keep it fun | {ulysses/myrcella}

[dars]

M Y R C E L L A .

I loved watching Uly work.

It was always the quick job: in and out in a few hours, then off to somewhere bigger. Better. Kid had dreams that required money. All of us did, didn't we? I sat on the rooftop of the house across the street, waiting to see him walk out of the front door with someone's money and a backpack full of their prized possessions. It was almost comical, the way he held himself with such confidence, the way he was so used to making up fake lives that he even tried pulling it on me.

"Uly, shut up," I would tell him in the middle of a rant about how his family owned a dog shelter, or how his mother had died of cancer when he was nine, "I know who you are."

Sure enough, midnight hour exactly, and the door clicked behind him. He gave me the safety symbol, which was supposed to be a touch of his nose but he insisted on blatantly giving me a thumbs up every time I shadowed him. Roll of the eyes, and I took my arrow out of the notch, met him at the end of the street.

This was why I liked working with him. The other impostors took forever. Some of them literally married people. Married them. That meant months of checking in every morning and every night, making sure everything was still running smoothly. With Ulysses, I could still be home in time to get good night's rest.

"Big haul tonight?" I asked, pulling my weapon bag onto my shoulder.

He was such a pretty boy: blue eyes and baby-faced. Seeing things like cigarettes and lipstick marks on him was something similar to seeing stars in the middle of the day— it didn't make sense. His black hair had been cut recently, and he had a cherry lollipop in his mouth and a tropical-paradise button-up that seemed reminiscent to the 76th Hunger Games.

Pain and pleasure went hand in hand, they said. No one ever mentioned that the pain part was necessary to get to the pleasure part, though. I noticed claw marks peeking out of the top of his shirt on his chest. They looked fresh.

Every time my brother asked me why I didn't consider being an impostor, it was reasons like these that finally got him to shut up about it:

"I can't have sex with strangers."
"They aren't strangers to any of them."
"They know nothing about me. The real me."
"Fine."

"Fine."

"Do you wanna grab a bite to eat?" I asked him, turning and walking in the opposite reaction before he got a chance to reply. "I hear the new sushi place on Main is good."

[Deleted]

ulysses . I've never been great at keeping my hands to myself -- call it a touchy subject?  Mama would always tell me to keep my hands to myself, she also told me I'd be eaten by rats and I guess she's a terrible guesser. Two for two and I take it in strides -- like a quasi-trophy in a way. It's a cheap achievement, reward for just breathing in spite but at this point I really am just existing to be petty. Do I regret it? Hell no, lip locked and cross eyed; that's weird huh? Thinking about your mom after a hook up, haha shit, topic change, I can hear York's footsteps in his kitchen, the window unit fan roaring in my left ear as I hightail around the room.  See, people always think the hardest part about being a semi-prostitute is the hook up, and it's not- stealing shit afterwards is. To be fair, if you can separate love from sex it doesn't get tiring, and unlike some girls around here I don't marry my hook ups. Attractive guy who just so happens to have a lot of money and isn't a Fray? Perfect. There's wear and tear in my knees, more so from being nervous than anything before hand- god, I'm not that much of a virgin. Stealing shit's always scared me, especially tired, especially post sex- I like to call it post play.  Right?  That's amazing.  The post sensation you get that's a mix between ghost dick, a slight hang over and stealing from your scorpio trade's closet drawers while he makes instant noodles? I'm surprisingly bad at handling it, called me stressed but power bottoms aren't experts on stealing shit -- this is a home grown business. Except not my home. And I don't think I can get this over fast enough, jeans already slipped on and fingers shaking like I've got arthritis; I told Myrcella I'd be done in the hour. Blonde hair climbing up the steps, cockiness in my steps. "You sure?" "Of course." A breath, "one hour." "What, think I can't?" And it pains me to say she was probably right, in that petty witch screaming in my chest that my ass was wrong? I don't make mistakes, I make problems; the deal was an hour. I know York, he's a career blonde with two relaxed parents ever since he didn't go in the games, works in business yada yada and he has money with no endurance. Some men are perfect for robbing blind and naked and he's one of them, on a level from Trylle Fray to Justice Fray? He's about a Kellan and that makes me both disappointed and happy that I'm still panicking, slipping shaking hands through closet drawers and shoe boxes. He took his wallet with him, great- the one time I don't watch for it, okay well that's fine. Sometimes you've just gotta rob yourself once in a while, staring up at the ceiling of his ratty bedroom, muttering my own form of a prayer to any gold digging bottom gods out there. Hopefully somebody has my back up there, more so than Myrcella, she could save my life but she can't suddenly give me a masc with a fat wallet, can she? I pocket cash, never credit cards -- identity theft it a real problem, Janice. And it's harder to get busted with paper, I'm not going anywhere near the D.C., I don't have time to trade sex for cigarettes.  All I'm saying is I'd be good at it.  I slip pocket cash into my wallet, two watches, one into my shoe -- precautions, y'know? Beneath the bridge of my sole, prepaid gift card into my jeans- god this is shit. I walk with time in my boots, literally, York slurping ramen off his kitchen counter and I kiss his cheek in a honey dearest way, slapping his ass and whispering "see you soon?" And I grin, trying not to imagine Myrcella busting in here to shoot us both and I swallow laughs as he says sure.  God I love business arrangements.  I find my way out of the door, warm and humid stuffed down my lungs like a goddamn blanket, the door clicked behind me with an audible sigh, a pull of cool air. "Shit," and I drop the show, street lamps casting shadows against the brick walls and I fish the watch out of my shoe, tossing a thumbs up at Myrcella and I'm still waiting for her to shoot my ass dead one of these days. Ha, until then I'll just keep existing on guess lines.  And the jog up to Myrcella nearly kills me, running up to roof tops and she meets me half way; I'm pretty for a reason, I don't do physical labor besides cowboy. Scratch mark stinging with fresh sweat and I can't say I'm not used to it, "big haul tonight?" A scoff, "I wish." I can't lie, maybe I'm too cocky for my own good, but that's why I like Myrcella -- she'll at least play along with it. The other thieves around here don't do anything but get annoyed and suck their fun from the butt end of their cigarettes, "two watches and less than rent pocket cash?" Three hauls today and this one's only good for rent and half a new shirt, great. "Watches may sell for something, hell," only time will tell- HA. That was disgusting, Myrcella bagging up arrows and I toss the watches into the haul bag. "Do you wanna grab a bite to eat?" And I've gotta admit, I don't hate Myrcella, love her level headedness- is that a word? Gay slang, hope she wins; "I hear the new sushi place on Main is good." Small talk, "you paying?" She already knows I'm not, unspoken word that I keep money locked where my jewels are. I throw my head back with an audible "HA" before making my way to the staircase, taking my descent off archer and slut's retreat- we'll be back tomorrow. Maybe sixty ninth street will have profit by then. "I'm fine with just getting drunk." Classy as always.

 

[dars]

M Y R C E L L A .

When I had first been brought into this place, I had assumed every single one of the recruits would have been the cream of the crop— those who had risen above the competition so much that Kolt and the others had no choice but to offer them a place among our ranks.

Instead, when Mal and I arrived on our first day, I was shocked to find most of them were no more than street rats doing what they could to survive. Now, that should have told us right there that we did not belong. Because there was no reason for us to be there. Our parents had money, we had jobs taking over their business when we grew up. Our lives would hve been fine without it.

But I always thought that was exactly why I stayed: I didn't want my life to just be fine.

I wanted it to be memorable. I wanted people to remember me once I was gone for something. And now that I was there, I wished I would have thought to consider what it was I wanted them to remember me for. Because this, a life of crime and deceit and helping thieves get away with what they did best, was surely not what I had pictured when I shook Kolt's hand and told him I was in.

"You paying?" Uly asked, before letting out a humorless laugh, because we had already had this conversation before at least a thousand times. I always paid, the cheap bastard. I did not know if he was exactly a friend to me or not, but he was certainly one of the people I was closest to when we were all standing in that warehouse and everyone was handing over their makings.

But after Hilde, I held everyone on Mount Olympus Boulevard at a distance. Each and every one of them: Kolt, Uly, Hunter, possibly even my own damn brother— they would all leave me at the drop of a hat if it was no longer convenient for them to save me.

That i why I had made it my new goal not to be loved, not to be feared, not to be remembered, but to always be the savior and never the victim. Always be the hero, and not the damsel.

My fingers still had scars from the hours I spent training after that day.

"I'm fine with just getting drunk." Uly said.

Wasn't he always?

"Sounds good to me. Your place?" I highly doubted Mal would have appreciated me bringing Ulysses over after hours, especially since Mal was an attractive, rich boy, and Uly would have painted the most gorgeous red target on his back and stabbed him in it the moment he ducked under the covers with him.

"I don't think I have any booze at my place."

I locked arms with him, ignoring the smell of cheap perfume and the way his lips puffed out from all the kissing— or more than just kissing, and we walked off the street and completely out of the neighborhood.

I lived not too far from this place, just a bit further in the other direction, on a street where everyone in the past year had decided having an in-ground pool was the new thing and my parents had insisted upon it even though Mal and I were never home.

The further we walked away from my house, though, the closer we got to Uly's.

Ha. I was such an elitist bitch.

Climbing the stairs to his apartment, I blew on my fingers to combat the cold while I waited for him to open the door.

"Jesus, Ulysses, sometime tonight would be great." I groaned. After he stepped inside, I made it a point to leave my bag on the landing outside. Loved the kid to death, but no way in hell was he going around my bag. Absolutely not.

I guessed with him it was sort of like this: I knew he was an awful person, he knew I was an awful person, and we were both okay with each other's awfulness. But you don't go and dangle your bleeding hand off the side of a boat just because you know sharks aren't always dangerous.

I closed the door behind me, squinting at the dimly lit bachelor pad.

Clearly, this place was used primarily for sex and drugs, and every time I had entered the room, I could feel the uneasiness of it, the restless energy left behind from the last party.

I wondered if his parents ever visited.

"I have to walk home, so I can't get plastered."

I called to him from the kitchen, setting my coat on the back of the couch and taking a seat.
There was a picture of him when he was younger, and I found it adorable that he looked virtually the same except now he was taller and had a better haircut.

"Aw, look at that," I mused, "You used to be a person and everything."

He handed me my drink and I took a sip. Sugary sweet drinks were the worst kind, because I never realized how drunk I was going to get.

"Thanks, loser," I said anyway.

[Deleted]

ulysses . "Jesus, Ulysses," I hear her in a lot of places- that's weird right? My momma's voice popping up sans request, but I've read that happens a lot with bitches who are dead to you, that ghost just keeps haunting you. I went to a psychic once, that's weird, huh. One of the ones that just kinda rob you of money and tell you your tropicana shirts are the reasons your glass-throwing abusive step father hates you, and can you believe I'm the asshole? Anyways, surprisingly I've gotta say that the medium was wrong. "Sometime tonight would be great." "You always moan so loud?" I smile over my shoulder, popping the lock, I can't wait to be drunk. Of all the asses I could be riding, I'm happy it's Myrcella tonight; not that she's the only one who will drink with me. Not like I can just rope in my brother to become a renown thief shield and drink with him, huh? Oh well, the smell of take out boxes rotting on a table greets me warmingly and I can't be happier outside of my own home.  Winding up in a lot of places, I've learned slowly and painfully that a person's home is the biggest spiritual-wardrobe. If a trade's house is lined with knives and you can hear screaming down the alley? You should probably dip, for example. And it greets me in the way that my apartment is the Schrödinger's  party, a never ending movement of food being left out, beers staining the carpet and me. When the door shuts I'm not dead, I'm not alive. I just am. "Don't know what you said," so it doesn't exist, I yell out, head burrowed in the fridge for left over beers and instant noodles. "Aw, look at that," leftovers in one hand, two bottles in the other, "I'd rather not." "You used to be a person and everything." Is it sacrilegious of me to say I don't want people going through my shit? To be fair, I'm constantly touching, kissing and stealing everything I can get my grubby hands on, but isn't there some respect here- in my own home. Kid photos of me, torn into a portrait of just me, my mother used to be in that frame. Holding my father's hand while I stood next to good ole Uncle Isaac and drank my apple juice; crazy to think I'm the last one alive huh?  God I wish.  "Thanks, loser," "Pleasure, honey." She left her bag on the porch, guess she trusts the devil only enough to drink with him, I grin while grinding the bottle cap open, "sorry it's such a mess in here." Exasperated, dramatics, sip of nasty ass beer, "really bad for business, I know." Terrible sex, sweat stinging the scratches on my skin, shit pay and shittier beer -- "I don't blame you for leaving your shit on the porch, rats around here are big enough to steal it."  God, what do I have to pay to get some going my way around here?

[dars]

M Y R C E L L A .

The sugary sweetness of bubblegum flavored liquor gave me more of a sugar rush than it did a buzz. The back of my head ached almost instantly as my heart began to pitter-patter within my chest.

"Sorry it's such a mess in here. Bad for business, I know," Uly spoke, but I only smiled. Anything else would have taken away from his character, in a way. I tried picturing him living the life they all imagined having one day, with their big privacy fences and homes so big the hallways echoed, each room squeaky clean, and Uly sitting at the dining room table, signature Kinsey red wine in front of him, plate full of District One delicacies. It made sense. It sounded lovely. But seeing him here, cluttered apartment, mostly lit by streetlights and a sofa that sank in near the middle, that was the person I knew.

Or, thought I knew.

God, this was a shit business for someone like me to be in, wasn't it? I was a person who wanted to believe everything she saw. It was in my job description. See something sketchy, send a signal. See something dangerous, send an arrow or two. A face was a face and a smile was a smile, right?

Wrong.

It was Uly's job to use that pretty face and that adorable smile to pay for his rent. They were necessities for the job, my honesty and his lies. Two halves of the same god-forsaken hole down on Bravo Street in an abandoned gemstone warehouse.

"I don't blame you for leaving your shit on the porch; rats around here are big enough to steal it."

I popped my neck, hoping to relieve the headache. When it didn't work, I decided to just deal with it and drink the damn drink.

"Uly," I said simply, resting my arms on his shoulders from behind. He smelled good for someone who had been doing the things he had been doing. "Don't be like that." He was never the type to tell a person when he was upset. I thought that, maybe, it was because he had to admit what he was thinking, and Ulysses was a boy who thrived on question marks and dark alleyways. But I had learned that when he didn't say anything right away, it was because he was most likely trying to find the proper mask to wear for the rest of the conversation.

"It's not you, it's me!" I said, sliding on my best Uly voice. Another gulp from my cup. My lips were starting to go numb, which was not a good sign for things to come.

"Look," I tried, this time in an honest tone. I turned him to face me. "Your eyes are pretty. Anyway, I just... Didn't want to take any chances." I shouldn't have had to say what I said next, but I did for good measure. "I mean, you do steal for a living. We all do."

Another sip from my drink. It honestly wasn't even that bad once I got used to it. Still sweet, almost a syrupy consistency toward the bottom, but no aftertaste and not a strong enough alcohol taste for me to make a face when I drank it.

I could have lied to him, but he would have known. I was a terrible liar. People made jokes about it all the time. But still, I could have tried to lie to him, came up with some lame excuse and hope it stuck in order to salvage his feelings, but there again: honesty was the surest thing in my playbook, so I had chosen to stick to my guns. Plus, alcohol had a way of squeezing the truth out anyway.

"Would it make you feel better if I brought it inside?"

[Deleted]

ulysses . "Ugh," what's it called when you become conditioned to something shitty, there's a word for that right? Like there's some things you aren't supposed to love, things that take too much effort for things that are too shitty- the feeling after eating 99 cent ramen, shit corner store liquor, sweat stains and love bites. Gasping for air after downing too much, trying to drown petty ass feelings, oh well, I tried huh? Myrcella's hands on the old photo of me and I kinda just swallow it down, it's freaky, yknow. Young Uly wasn't an alcoholic, I probably would've hated him, why do I even keep that photo around here? What do kids even like, fuck if I care- sipping pink and watching my partner in crime; am I considered a criminal? God I hope so, that sounds cooler than gold digger, Bonnie and Clyde except my ass is fat enough for me to be both of them, "don't be like that." Petty! I've always been why stop now, y'know? Sleeping with random men and running off beta blockers and coffee and I think I should at least be allowed to be petty, stepping out of the depression corner for the anxiety couch because why not. "It's not you, it's me!" "Cute," Maybe she'll make a job out of it. "Look," oh god, oh no this is the opposite of what I wanted- what if she psychoanalyzes me, can she even do that? I'd rather top, "your eyes are pretty," oh wow "true," I like this. Sitting on my feet, on the bright side, the slump in my couch is great for self diagnosing scoliosis? Haha that's fucked up huh, "anyways I just," short breath, I get comfortable. "Didn't want to take any chances." "You should be an accountant," airy laughs, "they shoot happiness on sight, sounds like your type of gig." "I mean, you do steal for a living. We all do." Accountants steal from people too, right? I feel like that's not too hard, take small amounts from everybody, probably accumulates well. Wait they get an actual paycheck, that's security, better not hold my breath I might die first. "Would it make you feel better if I brought it inside?" What were we talking about? Shit, sipping bubblegum and thinking about bitches, "maybe?" A tease, the fuckin bag was I upset about that? I mean maybe, hell if I know, playing it off with a pretty smile and a laugh, let's not get too dramatic. Besides, I'm a lil bitch, staring down Myrcella from the sofa, "if you want I won't stop you, if that's the question," we should've gotten food now that I think of it. "See, if we were gonna be boring I would've stayed sober." At this way I think I'd get drunk faster if I drank my own piss? Spreading myself on my sofa cushion, "does good ole Mal drink any?"  Now that's interesting, "just askin for a friend!"  Laughing through my teeth, arm falling asleep, Ezri and Hunter don't have hot brothers- besides, it should be equal opportunity around here anyways. I'm a working man! I deserve love! I've got a job, I've got my own aspirations- I'm nice. It's just so hard being this attractive y'know? So intimidating? Oh well.  I'll get there eventually, one drink at a time.