we run } brooke&atlas { blitz

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

"I will not let her speak because I love her, and when you love someone, you do not make them tell war stories."

The wind stops howling when Brooke makes her way inside of the rooftop garden, wrapping her arms around herself and shivering despite the sudden rush of warm air that greets her freckled skin. She marvels at the scenery that spreads out across her vision, taking in the potted orchids and the flowering vines with an inhale that is sharp and excited. She walks over to one of the glass walls with a childlike squeak, pressing her hands against the cold material and watching the Capitol’s lights shine and dance in the distance. She realizes that it’s just a graveyard hiding under the guise of a carnival, but she tries to avoid thinking about the tombstones that are resting beneath the Ferris Wheel; about the corpses that are piled in the funhouse.

( not tonight )

She knows that she should be sleeping — not walking around barefoot while wearing nothing but her nightgown — but it's rare that she actually does what she's supposed to do. This world is dangerous and fleeting, but even if the earth is roaring and shaking beneath her feet, she’ll make the choice to keep running across the wasteland. She wants to experience and to explore, and she doesn’t want to be afraid. She is not ashamed of her softness, of how her hands shake and how her smile falters when nobody's watching, but even iron can be bent and torn to shreds.

( she is not weak )

Outside sounds bring her back down from her skyward thoughts, turning to notice another figure coming inside for shelter. A welcoming smile is on her face in seconds, eyes studying the boy and identifying him as the male tribute from One. “Hey!” she calls out, stepping closer to where he’s standing and unfolding her arms. “Out exploring? Or can you not sleep?” she asks with a genuine curiosity, never one for respecting personal boundaries.

“You're Atlas, yeah?” She smirks before leaning in, mischievous and prying — she won't be afraid until he's pressing a sword against her throat.

“What are you running from?”

( and does that make her brave,
or a fool? )

[kousei ♚]

For someone who's lived a life of nothing but smoke and mirrors, it's only natural that my first response at the sight of a garden of all things is thought to be nothing more than an illusion. After all, in the Capitol all I hear is the harmonic hum of the engineering that comes with a force field to thwart attempts of premature madness and the light ticking of borrowed time slowly reaching amounts lower than subzero. In my experience, nothing beautiful could flourish in an atmosphere so thick and ripe with desperation; the sun tends to remain shielded by the ignorance of anything other than the present matter at hand.

There's a desperation in my heavy chest to see anything but red run through my stitched heart and to see anything but the threads of fate.

In this prison of the doomed and damned, it's no wonder that I leave the thought of sleep behind for the fourth night in a row and find something incomprehensible within the walls of human reasoning as we slowly leave behind the pm's and approach the am's.

“Out exploring? Or can you not sleep?”

It's impossible to miss the voice of someone who's tragedy makes the weight of the world on my shoulders seem trivial. I recognize Brooke Destin straight away, immediately matching the voice that offered soul as sacrifice on the reaping tape and the voice that asks me a question even I cannot pinpoint the answer to. "I suppose you could say I'm doing both." I say, surprise at the ginger locks and nightgown that appear from my peripherals nonexistent.

“You're Atlas, yeah?" I only close my eyes and nod. “What are you running from?”

(what aren't I running from?)

My eyes flick open and the old desperation for a stand still in motion comes floods right back. She holds no fear: no fear of a tarnished family bloodline, no caution of a career mindset long since taken root.

There's a shock and almost hollow desperation in my chest but I only respond the only way I know how with a soft smile. "I don't run, I don't need to run, never have run." It's a lie so well-rehearsed that it feels almost sinful to speak it in this sanctuary.

(how else could I ever be strong enough to hold the weight of the world on my shoulders?)

Polarized to the righteous path since five, there's no surprise that it's practically automatic.

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

"I will not let her speak because I love her, and when you love someone, you do not make them tell war stories."

As a child, she had been told that restless souls were stolen from their bodies when they refused to sleep — that they were left to wander through a dark forest where the stars in the sky shone like faded gold, dancing with all of the other lost boys and girls until the sun would rise and they'd be carried back home to their waiting skin. Now that she stands before Atlas Lumiere, she wonders if she's trapped in those same twilight woods. The only difference is the greenhouse's lighting, bright and warm and alive, and how there is no true magic that flows through this place.

Beautiful as it might be, the Capitol is no wonderland; there is only paper when you scratch away the masterpiece on the canvas. Green vines spill out across the walls, red flowers swaying due to the artificial breeze, and suddenly her attention is caught by another. She and Atlas both refuse to sleep, and perhaps they're due to be spirited away, but tonight they're real. The boy standing across from her is still living within the cage of his ribs, and she's still softly laughing from behind her own teeth.

Spirits are fickle creatures, never fully pleased with the places where they roam — but Brooke is far from selfish, so she's content to share her purgatory with the young man that stands across from her.

She walks closer, pursing her lips and looking him over with narrowed eyes, circling around him. Not in the way that a cat stalks her prey, but in the way that a girl studies the monster who lives beneath her bed. She stops her journey when she's in front of him again, staring at him with a slow nod. "A little bit of both, eh?" she starts, lips spreading wider and a genuine kindness showing itself across her features. "I guess I'm the same. I love exploring, but I think sleeping is such a bore. Don't you agree?"

She turns away from him, taking a few steps closer to a table where roses are placed. She runs her fingers across the petals, careful not to break them, before turning to look over her shoulder. "Dreams are fleeting; they're not real. You can control them if you concentrate hard enough. I don't think that's any fun, though — I like adventure. You never know what you'll find."

She returns to Atlas, outstretching a hand in invitation. "Then let's not run tonight. Let's explore together." She laughs like she's never known pain, and that's the greatest gift that her parents ever left behind for her to claim. "We should watch out for the violets, though. I hear they ask for your darkest secrets."

( she wonders what his must be )

"My name's Brooke, by the way — and you're safe with me."

[kousei ♚]

Her smile is like a pink line across a white page, a signature to distinguish maleficence from magnificence.

"I love exploring, but I think sleeping is such a bore. Don't you agree?"

There's a natural light in her eyes, a wanderlust in her soul - an innocence that belongs here, in a garden filled with nothing but natural wonders and away from the neon and false fluorescence of the Capitol's concrete. I nod because that's all I think to do, nod and agree and smile because it's nice to forget why I'm here, nice to forget this garden isn't what Capitol indoctrination makes it out to be.

She turns and I'm numb, to have been shown a rare glimpse of innocence that seems so out of place. When she smiles I don't know whether to contribute it to the all-too familiar acting of people smiling because they want something or people smiling because there's something better, that they're somehow better than all of that. I would almost call it an act, after all, she's also from a career district full of statistics and spears and training centers; for all I know she's cut from the same stone as me.

I almost call her to come back before she speaks, setting about a notation of dreams and control if we concentrate hard enough. But there's not a single needle in sight, only flowers and petals - I surrendered my sphere of control when I set aside my golden crown and volunteered to solve an irrelevant problem and save a family line's reputation touched by madness.

Lucid dreams are for sleeping anyway.

But the thought dies in the back of my mind because although I told her I don't run and I've never needed to run, I came here to do just that. To hide from reality underneath this system of celestial bodies and forget about flashing neon Capitol lights while under the guise of nature.

"Then let's not run tonight. Let's explore together. We should watch out for the violets, though. I hear they ask for your darkest secrets."

And her hand is outstretched and my hand twitches, aching at the memory is Diorite and Eva's hands in mine.

For someone who's only pre-determined mark on this infinite timeline is to be marred red with tragedy she seems so cheerful, too cheerful - with a natural wanderlust in her eyes and a burning light that doesn't dare flicker.

"I guess I better stay away from those," and I let out a nervous chuckle because it's nice to smile without the intent to seduce.

"My name's Brooke, by the way — and you're safe with me." But she leaves out the name Destin and I suspect it's because she sees us as more than just a pair of bloodlines.

"I'm Atlas."

(but do I?)

My thought process is usually cyclic, starting with the sunlight that pries open my eyes and lingers on the wall, and ending at the time for celestial orbs and astral fantasies I'd dismiss during the day because dreams aren't meant for a place where I'm learning how to aim true. It's selfish, and it's irrational for me to surrender to the shared wanderlust she exhibits and the kindness she exhibits over the broken mask of tragedy but I break the cycle when I stretch out my hand and take her fingers in mine.

"I've never been much of a plant person, care to show me a few things?"

(somewhere, far away in the distance, I feel this cycle begin to break)

Wanderlust -- it calls, we forget.

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

"I will not let her speak because I love her, and when you love someone, you do not make them tell war stories."

She has a habit of burying parts of herself within others — and she finds herself wondering what will grow from the soil that makes up Atlas' entirety. The family that gave her a home have daisies snaking around their veins, and there's a girl back in Four that has carnations blooming out of her throat from where Brooke once planted all of her hopes. Her lips itch at the thought of the kiss that she gave Isobel Krigel before she left for the Capitol, but she shakes away the memory with a blush that spreads across her cheeks like a wildfire.

She's not sure what kind of man Atlas is, but in this moment, there is only a sense of safety between them. She peels back the iron that encases all people, so that she can look at the porcelain hearts that are shaking beneath the metal — and Atlas is no different.

Brooke allows herself to trust him more than the normal boy from One should deserve, and she hopes that friendship will be what is born between the two of them. A fragile flower, with wilting petals and a shrivelled stem, but still something that is beautiful and hopeful.

( she realizes that one of them must die,
but there are still days that are left to be experienced )

She'll think herself deathless until she's grasping at the sword that's pierced through her chest.

He abides her warning, laughing with a smile that is soft and honest, and she finds a way to stretch her own even wider than before. Nessie once told her that it was a wonder how she never looked forced in her demeanor; how such a large grin didn't send others running away in fear. Brooke would only chuckle with a rolling of her eyes, beaming up at her makeshift sister and mother.

She's seen birds fall from the sky and die within seconds. She doesn't fault the people who cannot rise from the ashes of their destruction, but she cannot hide her amazement when a bird crashes, just to soar once it makes it way back onto its feet. She has always wanted to be that kind of creature. Maybe a phoenix is just a girl by another name.

"I'm Atlas," he tells her, and she wonders what the world must feel like upon his shoulders. She carries it, too — there are clouds always wrapping around her fingers; stars always burning against her back. Maybe all of the tributes have a little piece of the sky digging into their skin.

What will happen when only one of them is left to carry the burden all on their own?

His hand takes hers, overcoming the initial hesitation, and their warmth is shared. "I've never been much of a plant person; care to show me a few things?" She excitedly nods at his words, gently tugging his hand and guiding him alongside her.

"I'm not that knowledgeable, either," she starts, making her way to a row of petunias and leaning over to draw in a breath of their scent. "I just know when things are beautiful — and how they should make you feel. Everything has its own special story."

She winks, rising back up from her couched position and locking her gaze with his own.

"I was only joking. The violets won't actually ask for your secrets — but I might. Won't you tell me about yourself, Atlas? Please? The plants can wait."