We spend the whole days {all} [Thundy]

[kousei ♚]

n e w t

{It's in your stare and at your core}

It seems that not only have I lost my eye but I've also lost my lust for liquor as well. I'm spinning and reeling back from what I could've sworn is an all time low for me. Rock bottom doesn't feel too good but it's familiar. (Newt, you're strong. Remember that.) I guess I'm not at a complete all time low after all. Still, I'm deluding myself if I tell myself that I'm at a high of any point. I can't be at a high of any kind if my worth is at an all time low, hanging and swinging end to end on a fading thread.

I can't even hit a target any more, the knives flying far too wide from the blurring target every time I dare flick my wrist to let one fly. Even the handle of a throwing knife feels foreign in my finger tips, metal feeling almost poison to the touch. Every time I miss my father doesn't hesitate to shake his head and turn away, disappointment hanging over his shoulders and slowly breaking the fading thread.

Nevah's made it a point to remind me just how long my current worth is, she'll never let me forget. Perhaps that's what pushed me to break my apparent chastity from the bottle I've spent ages secretly enjoying for the past two years? Risk of being caught carries exhilaration of the act and besides, I need an escape route. This house is a cage, keeping me penned like a hellhound. I haven't had the courage to test fate with the bottle and the smoke ever since that glass took out my eye.

Despite my worth on the edge of shattering, the constant drum of reinforcement keeps the fragments stuck together. (Newt, you are strong. Remember that.) I never could take action of my own accord, always needed someone to kick start me so I could start working all by myself. It plays in my head like a broken tape recorder, driving me to get dressed, pocket my cash and drive my feet down the stairs. (Newt, you are strong. Remember that.) With every movement that statement feels more and more true, a statement worth living for.

"I'm just going to see Ivy." Lies fall from my tongue so easily that it's almost disgusting. My father doesn't even need to ask, just looks up from the table as if to ask why I'm so dressed up. He knows I never dress up. It just goes to show how much my father knows because I haven't talked to Ivy in at least three months. Lies twist my tongue and tie my stomach into tight knots because this doesn't feel right despite the fact it used to be the routine.

Nothing feels right with only one eye.

Even opening the door handle feels wrong, because I dare only see the world through one eye instead of two. Every step I take down the street is followed by a wave of paranoia, as if something on my blind side is going to take advantage of the weakness. (Newt, you are strong. Remember that.) It doesn't feel like that, it doesn't feel like that at all.

He told me I was strong but he never could tell me why. Just like that he shoved a statement worth living for down my throat but never offered an explanation. Just a sense of gratification and a reinforcement to the weight of having 'Krearns' attached to those four useless letters.

Still, despite not going in almost a year, I know the place like the back of my hand. My movement is almost automatic, my arms gently swaying in the cool breeze and my vision imprinted on the ground in front of me. One foot falls in front of the other all too naturally for such a foreign feeling. Twists and turns feel practically effortless in the street and time seems to blur. I find myself out of the rich and pampered area of big houses and to the less natural, almost back alley areas. Before I know it, the bar stands proudly right before me.

Good thing it wasn't damaged. No sense of repulsion at the unfamiliarity or sense of wariness at the sporadic. I step into the secret second home I happily accepted with all its burdens.

It's almost empty, most of the familiar faces aren't here. It hits me like a ton of bricks that they were likely killed, littered in the streets by the wave. At least the barman is familiar. I don't know what I'd do if his regular features were replaced by an unfamiliar stranger. (Newt, you are strong. Remember that.) I bite my lips and put one foot in front of the other. My one good eye narrowed on the liquor behind.

When I approach, I speak confidently and clearly, the statement worth living for ringing loud and clear in repeat. "Just the regular," I state calmly, sliding the coins across the counter and taking my seat. Within two minutes he has the bottle of liquor and the glass in front of me.

Golden liquid swirls from inside the bottle, capturing my gaze and leaving me almost awestruck. I almost don't notice the fact that someone is actually sitting next to me. I barely shoot them a sideways glance of acknowledgement before turning my attention back to the bottle. Too much weight on your mind does tends to do that. Just need a drink, not too much, just a little bit to clear my head. Without so much as a word, I begin pouring the liquid into my glass. The movement feels too natural for something so foreign, I suppose having no worth tends to do that to you.

I swirl the glass and wrinkle my nose; the unfamiliar doesn't look all the appealing.

(Newt, you are strong. Remember that.)

A statement worth living for, reinforcing those four useless letters that has defined my existence for seventeen years - for my sake, I hope that statement is true.

---

(WC: 998)

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

______________________

And she came to give her blessing
while causing devastation

The violent waters that swept over the District didn’t take her with them, but Finley O’Hara wasn’t worried in the first place. Scary as the waves might have been in all their mountainous glory, she had already drowned once in calm waters, and she learned early on that a man’s heart is always more violent and dangerous than any natural disaster the world can create. When the water rose into the sky and swept up debris and disorder, she took to high ground with her mother and sisters and watched the waves overtake the earth, the same sea she always loved.

People were lost and injured, but she didn’t fear the waves.

In the time that passed, the water calmed and the District was forever changed. She did her part to repair what was damaged and help each person she could, and the gloom from disaster eventually ebbed. Without that scumbag of a father, she spent her days supporting her mother and sisters by rebuilding and restocking their lost food supply, and it was busy work.

Disaster has a way of bringing people together, and Finley felt too uncomfortable around the influx of strange people and Peacekeepers in the District following the wave. For this reason alone, once the day’s work was done each afternoon, she spent her evenings away from the bustling recovery camp and in the company of familiar faces in one of the remaining bars, tucked away in an area of the District wracked by poverty but full of warmth.

Tonight was no different; once she gave the remainder of her daily catch to her mother, she sidled off down the winding streets until she found the familiar door. This night was less hectic than others – fewer people crowded the barstools and warm corners, perhaps too tired from a day of work to make the trek to have a drink. That, or they didn’t have the money.

She had a deal with the bartender; since she helped him with a bit of reconstruction on his house one afternoon, he would give her free drinks – at least, before he inevitably changed his mind. As that hadn’t happened yet, Finley took her luck and ordered a double shot of cheap whiskey, and the man behind the counter still seemed thankful for the help.

This night was different from the others; the comparable emptiness of the bar made her feel particularly exposed – less comfortable, perhaps – and there wasn’t a friendly face to turn to. While the people at first rejoiced at their survival of the wave and spent their nights singing and laughing, the men in the bar now looked tired, too exhausted from the District’s slow-going repair process to feel joyous about anything.

On the upside, there was nobody pinching at her cheeks or grabbing at her fiery hair; a decent tradeoff for the lack of friendly company. The whiskey went straight to her head – she was a lightweight, but she wouldn’t admit that to anyone – and she was itching to talk to someone, but everyone looked too goddamn glum.

When a lonely looking guy walked in and plopped down on the seat next to her, she didn’t hesitate to swivel in her barstool to face him once he got his drink. Taking note of his missing eye, the curiosity got the better of her.

”What happened to your eye, there?” she asked, feeling buzzed and perhaps too forward. Whether he wanted someone to talk or not, she didn’t care – she continued on with a tipsy smile, fidgeting with the empty shot glass in her hand. ”I’m Finley O’Hara, by the way – might have heard of me, might not have,” she laughed, holding out her hand to shake. ”I won’t mind if you haven’t, though, ‘cause I haven’t seen you ‘round here either.”

The whiskey pulled the words out of her mouth, but in truth she would be just as talkative under more sober conditions. She projected warmth in a way that the boy did not – he looked too forlorn, much like all the other guys in the bar that night.

[kousei ♚]

n e w t

{It's in your stare and at your core}

My lust for liquor seems more and more undeniably dead by the minute. When the glass touches my lips and I take a sip and smack my lips. It's unfamiliar, unknown and it's a fire that's scalding the back of my throat slowly but surely every second. It's bittersweet. Sweet because despite feeling so unknown, a sense of routine is brought back. Years I spent challenging the fate of my father's wrath by sneaking off and intentionally ruining my chances at being the best damn career possible. Ever since I lost my eye, the desire to give him the silent middle finger when his back is turned was drowned in loss.

Bitter because the exhilaration is not quite how I remembered it. There's no sense of anticipation of what would happen if he was kick down the door and see me. When I used to sip the drink my heart would start to race at the thought. When my lips touched the glass I felt a sense of calm despite my racing heart. When I touch the glass now I just feel the burn running down the edge of my throat.

Empty. I feel too drenched and weighed down by the loss. Barely worth a penny to begin with, I thought my worth couldn't be reduced any more before my usefulness was stripped away from me with a wave and a shard of glass. I take another this, this time I ignore the fire charring the back of my throat. Spiralling from rock bottom involves fire down the back of my throat and me to play games with the smoke, apparently.

”What happened to your eye, there?” A female voice sounds, snapping me out of my train of thought completely.

When I look it's the person who was sat here before I came in. A girl, looks no older than me but even with only one eye I pick up on the fact that she's not completely one hundred percent sober. Fire sits and dances on the top of her head, captivating me instantly, but her words are a shock. A simple innocent question but one I would rather not answer. I suppose I should have known, problems can't be escaped by running to the first bottle I see. No matter how I wish, unlike those four useless letters that define me, problems can't be blurred red across a canvas.

My response is automatic, the words falling from my tongue like a waterfall. "I lost it," I speak, pausing as if thinking what to say, as if I have something to wide, "I lost it in the tsunami." I finish, my words carefully crafted like a sculpture. I suppose the fact that I can still craft my sentence is just a testament to how sober I am for now.

Clearly not satisfied, she fires more sentences at me. ”I’m Finley O’Hara, by the way – might have heard of me, might not have,” she pauses, giving me a second to properly look her up and down, ”I won’t mind if you haven’t, though, ‘cause I haven’t seen you ‘round here either.” She finishes, holding her hand out to shake and smiling.

She's a beacon of light in this darkness. This place is almost completely empty and the few people that are here are unfamiliar and are happy to paint this bar grey. When I used to come here, this place was filled with colours; laughter was the overriding noise here. Now, that laughter has been replaced with something not quite silence but not quite joyous either. Lost in the plane that hangs between the two. But not her, she stands out, a beacon of light that melts away the black and white. Sharpening the smears to something, well, viable.

I have to offer her a response. I gently grab her hand in mine, accepting the handshake. "Newt," Four letters to define me, four letters that label me as useless through and through. I keep my last name a mystery. Usually when people hear the name Krearns they either remember the insane dog Someith and wrinkle their noses or realise I'm related to Nevah and turn hostile. In truth I never so much as spoke to that mad dog and thrill doesn't come to mind when I remember I shared a womb with Nevah Krearns.

"I used to come here a lot, but when you've glass goes in your eye the last thing on your mind is to go to the bar and have a drink," I quickly add, before grabbing my glass that's still a quarter way full. "But hey, cheers to good times come back."

The corners of my lips pull into a wide smile. It feels so unfamiliar.

---

(WC: 783)

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

______________________

And she came to give her blessing
while causing devastation

The boy with one eye looked weary, and she noticed how his gaze flickered over her face and the fiery color of her hair. He didn’t press forward with instant flirtatiousness – not like the other scumbag men – and she took this as a good sign. It meant that he could be trusted to treat her with some level of respect, not like the other men who groped at her hair and her hips to grab her attention and whisper awful things in her ear.

Finley didn’t tolerate such nonsense. That’s why she had a knife sheathed in her belt for safe-keeping; a fumbling stranger would find the blade pressed against his throat, and would soon realize that her threats were never empty. In a man’s world, she had to be careful to keep her head above water, and sometimes that involved a fight.

So far, this boy had nothing to worry about. He had a sort of dejected air about him, and seemed to falter when she asked him about his eye. Not that Finley minded much; she wanted an answer, and any self-respecting boy wouldn’t be afraid to talk about his battle wounds. Hell, scars made for good stories, and Finley was in the mood to hear an interesting tale. Unfortunately – like most people of late – his was another sad story about the wave, and he didn’t elaborate much. Instead he reached out to shake her hand, and she liked the gentleness of him in contrast to the firm handshakes she usually got from strange men, a soft and patient manner that was so uncommon among the people of District Four.

The boy – Newt, he claimed – hadn’t been a regular in the bar for some time, so it wasn’t a surprise that she’d never met him before. He explained that ever since a piece of glass from the wave damaged his eye, he wasn’t in the mood to drink, and that seemed like a curious thought – if something like that ever happened to her, she probably wouldn’t be able to stop drinking.

Finley watched his movement as he reached for the glass, realizing that her own was woefully empty – perhaps for the best, because the whiskey was already burning in her chest and seizing the better part of her inhibitions. When he smiled, she didn’t think twice – she motioned for the bartender.

”Let me buy you a drink,” she started, realizing a little too late that the words were vaguely flirtatious, made worse only by the coy unwavering smile on her lips. She thought to recover, to explain herself, but found after a moment that she didn’t really want to correct the connotation behind her words.

”Another can’t hurt, can it?” she asked, laughing – knowing that it probably could – but she kept going despite this obvious flaw in her reasoning. ”You deserve a drink for surviving that godawful wave.”

[kousei ♚]

n e w t

{It's in your stare and at your core}

I don't even take a sip this time. One deep gulp and the fire runs down my throat. Instead of recoiling I keep my eye locked on hers, gaze unwavering. I suddenly find myself slightly envious of her. I stare into those soft green eyes and my subtle happiness is a thick mask. Behind the mask I'm spiralling down the path of envy because she has two soft green eyes and I have one. Her face untouched by the weight of disaster and the suffering of her own being. Every person who I've stumbled across find a way to pull the blade and twist the string, moving the inactive puppet that is my bitterness. It would twist and turn inside deep within my heart but I would never show the world its movement.

(Newt, you are strong. Remember that.)

Statements worth living for are the reason I keep its movements hidden, buried behind the outward mask of solidity.

It's so different this time, because when I see the face untouched by disaster, when I see two eyes that poorly mirror my one, I don't feel the need to suppress anything. There's no need to suppress bitterness that won't move. No strings pulled, no blade plunged deep into my soul. When I look into those soft green eyes, I freeze mid-spiral and envy dies - just like that. No envy waiting at the bottom to twist the strings attached to bitterness. When I look at her I simply don't want to be bitter. I can't be bitter and I can't put my finger on as to why. It's practically a riddle.

I've spiralled down the path too often for it to remain a distant memory; it's more like a familiar feeling now. Whenever I look at Nevah who makes her remarks of useless or Captain Newt and I can only look to the ground and pretend to laugh it off. Everyone in that damn house who hang around with their pristine features that were untouched by disaster, who have kept their worth measured by what they can do and I've been left to spiral down the path, worth and all.

”Let me buy you a drink,” She says and I swear my heart leaps. I'm taken aback because in the past year I went to the bar before disaster struck not one person ever offered to buy me a drink. In fact, I don't offer to buy other people drinks; I've always kept myself to myself. I raise an eyebrow, my small smile unwavering while dozens of questions fill my mind. I've only ever known one motive as to why anyone offers to buy anyone a drink in places like this but I don't put my finger on the reason just in case I'm completely wrong. I'm usually completely wrong about a lot of things.

”Another can’t hurt, can it?” She says and I chuckle, despite the fact that statement is completely wrong, I shake my head in agreement.

"I guess not." I reply as motions the bartender over.

”You deserve a drink for surviving that godawful wave.”

I laugh softly, breaking eye contact to watch the bartender pour the drink in the glass. "Guess you're right, brave old me." I lie through my teeth, I'm not brave at all (Newt, you are strong. Remember that.) not brave at all, Dad makes sure I never stop hearing about how braver people accomplished stuff I could never even dream of. (Newt, you are strong. Remember that.) And so does Nevah, they'll never let me stop hearing about it; I had to get away. Brave people don't run from their problems.

And I found her.

I take another sip of the drink, my lust for liquor is not fully resurrected it seems so I reduce myself to taking another sip. Nothing can be quite the same after all.

(Newt, you are strong. Remember that.)

My movement's automatic, my body moving on its own, I lean in closer to her as if that'll make her hear me better. "Enough about me," I say, leaving the glass on the bar before elaborating, "no one's ever been nice enough here to just come and buy me a drink," I pause, almost amused at some internal joke, "what's someone as nice as you just doing here all by yourself?" I ask, still smiling despite the fact that sentence feels so incomplete. I lean right back, resting my elbow on the table before taking another long sip.

Perhaps it would've felt complete if I replaced the word nice with pretty. I've never been brave enough to call a girl pretty to their face, even when I've really wanted to, so I'll just settle with the incomplete nice as always.

---

(WC: 779)

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

______________________

And she came to give her blessing
while causing devastation

”Guess you’re right, brave old me.”

Though the boy didn’t seem to believe what he was saying, that apprehension behind his words didn’t matter to a girl made merry from the whiskey; she was too focused on her own giddiness to let any kind of negativity pull at her heartstrings. She hoped it was infectious; she wouldn’t want him to feel dull and depressed on a joyful night like this, a night when all she wanted was some nice company away from her family and all the troubles of the morning.

Finley’s breath caught in her throat when he moved forward, and she realized that she was drifting closer to their conversation just as well. This was nothing but an afterthought as she focused on his words, and she ignored it. Flirting wasn’t necessarily something she avoided, but neither was it something she often did. In truth, most men were boring to her. But then, most men were disrespectful, at least in her company.

”What's someone as nice as you just doing here all by yourself?"

His voice seemed to linger over the word nice, and Finley raised her eyebrow. Not that she was particularly good at being patient or polite, but she waited until he was finished speaking before she cut in with a response. The word nice didn’t seem the right way to describe her.

”Maybe I’m not nice,” she smirked, absentmindedly tracing the wood pattern of the table to avoid his brown one-eyed stare, intimidated by his odd gaze.

An image of her father flickered through her mind, and just as quickly it was gone, drowned out by the whiskey. So Finley filled the air with words to stave off the memories, distracting herself from things better left dead.

”If I was nice, I wouldn’t be here alone – some of these drunk men can be a little too.. forward for a nice girl to deal with,” she laughed, pointing at the knife hanging from her belt. ”They like to think they’re so tough and mighty, they think they own me,” she shook her head.

”But you seem nice, not me,” she said, quickly recovering just in case he thought she was trying to say he was some kinda asshole. Then, realizing she never fully answered his question, she continued on, ever the talkative kind.

”I guess I just wanted someone to talk to, is all. I go crazy if I’m by myself for too long.”

A curious trait for a distrustful girl, but it was the truth.

[kousei ♚]

n e w t

{It's in your stare and at your core}

Dad always told me I was fragile, and that's what makes me weak.

(Newt, you're strong. Remember that.)

Two completely conflicting ideas and I want to believe the second one, I want to believe that everything father says about me isn't true. I want to believe that my skin isn't as fragile as porcelain and my core isn't as soft as the cushion saving me from the spiral down the path of envy. Seventeen years I was told it was true. Seventeen years of being told the same thing that it becomes the system, the routine. Seventeen years of being told that I was as fragile as glass and that's what made me weak; but one statement from Evander and that system comes crashing down (Newt, you're strong. Remember that.) like it was always as fragile as my father claimed I was.

I want to believe that none of that is true, I want to believe that I'm strong and I want to remember that. Perhaps that's why I'm drinking and laughing with Finley right now, as if trying to prove something to myself that I am not a weak shell of my former self. After all, if she saw me like that she wouldn't have bought me a drink or even kept on talking to me. She would have joined the countless smears across the canvas and turned her back on me, officially given up. But she hasn't.

My heart flutters when she smirks before speaking. ”Maybe I’m not nice,” she answers and I'm instantly curious. Despite only having one eye, I watch and take in every detail of her features and movement, like an analytical machine. From the way the corners of her lips twitch upwards to the way her her hand seems to trace over the surface of the table aimlessly. Almost as if her finger has a mind of its own, following the shapeless patterns that decorate the surface in the same way I've tried to follow the smears of the canvas for seventeen years to find something worth living for. Something sharp and viable.

And I think I've finally found it.

I'm weightless as the air around as I wait for what happens next. My heart feels practically lodged in my throat, she's left me on edge, practically leaning completely forwards and over the edge. I swear, to an outsider it looks like I'm leaning over for something completely different, something easily mistaken to the naked eye.

”If I was nice, I wouldn’t be here alone – some of these drunk men can be a little too.. forward for a nice girl to deal with,” She tells me and direct me to her hips, where her belt lies which is where a knife sits safely, hugging her hip.

My throat tightens at the sight of the silver. Liquor must be starting to blend and obscures my senses because panic is absent and worry has abandoned me. Instead, curiosity takes their place and I find myself gazing at the blade. It's funny, someone who is ,apparently, as fragile as me and has a core as soft as mine should be terrified at the sight of his opposite. Finley isn't fragile, unlike me, she is definitely not fragile. The rest of her sentence blurs and I don't catch it, unable to sharpen it into something more vivid. I'm too focused on the blade clung to her hip.

”But you seem nice, not me,” She says and my attention is snapped back into the here and now and away from the possibilities and maybes.

"I do all right, I suppose. I've seen a lot of mean people, I don't consider myself one of them." I tell her before taking another gulp of drink. Father, Nevah and Enzo immediately come to mind but I push them to the back of my head. They don't belong here, I'm safe from them here.

”I guess I just wanted someone to talk to, is all. I go crazy if I’m by myself for too long.”

Strange, if I thought like Finley does then I would have tumbled down the spindly path of insanity a long time ago and hit the ground at unthinkable velocities. Despite having a twin sister, a younger brother, two parents and a legion of cousins I've been by myself for as long as I can remember. Not being by yourself means having companionship; unfortunately for me, companionship has never been found in any of the people mentioned above. Fortunately for my sanity, my mind does not work like Finley O'Hara.

"I see what you mean, I suppose after a while being alone has just become the norm for me." I tell her, but I surprise myself; this time, I hear life in the way I speak.

Without thinking, I finish the last of the glass and pull out my wallet.

"But hey, you're not all by yourself at this very moment so no need to lose your mind yet," I say, basically giggling, "just so you know what I mean, next round's on me." I motion for the bartender and hand him the money.

I think my lust for liquor's most definitely back and I'm pretty sure it's going right to my head.

"Here's to not being by ourselves."

And here's to not being fragile and giving my father the bird to prove it. I'm strong, he better damn well remember that.

---

(WC: 892)

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

______________________

And she came to give her blessing
while causing devastation

She liked the way he leaned forward, hanging on her every word. Most people got annoyed whenever she started talking, knowing that there was some kind of absurd story or otherwise lengthy rant to come, but Newt seemed almost.. enthralled. And either way, Finley wasn't in the mood to tell some fantastical story just to build up some respect; she saved those tales for the men who dared question her, the men who loved to tear her down a notch. A good story had the effect of creating a woman with valor and pride, and most people wouldn't give her the time of day if they didn't understand that she was a force to be reckoned with.

Right then, Finley didn't feel the need to force respect onto this boy - with the way he leaned in close when she spoke, she could tell there was something different about him. She took note of his features - dark hair, dark eye, and how his gaze was still focused on the knife at her hip. Perhaps he was a Career - most in the District were - and that meant he could still be somewhat dangerous. Perhaps that kind stare wasn't so innocent and safe as she thought it might be.

With the whiskey in her belly, Finley didn't give a fuck.

"I suppose after a while being alone has just become the norm for me."

The way he said it, she wanted to reach out and give him a hug - something she wouldn't normally do, under sober conditions - and she even began to move her arm toward him before she changed her mind. Some inhibition remained, a lingering echo of the distrust always present in her mind, and for that reason she let her arm drop in an attempt to look nonchalant, like she wasn't just about to hug a near-stranger.

Something about that damn whiskey.

Nevertheless, her almost-hug brought her closer than before, and as he kept talking she was painfully aware that she was out of her goddamn mind, getting this close to a strange boy just because he.. was what? Kind? Different? She wasn't sure what drew her closer, but the force was unstoppable, and she remained ever-aware of its pull as he offered to buy her a drink. The bartender presented her with another whiskey a few moments later, and it tempted her enough to take a cautious sip.

"Here's to not being by ourselves," he said, and she laughed at how upbeat he seemed. Perhaps it was the liquor or perhaps it was the company, but he seemed more alive than he did when their conversation started. She fed off of that energy, taking a long pull from her glass even though she didn't need it.

"I can't believe that you're used to being alone," she said after a moment, nudging aside the rest of her drink for later. Her mind felt cloudier than before, but not in a bad way. She wasn't unfamiliar with being drunk, but she knew her limits, and she didn't want to press them and put herself in a potentially dangerous situation. Such was life.

Without a hint of caution, she settled a hand on his arm, feeling touchy from the liquor. Hopefully he didn't mind.

She didn't think that prying would necessarily bring many answers - after all, he didn't seem to like talking about himself - but she was curious about one thing in particular.

"What about your family? Friends?" There was a pause as she tried to formulate her next words. Softer, with a coy smile, she continued: "Anyone that you care about?" and she felt an extra meaning behind the first word. She could not contain her own flirtatiousness; it was unstoppable with the liquor taking its hold on her inhibitions. Sober Finley might be appalled that she was acting so forward with a stranger, but then.. such embarassment would seem cowardly, and Finley O'Hara had no time to feel afraid of anything at all.

In her fearlessness, the air felt electric.

[kousei ♚]

n e w t

{It's in your stare and at your core}

"I can't believe that you're used to being alone."

Despite the liquor, that sentence stays as sharp as a shard of glass. I don't usually get drunk, the most I would dare to go is tipsy, but the blurring effect of alcohol is not foreign to me. It's not quite there yet, so I dare take a sip after she says those words. I find myself drawn onto the words, focused more on them more than I was before, and once again I feel myself clutching onto the words like straws. Mixed with sympathy and a tint of surprise, the former is completely unknown to me. Father would never accept sympathy for the loss of my eye and he didn't allow me to either. Said it was a sign of weakness.

It feels strange, and maybe because it's strange I find myself drawn to what she says even more. The words fall like they're in slow motion, as if giving me an extra second to catch them and process them. I find it strange that me living in isolation is so unbelievable. I assumed that everyone in the district knew the feeling of the fall. I've been spiralling for a long time, I just haven't had the chance to hit the floor. One twin, one younger brother, two parents and a legion of cousins and I'm still alone. Loneliness is countered by companionship but not one person is that source of companionship. I suppose when you're the useless one who is worth nothing then you don't have the right to it.

Before I can even say anything else I feel her hand rest on my arm and my breath catches between my teeth. The touch isn't the rough punch of a brutish career, nor is it the steely kiss of a blunted blade. It's gentle and it's strange.

But so calming.

"What about your family? Friends?" She asks and I cringe internally at the thought. Everyone would rather be friends with Nevah Krearns, Newt Krearns is just there. I haven't seen Ivy in at least three months, I don't even know if I can even consider us friends any more. I've been stumbling through seventeen years across the blurred canvas and not once can I honestly say a friend has been there to guide me, least of all a family member.

I only shake my head in response, still masking the thought with a smile. My mind is more focused on the touch to be weighed down by the unfortunate and the unfairness. I'm used to being alone so I'm not bitter about it. Besides, the touch of liquor makes it too distant for me to even care.

"Anyone that you care about?" The question's like a feather, falling in soft slow motion through the air. I'm looking directly at her, my eye locked with hers and taking in her porcelain features along with her alluring smile.

Despite the liquor ravaging my system, I have to control my lean forward this time. Just barely. In the moment I'm as weightless as air. "No, not yet anyway..." I say, my voice is so soft it may as well be a whisper and my good eye blinks. "Besides, I wouldn't exactly call a family that measures my worth based on how well I hit a target with a throwing knife very good company." I add, smiling to myself at the thought. I was worth little to being with. Now, I've missed the target so many times that I am practically worth nothing. Someone who's worth nothing better get used to solitude being their best form of company.

Does she think I'm worth nothing?

I still can't tell, even though I may or may not know the answer. But I'm worth nothing. Always worth nothing, I've been spiralling down the path of solitude for years now but I just haven't had the grace is hitting the ground yet.

I learn closer in my seat this time, control slowly begins to slip. "How about you? Anyone that you care about?" I ask, my voice growing warmer and softer with each passing word. Like she did, I put extra emphasis on 'you'.

I'm Practically weightless, I've never been this close to someone before. Soft green eyes, fire dancing and cascading down the top of her head and and alluring smile all amount to control slowly diminishing, slowly ticking down for every second I spend this close to her and staring into those eyes. Despite knowing that she literally has a weapon at her hip for use at any time I feel caution slip at a faster rate than control. Everything remains forgotten.

I can't help but wonder if this is what the absence of solitude is.

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(WC: 781)