rafflesia streets ♔ ratts&groots . blitz

[Deleted]

g r o o t

(We die too quickly.)

It's what he woke up thinking, breathing - that eighteen years isn't enough. They aren't like the hydrangeas adorning his room, every breath is another he steals from someone else. The branches of his veins and the blossoms of his skin, there's red in his soul and that's everything more than he could breathe back into Margaret - it cracks. His lilac lungs. The pain isn't unbearable, three years and the battle wounds from an empty sigh and a snow-covered hill don't feel so unpatched. They're burlap, woven thick and heavy and noticable but it's livable. 

So so noticeable, but oh so livable.

He burns in the dark - (it's only been a year.) They die too quickly, street rats and rafflesia kings, stillbeating hearts and ever so growing gashes. He's not like Ratts and Quentin and- (fuck) there's a crack. A still breath of cold autumn air. There aren't bars and alcohols and smashed windows to clutter his mind, there isn't revenge sex for him. All that's left when he leaves his mind is the blank, the cracks and breaks of roots to fragile to take the cold wind. It's visible in his eyes, the burlap lungs and the bodies that live between. 

There's a solemn breath, waiting at the stop sign between 8th street and the old drug store that smells like Ratts. It's practically home. It smells like Margaret, the last moment of doe eyes when he believed roses grew between concrete and he placed a flower crown on the head of a shadow, and it smells like her body a year later. Decomposing. The wear of her casket of only enough time for silence to degrade his pupils, it reminds him of dark rooms. The year he sat alone while Ratts drank with Quentin and Draco and- fuck.

We aren't plants. He spent two years believing the silence was only a place to grow, the absence of Margaret would grow back by the overlapping vines of the people he had left. It's not the same people. 

They're his folie, the pain shared between the tremor of terracotta plants and growing crab grass. But they don't grow, neither does Garrett himself. In the cracks of his soul, his fragmented piece of mind, there is no regrowth. He's nothing but rafflesia, and there is no rebound other than weaving his very being back together. And weeds grow between the pavement he brushes his hands across, between cracks and grooves and he finds home with them - waiting for Ratts with the smell of alcohol in his mind and- crack. 

And he hates the silence, the cracks between his bones ever so noticable with the scattering thoughts trembling through his body and it's the fall of Margaret, the moment of giving up surrounded by snow while Garrett stood in silence next to Draco's shaking body. And it's the silence of standing alone a week ago, where Draco fell in front of him rather than beside him - he loved him. Not in the heart shattering, white picket fence love way, but the way his teeth chatter in the cold and he thinks of the break ins four years ago when they stole family heirlooms instead of family caskets. 

Draco was family, buried tombless in a community grave. And Garrett fell, whereas Draco died in one piece, Garrett perished in pieces, the silence filling the cracks to the point of suffocation. There was no silence to give, as he laid across the pavement. 

They all died so fast - why do I die so slowly?

[Python]

ratts.

A ghost lingered at the bar. Inches past the threshold, she digested the eruption of background noise; the echoes of drunken voices, clinking glasses, and the commotion over at the pool table. The stench of liquor brought nostalgia. Scumbags scraped from the bottom of her boot would be sitting here, opening beer bottles and trying to seduce women with clumsy words and husky voices. The atmosphere should welcome her.

She felt sick.

She could see him sitting at one of the stools. She couldn’t see him, but his ghost was there. A figment of her imagination, a memory brought to life so she could be mocked where she stood. Her sanctuary had been turned into a graveyard. Draco was there along with every memory she could muster through all of the drunken hazes. Nights of arguing and stumbling, of teaming up and fighting the scum who couldn’t admit defeat. They had been an odd, dynamic duo. Not quite like herself and Garrett, but a much jagged force. A double-edged hunting knife.

As she turned and rejected the ghost’s greeting and bright yellow lights, her blood burned with poison. Of course she had beer stashed in her fridge already, and of course she had gulped it down before the moon settled on its perch. The buzz had faded already, and she was fidgety. The more she drank the harder it was to function sober. It was honestly annoying, and she had planned to stop. Now it happened to be the best way to cope yet again, because the Capitol was so bent on murdering all of her friends.

Not Garrett. She remembered thinking it. She always did. Every damn Reaping she crossed her fingers and hoped that Garrett’s name wouldn’t be pulled. Of all the things they could steal from her, they couldn’t steal her best friend. So instead they found the loophole in her line of thinking and plucked Magaret and Draco from their roots. The day of the Bloodbath, she stood in the Square among her remaining friends, unopened beer bottle gripped in her right hand. The worry in her gut had been shrouded by her excitement to see Draco toss bodies and crack skulls.

She had forgotten how raw and dangerous the Games were.

A collective gasp stirred the crowd when the knife struck Draco’s eye. The cold glass had slipped from her hands and landed on the concrete. It wasn’t as dramatic as anyone would imagine; it cracked instead of shattered, and flooded the underside of her shoes with wasted beer. She shook with anger as the cameras panned away from him. A split second of death, and that was all. The rest was to be saved for recaps. She hadn’t stuck around to see it.

Somebody was pulling her leg. Their hope for Margaret had burned like a house fire, uncontrolled. Her life had been stretched and stretched until it was thin as a wire, and snapped in the finale. She still cherished the sensation of her fist slugging that dumb blonde from Eleven, knuckle to jaw. Now there was nobody to hope for, and nobody to punch. Draco died in the blink of an eye on the first day, as if he had never been offered the chance. Life was a joke.

She had nearly broken her toe, kicking her foot against the wall for no damn good reason other than utter frustration.

Many paces later, she found the stop sign that designated their meeting spot. Déjà vu made her feel sicker than the bar did, but this was for their own sake and Draco’s. She was not about to give up. ”Before you say anything, I’m not drunk,” she clarified, because she knew she must’ve smelled like the bar. ”I just…drank. A little.”

I can still do this.

[Deleted]

g r o o t

What did they get out of it- there was no getting Draco back, he knew this, that filing his dull nails against the wooden side of a coffin wouldn't return his brother to him. Wouldn't return the restless hours of midnight gardening because they're better than facing the nightmares waiting for him like they waited for Margaret, like they waited for Draco and how he waited for Ratts to return to him and waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting. 

He was so goddamn tired of it - a simple blow to the eye at the beginning as a mercy killing. 

Garrett chuckled to himself, to the weeds between the pavement and to the drug store he and Ratts never touched with sticky fingers; a mercy killing. They're all just waiting for something - for their fallen, for the drinks to set in or for death to take them. And, "before you say anything," the fresh scent of cheap whiskey making up for her light footsteps, when did he become the responsible one? "I just... drank," to which he shot a look sharp enough to kill a man, "a little."

It wasn't enough to be buzzed, her tolerance must've been at the point of replacing half her blood with alcohol, so they'd continue like they did two years ago when they thought one body would've been the last. Margaret had family, well off to a point with a legacy's graveyard, while Draco had only Garrett, and Margaret and Quentin, and (we just keep dyi-) he stands up. 

Draco has a community grave, a mercy killing and a soulless tomb; he makes eye contact with Ratts, and (you lead the way,) breathes.

[Python]

ratts.

Garrett didn’t utter as much as a grunt in response to her excuses. She couldn’t yet decide if that was good or bad, but it was fortunate. Tonight was business. It was all good and fun to fool around any other time when she planned to break the law, but tonight was about mourning a friend. In an outsider’s perspective, it was an odd way to mourn. They were about to dig up his grave, after all, but it was important to both of them that Draco be buried next to Margaret. He deserved a funeral surrounded by his friends.

If that meant slinking into the community graveyard in the dead of night – shovels marking where their hands would be caked in dirt – and dragging his casket out of the earth, then so be it. They had done worse. Snatching a casket out of somebody’s house was at the top of her list of successful sins. What can I say, I’m a top notch criminal. It was for the greater good anyway; she deserved the funeral they granted her as comrades.

”This way,” she muttered into silence. Not even the crickets chirped tonight. Nothing served as a distraction other than the echoes of their footsteps on pavement. The graveyard was only a few blocks away, and hopefully empty.

Years ago she might’ve thought a dark, silent graveyard was creepy. For now, she remained stoic. ”Pretty sure nobody guards dead people, but I’ll scout the area just in case,” she whispered. Not that it would waste much time. It would just take a few minutes of sneaking around and searching for shifting silhouettes.

When she finished, she found her shovels propped against a tree and motioned Garrett over.

[Deleted]

g r o o t

Her response is soft, "this way," a damn near oxymoron for Ratts, but he followed, regardless. It wasn't a far walk, he rubbed his neck the entire way there to avoid looking at her, something just felt wrong. In the air something was flat, and with the silence ringing in his ears, (it's just Drax, I'm not ready,) he had to shrug it off into the trees. Still, the weight laid on his shoulders until they reached the entrance of the graveyard - (communal.)

"Pretty sure nobody guards dead people," and he shot a quick look, stern eyebrows like the ones he gets from his father, "but I'll scout the area just in case." But it was a short wait, (worth the risk, at least) and she made eye contact with him less than a few minutes later but motioning him over to two shovels and a grave, hastily. 

Shit.)

Dilated pupils and all, he wipes the palm sweat forming onto the lining of his jeans, as he reaches for a shovel with as little hesitation as possible; it was so much easier last time. Margaret was a feeling in it's self, he choked on himself but Ratts held her own and his, but this time is a warning shot. (We die too fast,) and as Ratts handed him it as confirmation, he struck the ground first loudly.  

(Let's get this over with.)

[Python]

ratts.

They became shadows of the graveyard, cast across markers of death. Draco’s name was unrightfully carved in one of these stones and they were here to reclaim him, to deliver him the way he was supposed to be delivered. She didn’t believe in life after death or reincarnation, but she still wanted a ceremony. Their goodbyes would not be true until it happened.

Garrett didn’t hesitate to pick up a shovel and carve into the earth. She wanted to make quick work of this crime, so she struck the dirt with newfound determination, hands steady as the alcohol coursing through her blood. She was certain that there were no visits during the night, not by citizens nor Peacekeepers. A place like this was too haunting in the dark. Superstitious idiots believed in ghosts, while she only believed it was unsettling as hell to hang around in a graveyard. The dark was not meant for anyone but thieves.

The evening was cold but she could feel sweat gathering at the base of her neck. Her palms were already aching from the friction, but she kept on. Digging was the easiest part; lifting the coffin and stealing it away would strain her, and she knew she would regret her drinking habits when it happened. The grueling labor would be worth it. If her friends could take blades and knives to their flesh, she could betray the law and blister her palms again and again for their sake. She considered herself the most chaotic loyal known to man. Garrett had to feel the same about them, right?

[Deleted]

g r o o t

Silence hung around their necks like a pendant besides the constant chime of shovels hitting dirt, which Garrett himself began. Ratts joined in seconds later, but he didn't feel much more up to talking than his voice would let him so for once at least it served some purpose. His knuckles pressed white against the shovel's handle, the quicker we dig, he thought to himself, the quicker we get the hell out of here. And six feet was a far way under - almost an entire group worth - but if they had to in silence, then shit.

Might as well.

He never made Ratts take an oath, and he didn't really believe she'd live up to it anyhow; it was something that became understood over the two years that just had to be developed into their friendship. But it still didn't mean he was comfortable with it, and she had always known the fine line until she had blurred it past comprehension like Draco's body bleeding from view for the last time. 

It scared him seeing Margaret for the first time after the games, after digging her up to dig her back under and reclaim her as our's and bleeding conscience and reality, and he hadn't thought of his lost brother. It wasn't the same as Margaret's, digging with Ratts for a friend. Now it was just a repeat, just taking their's back like they had before and we die to fast etched into the sweat on his forehead. 

He looked at Ratts for a second, I'm sorry.

And he exhaled, breaking for a second in cold sweat, Draco's death wasn't held on the both of their shoulders like Margaret was, it was a twin burial. Groot and Ratts held each other during Margaret, while this time he took what was his and planted it instead, while Ratts downed what she could. And he laughed at this between the silence, how he lost Margaret and Draco, and could still stand to lose Ratts because of it. 

I'm sorry.

[Python]

ratts.

Her breaths were white, a match made in heaven with the pale moonlight illuminating graves. She continued to thrust dirt into accumulating piles, wishing the hot blood in her veins could erase the goosebumps across her skin. Tonight was an evening to be remembered; to shed blood and silent mourning as they reclaimed what was rightfully theirs to replant, because there was nobody in Draco’s bloodline left to decide what he deserved. It was odd, knowing that all of the anger and anguish about his lost family would vanish with him. It had often radiated into her own wild heart on drunken nights when their fists found the jaws of ugly men. Now it was gone like the rest of him. Snatched away, because life didn’t fuck around with conclusions.

She couldn’t think about how terrible the luck of the draw was. First Margaret, now Draco, and it was nights like these that made her wonder who was next. The trend of deaths had an end but it could be later instead of now. Garrett and Quentin were still in the Reaping pool. Hell, she was too. If fate had a habit of plucking the friends of criminals then she was screwed, and Garrett was screwed. Next she would be digging up his casket.

She would drown in alcohol before that happened.

It was nights like these that reminded her why her only coping mechanism was liver poison. There was nothing else that could make a human feel so numb and forgotten.

Her shovel struck something hard, and she paused. ”Nearly there,” she whispered, as if encouraging herself. The motivation was present but fleeting. Her hands were going to break themselves from her wrists like icicles while the cold sweats continued to steam against her hoodie. It was a terrible night to work but it was now or never. She couldn’t stand to arrange another plan to steal a dead comrade. She was young; death was not supposed to be at every turn.

Now it was beneath her, an uncovered coffin with a fallen friend inside. She exhaled and crawled out of his grave.

[Deleted]

g r o o t

Cold wind mixed uncomfortably with the sweat on his forearms as he repeatedly struck the earth and he pictured it was Katelyn Persimmon or Neptune, biting his bottom lip with each swing. He hated violence, he hated knowing Ratts and Draco were bar fighting and he hated knowing that it helped. That beating the ground and picturing Katelyn under it gave him some form of hope and- I don't want to be this. But hell, for a second it made him feel above the water and for a second it'd be caught in his own throat and trapped there with a lifetime of conversations that he's never had the chance to add into. He didn't feel okay. 

He felt better than okay.

Release didn't come to him often, it didn't come to him often. For a man with eighteen and a little extra worth of words stuck in his throat, he didn't do very well with keeping things under that surface. Two years he put up with it, two years and two weeks, crying under bed sheets and running and letting plants take over his room because it was the one thing he could keep alive. And he was built like a brick house, much like Draco, and Ratts helped him get him there, and he was used to doing heavy muscle work but his arms grew tired quick and his face was hot red when Ratts whispered a "nearly there" between them. 

And sure enough, that escape bled out like a spear to the eye. Katelyn disappeared and Ratts resurfacing brought him back up with her, and it made his stomach ache. He had never questioned their friendship, and maybe it was the night or maybe it was getting Draco back for a second but he could've thrown up on the spot - they were supposed to be there to catch each other, when did Garrett let go of that. Throbbing hands and a.m. air took him captive, but sure enough nearly there, drew closer each second, each strike. 

I'm sorry.

To a girl who fought to survive and won, just like Margaret almost had, and he no longer felt like screaming. Just guilty. He didn't like leaving Ratts behind, any more than he did being left behind by Draco, and he felt his stomach churn. What if he dug up Ratts next? What if this time next year, he's shovel to shovel with Quill digging up a third soldier and his strikes against the earth became more of jabs. We die too-

Groot shuddered. 

Unprepared, the shovel fell first, shaking against the ground in a clutter as a flash took the sky and cracked like lightning. And at first it didn't hurt much, as he felt something sink into the back of his left leg and the beating in his chest felt like it had stopped to hollow himself out. For a split second he looked at Ratts wide-eye'd, as she reached for something before he fell to the ground, gripping the back of his leg and a scream ripped his throat sore in the haste of 18 years of desperate conversation and oh god, dear god-

It felt like burning hell released out of his leg itself, ripped through shreds of flesh, feeling more of shock and incendiary more than pain itself, and his mind shut itself out, like a wounded animal. Blood sticked between his fingers, he felt no exit wound except for that of staring at Ratts waiting for her to make some way to fix this, some plan, some something, plans weren't ever his strong suit, and panic took him over as he looked at his shaking hands before passing out.