drugs for destraction
Jul 19, 2023 22:28:51 GMT -5
Post by thompson harvard - d2b - arc on Jul 19, 2023 22:28:51 GMT -5
It took a few months for Theo to recognize his dreams as nightmares. His ego never permitted it. Seeing the definition framed it.
night·mare
noun
a frightening or unpleasant dream.
Fear alone is courageous for him to consider. His ego has so heavily sheltered that the concept of fear is hard to swallow. Constructed by stone walls and led by golden, eagle-branded chariots, the castle he’s built around his heart defends him from his darkest enemies. Like fear. To him, growing up, nightmares should be black. They gotta be eyes flashing open with a sharp breath. Walks to the fridge to refill the cup of water beside his bed. It’s watching the window, because ”who the hell could be out there, man,” and fuck- he’d rather never know. His nightmares have become things that only get exposed to the world through an inevitable can’t-take-this-shit-anymore word vomit.
Theo’s adult nightmares are pink. Filled of fluffy, soft scents that weave knots up in his nose, like his fathers’ chocolate chip pancakes on the griddle. It’s the clear sky, and dust that sparkled in purple and yellow and orange and every color that six-year-old T would draw with. They’d get hung up in the corner of his father’s chalkboard where he’d flex his little boys’ artistic abilities. He should be happy, he’s alive, but it’s hard to find an actual night’s sleep.
And god damn it, sleep is all he needs anymore. Any longer, and he fears that his nightmares will start entering his conscious during the day. Francine’s death plays on repeat with every fucking mountain he sees. He can’t look at glitter (sorry, Rafael,) without thinking of winning to a splash of sparkles and smoke. Soon enough, he’ll continue to slip further into a puddle his mother had tried so long to protect him from.
To Theo, he’s already become what he sworn against months ago upon breaking a streak of nearly twenty losses. He’d be the change – lining the Village with names that he created himself. It’s the athlete he strains to be – he wants to train, to coach, to win. Within months of his victory, he had already become his predecessor - Shelby – in his relevance to the tributes. an empty, blank piece of painting that hangs on the wall. Like the painting, he’s just there. It’s supposed to have something meaningful to the room, to the aura, but it’s just an empty damn canvas.
He grunts, pushing the glass container from his mouth, The fire in his throat quickly vacuums out as he releases the bottle, replaced by the cool air outside of his penthouse. It’s provided in simple vials of leather-orange like liquid, his current array of drinks minimalizes his intake. At the same time, it smothers his liver with the very same mask of old drinks. It doesn’t ever triumph his nightmares, but it cloaks his mind, which does enough for the moment.
Rafael has been his only comfort in the Capitol. Theo offered the luxurious promise to his smaller circle at home – Kerri, Woods, Serge, they all turned their heads. Woods, the scene that he was, suggested Theo get used to the Capitol before bringing them there. Garner a list of the good spots for a proper tour, or whatever. Pissed is an understatement, but a capped vial of worry sits at the bottom of it.
Sure, they came into the Capitol with an understanding of his job. He’s here to make a victor. But they’re aware that minds wander and hearts flutter at the right call. Theo never studied human emotion, but he knows that attraction is nothing he could ever control, no matter how much he or Woods appreciated each other. What if coming to the Capitol alone leaves room to destruct the longest lasting pillar of support in his life? Kerri and Serge have only been recent, which makes it hard for him to debrief onto.
In the Capitol he’s got Rafael. Unfortunately for the victor, Rafael comes another gaggle of gays that Theo requires ten shots to be able to deal with. They’re all “cool,” if that was how he’d be pinched to describe them. It often requires a moment for Theo to buy ingo the energy of the night, and even then, he doesn’t fit in. The boys know it too but would never admit it.
The only one of them that’s any decent is a guy named Asher – tall, blonde, always wearing some faux tiger fur and a set of glasses to hide the lazy eye he gets when he’s stoned. Theo wasn’t ever just an acquaintance to alcohol. It made the bars easy to down, but Asher has more than the vodka and fruity-tasting shots most of Rafael’s crew likes. He holds a lingering smell of rubber, but provides pens that place Theo’s racing thoughts of pink and red cherry-blossomed skies to a halt. It allows him to stop. It gives his brain the moment to breathe and realize that it’ll eventually work out.
It'll do the job until it all does work out, though.
His father has been attempting to reach out as of late – wants to reconnect, reconvene. The little boy who loved his father’s classroom and office and pancakes wants to commit. As a freshly-bred victor, he can only assume his father’s resurgence is out of greed. It’s easy to assume, on Theo’s half, that his father must be a worthless piece of shit now. The broken teenager that lost his father one day doubts his return. He sees it and thinks that his father only wants him back because he’s got something worth holding out to the world, claiming his offspring as a success.
Theo hoped his dad died with that stupid fucking plague. A small part wishes that he did – make the fucker die in circumstances that he can’t control because he had control in the way he left Theo’s life. The plague took away the league from him, which now feels virtually impossible to compete in.
Maybe the world wanted him to see his father struggle first. He’s happy with that – maybe he’ll add his own fist to the cause. Break that motherfuckers nose, or something, but not when he’s so new. But he’s got to pass his crown first, giving the fame to someone else for a year. God, hurry up, he thinks to himself as he watches the screen. Not that the fame is shit. He just wants to have more time to himself without the cameras. Maybe once the cameras are gone, more people from home will be nicer to hang out with.
But as the alcohol drips down his throat with another shot, he realizes that freedom is farther than it tastes.
”Fuck, man.” He looks over to Asher, who’s hardly sober enough to direct his eyes in Theo’s direction. ”Pass it.” The rolled substance blazes with an orange hue that resists his nightmares. Alex chuckles as a thought rolls onto his face, yet he denies it from exiting by passing it over. ”To you, T.”
To him. Somehow.
