baby, baby ; p vs. b vs. t ; day 7

Imagine waking from a nightmare to learn it is real life.

He remembers the way the trees had swayed in the darkness, the whistle of the wind through naked branches, static dancing on his bloodied fingertips. Only hours before, Perry had pressed a spear to the hollow of his throat, and Larissa had demanded peace in the birthplace of madness. That night, no appetites were sated. The denial of all seven sins was committed in one fell swoop.

But still a presence emerged from the woods, and in response, all that pooled inside Bellamy's mouth was silence and not honey. He sat there and he watched, awestruck and hallowed all at once, thinking of the candied words he spoke prior to this ill-fated meeting.

"Perry," he gasped the name like a memory, a trickle of blood cascading down the slope of his neck, resting his fingertips against her form with a rush of nostalgia. She could see the flush of pink in his gaze, as much as he could feel the urgency of the iron biting into his skin. If he could trust just one thing about her, it was that she knew as much of the truth as he did. Their hearts waltzed on golden threads, dodging scissor blades. If not then, then today.

Then like a flash of dawn, he was reaching for Larissa, speaking promises he had already promised to someone else, chancing sunlight to rest in the palm of his hand. But it always retreated, always flitted to the opposite corner of the room in favor of dimming itself. Where he and Perry had collided with this inevitably with a hard thud, he and Larissa had long mapped out this exact path to devastation.

Spectacular as she was, it would be a falsehood to claim he hadn't already plotted out how best to kill her if they were unfortunately paired in the days to come. Like a golden viper, he was certain her strike would be as precise as it would be lethal. And to his credit, he didn't fancy standing still long enough for her to turn all his ambitions into a mess of brain matter in the tall grass.

Either of them.

If not then,

then today.

The thing about spending your life awaiting calamities is that you forfeit the right to be shocked when they finally arrive. Blood cakes his skin like fungus on the trees, he thinks of the most terrible things he has said in this cave of a prison, a mixed bag of sugary sweetness and an acidic pang of sour taste forever stained on his tongue. When the antlered spirit kneels before him, placing the flowering, decaying crown at his feet, it feels like this is the only moment he has ever existed in.

"All hail the Blight Lord."

It would be a lie to say that the title does not excite him; that the recognition doesn't make his soul break out in song. The flowers and the mushrooms are quiet in his presence, and they no longer make melodies about all the awful ways he could die. The entity backs away into the darkness in the moment he leans forward to grab the circlet, spores rising into the air just from one brush of his fingers against a black leaf. His radiance has already been dimmed behind the sheen of blood on his skin and clothes.

Who is he dressing for now, if not himself? What does it matter this late in the game if he reveals himself as a horror?

When he places the crown atop his curls, he wakes from what he assumed to be a dream to find himself standing in the very same place. The plants and the fungi alike are all drooped and bowing to him, glistening with dew and death, and he can see the path that the creature took upon its arrival and its farewell. He blinks, a throb of pain as he tries to remember what he cannot; even if he can't relive the action, and although there are no pixies to be found, he knows that something has lead him astray once more.

Reaching up a tentative hand, he is not quite as shocked as he should be to feel the cool touch of moss growing along his scalp, the rustle of leaves and spores dispersing as his head tilts, crown shifting among his dark tendrils of hair. The Blight Lord glances down at his hands, gloved and ready for war, and he feels the weight of the bow at his back, the drag of the glaive hanging from his waist. To get what he desires, he knows what more he must want. There is a beast within him that he has fed two days in a row.

He will make this a craving.

Tinker squeaks from behind a vine choked log, and channeling what remains of his empathy, Bellamy crouches to the forest floor and runs his palm along the top of the bunny's head. "Don't be frightened," his voice is as warm as it has always been, a spark igniting into flame. "When I win the Games, there will be so much for us to explore. You don't even realize how big the world truly is." His smile is stitched with melancholy and hope, but his eyes are a singular shade of blue. "But we'll chart every square inch of it, buddy. You and me." He scratches behind the bunny's ear before nodding to the edge of the forest.

Obediently, Tinker squeaks and bounces off toward the underbrush, protecting himself from the gaze of predators and the cruelty of man. Bellamy stands at full height, securing his grip on the glaive at his waist and positioning himself in an attack stance. Something thrums on the air, a chorus is reaching the crescendo, the day has only just begun. The first thing he notices is the familiar boy emerging from the distance, a life he had so recently tried to snuff out, come to chance fate once more.

But all his focus goes to the sky when the storm makes itself known.

Perry arrives like a downpour, flooding his every sense, speaking to his heart and his hunger all while dragging her nail across his cheek. If she splits the skin, he does not flinch. And if she is surprised to see him in this state, blight-blessed and crowned, she does not show it. He is confused about what to feel, kaleidoscope eyes flashing, but her will and the anthem have both made the inevitable more than clear. "Didn't think I'd let you go that easy, did you?" His honeyed words are poured back into himself.

Now he tastes the way they burn going down.

"To eat me, we'll have to find out just how much you can swallow." He does not say this cruelly, but he does not budge from where he stands. This is not because she demands it of him. "I'm a bit sharper than glass, my lovely."

His gaze flits to Torian before he makes his choice to play the reaper, mantis hidden on the blossom preparing to strike. Whoever stands in the way of his goals will be steamrolled into nothingness. Why mourn when you can eradicate?

"Hey, stranger," he says this playfully, gesturing at himself and the beautifully gruesome girl now directing her anger at the other tribute. "If you didn't enjoy the shit talking in our last fight, then you should cover your ears. That's my ex trying to kill us, and I'm sure things are about to get really personal." His blade catches the light as he lunges, and it does not let go. This steel drinks more than just blood.

Might as well try to take out two threats in the place of one, hmm?

Bellamy's either smart enough, or stupid enough, to go for her good leg. Perry stumbles against her spear, she laughs, she shakes her head, mocking, cruel.

"Aww," She coos behind the grimace, "Baby's biting back, huh?"

She turns on him - forget the kid with the horns, this is the real freak show; the both of them standing in the rain, pretending and pretending and pretending. Perry's hair is plastered against her back. She's half-wild, all terrible, heart racing like she's just finished a marathon.

"Oh, is that what you've been thinking of this whole time?" She asks coyly, readjusting her grip, "How much I can swallow?"

Pretending to be scandalized, she stage-whispers and points over her shoulder, scolding, "Bellamy, there is a child present."

Then like a coin drop, her entire expression drops, the mirth suddenly replaced by a simple blankness. The dead-eyed shark swims through her, jostling its way across her sternum, sinking its teeth into the meat of her bicep - "You're not as sharp as you think, Bells."

It took him seven days to finally turn on her. He should've gotten rid of her the first time her teeth touched his throat. Now here they are, having to do things the hard way. But if he wants, personal, then Perry can give him that. Not a problem!

"Myrtle," She calls out to the gryphon, not taking her eyes off the boy, "Why don't you go find Bellamy's little bunny friend? You deserve a treat."

And Perry barely even has the time to watch her go before the forgotten child of divorce comes darting for her.

"I'm involved now." He's saying, and Perry shoots back hand on her neck, "Yeah, thanks, got that."

She glances at the blood on her palm, exhaling hard through her nose.

"I can make it personal if you'd like." She suggests, sickly sweet, "Because I don't believe you. I think you know where Ulysses is, and I think you're protecting him."

The spear spins in her hand as she shifts, teeth shining, "Don't tell me you're in love with him too."

"I'll tell you what I'm gonna do then, to save your imagination. I'm going to kill you-" She levels the spear at this, then she points it to the thick forest of mushrooms, gesturing vaguely, like she's talking about the weather, "And then I'm going to go find him, and rip him apart."

Her voice turns pitying, patronizing, as she winks at him, "I'll tell him you put up a good fight."

As quickly as the scarlet flows into him, it turns to glass. Clear, numb apathy stares back at a girl who thinks she can leave a scar on him. But her emotions, however she might try to tame them, are clearly getting the best of her. Now that she has shown the jagged edges of her teeth, he doesn't the see point in hiding his intact, sharp, biting smile. "Well, good to know I rank above the rabbit."

He just stands there impassively, head tilted to the side, a droplet of rain caressing the curve of his jaw as it slides down the side of his face. "If you're not enjoying it, you're doing something wrong." All he felt when he killed Jayson and Thomas was a simple, resounding sense of purpose. This game has become a duty to him, a killing streak that he hopes to continue, an aura of strength that he wishes to exude. He has shot a boy in his chest, and he has stabbed another where he knew the blood would stop gushing out.

And with that same hand, he has curled his fingers beneath not one, but two girls' jaws in the last month, whispering sweet nothings and words saturated with wild honey. Being promoted to team captain on his Exy team was the happiest moment of his life. Winning homecoming royalty with Priya was the happiest moment of his life. Volunteering for and winning the Games will be the happiest moment of his life. But even though his eyes do not flash blue, or indigo, he knows the truth of the sadness that rests like a void inside him.

If all the happiest things in his life now taste like rust in his mouth, then what is he left with? Blood?

Do not think him a fool; know that he is producing his words carefully, structuring an edit that can be cleanly structured if, and when, he takes the crown. Do not mistake that he has done terrible things, but look away from it and see instead the beauty in his ability to love in a place that is so terrible, see the way he took care of his allies, how he strived to move so peacefully among nature and its creatures. He is the Blight Lord, and he will turn all of these people into mulch in order to succeed, but he must be loved for his dreams to come true.

It's easy to convince himself that when the world is screaming his name, he'll finally, truly, be happy. Enjoyment means nothing in the face of victory.

And he knows full well that he can be just as cruel as he is charming, as ill-intentioned as he can be kind. She speaks of love like it's black tar pooling out of her mouth, a black stain that neither of them will ever be able to wash away. It is spat out at his feet, turning the earth black, rotting what is already dead. Of course he isn't foolish enough to think that he had his claws in Perry long enough to make her love him. But the cameras only know the truth that is acted out for them.

"Poor, poor thing, what kind of delusion have you been living in?"

The beautiful thing about this tale, regardless of which role she demands that she will play in it, is that only one half of this couple can potentially make it home. And when he's on his Victory Tour, crown atop his curls, smiling down at an adoring audience — he'll recraft this girl into something more likable than what she has become. People love angst as much as they love suffering, and there's something so poetic about hearts breaking in a place where hearts are normally stabbed clean through. He wants to show his humanity.

His humor, his charm, the way he loves so openly. It's okay if the bits and pieces make him seem gullible, or secretive, and it's even okay if a few cruel moments make it into the cut. He's only eighteen, after all. And he will do what it takes to grow beyond this moment, even if that means trapping the both of them in this tainted, tragic youth. Torian speaks like background static, but his blade roars across his skin. It is more difficult to dismiss the pain, searing through him in white hot flashes, but he trains his focus intently on Peregrine. He listens to the tar that spills from her mouth, not catching fire in the rain.

And when she misses her attack, he laughs right in her face. He leans forward, rotating his weapon in his grasp, drawing back like an executioner ready to behead the queen. "Don't forget you kissed me first," he sing-songs like a bullet through her ear, pulling back away so that she may see the entirety of his sickly sweet smile, the glint of his metal about to sweep through the air and attempt to end her life.

"And I'm sorry, Perry, but you're wrong about one thing." The rain shines like dew in his hair, his beautiful face and warm words are there own kind of weapon. "I care about Tinker and Larissa far more than you. You rank third of three."