everything to help you sleep // { lex & denali }

Throw me in a landfill
Don't think about the consequences

There is a lightness within, as if some part of her soul has left her body, leaving her a little bit hollow. What remains doubles in weight to overcompensate, pulling her shoulders down as her head spins, and Denali can’t figure out how to put herself back in balance. Something has gone horribly wrong and horribly right all at once. Every answer is unacceptable because the truth... the truths are surely too much to bear.

She killed someone and it didn’t feel nearly as awful as it should have. Sympathy has always come so easily, but this boy was no wounded deer, no mewling kitten. He jabbed his spear at her with enough ill intent to harden the heart of a girl who thought she could feel guilt for anything, made the attack personal when he didn’t have to, and now — the same as with the petty schoolyard bullies back at home — she doesn’t know how to forgive what she can’t understand. It is one thing for someone to fight her because they want to live, but it’s another for someone to fight her because they want her to die. She killed him and yet the wrong of what she’s done doesn’t feel as bad as what he tried to do to her. It’s too backwards to come to terms with and then —

Then Lex murdered Minx and that shouldn’t mean anything different than what Denali has done, but it doesn’t feel the same either. It didn’t have to be Lex. The other kids would have kept hacking away and —

There can be kindness in putting someone out of their misery with a single blow, but it’s not their place to judge how Minx felt. Maybe he could have done it. Maybe his next attack would have killed the other girl in one shot, fierce to the point that everyone else would run off and leave him be. Alone... stitching up his wounds enough to staunch the bleeding, enough to make it until tomorrow when he could take on his next opponent. And the next. And the next, until —

Until there was no one left except Denali and —

There can be kindness in putting someone out of their misery with a single blow. Maybe that person wasn’t Minx. Maybe Minx would rather have endured the pain for one last chance at hope, but Denali was never going to let Minx be the one to go home. If Lex didn’t kill him, if the other kids didn’t kill him, then sooner or later Denali —

Her footsteps are quiet as she trudges back to camp, breathing as if she’s shivering, but the rest of her is nothing but dead weight stillness. The quiet is awkward and she searches the ground for a rock to kick, but can’t find any. It’s as if someone swept the earth for distractions, knowing she’d look for any excuse to avoid Lex, to avoid the blood stained grass just beyond the landship. Breathe in the effortless peace of the universe, infinitely wise in ways we can never be. Denali tries to meet Lex’s eyes, but can only look as far as the bottle in her hands. The label is peeled away and her fingers toy absently with the cork. "Found this." The bottle looks like the kind her parents bring up from the cellar on special occasions — Ratmas eve, her mother’s birthday, dinner the evening Denali came home after months spent at the psychiatric hospital.

"Don’t open it like that," Denali murmurs with a ragged voice that doesn’t sound much in the mood to celebrate. "It’s champagne. It’s supposed to be opened like..." Like a beheading. Like the sudden drop of a guillotine. Like the firing of a cannon. "Where’s your sword?" Lex points and Denali follows her direction without hesitation, grateful for an excuse to turn her back. Picking up the golden sword in one hand and cradling the bottle in her other, she squeezes her eyes shut for a moment and thinks of her mother’s gleeful scream of mock-fear and giddiness each time a bottle was opened back home. The cork would fly across the yard and she would screech happily, trying to catch the overflow of bubbles before too much was wasted on the grass.

Ghosting the edge of the sword down the neck of the bottle, it doesn’t feel right to do this here. This is not a moment to be celebrated... but isn’t it? Back home her parents must be so thankful that she has survived another battle, that there are two fewer obstacles standing between them and their beloved daughter. Would they open a bottle of champagne to celebrate Denali’s first kill, the first real proof that she is not her brother, that she has the potential to make it home? No. Not for this. If she makes it to the final battle and slits the throat of the last person begging her to let them live... they would then. They would celebrate only when twenty-three children have died for the sake of their own. Shameless. Overjoyed. "The theatrics are half the fun," she deadpans before sweeping the blade across the glass in one smooth motion, the lip of the bottle breaking off with the cork, somersaulting through the air as bubbles geyser up and over her hand in a grand flourish. Her mother’s presence is relentless in her memory, hysterical with joy so bright that Denali flinches, dropping the sword and the bottle with a gasp as she stumbles backward. There are no rocks here, but the bottle shatters anyway. Perhaps the ground is hard or maybe today itself is enough to break anything.

Denali drops in turn, wrapping her arms around her knees as she bursts into tears. A heavy sob wracks her lungs as she blubbers, "I brrrrroke it!" Keening with horror over the lovely, but ruined thing at her feet, she finally looks up at Lex and meets her watchful gaze with bloodshot eyes and blunt distress. "I broke it, oh no, oh no, I broke it." Her hands push into her hair, clawing at her scalp and digging her jagged fingernails into the soft spaces behind her ears until the skin breaks and blood wells up in angry half-moons. Something has been lost, but Denali does not feel as if she carries less. "I can’t fix it. I can’t put it back together. I’m sorry. It’s just... gone."

Push me out to sea on a little boat that you made
Out of the evergreen you helped your father cut away

The broken shards of glass are swept away with the toe of Lex's boot, as if nothing ever went wrong here. There are bloodstains on the grass where corpses no longer lie, a spear skewers the earth as if it has only ever been a watchful and lonely sentinel over this land, and Lex wears new shoes. She wore oxfords this morning, glossy and black with a precise pattern punched into the leather and slim burgundy laces that matched the rest of her suit. Thanks to the minimal walking the two of them have done, even after their time spent here, the oxfords still looked new. Shiny. Flecks of gold dust had gotten caught in the seams.

Denali reaches out to press a fingertip to Lex's boot as her ally reaches over to pull a wine jug battle drum off the side of the landship, her pointed finger a wordless accusation. The new shoes are not new. These boots have walked long enough to begin creasing around the toes, the leather scuffed and already dulling along the sides. There's a visible scratch across the left one, where something tried to gouge the thick leather. "Things break sometimes," Lex says. She had combat boots before, complaining that they didn't fit well no matter how many rhinestones Denali glued to them, but this pair does not sparkle. "It's okay." The battle drum in Lex's hand goes flying, smashing against a tree in a burst of glittering glass. "Kinda fun, even." The glass sparkles, but Lex's boots do not.

Offering Denali a hopeful smile and a second battle drum to smash, the Lyons girl accepts the drum, but hugs it to her chest instead of launching it in a matching fit of destruction, wrapping both arms around it protectively. "You killed him." At least she can save this small thing. "You murdered him. You're a murderer... it's not just me." Voice twisting in her throat, sorrow and abhorrence bind themselves together without holding back. "You should be sad!" She yells at Lex, at herself, "You're a murderer and you should feel bad about it. You can't just..." Worrying at her bottom lip, she clutches the drum so tightly that it contemplates bursting in her arms, "you shouldn't smile. It's not okay."

Wipe away your tear stains
Thought you said you didn't feel pain

"I am sad," Lex confesses and Denali's expression doubles down on itself, twice as tragic, twice as disgusted. Finally, her heart aches like it should, tugging itself in opposing directions. "Not because I killed him — I had to." She knows. Maybe more than anyone else in the arena, she understands what it means not to fight. Not to go home. Not to return to the lives they had before all of this death. "Have you done the math?" Every day. Every hour. Every minute. She looks into Lex's eyes and does the math right now. "What do you think would've happened if you picked a fight with de Costa and District Four-Fingers and the other two?" Three kids. Two flaming knives. One hell of a long shot. "What do you think would've happened to him tomorrow?" Bad things. "The next day?" Worse things. "Or the next?" Please, no. "Ripred, Lyons. Were you gonna kill him?"

Yes.

Sometimes she lies to herself, but there is undeniable truth in that thought. It comes without hesitation. She would have killed Minx. Not while there were other options, but sooner or later she would have done it the same way she'll have to turn her knives on Lex one of these days.

No.

Not the same. She didn't really know Minx. He never watched over her while she slept. He never stood at her side, matching Denali's attacks while making sure no one got the jump on them. Killing Minx wouldn't have been the same as killing Lex — it couldn't be. She didn't know Minx and she barely knows Lex either, but she legitimately owes something to her ally that she doesn't owe the boy who only happened to be from the same place. There is a debt between them that can never be paid because one of them will die for the sake of the other despite not having a good reason to make such an extravagant sacrifice, except that one of them has to die, so they might as well not be alone when it happens. The whole situation is ridiculous and makes no sense and that only makes it hurt worse to think about. "I'm sad because I upset you," Lex begins stacking pieces of broken glass into neat little piles, as if they are neat little pine boxes being placed one on top of another, "and you're mad at me."

This is the place where Denali's regret lives. Not with the corpse of a boy whose name she didn't know and whose life she ended anyway and not with the corpse of a boy whose house might have been nestled somewhere near her own. No. Denali's regret has been saved for the girl who stays up at night making sure no one slits her throat in the dark and who doesn't abandon her to the mercy of the beasts that find them in the light, who shares her water despite not knowing if they'll find more, who stitches Denali's wounds when it would benefit Lex more to leave them open to infection, who might die for her one of these days simply because dying for a stranger is better than dying for nothing. Denali owes Lex a debt she can only pay with her own life and proceeds to guilt her for being kind. (You're mad at me —) I'm not. "— and you've got every reason to be, but I don't know how to fix it and I'm not even sure that I can."

"I'm not mad at you," Denali whispers, releasing her stranglehold on the battle drum to reach out and add a shard of glass onto Lex's stack. There is blood beneath Denali's fingernails. "I —" The anger has dissipated and the only thing that remains in her expression is the remorse she has been searching herself for, willing it to be somewhere. "I'm not sad," the confession aches in the hollow places of her heart, "I killed that guy and I'm not sad I did it. I should be. I should be sad for Minx, but I'm not. I'm relieved. I'm not mad at you," she repeats, meeting Lex's eyes, "I'm mad at myself."

Throw me in the dirt pit
Don't think about the choices that you make

Obvious relief floods Lex's face and Denali's heart breaks with the realization that she is the cause, that her own fit of self-punishment leapt out from her wounds, down Lex's throat, and stabbed at the undeserving girl from the inside. There are many kinds of weapons in this world, but Denali never thought she would be one of them. It shouldn't matter what she says. It shouldn't matter what she does. It shouldn't matter to Lex if Denali lives or dies, if she hurts or feels comforted... and Lex shouldn't matter to Denali either. This small lift in the corners Lex's lips shouldn't twist her gut with guilt at the same time it allays her conscience.

"You can't make yourself feel something that you don't," Lex shrugs and Denali attempts to swallow her thoughts down. Questions this difficult can only lead to answers she isn't prepared for. Each day in this place cuts a little piece of her away, souvenirs for an audience to toss into the trash during their next spring cleaning. There are little gaps in her flesh that can't be trusted to hold onto her own bones properly, let alone trusting her with the wellbeing of another person. Worrying about Lex worrying about her won't help either of them. Denali exhales; Lex smirks. "Plus, that guy was a prick."

Reaching for Denali's cheek, Lex runs a thumb down yet another freckled gash. Denali has lost count of the wounds upon her own cheeks, but this one must be worse than all of the others, her skin turned to wildfire beneath the gentlest of touches. "Cool," Lex mutters and Denali pulls a face of disbelief before she can think better of the sudden movement, flinching in pain. "I can see your skull. You'd win this round today for sure, Freckles." Laughter springs from her lips, thinking back to the night spent around a campfire comparing battle scars... last night. Ripred, it already feels like it's been ages. "Want a picture?"

It does sound cool. Denali nods in confirmation and resituates herself as if this is a normal situation to fuss over being photogenic in. Handing over her camera, she strikes a regal pose and adopts an exaggerated Capitolite accent to match. "Why, yes! Facial wounds are simply all the rage these days. What better way to show off one's enviable bone structure than to show off one's actual bones? I may have gone under the knife, but this is still pure genetics, darling!" There's a click and a whir as the moment is captured for all time. Lex's reaction seems to be caught somewhere between amusement and stop, it's too real cringing which only adds to Denali's puffed up smugness.

Photograph in hand, Denali impatiently waits for the image to develop — giving it a little shake now and then, despite knowing she isn't supposed to — as she absently bites down on the tail of the small cardinal Lex carved for her. Presenting her wounded cheek to her ally in unspoken habit, this is the way each of their fights seems to end. That first day she was reluctant to accept first aid assistance, stubbornly refusing Lex's help and insisting upon stitching her own chest wounds. Now Lex runs her hand down the damage to Denali's skin with familiarity and implicit permission. When the needle pierces her skin, Denali grits her teeth against the wooden bird and growls in pain like speaking in feral tongues, but Lex doesn't recoil, her palm steady against the Lyons girl's jaw.

There's a gasp as the photograph blooms to life and Denali catches sight of her own skull showing through her skin. "Oh! It does look cool. I like it!" She waves the picture in Lex's face and can't help bouncing in her seat with enthusiasm. It's only when Lex shoots her a threatening glare to sit still so she can tie off the stitches, holding Denali in place with unrelenting insistence, that the redhead remembers to settle down. "Maybe you shouldn't have stitched it up," she drawls, eyes fixated back on the polaroid, examining the gap in her flesh that Lex took upon herself to mend. A final knot is tied and Denali holds the picture up to her cheek for a side-by-side before and after comparison. "Don't you think it was a good look for me?"

don't you dare look back
walk away, catch up with the sunrise

"I like it better when you're in one piece," Lex declares, tucking the photo of Denali away in the breast pocket of her battle jacket, "way less work for me." The plastic stars dangling from the shoulders like dense clusters of war medals clink brightly with the movement and Denali reaches out to flick one with a childish grin, the pain of her wound being stitched turning her giddy and lightheaded. Somehow, the more it hurts, the funnier it feels. Getting stitches always goes like this: There's pain and then holy fucking fuck there's pain and then there's a strange, fuzzy rush as her senses go a little bit numb and she wonders if this will be the time she actually passes out. Nope. "How about you take a break from getting sliced open tomorrow? I could use a day off from stitching you back up." Conversation like this should feel serious. Honesty laces every thin excuse for a joke, but that's not what either of them need right now. Getting too caught up in the underlying depths of any given comment would drown them both and so Denali floats along on the surface of her ally's snark. The alternative would end with all of the battle drums smashed and Denali likes the battle drums.

"Oh, here." Lex begins rummaging through a cart full of things that Denali lies and tells herself she doesn't recognize, lies and tells herself is sponsorship for the iconic middle district duo that made history and won the wealth against incredible odds, lies and tells herself — "Figure whoever sent those would probably be happier seeing them stay with District Five." A pair of vambraces fall into her lap with a gentle thud. They're crafted for someone small. Holding her hand out, she flexes her fingers wide and wonders if they'll even fit over her knobby knuckles. Denali's hands are — uhhhhh — average-sized? Maybe. She thinks? Wait. What does that even mean? She isn't sure. Raising her hand up to measure a guesstimate for average hand size against Lex's, she furrows her brow and shakes her head. This is stupid. She should just try them on and find out. But what if —

One finger pokes at the armor, as if testing whether or not the vambraces might suddenly attempt to bite her. (I like it better when you're in one piece.) With a sigh, she fastens the right vambrace on in a single decisive motion. It's a little tight, but toothless. The left follows suit and Denali finds herself glancing down at her hands in her lap and then up at Lex... down at her hands and back up at the girl looting corpses for her well-being. She should say thank you, but the words won't cross her lips while she's wearing the armor of her dead district partner. "I'm sorry." Blinking up at Lex, her smile tightens but doesn't turn forced, just tinged with melancholy. I'm sorry for being a bitch who tried to make you feel terrible because I couldn't feel it for myself. I'm sorry that I would have gotten us both killed if you didn't make yourself a murderer for me. I'm sorry I took multiple nose hair centric photos of you whi— Denali's smile turns as bright as the clinking of Lex's battle jacket. Okay, I take that one back. I'm not sorry for the photos. BUT. "I'll try to be more considerate of you the next time my skull is falling out of my face. Only bruises and surface scratches from here on out. Pinkie swear."

Holding her littlest finger out for Lex to hook her own with, the real promise being held up between them is much larger. Minx's vambraces are not a small concession. They are weighted with all of the horrible truths of this hellhole that Denali wishes she could ignore and while she wears them those truths will follow everything she touches: every knife she holds, every attack she makes, every pinkie swear she offers to the girl who knows that the outrageous lie of this promise — only bruises and surface scratches from here on out — is the kindest thing Denali has to offer. I'll keep lying as long as you want me to. I'll scream that I'm okay every time I'm stabbed in the chest and I'll tell you it's fine even if the fire on our blades sends the whole forest up in flames. Death is coming, counting the seconds between their breaths like thunder before a lightning strike. Denali waggles her finger, her lopsided grin vowing: No more getting sliced open. Nope. Not me. Everything is fine now.