mama // storm and his

mama // storm and his Oct 21, 2022 2:13:16 GMT -5

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Post by lance on Oct 21, 2022 2:13:16 GMT -5

s t o r m .

"you are weak
but not foolish
you have learned
how to die."

Tears are a funny thing, he's found. Before the Games, he'd rarely shed them (at least genuinely; lord knows how many times he put on the crocodile tear act in front of Eve in order to exact revenge on someone who'd wronged him), with the phenomenon coming only ever when he'd been overwhelmed, and only ever in private. Before volunteering, he could count the number of times he'd shed true, genuine tears on one hand.

To say that the count had increased exponentially in the months since then would be, well, an understatement. Hell, at the rate things were going, he'd probably match his all time record before he went to bed tonight. Between the overwhelming emotions of the homecoming, the relief at seeing his old room again, and the catharsis that came with clearing the air with his father, well, it's a good thing he's learned that tears flowing liberally alongside the emotions that generated them wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

Hell, the entire damn Capitol had seen him making a crybaby of himself more than once on the giant screen, and they'd still welcomed him with thunderous applause. He'd cried right on Avriel's well wishes mere hours after his victory, and he'd still reassured him like an older brother.

(Speaking of...no, he'll get to that part later.)

Right now, there's a mental checklist going down his head. Clearing the air with his father had been step one, the one he'd most dreaded, but step two had the potential to be even worse. Not in the same way, really - his mother had never had the same capacity for intimidation that his father did, but that almost made the whole thing worse. Disappointing someone who held such high standards for their children when Storm himself had often struggled to meet them was one thing; disappointing someone who held no such standards in the unconditional love between mother and son was something else entirely.

And for all of his intents and plans, Storm had nearly given his mother a reason to weep at night. He'd almost committed the worst sin a child could place on their mother. He'd almost forced his mom to outlive him and live with the consequences of those actions.

One hurdle overcome, so many more to go. If his father had his retreat in his study, his mother was harder to pin down, flitting between room after room with each passing night. It was almost easy enough to harness that excuse, use it for himself. You can just get it over with in the morning, the devil's advocate on his shoulder whispered. Let her come to you. Who knows? Maybe she won't even make the first move herself.

Shut up, Storm thought back. That's worse.

Steeling his resolve, he knocked on yet another door, another separation between himself and his second and most necessary confrontation. "Mother?" he half-whispered, half-announced. "Are you in here?"

elegant

mama // storm and his Jan 30, 2023 0:55:18 GMT -5

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Post by calla on Jan 30, 2023 0:55:18 GMT -5

e s t h e r .

"are you at all like me?
alright, that's enough
let's get you home."

There's still a piano in the front parlour. Mourn had first asked if they wanted to get rid of it eleven years ago, when Trace had started walking and immediately turned herself into a homing missile for any piece of furniture with sharp corners.

Esther had only smiled, kissed the edge of his jaw and said no. Maybe she'd play again someday.

But still the instrument sits untouched, and still Esther can only take the room in small doses before she starts to remember her father sitting her down here and attempting to scam the most dangerous family in the district.

It's always airier in late summer. She can leave the window open and watch the lace of the curtains flutter.

The house has been quieter since the Games. They'd all already begun mourning in their own ways, the silence had seeped its way into the walls and stayed there for the weeks Storm was gone. Even now, the china doesn't shake with his laughter anymore, the stairs don't creak when he thunders down them.

When he'd volunteered, Esther spent the night in Mourn's arms cracking and splintering and demanding that the world tell her where she went so wrong in being a mother. She must have failed somewhere along the way, this must have been karma for the way she almost let herself love Vern.

Still, she did what she does best. She picked herself up. Put them all back together. Mourn was keeping the business afloat, but Esther had taken the family by the back of their shirts and held them above the waves, shaking them until they spit up the water they'd swallowed. She gets Hal to help in the garden and bets with Ty on the two grandmothers fighting in the market. She brings Jules to a tea-tasting afternoon, teaches her how to make one comment about Mrs. Nelson's shoes and send the whole building tittering.

The month passes in a steady stream of little distractions and her Storm, her boisterous little hurricane, lives like a shadow.

She waits for him, like one waits for a skittish streetcat.

"Storm." She says finally, and there's relief in it, a whole years worth of tenderness tucked in.

Her baby boy.

He's the same age now that Night and Eve were when their father gave them the matching bullet wounds on their chests. It sounds so callous when she thinks of it like that. She knows that. She knows the family she married into and the man she fell in love with, against all odds.

Someday, someone will smooth over the wounds and hold them gently despite it, like Esther does for Mourn.

Now, her youngest son has the blood of five people on his hands, but he will still be loved gently.

He's grown so much already, holds himself so differently. He looks so lost that her heart aches.

"Come here." She tells him, patting the spot beside her, "Come tell me about your day."