Drabblings

[furgood]

His fingers are deft as he zips and adjusts, walking around her in a silent blur. The corseted top hugs her curves, beaded with the smallest seed pearls. The skirt dips and flares, letting her legs peek through layers and layers of green silk that fade to blue by her feet, so fine and transparent that it floats about her legs and shifts like clouds when she moves her weight from one foot to the other. Her touch might rip it, but he's soft but firm as he pulls a single layer out straight. It's his world, his touch, wrapping her in his visions.

In the mirror, it's easy to see what inspired him. She's dressed like the sea. Green to blue, like the most beautiful days in District Four, like the summers they spent together. The dress fits her so perfectly that she wonders why he bothered to call her in for a fitting at all. He claps and twirls his finger and as she spins, the whole skirt shimmers, lights up, in green and blue and white waves that dance over the fabric. She laughs aloud, clear and giddy as she spins again and again just to see it, just to watch the light play over their features, to watch the pleasure in his eyes, the satisfaction, the joy. He's made her beautiful, made her glorious, dark skin and jewel tones brightened with gold in her hair and shimmering waves across her skin.

Tomorrow she'll be in a party, with all eyes seeing his creation on her, but tonight it's just them. Tonight for his eyes alone, to see the light in her eyes, to bask in her loud and loving joy. She wears it well.



--

The world is silent but she's screaming. Her focus narrows to the vibrations in her throat, the splitting pain as metal hits bone. Nothing compares to this. Her eyes squeeze shut, pleas and apologies babble from her lips. She doesn't know how to make this stop. Nothing will make it stop.

But it does. Her world falls into silence and pain, just pain, just her alone drowning in it.

Hands pick her up, press her against a familiar chest. The world vibrates, is she screaming? She closes her mouth but still she vibrates with a scream she will never hear.

--

She flips the pages of Celebrus, slowly. Her other hand cradles a cup of tea, brings it to her lips. A slow sip, another glance. Her article hadn't made it. Really, truth was so much better than--

Her hand pauses, eyes frozen on a signature. Terezi...She flips back a page, to the article that accompanied the posters, and her stomach drops. A single word makes her want to forget the whole magazine, toss it in the trash. A mistake. It can't be.

Quietly, she tears a napkin to pieces, as she reads the same word over and over. Peacekeeper.

--

Her dress spins around her and when she comes to a dizzy laughing stop, he catches her hand. He brings it to stitched lips, eyes all affection. There's a whisper of a memory, his soft hand a vice around her wrist, her desperate pleas unheard. Something shattered, trust or her heart. Suddenly she's back on the dance floor.

His eyes meet hers, blank for a moment, then suddenly concerned. She laughs and begs another spin, He's happy to please her, to keep her content and close.

She'll never notice the matching blankness. She'll never dream he could hurt her.

--
You're twelve and your best friend in the whole world is back from the Capitol. You've been watching the trains, waiting in the shadows of the building as people show up for the summer vacations. You smile for them, brilliant and friendly, like your father taught you, polite and deferent, like your mother. They ignore you mostly, even now as you stand a block away from the house your friend uses when he's here. One time, a man tried to talk you into his yard, with promises of cold lemonade and ice cream--and your polite nos seem to do nothing at all--but Kurloz had appeared like magic and well. That guy cleared out fast.

No one messed with Kurloz. His father was a Peacekeeper, one of the head ones. Mister Makara is cold, not at all sweet to you like some are. He seems indifferent to your prescence in Kurloz's life on most days. You complained about this to your mother once but she said indifference was fine. Apathy was preferred. Purrfurred. You giggle to yourself as you wait, holding on to that pun to make Latula groan next time you see her.

Tuna arrives before Kurloz, breathless from the run over. He had chores this morning, he must have rushed them to make it over this fast. Usually you pick him up with Kurloz. You share a smile as you wait, green eyes meeting tawny yellow. Anything you were going to say is cut off by a shout of greeting.

There he is, grinning and already talking a mile a minute too far away to hear. His hair is a curly poof not unlike your own and for all he says his eyes aren't really that deep amazing purple, not really, you'll always know him by them. Even if everything else changes, he'll always be Kurloz by those eyes. He's taller than last year, the angles in his face changing just a little. He grabs your hand and for the first time, heat shoots up into your face.

*

You're thirteen and you thought you were dead. Kurloz is holding your hand like a vice, those purple eyes wide and haunted. He doesn't speak and neither do you. You just lay here curled on your side, bruised and broken. Your left arm will never really heal right, just a little off, but you don't know that now. You're tired and the world is so quiet. So quiet.

You're tired and you've finally realized why apathy was preferred.

*

You're seventeen and in love, or at least you tell yourself that. He makes you smile, makes you laugh. He brings little treats to you when you're at work, he gathers seaflowers and you both waste an hour at the beach trying to braid them into your hair.

You kiss him and pretend that feeling so little is okay. You do more because it's expected, because you care about him, you really really do. You try because he should be perfect. You don't go all the way because he isn't.

It lasts six months before he realizes you smile at him the same way you smile at everyone.

*

You're twenty two and home from your very first Capitol party. Taria prattles on behind you as you pull off the little diadem, carefully unhook your bracelets. You remove bobby pins one by one until your hair falls. She holds up questions in the mirror for you to glance at as you do. What everyone wore, what happened at the end, who was dancing with whom.

You answer without your usual interest, without the details she craves. You get her to work the zipper in the back and she asks after her favorite tributes. You change into comfortable silk pants and camisole and drag your favorite pillow onto your lap. She sits behind you, hands in your hair, braiding and unbraiding, mindless.

You close your eyes and remember the rush of heat when his fingers brushed over yours, quick and like he couldn't help it. You remember the look in his eyes as he led you out, like there was no one else there. You remember the touch of his hand on your waist, like you're precious, a treasure, something to keep. You remember he didn't look for you for 9 years. You remember the stitches in his lips and that if they weren't there, you still wouldn't hear his voice.

You remember you're in the Capitol to be a spy.

You bury your face against your favorite pillow, the one you picked up your first few days here when every novelty was something to be explored. It smells of honeysuckle no matter how long you hold it and will do so through 20 washes, or so the tag said. You don't cry but it's mostly because you're not sure you remember how.

*

Five days later, he texts you and you forget everything you remembered. Everything but the touches, the looks, the sheer joy in being near him.

You're an idiot in love and you finally realize what you missed.