dissonance — poppy & whit.

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🌱 kaitlin.
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dissonance — poppy & whit. May 6, 2019 21:53:55 GMT -5

Post by 🌱 kaitlin. on May 6, 2019 21:53:55 GMT -5

w h i t.

Whitney shouldn't run.

She should stand her ground, take the consequences of her own actions between her two hands and claim them. She had done this to herself, had chosen the wrong friend, had known from the very beginning exactly what she was getting into when she walked into Poppy Rohan's bedroom that very first night and made herself at home on the other girls bed, had made herself at home in the other girls life. Her entire life, she had thought herself capable, had thought that she would stand at Margot's side if push came to shove, but along her sister toppled over the cliff and Whitney hadn't even been able to bring herself to look over the edge to see where the drop went, much less follow her sister over its edge.

Whitney had seen it coming, from the very first moment Malcolm Nox stood up and told the group to choose one person who didn't deserve to stay. I don't know why I came here, she remembered whispering to her new friend, the one she had spent so much energy just trying to get to know these last three months.

Poppy speaks the truth, but it still makes Whitney's heart clench, give up that last shred of hope that maybe, just maybe, Poppy would choose not to speak the truth in some convoluted way of telling Whitney that she wants her to stay. But Poppy is all fire, and anything less than her honest truth would have been a betrayal of that light.

Whitney still runs.

And she goes to the first place that she knows she'll find the most peace, the sunroom where she had set up her easel there hours before. She curls up on the stool in front of her latest piece of art and flings her messy brown hair up into a bun on top of her head, then pretends not to hear the telltale patter of shoes across the floor when they come.

I'd rather be alone, she almost says.

She can't quite bring herself to.

Last Edit: May 6, 2019 21:54:20 GMT -5 by 🌱 kaitlin.

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sidney
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dissonance — poppy & whit. May 14, 2019 2:28:35 GMT -5

Post by sidney on May 14, 2019 2:28:35 GMT -5

p o p p y

She doesn't like the way this feels.

Slipping a knife into someone's back isn't exactly uncharted territory for Poppy, though. Betrayal, at the expense of others and the betterment of herself has always been something she's comfortable with. It comes naturally, that scorching touch. And she considers it a blessing; the only thing actually valuable her father has ever taught her. That the people around her, anyone that stands between her and her goal, are expendable. Mere pawns in the game of chess she was already winning. She's done this a hundred times, hurt someone who thought she was a friend—anyone, really, who was stupid enough to try and make friends with a forest fire.

Whitney should be no different.

It has never left a pit in her stomach like this before, never caused her to second guess herself. Did I do the right thing? That's not a question Poppy Rohan has ever asked herself before. And she doesn't like the answer a little voice inside her head whispers.

No.

——————————

She looks for her everywhere. In her room first, knocking at least eight times before realizing it wasn't that Whitney was ignoring her, she just wasn't there. Then she looked in the kitchen, asked Blaine and Indigo in passing, even hunted down Adrien to see if he'd seen her. But made sure to avoid Adam altogether. Poppy wasn't in the mood to fight right now. Not because she didn't think she would win but because if she was going to go head to head with that little shit, she needed to be at her very best. Not worked up and anxious over the nagging image of Whitney's disappointment the night Poppy had said she should go home. Adam would get his turn under the flame, for his hideous attire and that pompous tone he's so prone to taking; she would make sure of it if it was the last thing she did.

But now, this, she thinks, referring to the lump in her throat as it dawns on her. Where Whitney would be. In the sunroom.

And there she is, just as she suspected. Just as she knew but was too proud to admit it. Too convinced she didn't care about the girl sitting in front of the easel, paint smeared across her forearms. Too sure she deserved this internship more than someone so soft and willing to run away instead of face things head on. "I knew I'd find you here," she says anyway, letting the truth slip past her lips with a half-smile despite the way lies always sound so much better. "Look," she starts, making her way past the threshold slowly, "I'm not going to apologize. I came here for a reason. To win. And I won't apologize for that either." The problem with the truth is that it doesn't know when to stop. "I don't have what you have. My whole house could fit in the dining room. And I only have what I have now because I did whatever it took to get it." She laughs harshly, cruelly. At herself. At the way the world works and the privelege it bestows on the people who don't even want it. At how vicious she was willing to be to get it, no matter the cost. Even if it meant she'd end up alone with nothing but power to keep her warm at night.

"But it wasn't personal," she reaches out and places a hand atop Whitney's shoulder, for what it was worth. Which she knew wasn't much, but she did it anyway. To make herself feel better. "I hope you can believe that."

Last Edit: May 14, 2019 2:34:44 GMT -5 by sidney

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dissonance — poppy & whit. Jun 16, 2019 21:06:14 GMT -5

Post by 🌱 kaitlin. on Jun 16, 2019 21:06:14 GMT -5

w h i t.

Whitney knows it was foolish.

She knows, and yet still, she hoped. She had let it get to her, the wondering, the hoping, had thought that she finally made a true friend, had met someone that she could share her true self with. She had thought that she found someone who would love her for who she wanted to be, not scorn her for not being the kind of girl that her mother had tried so desperately to turn her into. A callous thing, a girl made of doll parts with a bite like a wolf; this is who her mother had tried to turn her into.

But Whitney had always favored kindness.

She had always favored softness.

Even all of her sharp edges were dull, like lace-handled blades. She only fought for love, and even then sometimes she still chose to run. Like tonight, for example, she had gotten into her head that she was loved, that maybe she was even cherished, but instead, everything that she had told her friend in confidence, every one of her fears about inadequacy and not belonging and worrying about how much she did not want this power had been told to the whole group.

"I knew I'd find you here," Poppy says from behind her, and Whitney lets her eyes fall closed, has to press her lips together and inhale deeply. "Look, I'm not going to apologize. I came here for a reason. To win. And I won't apologize for that either." She goes on from somewhere over Whitney's shoulder, and she can't bring herself to turn around and look the redhead in the eyes. And she knows that maybe that's not fair, but it's not even out of anger, but rather out of shame. How is she supposed to look at Poppy when she knows that everything she says is the truth? What is she supposed to say other than the fact that the truth still fucking hurts? Poppy goes on anyway though, and Whitney does not stop her. "I don't have what you have. My whole house could fit in the dining room. And I only have what I have now because I did whatever it took to get it." She laughs, but the sound is without mercy, without warmth, and finally, Whitney puts her paintbrush down on the little table beside her easel and thinks about spinning on her stool to look at her friend.

Her eyes will not be kind.

She will not smile.

Still, she cannot help but understand, cannot help but feel for the beautiful girl standing in front of her, laying bare her insecurities and her fears, even if she doesn't even realize the extent to which she is doing so. Poppy lays bare her want for power, her need for it, and thereby exposes to Whitney her carotid, her Achilles heel, her weakest point.

Take away the ladder, and Poppy would crumble.

She is just about to turn all the way around, but then Poppy lays her hand on Whitney's shoulder and it is almost comforting, almost a kind enough action for Whitney to miss her words. "But it wasn't personal," she says, and Whitney can feel the anger and shame start to boil in her chest, that passion she is so well known for turning into something rotten and unfamiliar. "I hope you can believe that," Poppy finishes, and finally Whitney spins around to look at her dead on, making no effort to conceal the confusion and anger in her bones.

"Not personal?" she huffs out with a sardonic laugh, voice so unfamiliar to her ears. She takes from Poppy now every lesson that she has ever learned, the ones that she should have applied before the dinner tonight, the ones she should have employed to realize that it was her own name that Poppy would give to Malcolm. "God, Pop, you really almost had me there," she says, tilting her head, eyes sharp but not without mercy. "Not fucking personal," she says again with a shake of her head and a humorless laugh. "Of course it was fucking personal. It was probably the most personal name anyone gave all night."

She stands up, and now they are at almost equal heights. Whitney takes another step forward.

"I never would have asked you to apologize, but I thought you'd at least do me the courtesy of naming anyone fucking else in this internship." She swallows thickly, can feel anxiety and nerves thrumming in her blood and in her bones as she steps forward. "I've done nothing but support you since we got here, even when you didn't want my support, but then you go and do that? Maybe I don't deserve to win, but we both know that I make everyone work harder." Then it hits her, and she has to take a step back. "Or is that it?" she goes on. "Is that why you gave my name? Because you're not the only person here I want to be around?"