No Room to Justify // Bros vs. Bros

What would you think if I sang out of tune
Would you stand up and walk out on me
Lend me your ears
And I'll sing you a song
And I'll try not to sing out of key

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There is an insatiable creature living in my veins and it has declared itself more threatening than any muttation. After Denver, Sundra, and I escaped the wrath of the goat creatures — the other girl was not so fortunate and Sundra's face in the aftermath of her death was enough to break more than my heart — and the adrenaline began to fade, I was reminded of its presence like never before. Maybe it was the abrupt high of the fight and ensuing stillness, but the pangs of withdrawal came back sharper and more demanding than before. Despite knowing that what I need is water, food, and a moment of humanity, the otherness within me disagrees, wringing my stomach so tightly that the thought of putting anything in it only makes me feel more sickly. Even if I'm unable to hide the symptoms, I don't have it in me to give them a voice either and a hushed awkwardness lulls our trio into the night hours as all three of us avoid the acknowledgment of one another's hands. I can't help wondering if I'm growing closer to these two because they're bringing me back into their world of reality or if I'm pulling them past the schism of existence and into the make-believe places I inhabit. For it to be both seems impossible, but what use is that word to us?

The sandman forgets to come for me, even as my companions finally drift off into the dark, the three of us huddled together in the snow for warmth. Sundra sleeps curled up with her back to me and I while the hours away by tracing moonlit patterns across her coat, absently playing connect-the-dots with the flecks of blood staining its surface as Denver buries his face into the back of my own coat, forehead pressed against the space between my shoulder blades, attempting to escape the brutal cold of our surroundings even in his dreams. Studying constellations of death in the space between my future-widow and blood brother, the chords of my muscles strum with a lullaby of quaking limbs and heart palpitations. The misery songs of my own body sing the echoes of silence until it rings in my ears, as if I were made of the same copper as the token I've shared with the girl laying next to me, paranoia whispering that this nothingness could be the last thing you ever hear, Aesop Bloom, but I refuse.

"Dream of distance, Sundra Bloom," I whisper hoarsely, just to be certain I still can, before the snow begins to fall like stardust from Nod. Each pale flake landing on the bare skin of my face should bring me shivers, but I defy the weather as my addiction's meddling turns to mutiny. Fever sweats set in quickly, scorching my skin with radiant heat. Withdrawing into myself, knees to chest and fingers to fists, I know I can't shut it out, but I can't stop trying. This self-defiance discovered within my newfound will to live has me rallying for something that feels an awful lot like my half-forgotten memories of hope. Still, despite my efforts, I lose battle after battle as the sun returns to ignite the sky and I find myself crawling away from my allies like a dying animal seeking solitude, retching until I've sullied the pristine white snow with the acrid yellow of stomach bile. It doesn't seem to matter that I haven't had food or water in days, that there shouldn't be anything left in me to cough up — my mind isn't the only piece of me determined to defy the odds.

What do I do when my love is away
(Does it worry you to be alone)
How do I feel
By the end of the day
(Are you sad because you're on your own)

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I'm writhing on the frozen ground, humming away the violent quiet of morning as I claw senselessly at my own stomach, threatening to tear it out if it continues to refuse to stop, when they find me. My pulse makes for a lousy metronome and time escapes my flailing thoughts, blurring with the unsteady rhythms as a fire is made, water is boiled, and food is cooked. Trees have been busy growing while I've been at war with my inner demons and that's how I know the minutes must truly be as long as they feel. The smell of roasting mutt is enough to trigger my gag reflex again and I twist to heave until my throat burns raw and desperate, but this time someone stops my hands from turning on myself and my head comes to rest in a lap instead of a snowdrift. Fingers smooth back the sweat-drenched locks of my hair, accompanied by a soothing murmur of sound that promises — and do you, Sundra Wie, take this man to be your husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live? — I don't know what it promises exactly, but it promises and that alone is astounding.

A voice that must be Denver's attempts to coax me into compliance — "Open up the hangar; here comes the airplane! Zoom!" — but I'm too far gone, fighting off his good intentions with a grunt and a stubborn shaking of my head, until the hands that had been drawing delicate lines of comfort across my scalp transform themselves into restraints. They are speaking a kind of sign language I don't have to see to understand. I can feel their intentions, even if I'm no longer capable of following them: Aesop, you incoherent idiot, stop attacking yourself. Games or no, you're doing it wrong. Suddenly my jaw is being pried open so water and bits of minced food can be forced past my resistant growls and gnashing teeth, followed by a hand clamping over my mouth so my sputtering coughs can't undo their efforts. I try to spit everything out, but soon the effort to do so becomes greater than that of simply swallowing it down. My stomach churns in response, but is greedy enough to hold onto the majority of it, as insistent fingers press another round of sustenance into me.



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Stillness never lasts long here, so it doesn't matter that I'm not fit to move, because these things aren't optional. Once I'm able to sit without keeling over from nausea — passing the time by mindlessly gathering sticks from the ground around me and stuffing them into my pack, jumping a little each time one unexpectedly snaps in two and marveling at how my rucksack is so much better at holding onto things than I am — Denver hoists me up to my feet, slinging my arm around his shoulders and holding me steady as he informs me that I have to walk now. At first, it's almost as if I am an infant taking my first steps, but he's patient and eventually it gets easier. Still, he is a human crutch, propping me up when I would otherwise stumble and fall to my knees, and our journey would have been impossible without his help. I am so disconnected from the world that I don't even realize that our group has dwindled from three to two; however, there is a point when a new ache takes up residence in my body, tugging me in disparate directions, but I tell myself it's only a muscle cramp, because awareness is a complex kind of thought that is too much for me to handle at the moment.


My head lolls back and forth with our steps like the swinging pendulum on a badly wound clock, coming to rest on Denver's shoulder as we pause to take a breather — but have you forgotten so quickly? Stillness never lasts and so perhaps my deviated consciousness isn't the only reason I don't panic when a throwing knife goes flying past my face to ricochet off the icy bark of a tree, bouncing back to land at my feet. It's almost funny how expected this is... and strangely familiar. The function of a water jug is so much the opposite of a blade, but when they are gifted into your possession here, they don't feel so different. Before us stand our brothers and a fuzzy kind of understanding drifts through me as I witness Alexander smack Mace upside the head before scolding him. Dazed with confusion and exhaustion, I bend down to retrieve the knife from the ground, ending up on my hands and knees, overtaken by uncontrollable coughing that threatens to become the prelude to yet another round of vomiting. It subsides, but my trembling doesn't, even as I clutch the hilt of the weapon and regain my footing to return it to Mace.


The knife slips from my unsteady grip, somersaulting briefly through the air to slice at his shoulder as my feet tangle. Horror etches itself across my face, delayed but dramatic, while a thin red line bleeds up to show against his coat. Reeling from the accident (I almost —) and shaking with a new kind of terror (I could have —), I proceed to trip over my own limbs in panic (What if I had —), falling down with a strangled yelp that has nothing to do with my own physical pain. Shamefaced, I glance up at my brothers before scrambling backwards until my spine is pressed against the trunk of a tree, wrapping my arms around my knees and fixing my gaze on the ground as my entire body quakes with regret. There's a moment of hushed acknowldgement for my wrongs and then Denver crouches down to press food into my mouth once more. I don't want it, but all the fight has left me, so I obediently chew and swallow the plants like a penance. It's not until I look up afterward and recognize the mushrooms Alexander is holding in his hand that I realize exactly what it is they've fed me. My eyes widen in alarmed confusion as I shake my head no no no, but the famished creature in my blood gives a wicked grin as it sinks its claws into me and drags me into numbness.



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He hadn't felt good about the knife as it left his finger tips, not at all. It wasn't even just that he knew it was a bad shot; it was something else. A kick to the gut. And when he finally recognized Aesop, it was too late to take back the action, even if it had been a weak ass attempt. Too late to take it back, though, and Mace wasn't the sort to apologize, especially not after he'd been ditched. The rage that had boiled so hot two days ago awoke within him. He realized he was still in the position that the knife had left him, arm outstretched. He recoiled, fists at his side, the right rest on his belt, just a fingertip away from another knife. He wasn't ready for an explanation; nothing in the Arena would be good enough. He just needed to know whose team they were on.

And then, from nowhere, a slap to the side of his head. Mace winced, more from the surprise. He'd gotten entirely too used to Alexander. That's Aesop, you dolt! The words rang through him with the sting of the smack. It wouldn't even bruise, but still, he felt it. Mace was tempted to run his left hook along Alexander's jaw, but he pulled up short. That was just how things had always started between him and his brothers. Well, he'd learned a thing or two from the tundra. He could no longer carry so much regret, and he could feel in his gut that he would regret clocking Alexander. "Yeah, check check."

His dead eyes turned over the deserters. What in the gorram name of the Capitol were they supposed to do? Mace couldn't trust them any more (not that he'd ever really trusted Aesop, who was doing his best to empty out his innards). And what had Denver been thinking? Sympathy would only lead to death in the arena. And yet, hadn't Mace just turned his cheek away from Alexander, too? It was all so confusing and he wasn't the right person to sort it out. His fingers slipped over the handle of his knife, ready, when Alexander cut in with something about magic.

The smack had been a surprise, but the knife was somehow familiar. He was ready for it. After all, it was his knife, and the arena had not yet known his blood. It grazed his shoulder, opening up his jacket to the frigid wind. Mace sucked in a breath, the air whistling along his teeth. It was bright, sharp, but not especially painful. He looked, dumbfounded at his shoulder, and then behind himself. He turned and collected his knife, stared at the red, red blood that was his own. Mace's brow knit as he slowly lifted his gaze to Aesop.

He wondered if Alexander would hit him again if he just threw right back at the addled boy. He decided he didn't want to find out; Alexander was most certainly the last person he trusted. "Whatever, suppose I had that comin'." Mace crudely wiped the blood across his already stained uniform, the new red vibrant against the dried brown. He kept turning it over and over against his abdomen as Denver explained how things lay. It hurt his head. It was so much easier when it had been just himself and Alexander. And he didn't have enough time to sort things out, because Alexander was holding the cave mushrooms and Mace couldn't stop thinking about how mushrooms could kill, kill, kill.

But then, that's what they were in the arena for, right?

Mace stared long and hard at them, his face a mask. Only after the other three had taken the fungus did he finally man up and reach for the last few. They tasted of decaying earth, sour and piss and vile mud all mixed together. Mace had eaten his fair share of disgusting things while ranching, but this took the cake. He choked, gagged into the crook of his elbow, but he wasn't about to pussy out. He smacked his sternum, forced the mushrooms down and away, and then as discretely as he could, licked his uniform to rid his mouth of the taste.

[Mace ingests hallucinogenic mushrooms.]

The effect came on so fast, because he'd only drank water and eaten some fucking plants in the last four days. His stomach ravaged the bitter, putrescent things. His world blurred.

He'd been all wrong about the forest. It wasn't blue and white - it was crystal and shadow, diamond and night. It glittered, the trees collecting the light. He wanted it, all the light, for himself. A smile opened up his face, showed off teeth that had never known the sun. Mace walked right up to the closest tree, and wrapped his arms around it. So smooth, like glass spun as silk. He locked his arms together, held it close. His cheek stuck to it, tears bonding them. She was beautiful, and sturdy, this nymph.

He'd never been so happy in his entire life. But he couldn't keep it. The light would fade, and it would take the diamond creature with it.

Mace decided he needed a piece, and needed it now. He slipped away from the tree, leaving a little piece of his flesh on it, and found the knife that had cut him once again in the snow. How had it gotten there? He laughed. The sound was strained as it slithered up through his constricted throat. He took a few steps back, admiring the way her glossy arms became faceted the farther back he went. And then, Mace tilted his head down, as he had seen so many bulls do, and rushed forward.

[[ Mace attacks Alexander ]]
[dice=4]

[[ Mace throws knife at his nymph tree lady Alexander ]]
[dice=200+9000]
Knife in Hand -- 6.0 damage

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The world twists like a kaleidoscope and I move with it. I feel the effects before I see them, a slow static creeping into my blood until it's whirling within my veins. The tingling spreads steadily through me, eventually gathering in my hands until I can't hold it in anymore and it begins to leak out my fingertips to coat my palms like honey. Woah, man. I have honey hands. Absently, I begin turning my hands over and over and over themselves, marveling at the sensation as it spreads across my skin, filling creases and pores until everything I come in contact with is made smooth, as though I had a kind of Midas touch. A slurred laugh bubbles out my lungs as the sensation creeps out to claim the landscape and my brothers, hindering their movements until they're tugged into a slow motion dance. It must be heavy to move so steady.

Testing my theory, I begin to raise my arm into the air. Inches feel like miles and my hands resist as if sticky, elastic bands had been strung between my fingers, complaining more insistently the further I wander away from myself. Abruptly, the hand I'd been keeping still chases its partner up into the air, palms clapping together with an echoing smack as the resistance becomes too much and they declare their refusal to be kept apart. The collision sucks the air from my lungs as I gasp in response, glassy eyes wide with surprise. I can't blame them though, my hands are not the only piece of me wracked with a magnetic pull that screams: go go go, Aesop. You're too far away, some things aren't meant to be separated. But remembering hurts and I can't sort out exactly where I'm being told to go, so I curl my knees a little more tightly to my chest and allow my reunited hands to celebrate with a game of cats cradle.

WIP WIP WIP

He proceeds to angst about how HE doesn't really want the drugs (but his addiction sure does) and how they make him a bad, shallow person and he's going to ramble a bit about (mentally or out loud, I don't actually know yet, lol, I feel like he might go into some verbal rambling here, he's been doing that lately) how they judged him for doing drugs before and now they're giving him some and SAD, PATHETIC MESS OF A BOY IS SO CONFUSED. But all four of them probably know that drugs will help with the withdrawal and that if he's this much of a friggin' mess, the shrooms could be mucho helpful for him. Also rambling lots about his brother's taking care of him and I should talk about Poe and how he was the one to start Aesop using drugs and all the similarities between Aesop's irl brother and his Games brothers.

WTFFILLEROMFRLALIAYOUBLASPHEMOUSHELLION

Mmmmm. Aesop picspam. It fixes all the things.

I have this picture of him sprawled fully clothed </3 in a bathtub, obv blitzed out of his mind. It was taken with like... a cell phone camera, but I need to make it into a graphic anyway. XDDD

/SIDETRACKED BY THE AZNS

AND NOW FOR AESOP'S ADVENTURES IN WONDERSHROOMLAND:

Aesop has a hand fetish or something, idek, because he keeps talking about them again and again and again. I BET YOU'LL NEVER GUESS WHAT HE'S GOING TO START THIS POST TALKING ABOUT. NUUUU, NEVER EVER. Okay yeah so his hands feel like they're coated in honey. XD Now, you would think this might be unpleasant, and if actual honey were involved maybe it would, idek, but it's mostly kind of fascinating and so Aesop's just kinda like WOAH, MAN. HONEY HANDS. The withdrawal shakes are going away and I would elaborate on this part, but all these descriptives I'm attempting to use to summarize his thought process with make it sound really dirty. GOSH, LALIA. THERE ARE CHILDREN ON THIS SITE. MAYBE IF YOU HADN'T STARTED OFF WITH THE WORD "FETISH" THEN THIS WOULD SOUND MORE INNOCENT. Mkay. Time to touch all the things and revel in how neat they feel. No I would never let Aesop feel Alexander up again, what are you talking about, I only have good intenti— SHHHH DON'T LOOK SUNDRA, DON'T LOOK.

Everything is pretty and nothing hurts, not even when Alexander cuts Aesop's shoulder open. Pft. THE DRUG CRAVING MONSTER IN AESOP'S VEINS IS SO PLEASED RIGHT NOW IT WANTS TO FROLIC THROUGH A FREAKING MEADOW WITH WOODLAND CREATURES. Alas, there is no meadow here... but there's a forest! Tumnus mutts woodland creatures live there too. FROLIC WITH ALL THE THINGS. 8D

Actually idk if Aesop is literally frolicking or if all this nonsense is only in his mind. Drug trips are difficult to predict, mang. So... something is happening. Wtf exactly that is, well, we'll find out when I actually start writing it, now won't we? XD

Somehow Aesop is supposed to attack someone WITH LOVE, so let's find out how that goes. D:

[dice=4]

[Aesop attacks Denver with his switchblade]

[dice=200+2000]

[Block]

South: Denver was reaching up for a high five and blocked it xD

DAMN STRAIGHT THAT'S WHAT HAPPENED. 8D

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But oh the cruelties of this diamond world. The knife left him and embedded itself in a softer substance, something at first mushy and then rigid around the edges. Mace could make no sense of the peach color against the aqua and porcelain blur. Where had his bejeweled nymph gone? Could he not take her with him? He wanted her, wanted her hardness and her smoothness. He was lost without her.

It was suddenly too bright, all the diamonds turning their light over him. He couldn't see, couldn't look anywhere without the blind whiteness piercing him. He yearned for the light's warmth, for the solid touch of his nymph, for feeling his fingers. Mace stretched out his arms, grabbed at the air, tried to hold the diamond, clutch them close. The trouble with diamonds is that they slipped out of his grasp as soon he caught a bauble of light.

Something whispered next to his ear, a song of homecoming. Mace stopped his desperate attempts at light catching, and stood perfectly still, head cocked to one side. A garble of words, and then nothing. Had he imagined it? The sheering whisper, the snap that made his heart ache? He wanted to roll in that sound, to press it into the snow and cradle it. The nymph was nothing, the knives were nothing compared to this beautiful song. Mace drew two knives, rubbed his thumbs over the handles. They could never produce such a melody, and that's why they had to go.

He threw the one in his left hand first.

[[ Mace attacks Aesop ]]

[dice=4]

[[ Mace throws second knife ]]

[dice=200+9000]

[[ Miss -- 0.0 damage, predictably ]]

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OMFR. ARE YOU READY FOR THIS NONSENSE?

It's time for Aesop to go Mary Poppins on this noise and break out his MAGICAL RUCKSACK OF INFINITE STORAGE CAPABILITY. Idk what he's looking for exactly, but he's on a mother effing mission to find it, mang. Weapons and medical supplies and I can't even remember what all he's got in there, but he's making a mess and then OMFRRRRRRR. IS THAT A FROZEN SEVERED LEG?! WHY YES. YES IT IS. Some of you may have thought I'd forgotten about Cass's severed leg, but oh no. Lalia would never. He hasn't been hauling it around for four days for nothing. WE AREN'T QUITE TO THE TOP 10 YET. WE'RE STILL AT 10.2 TRIBUTES, KIDDIES. KEEP IT STRAIGHT.

Heck. Yes.

Idk what's happening to bring about this attack, but it's gonna be mad lulzy.

[dice=4]

[Aesop attacks Alexander with Cassandra's severed leg]

[dice=200+7000]

[Bruised Left Collar Bone — 2.0 damage]

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The knives, they were betraying him. The blade came alive in his palm, heat coursing up his arm. And then, as soon as his fingers drew back, it was cold like the diamonds of the world. It flew, end over end, into the broken light. He couldn't see it go; it disappeared into one of the dark points, the tip of a pentagram. His left hand burned, aflame, as he drew his fist to his heart. How could he be on fire? Had the light finally granted his wish? Hot, hot, so hot and so fulfilled. The knife in his right hand came to match the world, white and vibrant. It was weighted evenly, and he'd forgotten why he was throwing them at all, except that it was easier to throw than to keep.

It was so natural now to get into position to throw. He marveled as the way his muscles tensed, bicep and lats turned on, ready to power through the throw. His knees bent, his abdomen activated. Everything fell into place; everything was taut. He brought the knife back, next to his ear, hoped to hear a bit of the singing he had before. It was warm, and though it hummed, it did not have the same melody, the call of home. He rattled it, shook the handle, and that only made the vibration worse, grating instead of promising. Mace's nostrils flared.

He adjusted his hold on the handle at the last moment, twisting his fingers around so that instead of blasting it out of his palm, he would throw it with his fingertips. Mace took aim at the faceted world, found a shadow among the diamonds. It didn't even matter any more why he was throwing or what he was throwing at. Just that he was finally warm, the world was bright, and this is what he was meant to do.

[[ Mace attacks Aesop, third thrown knife ]]
[dice=4]

[dice=200+9000]
[[ Shallow Cut on Calf -- 3.5 damage ]]

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