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To Say it to You Out Loud // [Embryze]
Aug 3, 2015 17:20:18 GMT -5
Post by Baby Wessex d9b [earthling] on Aug 3, 2015 17:20:18 GMT -5
a note from the desk of
Mace Emberstatt
when you never thought that it could ever get this tough,of District Ten
that's when you feel my kind of love
Mace exists only in the liminal space between midnight and dawn. It’s the only time he’s really sure he’s alive, because there’s no distractions. There’s no brightly drawn carriages, or masked balls, or beggars in the shadows. There is only him, and her, his youngest child. Coralee fusses in the crook of his arm as he tests the temperature of the formula against his right wrist. It’s too hot. She’ll have to wait, and Coralee hates waiting.
He sits at the edge of the rocking chair in the converted nursery. District Ten had made very poor use of the suite of rooms, prior to his arrival. The victors had taken over the spare rooms slowly, square foot by square foot. The nursery had been furnished entirely by gifts from overly eager Capitolites. He found no warmth, no meaning, no memory in any of the objects. He used them as little as possible, even while his children delighted in the dolls and trinkets.
He didn’t often play with Mason and Juliet; as they aged, they needed him less, and Julian more. He was much better the more vocal the children became. Mace didn’t know how to make believe; this is his forte, this quiet moment with a wriggling baby. He shifts Coralee against his chest, hugging her and rocking her. Eventually the formula cools. She takes the bottle, sucking it down slowly. When she finishes, he settles her stomach and then leaves her face up in her crib, staring at the glittering mobile.
When he returns to the king sized bed, his side has cooled and he isn’t tired. It’s 4:53 in the morning. He has a scant few hours before they need to be up to pack. Both of them are finished, done with the 70th. Soon they’ll be on the train back to Ten, and he’ll be reunited with Reggie, Sew, Oscar, Marlboro, Paige and Mrs. Lowe. He turns against the pillows, reaching for absent enthusiasm. He knows he should be looking forward to seeing his family, but he’s unable to clear the obstacle of knowing that Julian will be unhappy to be stuck in the faraway District.
The sun rises pale at first, shading through azure and blush over the city skyline. He silences their alarm before it has even truly begun. “Morning,” he says gruffly, staring straight ahead. He works his jaw. There’s something he wants to say – needs to say – but he doesn’t know how. When he speaks, it’s straight to the business of the morning: “guess I’ll start with the kids’ room.”
He pushes back the sheets, dropping bare feet to the cold ground. A shiver shoots straight up his spine, bursting over the rear cortex of his brain. He reaches for his bathrobe. His fingers are shaking and for the first time in a very long time, he cannot account for it. He tugs on the sleeves.
The shivering lessens, words clicking. “Gonna be good to be back in the heat. Seems like it’s been longer this time than the last.”
And then, like always, words utterly fail him. He says one thing, but he means something completely different.
“I know how much you don’t like Ten,” thank you for bearing with it for me.
“Wish I could live there year ‘round,” with all of our family.
“But I guess the terms of your 'arrangement' ain’t so flexible,” because the President is a sadistic fuck.
Mace ties a knot around the center of the robe, stands, and turns to Julian. His grey eyes are as flat as they’ve ever been. For the first in many months, he exists in a moment other than the liminal space. Words and thoughts crash together, to form a truth: “I just don’t know if I can do it anymore.”
He sits at the edge of the rocking chair in the converted nursery. District Ten had made very poor use of the suite of rooms, prior to his arrival. The victors had taken over the spare rooms slowly, square foot by square foot. The nursery had been furnished entirely by gifts from overly eager Capitolites. He found no warmth, no meaning, no memory in any of the objects. He used them as little as possible, even while his children delighted in the dolls and trinkets.
He didn’t often play with Mason and Juliet; as they aged, they needed him less, and Julian more. He was much better the more vocal the children became. Mace didn’t know how to make believe; this is his forte, this quiet moment with a wriggling baby. He shifts Coralee against his chest, hugging her and rocking her. Eventually the formula cools. She takes the bottle, sucking it down slowly. When she finishes, he settles her stomach and then leaves her face up in her crib, staring at the glittering mobile.
When he returns to the king sized bed, his side has cooled and he isn’t tired. It’s 4:53 in the morning. He has a scant few hours before they need to be up to pack. Both of them are finished, done with the 70th. Soon they’ll be on the train back to Ten, and he’ll be reunited with Reggie, Sew, Oscar, Marlboro, Paige and Mrs. Lowe. He turns against the pillows, reaching for absent enthusiasm. He knows he should be looking forward to seeing his family, but he’s unable to clear the obstacle of knowing that Julian will be unhappy to be stuck in the faraway District.
The sun rises pale at first, shading through azure and blush over the city skyline. He silences their alarm before it has even truly begun. “Morning,” he says gruffly, staring straight ahead. He works his jaw. There’s something he wants to say – needs to say – but he doesn’t know how. When he speaks, it’s straight to the business of the morning: “guess I’ll start with the kids’ room.”
He pushes back the sheets, dropping bare feet to the cold ground. A shiver shoots straight up his spine, bursting over the rear cortex of his brain. He reaches for his bathrobe. His fingers are shaking and for the first time in a very long time, he cannot account for it. He tugs on the sleeves.
The shivering lessens, words clicking. “Gonna be good to be back in the heat. Seems like it’s been longer this time than the last.”
And then, like always, words utterly fail him. He says one thing, but he means something completely different.
“I know how much you don’t like Ten,” thank you for bearing with it for me.
“Wish I could live there year ‘round,” with all of our family.
“But I guess the terms of your 'arrangement' ain’t so flexible,” because the President is a sadistic fuck.
Mace ties a knot around the center of the robe, stands, and turns to Julian. His grey eyes are as flat as they’ve ever been. For the first in many months, he exists in a moment other than the liminal space. Words and thoughts crash together, to form a truth: “I just don’t know if I can do it anymore.”
