pocket-change [era x florentine]
Apr 20, 2024 0:31:08 GMT -5
Post by clover ❁ on Apr 20, 2024 0:31:08 GMT -5
florentine.
. . .
he smiles at me. his smile is corrupted, made up of something inconceivable, something different to the usual ingredients of a smile. i am untrusting, cryptic, i know, looking for problems. it’s a character flaw of mine, one i am not particularly interested in overcoming. despite that, i try to soften, give him an inch, provide the benefit of the doubt. there are a million reasons why a boy might be all tangled up inside. i bury my wincing response beneath a bigger, faker smile than his. it glitters, it is my specialty.
era seeks more from my name. what i have given him is not enough. of course, this is a world where names sit upon foreheads like crowns, negotiate passage through doorways otherwise closed. of course he seeks more. it is his country’s currency, and here i stand on his property, pockets empty. “just flo? nothing else attached?”if he only knew how unattached i am.
“it’s short for florentine,” i explain. i don’t mind my name. it’s the only thing my mother ever gave me, the only trace of the prestige i’ve been shut out of, a legacy, really. it’s an inheritance i can hold onto. it’s solid enough to stand alone.
as we speak, the other blazer-wearing drones spill around us, flowing past without regard, on their way to eat oysters, or something. i ignore them, too, don’t lift my eyes from era, gifting him my full attention. i am pretty good at reading people, and i get the idea he needs this affirmation of his own importance. this is not a unique trait; they usually do. i’ve gotten pretty good at giving them what they need.
“they care about that kind of thing here,” he adds, accurately. i note the ‘they’; non-committal. (here, at the academy? here, in district four? in panem? or all of time and space, really? is there such a place where they don’t care for the moniker you carry?)
his sweet little face contorts, as though he has experienced a rare, distressing thought. i am struck by this fleeting authenticity. “if you’re given the choice, you should go anywhere else.” i am pleasantly surprised by his willingness to betray his fellow aristocrats. i am briefly hopeful for him. “your parents probably won’t ask, though, they’ll decide.”
i nod my head gravely at the presumptuous audacity of my imaginary parents, as though they are always controlling my life and i’m sick of their shit. i enjoy this character; poor little girl, trapped in a golden cage. whatever is she to do with all of her money and fluffy cushions? “we know what’s best for you, florentine,” i trill in agreement, ruthlessly mocking my imaginary parental figures and their dastardly educational decision-making.
i am sure i have almost got him when he confirms it for me. “so, i should give you a tour.” he is forthright; he is used to getting what he wants. this is too fucking easy. i’m almost bored. “of the school, or the streets, whatever you’re more curious about.” he cocks his pretty little head to the side. i feel a conflicting feeling in response; like i’d follow him anywhere just to watch what he did next, but also like i want to throw up. i bet this works on all the girls. “-because i’m still a little curious about you,” he finishes, and the feeling veers decisively into nausea. i simper, melt, blush, look down at my feet, at shoes i stole last wednesday from somebody’s doorstep. swallow my gag.
“the last thing i want is to run into my parents,” i say, rolling my eyes. “you’d better show me the places the official tour doesn’t go.”
in my pocket, i am aware of the weight of the lighter and joint. i hope i don’t smell like weed. i wonder if era would even know what it smelled like. i bet he doesn’t get out of the family mansion much. and surely his wealthy little friends get up to much shinier misdoings, like extortion, or money laundering.
”come on then, where’s the first stop on the era’s tour? i’m expecting nothing but the best, by the way.” i raise my eyebrows at him, smile right at his stupid, handsome face.