and the morning }} poppy x justice blitz

Her gaze turns to flames in an instant, words lashing at me furiously—"That's none of your fucking business."—like I've never heard from her before. I probably look a little startled, even flinch a little as she shuts the door behind her.

But she's wrong.

"What do you mean? It's got my name on it!"

"I brought you breakfast."

Clearly we're in two different realities. She's in the reality where this is all normal, nothing out of the ordinary is happening, this isn't all completely wrong, we aren't having an affair, and it's clearly not my business to know what my name is doing on a paternity test for her two year old son who is supposed to belong to her husband.

And I'm in the reality where everything is fucking insane.

"Breakfast? Seriously?"

I must've had more to drink than I thought last night because I'm going to be sick.

I think I'm angry. I can't really tell, not with the stupid piece of paper still in my hand. The ink must be poisoned. Probably a paralytic because I can't seem to turn to look at her.

"You weren't gonna fucking tell me?"

None of my fucking business?

None of my fucking business?!

I feel hot, anger bubbling and blistering at the surface and I'm white hot. But I still can't move, still unsure of what I'm supposed to do now.

Fuck. Fucking shit.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?

What are—we—supposed to--

"Shit, I need a drink," I mutter, pressing my knuckles to my temples to keep my head from exploding.

My hand shakes as I pour, glass clinking uncontrollably against the bottle and I should probably be arrested for spilling so much expensive wine.

I should've just drank from the bottle.

She infuriates me. Voice gentle—"Of course I wasn't going to tell you."—and I don't know how to be mad when her tone is so calming. She makes me forget why I was mad in the first place. Throwing tantrums, that's all I'm doing. Acting more like a child than her own son.

Her. Our.

Fuck.

"You don't want him."

It sounds so much worse out loud.

"You don't want to deal with this and I'm not asking you to."

So much fucking worse falling from her lips.

I bring the glass to my lips again and it burns so good going down. Eyes closed, head tilted back and--

"Hey!" I protest, the stain in the carpet at my feet feeding my flames. "What the hell--"

"Yes, Cedric is your son but you're never going to be his father."

Huh.

That shouldn't have stung.

I let the silence stretch on for too long. I'm just standing with red in my face and a twist in my heart, staring into her eyes because I'm too stunned to get any words out. Why did that feel so bad? Like her tongue was laced with poison. Like it wasn't supposed to hurt. Because it shouldn't have--

"Damn it, why'd you have to--" I let out a shaky breath, swallow the lump in my throat. "Spill my drink?"

I feel like cornered prey. I'm pinned by her gaze and apparently she's got claws like razors and teeth sharp as nails. I'm scared. And all I can do is spit words laced with poison.

"If your family is so perfect without me then--"

I'm yelling to feel big. It's not really working. I still feel so fucking small; it still feels like she's towering over me, still got my heart clamped tightly in her grasp, puncturing a new hole everytime I speak.

Fuck, this hurts so fucking much.

"What was last night then, huh? Were you lying to me? Was this-- getting even?"

My tears burn on my cheeks. I wipe at them angrily. I tear the test results in half and let the scraps fall to the floor. It doesn't make me feel any better.

"Why can't me loving you be enough?"

This one's a whimper. I'm bleeding out.

"It's not about me!"

Sudden and broken. It makes my eyes snap to her. She won't look at me and somehow I think that's for the better. I can always see my own reflection when her eyes are glassed over. I never like what I see. It scares me every single time.

"You think I wanted this? You think I wanted any of this?"

Hand on my chest and I'm ready to crumble. Just a little bit more force behind her touch and I know I'd topple. Only hours ago I was dreaming of that hand gliding over my skin, those eyes blinking slowly at me. Everything hurts. Her words—"I'm just trying to do what's best for them. What's best for you."—her touch. How could something so gentle deliver such a crushing blow? Make my ribs crack and my lungs struggle for air? Send my heart plummeting into oblivion?

I laugh. It's broken. I'd wanted it to sound exasperated, but it's hardly more than a single gasp of air. She has to know right? She must. Me and them, them and me—we don't go together and we never will. What's best for them will never be what's best for me. What's best for me will never be what's best for them. We don't go together.

And in the battle of me versus them? I'll lose every time.

"Last night was what I wanted."

Not me. Not them.

Her.

I've always been selfish.

"So why don't you just tell me what you want and that's what I'll do."

So when she presses her forehead against my shoulder, I pull her closer. I breathe in her hair, close my eyes, tangle my fingers within her shirt because it's what I want. But-

"If last night's really what you wanted," I pause, my heart pounding because all I want to do is finish the thought with-

Leave them. Be with me.

But I won't say that. That's what I want. That's not what she wants. That's not what's best for them. That's only my right answer.

And in the battle of me versus her? I'll make sure I lose every time. I'll make sure to fall on my sword before she can fall on hers.

"Who says you can't have another night?" I say, forcing a smile and pulling her face into my palms.

"Come to dinner with me tonight," I grin.

"Go dancing with me tomorrow," I sway.

"Help me cut my hair the night after that, wine tasting, midnight walks, shitty karaoke, read me to sleep," I breathe, torn up bits of paper beneath my feet crinkling and burning, but I don't know how to extinguish the flames.

"Next week we can stay up all night stargazing, watch the sunrise," I stroke her cheek, swallow back those poisoning words that would be best for me.

I hope I'm picking the right one's for her.

"Whatever you want," I lie.

"That'll be good for me."

It's all so perfect with her. She takes all the air from my lungs when she kisses me. Putty in her hands and I'll be whatever she wants. I'm too weak not to have this, to have her. I taste her words on my lips—"I need you."—and I'm melting like wax beneath a flame. "Okay," I breathe against her pressing lips, trying not to turn into a puddle on the floor.

"We can't go back to pretending. Not again."

Her fingers trace my jaw and I swear she's drawing the smile on my face. I want nothing more than to pick her up and twirl her around the room, dancing like we own the broken kingdom. Her eyes sparkle brighter and more beautifully than the night sky.

But we haven't solved anything have we. Not really. And I don't know what to tell her—"You have to know Cedric is my- Cedric is our son."—when she brings it back to my attention, the paper beneath my feet suddenly rising from the ashes and burning into the back of my skull.

Justice Fray. Alleged father.

Our son. Me and her. Us.

"I want to have you both. I want to make sure I don't end up like either of our parents."

It plucks oddly at my heart, the mention of our collective parent pool. The song my heart plays sounds like bitter rage and wistful mourning all at once. Mine only look at each other when the cameras are watching, cruel and clinical because all they want is to create ruthless villains who won't crumble under the weight of a crown.

And somehow, hers manage to be worse.

"I don't want to choose."

I was wrong to ever want that of her. I know that. Cedric is- just a kid. Deserving of all the perfect kid things like ice cream, storytime, and shoulder rides. And a mother. A good one. Like Poppy.

"Please don't make me, Justice."

I don't want to risk living without her. I'll say anything, do anything, be anything—I can't imagine living another two years only trading sideways glances and curt greetings. But as my lips linger on her skin and my fingers lace themselves in her hair, I feel my brow furrow.

Justice. Alleged father. Cedric. Child. Platinum. Mother.

It doesn't say Ellington Spence anywhere on that paper. Why does he get to hold them at night? Why does he get to hear his name on her lips? Why does he get to be Cedric's father when I don't? Why does he get any of it?

"What about Ellie?"

I regret asking. But I don't take it back. I still want to know the answer.

Jealousy has a bitter taste.

It's interesting how she could possibly equate the two. Elara and I have to get married. She went and proposed to Ellie. She kissed me and I told her I was in love with her and--

"That's so different," I scoff, shaking my head. "I mean, you've already put your ring back on."

She went and married him. Why? I told her I loved her and she just-- said it didn't matter. I didn't sleep that night, just stared at the ceiling until the morning came with a bottle of whiskey clutched to my chest.

I was already in agony—then she showed up with a ring on her finger and it was like she was only existing in my life to rub salt into my open wounds. I can barely stand to look at her when she's standing next to him, smiling at him, holding his hand.

Why can't she just leave him? What's it even matter? Cedric isn't even his apparently. Why stay if I'm the one she loves?

"Why not just leave him?"

I could've said it sweetly, but my tone is accusatory. How can she tell me I'm the one she loves while she's wearing his ring? I feel anger flaring again, jaw clenching and heat rising behind my eyes.

Maybe last night was all lies. Maybe it was just a story she spun to get what she wanted. Maybe I'm just her fucking toy and now she's bored so she's going home to the bright, shinier new one. The one that's sober, the one who holds her son, the one with the curly hair and the handsome eyes and two working legs.

I'm so desperate for a drink that I imagine licking it off the floor. Frustration makes my brow furrow. Look at me. I can't even go two whole minutes without wanting a drink.

No wonder she picked him. He's clearly the better choice. I should just let them be happy, leave her alone and move on with my life.

But I don't want that.

I want her.