My Fearless Fighter [Romry]

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Kire
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thinking about thonking

My Fearless Fighter [Romry] Aug 17, 2012 14:07:21 GMT -5

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Post by Kire on Aug 17, 2012 14:07:21 GMT -5

Does, Says, Thinks

He walked through the Olympic village, a smile on his face. It was a little crooked, giving him a slightly distant and dreamy appearance as he wandered the streets. He was remembering how Emery had looked as she had flown through the air from her vault, twisting and turning to perform a wonderful leap off of the horse and, although she hadn't been flawless, she had been amazing to watch. Whether she had gotten first or last, he didn't care. She had just done her best, and the seven on the vault had proved it, but even more so the nine on the beam. He had known that she had great balance, but that had simply driven the point home.

Continuing to walk, not really thinking about his destination and yet selecting one nonetheless, he remembered her floor routine and performance on the uneven bars. They were not the greatest, and they hadn't gotten the most amazing scores, but it didn't matter to him. Instead, he shoved those from his mind and replayed her balance beam routine over in his mind. When he had remembered her flawless dismount, the perfect stuck landing and the excitement in her eyes, he snapped out of his daze. It was then he realized what destination he had selected subconsciously. He stood before the District one tower, gazing up to the floor where he knew Emery's room was.

Going up to the entrance, he pushed the door open. Since he was from District one, and had already established his lodging, he went unchallenged as he entered the elevator. Pressing the button that would take him to the proper floor, he marveled once again at the elevator. It was rare to find something like this in a District, the only place he knew there were any was the Capitol, and he was glad he was able to use it. His floor was near the top, and it would have been a pain to carry all of his luggage up that many flights of stairs. It wasn't that he couldn't do it, it was that he wouldn't want to. Sore muscles were something that would make the competitions difficult.

As the ding signified he had reached the allotted floor, the doors slid open to reveal the landing. Stepping out of the elevator, he turned to watch as the doors closed before trying to remember which room Emery was in. He made his way down the long hallway, searching for the door which Emery resided behind. It took him a few minutes, accidentally walking past the door a couple times, but he eventually found it. Standing, somewhat awkwardly, in front of it, he raised his hand to knock. Rapping twice on the door, he waited for it to open, sheepishly announcing, "Emery, it's me." What a useless statement, but he was sure she would figure it out.

Waiting for her to open the door, he turned over the small object he held, keeping his hand in the pocket of his jacket to hide what exactly it was. As his gift to her, just for being her, he supposed, he wanted to keep it hidden until he gave it to her. All the same, feeling the tiny carving in his hand was slightly comforting, and the silk ribbon that was attached to it soothed his awkwardness, a little bit. I hope it wont seem tacky, he thought. Then he shook his head, no, scratch that. I just hope she likes it.

Tags: Cici | Words: 578
Other: Ooh, a gift. ~~A last minute idea, but doesn't matter.~~

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My Fearless Fighter [Romry] Aug 20, 2012 9:57:29 GMT -5

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Post by Deleted on Aug 20, 2012 9:57:29 GMT -5

{ E m e r y . A l l a d e - M o r e n o }

Everybody's got a dark side
Do you love me?
Can you love mine?

[/i] [/color][/center][/font]

The desire for success gnaws at my insides. It’s been eating me away piece by piece for too long now, but after that gymnastics routine, the pain is irresistible. I’m always trying to convince myself that I don’t need to care about what others think. I can be who I want to be and nothing else matters. But it does. I feel this burning hate inside me every time I see my parents congratulating one of my other siblings on their athletic success. They never congratulated me. In fact, sometimes I wonder whether they remember my name. I mean, I suppose it gets confusing when you have fifteen children living in your house and a third of them have names starting with the letter “E.” That’s why I came here. I don’t want to be another “E. Moreno.” I want to be Emery.

I’ve never wanted attention this badly, but in the new reality I live in where siblings fight to prove themselves, standing out is an inevitable factor of success; and so far, success and I haven’t gotten along too well. I thought that maybe I wasn’t so useless after all; maybe there’s something I can be good at, something that can show that I really have worth in this world. Yet, right now, I know that I have absolutely no appealing or wonderful traits to be proud of.

I fall onto my bed, looking up at the ceiling blankly. I don’t bother to take out my bun or remove my jacket, still tied to the memories of only hours ago, when I completely blew my gymnastics competition. My floor routine was the worst, and why? Because I had caught Rolex’s face in the audience, only to lose focus for enough seconds to bring me quite a few steps out of bounds. No medal whatsoever—completely unacceptable, especially being a Moreno. I turn over, digging my face into my pillow and letting a scream escape me. Distressed, I clutch the pillowcase, digging my fingernails deep into the fabric.

I’m not good enough. I’m not good enough to swing a sword, earn my parents’ attention, or even win a stupid gymnastics competition. I’m not good enough for myself, my parents, and probably not even Rolex. Heck, he’s most likely found another girl by now, ashamed of not only my attitude, but also my extreme lack of skill. I let out another scream, kicking wildly at the bed sheets beneath me. Loneliness enwraps me and I sit up, putting my hands to my forehead as though trying to minimize the frustration.

I am nothing. I will always be nothing.

Rolex…I can’t stop thinking about him. He isn’t nothing. He is everything. Why does he have to be so perfect? Able to wield a sword with no problem, so strong and yet so clever—but also know how to craft words in a way that makes everyone around him break into a smile? Jealousy—I can feel it taking over, a wildfire burning down everything else inside me. It’s not fair. I can’t be humorous and likeable, or strong and daunting, or even just plain clever. In a matter of a few moments, the jealousy turns to anger: an even stronger and more dangerous fire. I stand up and with my renewed strength, I kick the bedside table. I kick and I kick and I kick, and luckily my sneakers are thick enough to stop the pain from reaching my foot. No, just my soul. The petite table manages to topple over, an enormous bang echoing through the room. The lamp atop it shatters, but I don’t let my anger do the same. I move over to the wall, placing my head against it while trying to catch my breath, trying to stop myself. Yet, my heavy breathing is interrupted by anger I cannot contain: anger mostly directed at myself, but even more so, at the world, for everything it never gave me.

I bring my fist up in one fast motion, and punch the wall with every ounce of my own strength, a grunt escaping my lips. When I pull my hand back, pain hits me dead on, and I am forced to hold back my own cries. I punch the wall again, but it still leaves no mark. Blood dots my knuckles, but I don’t look. Instead, I remind myself of the fact that no one will ever care. Not my parents, most definitely not my siblings, and not me.

Throwing another punch at the wall, this time I at least manage to chip off a bit of the paint. Another punch and I can feel tears of pain forming in my eyes, waiting to be released. Can’t even punch a hole in the wall—what are you? Most definitely not a Moreno. I bite my lip, suppressing the screams and the cries and the pain. I won’t stop, not until I succeed, not until I can finally prove to myself that there’s something in this world that I can do. Knuckles coated in blood, I bring my fist up once more, and with every last ounce of strength, an angry and determined grunt escaping me, let it collide with the wall. I bite my lip even harder, trying to keep myself from crying out in pain as I hold my hand to my chest. This time I managed to chip off the tiniest possible fragment of the wall, but it’s not enough to subdue my anger.

My siblings. They could do it. Every one of them, I tell myself, over and over again. From that need to prove myself comes my last punch, my arm shaking as I give my strength to my right hand. A choked sob escapes my throat, but I quickly swallow the pain, wiping away the tears that line my eyes. Blood seeps from my knuckles as I bring my fist up again, my whole body shaking. Still, the anger is unending and uncontained.

A knock at the door saves me from letting my angry instincts run wild again. “Emery, it’s me,” a voice says, and I immediately recognize it. Crap. This is the last possible way I want Rolex to see me. “What do you want?” I ask, trying to release the tension in my throat that makes it almost impossible for me to speak. I can only hope he can’t hear it in my voice. Too dazed to even think about how rude my words had been, I manage to control myself--or rather, Rolex's voice does. I suddenly regret leaving the door unlocked, but then I don’t. All I want right now is Rolex, but the last thing I want is him seeing me like…this. I don’t want him to see the blood on my hand, the shattered lamp beside my bed, and the monstrous animal that he thinks he loves. I don't want his sympathy either—I’m not supposed to be that weak, that insecure! I’m supposed to be strong; I’m supposed to be a Moreno, and having Rolex hug me and tell me it will all be okay will most definitely not make me the independent spirit that I strive to be.

Unsure of what to do, my outburst put on pause, I wait for absolutely nothing. I wait for him to either leave or enter, hoping both but also hoping neither. Biting my lip and continuing to suppress the feeling of pain as I hold my bleeding right hand tightly in my left, I remember how much I like Rolex, and then how much that had cost me only hours earlier. This is me, I think. And if Rolex can't love this monster, then he can't love me. Yet, I want his love. If my parents can't love me, then I want to know that there's at least one person out there that does.

ooc -- Sorry, this was supposed to be 600 words and then Emery went all Emery and D: [/color][/size][/blockquote][/justify]

Last Edit: Aug 20, 2012 12:52:15 GMT -5 by Deleted

Kire
Retired Staff

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Pronouns: she/her
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thinking about thonking

My Fearless Fighter [Romry] Aug 22, 2012 19:33:03 GMT -5

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Post by Kire on Aug 22, 2012 19:33:03 GMT -5

Does, Says, Thinks

He stood there for a moment, waiting to hear her reply. The moment stretched longer and he wondered if she was even there at all, then he heard her voice, "What do you want?" Something was wrong, her voice was strained, like she was tense. He couldn't tell if it was rage or misery that was the cause, but either way he was unsure whether he should go in or not. Did she want him to? Her words had been sharp, but if she was upset he couldn't take that as a sign to go away. He was sharp when he was agitated.

Even still, would he be able to get to her if she didn't want him to come in? Had she locked the door? Tentatively, as though it might shock him, he reached for the handle, slowly turning it. It moved, the door opening slightly under his hand. A contemplative look crossed his face as he gently replaced the door, wondering if she had noticed. Should he go in? He wasn't concerned for himself, he wasn't worried she would attack him or hurt him and even if she did he wouldn't really care. He was more concerned about her, and how she was doing. What would have set her off, to make her so upset?

The answer came to him as he remembered his thoughts from his walk. She hadn't won a medal, hadn't been on the podium after her uneven bars and floor routine had gone poorly. Right now, she was probably beating herself up over it, telling herself that she had failed. He gritted his teeth, annoyance flashing through him. It was not the thought of her taking her anger out on herself that bothered him, it was the fact that it had taken this long for him to realize what was the matter, what kind of a boyfriend was he when he didn't realize when she would need him. But I came now, that has to count for something.

That made up his mind, and he placed his hand on the door handle again. Turning it, he opened the door and, after making sure she wasn't behind it, swung it wide. The sight that was before him startled him, but only for a moment. Shattered pieces of a lamp lay a little ways away from the night table it had rested on, the table had been knocked over and but didn't appear to be too badly damaged. Not far from the shards was a dent in the wall, chips had been taken out of it and there were small red smears on the area. The red smears were what he paid the most attention to. The wreckage didn't matter to him, the shattered lamp and tipped table were unimportant, it was the fact that she had bled that made him turn all of his attention to her. The room faded from his mind.

She stood near the dent in the wall, looking at the door, looking at him, with wide eyes. The multitude of emotions in them struck him in the chest as he slowly took a step toward her. Then he noticed how she cradled her right hand in her left, and he noticed how there were small red smears on her left hand as well. Her bottom lip was between her teeth, looking as though it too was either bleeding or about to bleed. His eyes rose to hers, holding them while he searched for something to do, to say, anything. He couldn't tell all of the emotions she was feeling, and he couldn't even identify his own feelings. One thing he was sure of, though, is that he felt no pity for her.

He knew that she didn't need pity, thus he saw no reason to feel pity for her. She might have punched him if he had, and he would've deserved it. In fact, he wasn't even all that surprised, he had seen and felt her anger before and this was no different. Well, actually it was. She hadn't been her own target, the times he had seen her anger. Instead, he found he felt guilt. He had not been there for her, had not even thought that she would need him. He had told himself, and told her, that he knew her. It had obviously been a lie, because if he had known her, he would have gone to her as soon as she had finished. He would have given her his support when she was done, telling her about how she had made him smile as he had watched.

No, Rolex felt no pity, nor surprise. He was as responsible for this outcome as she had been. If she had thought that she didn't deserve him she was wrong, he didn't deserve her. But he said none of that, he said nothing at all.

He just walked up to her and gently lifted her right hand from her left. The skin over her knuckles was broken, and blood seeped from them, oozing slowly down the length of her fingers. He met her gaze again, and, after a couple of attempts, managed to say, "We should wash these, but they should be alright after that." He tried a smile, managing a small, uneven one, and turned so he stood beside her, still holding her wrist. Placing one hand on her left shoulder, he gently guided her to the bathroom. As delicately as he could, he washed her knuckles with water, flushing them of anything that might have been in them, as well as cleaning the blood from the wounds. Like he had thought, they were quite minor, and didn't warrant a bandage.

Slowly, he shifted his grip from her wrist to holding her hand in his. He stood there, gazing at her for a moment before looking away, ashamed of how desperately he wanted her to forgive him for something she probably hadn't accused him of. But he had accused himself. He brought his eyes back to her face, but couldn't meet her gaze again. "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner." Please forgive me.

Tags: Cici | Words: 1017
Other: ALL THE FEELS <333

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Last Edit: Aug 22, 2012 19:38:27 GMT -5 by Kire

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My Fearless Fighter [Romry] Aug 25, 2012 11:42:07 GMT -5

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Post by Deleted on Aug 25, 2012 11:42:07 GMT -5

{ E m e r y . A l l a d e - M o r e n o }

Everybody's got a dark side
Do you love me?
Can you love mine?

When I was in second grade, my teacher had the entire class stand up and announce what they wanted to be when they grew up. Of course, she had to say my name quite a few times before I finally agreed to stand, and because I was nervous and everyone was looking at me and I felt my throat tightening and I didn't know yet—how was anyone supposed to?--”A peacekeeper,” is what I said. The words were so soft that I was instructed to repeat them once more. However, the answer seemed reasonable at the time. I'd be able to give my brother as many public whippings as I wanted to—he wouldn't have control over me anymore. If I were a peacekeeper, I'd have the chance to make this world fair.

I might as well have said that I wanted to be a monster, because now that I think about it, that seems to be the goal I've been subconsciously striving for. It's what everyone wants me to be. My parents respect monsters, and in fact, they honor them. Had they not seen the potential within me to become one, I would still be back in the community home. My siblings are monsters—most of them, at least—but I know that I still have a long way to go. I want to be like them: quick, clever, strong, relentless, and even ruthless. If I can't do that, I'll be dead in a day.

Yet, just the image of Rolex's face brings this dizzy feeling to my head, as though my entire past has been a mistake, and it's that goofy smile and those captivating eyes that I wake up for every day. He's the only person that can stop my monstrous instincts and my seemingly undying anger in a moment's time. I'm not afraid to play “the monster” around anyone but him, which is why, the moment he opens the door, shame fills me and I try to hide the blood on my hands as best as I can. I'm not angry anymore—just ashamed.

Rolex moves towards me and then takes my hands ever so gently, separating the two. My heart beat quickens as I follow Rolex's gaze down to my hands, suddenly wishing I could escape this situation, wishing that he didn't have to see this. Looking up, I try to read the reaction upon his face. Nothing. "We should wash these, but they should be alright after that,” Rolex says, a small smile crossing his face. Still, even I have enough sense to realize that his smile is most likely only meant to disguise the disgust.

Still holding my wrist, Rolex gently places his hand on my left shoulder. Either he's gotten used to the fact that I haven't always been good with immediate physical contact in the past or he's being timid with me—most likely the first. A shiver runs down my back as he leads me to the bathroom, running my hand under the water. As he goes about to clean the wound, I look at our reflection in the mirror. There's Rolex—so charmingly attractive no matter what state he's in—and oh gosh, his green eyes, his captivating green eyes. Then...there's me, the rock. Dark circles under my eyes, a frown plastered to my face, and tangled hair, there's nothing pretty about me. I don't like the girl staring back at me. Sometimes, I wish I didn't have to play her: the girl who couldn't succeed no matter what she tried.

I don't have the easy-going humor of Rolex or the perfected fighting skills of a Career. I have nothing, except for the boy right next to me.

When I look at myself again, I remember some of the old videotapes I used to watch as a child, and I suddenly feel like the Beast from Beauty and the Beast—so ferocious, so despicable. How could anyone ever love a beast? Finally, Rolex finishes and I turn towards him as he moves his grip on my wrist to my hand. “I'm sorry I didn't come sooner,” he says, but I can't look up into his eyes. I resist the urge to tell him that he's holding my hurt hand too hard, because I really don't want him to let go. Shame fills me overbearingly—shame in the person I am and in the person I want to be. When I'm around Rolex, I don't want to be a monster anymore. Yet, I have no choice in that matter.

It was the thought of him that had caused me to lose my focus on that floor routine; and it was the thought of him in the stands, watching, that had given me a slightly late start in the relay. What would it be next? Just that little daydream can get me killed in the Moreno household. My parents don't need to enforce the rules about focusing on training and training only—for their kids take care of it. You haven't been training? Dead. You're young and can barely wield a sword? Dead. You're daydreaming? Dead.

“Nah, don't be sorry,” I say, my eyes still focused on the ground. “You would've been the wall.” Some of my sarcasm is back, at least. I smile, but then realize that Rolex can't see it because I still haven't looked up. With the rest of my courage, I do. Then, I realize just how ridiculous that statement was. I don't want Rolex to think of me as a monster. I wouldn't have hurt him, would I have? No; Rolex means too much to me. Yet, that reality seems to linger at the edge of my mind, unreleased.

“You weren't supposed to see that,” I say, shame once again filling my insides. And it only gets worse from here. Why—why is it that Rolex stops me from being the person I want to be? Why can't I just be honest with him and tell him that I'm a murderer? Why can't I just let him know that training for the games isn't the same in my household? I think I might love him, but what if I can't do this anymore? What if love is the one thing that's holding me back from my potential? What if love is the one thing that will indirectly get me killed?

I suddenly remember what Rolex had said before, about how his parents would be upset if they knew. Would my parents care? Probably not. Instead, they'd just leave me to the consequences of my own actions, letting the other kids, who train every day, go ahead and take care of it.

My love for Rolex has been taming me, little by little, which is the absolute last thing I need if my goal is to survive. He's a hardworking Career, but even he has his softer side; like right now. He hasn't run away yet, so either he's an extremely talented actor or he actually does love me, despite the fact that I have some undeniable anger issues. And when I think about that Rolex,—that humorous, caring, sensitive Rolex—the violence all seems to wash away and I don't want to be a monster anymore.

That's a bad thing.

Hand still in his, a tear slips down my cheek and I quickly wipe it away with my left hand. I don't know how to say it; so maybe I shouldn't. Yet the thoughts nag at me, demanding their release. “I think I might love you,” I say, my voice choked as I stare up into his sparkling green eyes. “But I don't know if I can do this much longer.” I pause, tears managing to slip down my cheeks. I haven't cried in what seems like forever. Crying means attachment, and it's been too long since that word has been part of my life. “I'm not supposed to.” I can only imagine him thinking of how silly the statement is. Of course we're not supposed to. His parents would be upset with this relationship also. Still, it's not the same when you're in a house full of kids who want to kill you, when that moment's hesitation just to wonder what your boyfriend would say, is the one thing that could get you killed.

I don't want to think about it anymore—the consequences of my actions or the congratulating faces of my parents when one of my siblings finally manages to kill me. I let the few tears trickle down my face, looking like an idiot but not even caring anymore. I pull myself just a little closer to Rolex. I don't ever want him to go away, yet I don't even want to think about what will happen to me if he doesn't. I bring my left hand to my face again, wiping away what's left of the tears. What does he think of me right now? Does he still love me?

Waiting for his approval, needing to know that he still wants to be here, but also wanting to make sure he knows that I still care, I do care, and I will always care, I move a little closer, staring directly into his eyes. My whisper is barely audible and it isn't actually meant to escape my lips. But it's question, or rather a dare: a dare--meant even more so to reassure myself that this is what I want--to forget about the future and the consequences and the danger to come, to figure out if Rolex really does love me, if he'll help me forget. "Kiss me.”

[/justify][/color]

Kire
Retired Staff

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Pronouns: she/her
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thinking about thonking

My Fearless Fighter [Romry] Aug 25, 2012 12:38:49 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Kire on Aug 25, 2012 12:38:49 GMT -5

Does, Says, Thinks

She doesn't look at him, instead staring at the ground. "Nah, don't be sorry, you would've been the wall." She was trying to joke, the sarcasm a blatant attempt to make the situation lighter, but whether she said it to make herself feel better, or him, that was another story. When she looked up at him, he saw a small smile on her face, but it was strained, it was a real smile but the feelings behind it were conflicted with other emotions. "You weren't supposed to see that." Her quiet voice reached his ears, and he saw that she was tense in her shoulders, it was as though she wanted to turn away and yet couldn't bear to.

She stands silently for a moment, and he lets her have her moment to think. When a tear begins to slide down her cheek, he is too startled to do more than watch as she wipes it away. She continues to gave into his eyes, more tears trying to force their way out of her dark ones. "I think I might love you." He didn't know what to do then, unsure whether to say something in response, or wait to say if she said anything more. With her voice as choked as it was, he could tell that she was fighting back the tears as much as she was fighting to say the words that now came from her. "But I don't know if I can do this much longer."

Ice filled him at her words, was she saying goodbye? Did she want to end this? In her pause, his mind buzzed. Everything in him screamed that there was no way he would let her go, but he knew that if she didn't want to be with him anymore, he wouldn't have any say in it. It was her decision, even if he might not like the outcome. In front of him, she had stopped fighting the tears, or she couldn't fight them anymore. The salty droplets rolled down her cheeks and he ached to brush them away, but if she didn't want him anymore... "I'm not supposed to."

He wanted to scoff, to tell her that it wasn't a good enough reason. He couldn't do that, though, he'd just drive her further away. So he stayed silent, wallowing in the torrid of miserable feelings that now swept around him. He couldn't bear it if he lost her, even if he knew he wouldn't die without her. It wasn't a need that drove him to keep her close, it was a want. This was Rolex at his most selfish. Love, his thoughts were almost bitter, it's such a selfish thing. It makes you just want, and want, and never want to let go. But something struck him, making him revise his thoughts. But this want, this need to help her. It can't all be selfish, can it?

A small shift from Emery made all of his attention snap to her. She had moved closer to him, the small act sending a wave of relief through him. If she wanted to leave him, then she would move away. Closer was good, it was a good sign. But now he was greedy, he wanted her closer. He wanted to put his arms around her and kiss her and hold her and never let her go. She was already his, but he never wanted to leave her. Ever. He just wanted to be with her until the end, whenever that might be. He just wanted her. When she wiped her tears away the ache entered him again. He wanted to quell whatever fears were causing her to be hurt like this. He wanted to see her happy, but right now he didn't know what he could do.

She moved a little closer, her small form almost against him as she continued to gaze into his eyes. His breath caught in his throat at their close proximity. He knew there had to be something he could do, even something small that would help her. But he wouldn't know what that was until she told him. And she did. "Kiss me." Her whisper, so soft he almost missed it, was all that he needed. It was the permission he was seeking that, now granted, would let him help her.

He shifted his hands, placing one on the small of her back and the other on the back of her neck, at the base of her skull. Leaning down, he placed his lips to hers, so gently at first. Then he slowly drew her in even closer, his lips pressing a bit harder on hers. It was as far as he was willing to go, she could choose from here. He wouldn't do anything unless she was comfortable with it. After who knew how long, he slowly pulled away. His eyes were bright, sparking with joy and love as he gazed at her. Softly, he moved his left hand to her cheek and wiped away one last tear from her face with his thumb.

A smile sliding onto his face as he did so. "Did I ever tell you that you were amazing today?" His whisper was slightly hoarse, the emotions running through him pulling at his vocal chords so it changed the sound of his voice. He leaned down and placed his forehead against hers, gazing into her eyes. "Every day." And he kissed her again, this time slowly and only a short one, placing his forehead against hers again. He smiled at her once more.

Tags: Cici | Words: 923
Other: They're just so cute <3333

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My Fearless Fighter [Romry] Sept 1, 2012 11:51:47 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Deleted on Sept 1, 2012 11:51:47 GMT -5

{ E m e r y . A l l a d e - M o r e n o }

Everybody's got a dark side
Do you love me?
Can you love mine?

This time isn’t anything like the last. This time, I’m the one asking and pleading for the comfort and the care and the support—I’m the one who isn’t afraid to hide my weaknesses and my vulnerability. Rolex kisses me slowly at first, as though asking for my consent, and then kisses harder. I pull myself towards him, and the feeling successfully pushes everything else away: all of the memories and the haunting realities that fill my mind. Rolex seems so comfortable; I can tell he’s done this so many times before. Getting even closer and trying to make it seem like I know what I’m doing at the same time, I wrap my arms around his neck. When he pulls away, he puts his forehead against mine and the thoughts seep back into my mind, like a semi-permeable membrane.

I can’t seem to push that hesitance away. I didn’t wince when he kissed me, but that doesn’t mean I’m able to push away the thoughts that had once consumed me whole-heartedly. I hadn’t been in someone’s arms like this since I’d still been living with my brother, Aaron—his fake hugs of gratitude, only meant to disguise his true character, that I’d been forced to follow along with. Stupid, I think, shamefully to myself. Forget about him. Forget about the past. This is now. But Aaron is the only reason I’m here. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be a Moreno, I wouldn’t have met Rolex, and I would still be back in either foster care or the community home, just another unfortunate kid. Right now, I’m just the shadow of his remains—the remains of a monster.

I always find myself wondering who I would be had Aaron never been born. Definitely no Moreno, but also never having put my hands on that boy: the one whom had only stopped breathing because it had been Aaron’s command, the knife disposed, all evidence hidden. ”Kill him,” I can remember my brother’s soft command. It wasn’t a choice at that point. The two words were the only instruction I needed to hear in order to realize that if I didn’t kill this boy, this enemy of my brother’s, probably someone who knew about his sick identity, I’d be the one dead and forgotten.

“Did I ever tell you that you were amazing today?” He asks, his forehead still against mine. I smile, my arms still wrapped around his neck. “Every day.” I immediately push away the neverending sea of horrors that fills my brain. For a moment, I don’t care. I don’t care about what my parents think of me, or what the entirety of Panem thinks about me, for that matter; I don’t care whether I’m just the shadow of my sick and undecscriably cruel older brother; and I don’t care if tomorrow’s the day one of my siblings manages to drive that sword through my stomach, the day the Morenos bury me in their backyard just like the rest of their forgotten children. The only thing that crosses is my mind is Rolex, who I am to him, who I will always be to him, and most of all, who he is to me. That moment turns into a minute, and then a century—or so it seems.

“You too, Mr. Bronze Medalist,” I reply. “You’re perfection, you know that?”

Rolex leans down and kisses me once more, softly this time before letting go and smiling. I don’t want to face reality again—the past and the future and everything I’m trying to let go of—so even though I’m a fourteen year-old girl and even though I know this won’t last forever and it can’t last forever, not with me being a Moreno, I decide to be selfish and stupid and reckless like all the other girls I had condemned in the past. Pushing all of the doubts to the back of my mind, or at least trying to force them to stay there, I pull myself up towards his lips again, and this time, I don’t pull away for a long time. I don’t want it to end. The more it ends, the more I doubt. When I finally do pull away, it isn’t because thoughts of tomorrow are haunting me; it’s because I need to take a breath. It’s because I want to know more about the boy who now claims to be mine.

Taking his hands and pulling him along with me, I sit on the edge of my bed, unable to stand for much longer. When he sits down next to me, I rest my head on his shoulder, soaking in this feeling of warmth and protection. Although he can’t be with me when I really need it—when I’m at home with all of my siblings, beneath the covers of my own bed—he’s here now, and that’s all that matters. But I can play two parts, right? I can be loving over here with Rolex and ruthless back at home—what’s wrong with that? Perfection is all I see when I look at Rolex: perfection in this world, but not in the Moreno world. There are many different types of perfection and right now, I’m in love with the wrong kind. Then again, in the Moreno world, you’re not allowed to love perfection; you’re just supposed to be it.

Realizing that even perfection isn’t perfect, I immediately think about Rolex and everything I know about him. “I feel like I’ve known you for centuries,” I say, both honestly and serenely. “But I haven’t.” I know everything about him; but I don’t know anything. Lifting my head from his shoulder, so that I can look at him directly, I realize it’s about time to start figuring out what my image of perfection is made of. “Rolex, what’s your biggest fear?”

ooc -- It's currently 11:58 AM. Still morning. I didn't lie this time. xD

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Last Edit: Sept 1, 2012 11:53:12 GMT -5 by Deleted

Kire
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thinking about thonking

My Fearless Fighter [Romry] Sept 16, 2012 21:10:39 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Kire on Sept 16, 2012 21:10:39 GMT -5

Does, Says, Thinks

When she had spoken, it had brought a smile to his face, a smile he had hidden with the second kiss. "You too, Mr. Bronze Medalist, you’re perfection, you know that?" The expression had been filled with as much joy as uncertainty. Sure, he had won the bronze in Individual Rowing, but it had merely been a fluke. The only reason he had done as good as he had was because of his sword training making his arms strong. Surely he wasn't the third best out of the group, it must have just been a good day for him and a bad day for others. There was no way he was perfect. No matter what she thought.

After a moment of just gazing into each other's eyes, he felt the tug on the back of his neck as she pulled him down, and herself up, to make their lips meet. For a moment he is surprised, it's the first time she had started the kiss. He didn't count her asking~~telling~~ him to kiss her as initiating the kiss, but this he certainly did. Relaxing into the kiss, he shut his eyes and pulled her against him, holding her loose enough to not be imprisoning, but tight enough to tell her that he was enjoying it. Eventually, she eased out of the kiss, leaving his lips as they both breathed in. His breathing heavy, as much from the deprivation of air as the passion, he watched her.

Giving him hardly a moment to catch his breath, Emery tugged him by the hands over to the bed. She sat on the edge and looked at him expectantly. Smiling, he sat beside her. She leaned her head against his shoulder and he one arm around her, his hand on her hip. Her silence signaled to him that she was thinking, the only thing he had to go by as he wasn't able to see her face. She took a breath, but paused a moment before speaking. When she did speak, her words made him stop and think for a moment. "I feel like I’ve known you for centuries," she paused, but he knew what she meant. He understood the feeling completely. "But I haven’t." No, they had only known each other for about a month, and yet there had always been some sort of connection between them. It was why he had risked kissing her that first day, in the training gym.

She moved her head, lifting it from his shoulder to look him in the eyes. He gazed back, wondering what was going on in her mind. When she opened her mouth to speak, he wondered if he would find out. Instead of telling him what she was thinking, she asked him a question. "Rolex, what’s your biggest fear?" He halted a moment, first picking at the question, trying to find the reason why she wanted to know. Giving up on that, and hoping that she would eventually explain, he tried to find the answer. Contemplating it, he tried to call up moments when he had been scared. Surprisingly, he couldn't remember many.

Only two things came to mind; the first was baby-ish, unbecoming to a man~~boy~~ of his position, and the second was so cliche that he automatically opted that he would rather her think he was childish than saying the same thing that so many guys tell their girlfriends. Girlfriend, the word still sounded odd in his head, and tasted weird on his tongue. It wasn't the idea of him having a girlfriend that was odd, it was who he had given the title to. The girl who currently gazed at him with dark eyes, eyes that he could get lost in so easily, was not someone many people would expect him to be with. For one, she was three years younger than him. Second, she was a Moreno. Few people aside from the other Morenos interacted with Morenos, let alone dated one. No, he had never expected to date such a girl, and yet here he was. And now he was about to tell her about a fear that he had only told his siblings, no one else.

He looked down for a moment out of shame, then met her eyes again. If she thought so highly of him, surely this would make no difference. Sheepishly, he said "I'm afraid of spiders." He smiled at her, a small smile so crooked it would have made him laugh if he had seen it. Well, there we go, Rolex, bronze medalist and life-long career, was afraid of spiders. Before she could laugh, or judge him or do whatever she wanted to do with that information, he asked, "What about you? What are you afraid of?"