of it. I always feel like they expect me to be different than I am, you know, and that just makes things worse." I can't tell whether it's getting easier for him to talk, or if he simply can't stop himself. "And with.. with Siren, she needed someone too. Going into the Games is fucking terrifying."

I had no words for that. How could I understand something I had only seen on television, had only watched from a distance. The memory of adrenaline filled responses and the flash of flying fire arrived in my head but were banished almost instantly. Those weren't my memories, only the thought of someone else's trials. I could never understand.

He's silent for a while, and I'm not willing to break this lapse of conversation. I want to find something peaceful in this silence but I can't. Instead, I just watch him. The silence might not be calming, but there was something about his movements that eased me. Guilt kicks, a small force pressing outward in the first sign of desperation to escape its entrapment. The pinching between his eyebrows has come back, though I'm not sure if he notices the change. His large hand closes around his glass and brings it to his lips. I try to settle my unwanted burden with another sip from my glass, though it is more like a gulp.

Our glasses clink down at the same time, but I don't make any reaction to it. I simply watch his face. There's something more in this silence, it's laden and I can feel it just about to break. "You sound like you’ve had to deal with this kinda stuff before. Well not.. I mean not problems from the Games, but you know." His voice is the thunder in the distance, beginning its long roll in the moment before the storm. I still had some time to get inside, but the dry warmth wasn't calling me.

I wanted to feel the rain.

"Perhaps not exactly, but I understand what you mean." My parents love me, and they support me, but there's something in the way that they look at me that tells me that somehow they don't really know me. "They see me as a perfect daughter, going on to grow into a well-off woman with a typical Capitol job and life." For the first time since he had started to speak I looked away, not at anyone or anything but just away. I couldn't bear the notion that I might disappoint my parents, but when I knew in my heart that their vision of me was wrong, how could I not? "In trying to make me more of an adult they pulled away."

My eyes lowered, pulled by invisible man with invisible strings. The false child rooted in my body grew restless, feeding from the feelings itching through my blood. "I feel less restrained. I like it, this separation." Slowly the invisible man tugged my shoulders up. "It's like a freedom, and though I miss their closeness at times I want the liberty more." Now my eyes flicked up, but only far enough to rest on his hands. A killer's hands.

Funny how they looked so gentle.

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

______________________

I am the same, I'm the same
I'm trying to change

I’m awful at stringing sentences together. That’s always been a problem for me – saying words and hoping that I’m making any kind of sense, aiming to explain something that anyone else could describe in a sentence. But no, I stumble across words like they’re rocks in my path, and I leave every sentence with a hidden question mark at the end, silently asking “Am I an idiot for saying this shit?”

The answer: probably.

I can’t quite discern the way that Cordelia is looking at me. A part of me feels like her gaze is an interrogation, and she’s trying to figure me out. That, or she’s somehow bothered that I’m even sitting here talking to her, and not for the first time I feel an urge to duck out of the conversation and leave her alone.

But no – the conversation doesn’t trail off into nothingness, and I feel a swell of pride that maybe I’m not making her uncomfortable after all.

”Perhaps not exactly, but I know what you mean. They see me as a perfect daughter, going on to grow up into a well-off woman with a typical Capitol job and life.”

She looks away, as if she’s embarrassed.

Eh, I don’t care anymore about embarrassment. Maybe it’s just because I’ve had so little to drink in my career as a Victor that I’m a lightweight, but the alcohol is kinda working its way through my system. I don't even mind.

I wonder what she has for a job? I bet it’s nicer than our jobs in District Nine, making soap or working in refineries.

”In trying to make me more of an adult, they pulled away.”

I feel like I’m slowly drawing out of my thoughts, and it takes me a second to think about what she’s said. When it finally clicks, I picture my family and the house I grew up in, and how it felt so warm and comfortable even if it was so small and decrepit. I remember teasing Hannah on the day I volunteered for the Games, and smiling and joking with everyone when I would get home from work. I remember holding my chin up and grinning from ear to ear whenever someone called me a name and laughed ‘bout it, ‘cause there was no use in making anything about my life any worse.

Back then, my smile was like armor, and my family a shield.

Now, I sometimes feel normal with them, but more often than not I feel like there’s so much that I can’t say, and there’s ways that they look at me that hurt me more than words ever could. There’s a question behind their eyes that asks ”Who is he?” and I don’t have a simple answer to it. I don’t even know if I’m okay, let alone if I understand what kinda person I am. Now, my family’s got claws instead of fingers and it hurts to feel like I need to be comforted, ‘cause back in the day, I was the one doing the comforting.

I got different.

Maybe that’ll change.

"I feel less restrained. I like it, this separation." She’s not looking at me when she says it, and I don’t know why. For a sec, I feel like the kinda guy I used to be – you know, always comforting people – and I want to make her smile. "It's like a freedom, and though I miss their closeness at times I want the liberty more."

She looks up, but only at my hands. I don’t wanna feel bad or sad or anything right now, and I’m kinda smiling, if only to make the situation less bleak than it already is.

”Nah, chin up. Freedom’s something to celebrate,” I say, holding my chin up as a reminder to myself, that crooked smile cementing itself on my face. ”Like today, it’s nice to be here, away from all the mentoring stuff I’ve gotta do. And I’m happy I’m not at home with my family fretting over me all the time, like I know they do.”

Even I know that I’m stretching the truth, but it feels good to pretend like everything’s peachy-keen. I want to tell her all sorts of nice things, if only so we can both feel better, ‘cause this conversation’s taking a dark turn and the idea of talking any more about my family makes me feel all wrong.

Instead, I turn the conversation back around to her, liquid courage flowing through my veins.

”And what about.. about needing someone?”

[Kire]

Cordelia Iraen Eaglebrooke
And all my bones began to shake, my eyes flew open
And all my bones began to shake, my eyes flew open

I see the small shifts in his body, the subtle signs of his preparation to flee. Had something I said scared him, or could he simply not bear to see Siren's face over someone else's soul? Then slowly it eases away and the minute adjustments work in reverse so once more he sits, intent on the conversation. What had changed his mind? I couldn't tell from his eyes, or his face, as both of those were simply filled with a quiet thoughtfulness. That fades away soon enough, too, to be replaced with a distant expression. Was he daydreaming now, or perhaps losing interest in the conversation?

My words seem to draw him back again, for he's suddenly looking actually at me again. I'm tingling in my spine and in my fingers, my blood humming solemnly in my veins. I can't tell if it's the reaction to his gaze anymore, or if I'm simply drunk. I can't begin to think about how his mind might be wandering, or to where, but off it goes again because once more his eyes become unfocused and I'm still there but he doesn't quite see me. He hears me, though, I know he still does. My eyes are on his elegant hands and I just stare at them for a while, studying how they're folded and how the knuckles are bent at so many different angles. I lose track of the rest of him in that moment, my mind doing its own wandering.

His voice makes me jump and the tingling now spreads up my arms and back. "Nah, chin up. Freedom’s something to celebrate." Unintentionally, I lift my chin just in the act of looking into his face. When a crooked grin breaks out onto his face I mirror it without thought. Somehow, just the act of smiling made me feel better about everything. "Like today, it’s nice to be here, away from all the mentoring stuff I’ve gotta do. And I’m happy I’m not at home with my family fretting over me all the time, like I know they do." There's a small flicker in those pale eyes of his but I ignore it in favour of believing his tone. Right now, I didn't want to think of anything that was wrong in the world, only the good.

The rumble of rain was drawing nearer and I wanted to reach my hands up to touch the incoming clouds. They were still in the distance, but drawing ever closer. Rain was always a comfort to me, the sound and the feeling. The entire world felt like it was enclosed in a blanket of falling water and I wanted to lay there, wrapped in its folds for all of eternity. Hopefully this storm would bring me that same peace.

I could feel the static build in the air as his gained intensity, looking at me so closely that I thought that the rain may as well have already plastered my dress to my figure. It seemed like he could see ever inch of me, read every thought, and yet it was as though he had no idea he could because "And what about.. about needing someone?" Once more his voice brought the sound of rolling thunder, and I smiled - both from his words, and from the promise of rain and bliss. I leaned forward, desperately wanting to reach out to him. If I couldn't do through my body, maybe my words would suffice.

"I don't really have anyone." I sit in this pause, still debating with myself about whether the touch of his hand was worth going against the manners I was taught, and the tiny voice in my head that chanted he's a murderer murderer murderer, he's a murderer murderer murderer, count the bodies five, murderer murderer murderer murderer murderer. "No one sees past her face." I don't mean to put so much emphasis on the word 'her' but the bitterness and anguish that I tried to hide had been set free by the buzzing behind my eyes.

The desperation overtook me, throwing what reserve I had clung to so stubbornly these past few minutes completely out of Panem. My hand clasped lightly over top of one long-fingered hand, waiting to feel him pull away, waiting to see the disgust in face. In the Capitol, to touch someone was to know them, and I barely knew this man.

Yet, somehow, it felt like I had known him for a long time.

"It's lonely being someone else."

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

______________________

It's better to feel pain, than nothing at all
The opposite of love's indifference

Cordelia Eaglebrooke’s got a smile that’s stretching three miles wide, and even if I were anxious right now, the nerves would slip away like they never even existed in the first place. When she leans forward, I think she might be reaching out to touch my hand, but if she is, she stops herself. Maybe the Capitolites have different kinds of customs than we do back in District Nine. Maybe she’s tryin’ not to be rude.

And that’s funny, ‘cause I’m the last person to be bothered by social customs. Growing up, I’d always been told about the time Mom and Dad met, and it’s something that I really can’t forget. Seriously – Dad was out hunting, and so was Mom, ‘cause District Nine used to be a hunting District back before the refineries were thrown up. Dad actually shot Mom in the arm with an arrow, and she’s still got the scar to prove it. They tell that story like it was the greatest thing that ever happened to ‘em, but I’ve been hit by blades and torn right open and I know now how much it hurts to get a wound like that, and it’s a wonder they even got together at all. What social customs allowed that to happen? I don’t have a clue.

The way Dad says it, he took her back home and fixed her up, but she was pissed. I don’t blame her – Dad shouldda known he wasn’t shooting at a deer – and they must have hit it off pretty quickly, I guess. They keep the rest of the story kinda secret.

They’re both getting wrinkles around their eyes now, but I think Dad looks at Mom as if it’s the day they first met, and sometimes I feel lonely thinking that I don’t understand the feeling.

This loneliness – the kind that knows what it’s missing out on – feels kinda bad all of a sudden, and I push it down and smile a little wider out of spite as I watch Cordelia with steady eyes, not so afraid anymore. The enormity of what I’ve asked her doesn’t really hit me until she answers.

”I don’t really have anyone.”

My heart’s thumping in my chest like crazy.

”No one sees past her face.”

That just makes me feel guilty, ‘cause I’ve probably been no better than the other people she’s had to deal with. But truly, although she looks like the girl I once knew, I can tell the difference. It’s the expression on her face and the glint in her eyes and the realness of her. And what good does it do to linger over the lives of the dead?

While stuck in my thoughts, she reaches over and settles her hand over mine, sending tingles up my arm. I raise my eyebrows – surprised, but not upset – and suddenly I feel nervous all over again.

”It’s lonely being someone else.”

More than anything else, before I was in the Games, it was my job to comfort everyone. I had a full-time job and a starving family to help feed, and I think I’ve been so self-absorbed in my own pain that I haven’t stopped to think that other people are hurting too. Just in different ways.

I don’t want to be lonely, and neither does she. Without even thinking about it much, I turn my hand over and intertwine my fingers with hers, partly as a show of comfort and partly ‘cause I just wanna hold her hand.

”I mean, I don’t know a whole lot about what it’s like to be someone else, but I understand the lonely part.”

And that’s true, ‘cause it feels like everybody I know has somebody to care about. All I ever got was teased and humiliated, and I’ve always envied the people who got to have any kind of love at all.

”And I wish you didn’t have to deal with that. I’m sorry if I made it worse.” I give her hand a squeeze, more aware of the warmth of her palm pressed against mine. ”I don’t want you to feel bad at all.”

[Kire]

Cordelia Iraen Eaglebrooke
No more dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone
No more calling like a crow for a boy, for a body in the garden

For a second his smile drops some, and I have to fight to keep mine from fading. In a moment, though, he has the big grin back. Somehow it's not the same, like he's forcing it, and I feel a twist in my gut that I can't put a name to. His eyes bore into mine and I start to feel as though the world is fading from around me. The sound of thunder is still in the distance, but closer closer. It will be here soon, and then I can let the rain wash away the worst of me, as it's done a million times before.

As I speak I see him shift forward, drawn closer in either interest or sympathy. A flicker of something crosses his eyes until I reach out. When my hand touches his he doesn't pull away, doesn't look at me like I've suddenly grown a snake for an arm, and he doesn't leave. Internally I feel a warmth, and I want to sigh in relief but I don't. Beneath my hand, his shifts. For a moment I wonder if he's going to pull away and my stomach clenches but then I feel his fingertips brush my palm and a shiver crawls up my back. It's so difficult to hold myself still that I'm sure he can feel the shudder through our linked fingers. We sit there, holding hands and looking into each other's face, and I can hear the storm broiling right above us now. There's still time before the rain begins to fall but I want it to fall now.

"I mean, I don’t know a whole lot about what it’s like to be someone else, but I understand the lonely part." Thunder rolls above me and I want to laugh with joy. A storm, a lightning storm, full of sparking energy was just about to break and I wanted to dance as the falling drops splashed to ground. "And I wish you didn’t have to deal with that. I’m sorry if I made it worse." The lightning is about to flash, the electricity in the air is like a held breath. Any moment now, any moment. My eyes are on his face, looking into his eyes, tracing his cheekbones, glancing over his lips, snapping back to his eyes. I can't breathe for the crackling tension surrounding me. The hair on the back of my neck is standing up.

And I wait.

And it comes. F L A S H

The bar is lit by the plasma, casting long shadows and silhouetting the bartender like he's suddenly devoid of definition and colour."I don’t want you to feel bad at all." He squeezes my hand as the lighting strikes and I jump. The pull on my hand is enough to keep me in place and I grin broadly at the man I had met an hour ago, but known for a lifetime. "I can never feel bad when it rains. Come on, let's see!" I'm gripping his hand tight, keeping him with me through sheer force of excitement. Standing, I pull him towards the window. He's a much larger person than I, so should he not come along there's no way I can physically force him. Still, by power of will alone I would get him to stand at the window with me as the rain rolled past.

I stared at the downpour, feeling the cleansing effects even from here. I turned to face him again, staring up into his face that was suddenly so much farther away. While I couldn't sober up with the rain pouring down an inch from my face, and the two servings of alcohol probably was another factor, I did want to address his sentiment. "You didn't make it worse." It was my turn to squeeze his hand. "You know I'm not her, and you know you know it." With my free hand I reached up and poked him in the chest, right over his heart - which was just a bit below my eye-level. "You know it here." For emphasis, I jabbed him again.

"That is what makes you different from everyone else I've ever met."

Overtaken by the crackle in the air, the alcohol, or some combination of the two, I moved so I was standing right next to him. After a breath to grip my courage, what little wasn't already gifted to me by booze, I leaned against him. Afraid of what I might see on his face - and being at a rather awkward angle to see it at all - I simply stared out the window.

I'm sure I had a grin bigger than a Cheshire cat on my face.

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

______________________

It's better to feel pain, than nothing at all
The opposite of love's indifference

It seems like a storm's passed over us outside, growing worse and worse as we sit in comfort by the fireplace. I can hear the rain pounding against the roof, followed by a clap of thunder, and she jumps like she's never heard a storm before. Still, that smile on her face is only getting wider. "I can never feel bad when it rains. Come on, let's see!" She tugs on my hand and pulls me out of my chair, and I follow along as she heads toward the window, and I'm drawn towards her excitement. Is she usually this lively, or is it the alcohol buzzing through her veins?

I can feel it too, 'cause my head's all foggy and there's a fire in my chest that’s burning even brighter with time. I know the feeling’s gonna fade away when the buzz leaves my system, but I don’t want it to.

And I don’t really wanna leave this place.

When we stop at the window, I look out at a world that should look altogether depressing. The sky has turned dim from the gray clouds above and the rain’s fogging up the windows, and the world looks like it’s taking a beating. But it looks real, and I find myself reveling in the way the window shakes when thunder claps right above us. I feel the noise in my chest along with the liquid courage coursing through my veins, and the feel of her fingers intertwined with mine is driving me insane.

As simple as it is, staring out of the window with a woman I’ve just met, I feel really goddamn alive. And I think sometimes you don’t know what you’ve been missing out on until you experience it, ‘cause this is real. Simple and calm.

”You didn’t make it worse,” she says, squeezing my hand. God, we’ve both had too much to drink. This feels so close and personal, and she’s nearly a stranger, holding onto my hand like we’ve known each other forever.

It feels nice.

”You know I’m not her, and you know you know it,” she smiles, poking me in the chest, and I can’t help but laugh a little. I know, you know, you know.. what?

”You know it here,” she emphasizes, jabbing me in the chest right over where my heart is. I’ve got a sudden urge to reach for her other hand and wrap our fingers together just so I can hold onto more of her, but I’ve gotta stop myself from being rude. This is uncharted territory, and I don’t wanna make her mad by overstepping my bounds. I don’t wanna disrespect her at all.

When she leans into me, I think I might just die. I wanna put my arms around her and kiss her cheek and whisper nice things in her ear, but I’m so close to being drunk, and I’m not sure I’d ever dare to do any of this if I were sober. I’ve got this ridiculous smile on my face, and I know she does too, ‘cause she’s standing a little shorter than me and I can see the way she’s looking out the window, staring at the storm outside like it’s paradise.

She’s so lovely, I wanna kiss her.

And I would, I could, but if she’s feelin’ anything like me I’m not sure it would be appropriate, ‘cause we’re both tipsy and ridiculous and I think we’ve already acted more forward than we ever would if we were sober.

(But I want to, and I can feel my heart seize in my chest just at the thought of it.)

I've gotta try, or I'll regret it.

”Cordelia,” I say her name gently, smiling wide ‘cause I know what I’m gonna say and it feels completely stupid. ”Please don’t think I’m awkward or whatever, and don’t laugh.” My smile spreads wider, and I find myself glancing at my toes for a second. ”And I don’t wanna be rude or anything and I know we’re not all that sober, but – “

Even with courage flowing through my veins, I feel like I’m blushing and stumbling over my words.

”Can I kiss you? You can say no, I just.. I didn’t wanna be too forward or disrespect you or –“

I trail off, feeling like I’ve just jumped off a cliff.