are the promises strong? [angel/parson]

[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

A hospital gown is replaced with a three-piece suit, lined with navy. Living within the Ursa mansion come with its perks but its downfall comes with an ushered trip to a bitter land with far too much glam for piss boy to take in. I have been vacant from most events; I thought this being revived stuff didn’t come with the victor shit.

If Teddy does not disturb me every early reaping morning, my days are fresh. I have not attended the past two reapings – I have been playing the sickness card. Every winter plagues my lungs with infection but there is a new hip antibiotic on the market, and being a guinea pig in its trial has added a few more years to my already dead life. Now I can not pull the sickness card…and now I am stuck in District Two with the peacekeeper that stood over my revival in the vault.

It does not take long for me to depart from the arm of my escort. Glasses of the strongest bubbles quickly find a home in my palm as my eyes scout for the one who encouraged me to be here.

My only company is with the Ursas, the doctors and all those that come and go. I have no contact; three years of frustrations are ready to be unleashed with the simplest of hugs. Just the warmth of his will be enough to settle unruly thoughts. Loyalties were promised at our last meeting and I just beg to ripred that the little tree hugging bitch that I love has kept them too.

He is there.

Hounded by his own escort, I will be the one to take the next dance from him.

Finding a path through the sea of attendees is just as much agony as the scar that likes to remind me of its presence on my neck.

I am so close to him…

Sweat slips between the palm carrying the drink and the surface of the glass. A chest full of emotions wants to explode with ecstasy.

”You are a pretty sight to see amongst all this dirt.” I extend an offering of my own glass, despite it being half drank. ”Take a sip and give me a kiss.”

credit to dars <3

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

A few hours into the dance, when the prying eyes fell away from me, I tugged loose the lacy collar of my coat and let it flutter away, a butterfly of white lace ushered elsewhere by the winter winds. My eyes traced it as the fabric soared from the window and then get devoured by the dark, there and not there in a matter of seconds. How lucky, I mused, it can disappear without any trouble.

There was already a throbbing in my head, its rhythm that of a pulsating heart, but I had only drunk a few drinks. Ever since the resurrection, I found many other parts of me wanting alongside the lower alcohol tolerance, parts of me that seemed to had been rebuilt and made anew but remained hollow and cavernous underneath, unfilled and left empty. Some days, I am less boy and more a ravine, more a yawning chasm of black. It was both a wondrous and terrible thing: how a person can feel their own, aching flesh and yet see themselves as a husk.

Sighing, I emptied another glass and turned on my heel, facing back the golden dancehall.

When I caught a glimpse of his face, I wished I hadn’t. 

Memories of him existed only in fragments now—some sharp and vivid, others grainy and smoke-like—but the mere sight of him put all of them back into sharp focus. I blinked and saw our slotted fingers, outlined by a paraffin blue sky. I blinked and felt his mouth agape upon my own, kissing, dull teeth and lips tasting of salt. I blinked and there he was, at my feet, a spear blooming from his neck as if it was an exotic flower, grey and red petaled.

I blinked and I was back in his arms,

my fingertips caressing the scar emblazoned to his neck, my body shrunken up against his own. There was a sob lodged in my throat, but I cleared it with a faux cough, accepted the offered drink. I wanted to kiss him so badly, in spite of myself, in spite of the many attempts I’d done to forget him. I wanted to kiss him and I did. He tasted of liquor, of a boy I once promised myself I would never let go. It was both a wondrous and terrible thing: how a person can make a promise and then break it without any trouble.

“I’m sorry,” Hands on his cheeks, I whispered against his mouth, tone a breathless tremor. “I’m sorry—I’m sorr—”

The tears came rushing out, undammed, broken free.