it's me again {alexis/louvain}

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it's me again {alexis/louvain} Oct 1, 2015 19:18:14 GMT -5

Post by Python on Oct 1, 2015 19:18:14 GMT -5

L o u v a i n

The sun bled onto his skin, melting him like candle wax. One aching thrust at a time, he shoveled dirt into a tower and carved a grave out of the earth, wiping his brow with the back of a gloved hand. The concoction of sunny heat and winter’s chill made his skin prickle, pores slippery yet failing to erase the purple smudges on his torso. A few of them had spread to a size larger than the fist that imprinted them. The knot on the back of his head was shrinking, and that was perhaps the only promising news he could think of. It was nothing to dwell on, because it was only a matter of time. His heart palpitated with sickening anticipation, planting a seed of nausea in his stomach.

”See you at work.”

He was vulnerable. He had already considered fleeing and voted against it, realizing he couldn’t afford it. That level of cowardice – the wisest – was too dangerous for his mother. Sacrifices had to be made for her well-being. Medication was not cheap, not for her condition. Now the price had been amped up to money and suffering. It was easy to say it was his own fault, but he didn’t believe that. He hadn’t willingly painted the target on his back. He hadn’t known better. He wasn’t stupid, ignorant, foolish, nothing of the sort. It was a twist of fate, a stream of bad luck stalking him like a shadow. Now he was a sitting duck, standing in a grave as if waiting for somebody to make it his.

He knew they wouldn’t kill him, but the thought was still there.

He crawled out of the newly-formed grave and reached for his water bottle. Winter had not yet reached its peak in Seven, and he longed for the days of white-tipped trees instead of a white hot sun. It wouldn’t be the same without his friends dropping slush in his shirt and pulling his scarf over his eyes. He realized that part of his life was history. Their pages in his scrapbook could be torn out if he had the heart to do it. He was half furious, half heartbroken. They deliberately avoided him at school, making excuse after excuse to escape any means of friendly contact. It was tradition to study with Blake on Fridays, and meet with the group for ice cream on Sundays. The excuses were no longer excuses, just rejections.

”I can’t study with you anymore.” ”Sorry Lou, I can’t be seen with you.”

Like a plague.

He supposed he was, given the circumstances. The same boys who destroyed his grandmother’s grave and beat him to a pulp harassed him in school, shoving him into lockers, tripping him on staircases, and backhanding him if he dared talk back. It was all one terrible cliché, the group of bullies tormenting the defenseless nerdy kid. But that was why it was a cliché – it happened a lot in the real world, whether people chose to see it or not, and now he was part of it. All of the descriptions of suffering in novels, it was nothing like the real thing. Books didn’t paint pictures of the blood in his mouth or the fear in his eyes. They didn’t warn him about what it would feel like to be a cornered mouse.

The stories were all glamour, all bullshit.

A shout in the distance lifted his head. ”Louuuvaaain!” It was a voice like nails against a chalkboard. His stomach shriveled into a raisin.

He considered making a run for it, but he had tried that once before. He wasn’t very quick, he had learned, and the consequences outweighed the attempt. It was also a bad idea to shield himself before they approached. The footprint on the back of his head was evidence.

He voted to take his gloves off and stand up, dropping the shovel into the grave. If he weren’t always outnumbered, he might’ve had the courage to smack one upside the head with his shovel. He had never been the violent type, but the thought was oddly satisfying.

The tallest one wasted no time gripping him by the jaw and slamming him into the nearest tree. The knot in his skull throbbed, and he bit his cheek to stifle a groan of protest. ”How’s our favorite grave digger?” he asked, knowing damn well he was successfully making Louvain’s life miserable.

I hate you, but thanks for asking.

As if they could read his mind, one of them slugged him in the stomach. He lost his breath to the winter air and fell to his knees, organs curling in on themselves. A hand fisted his hair and dragged him to his feet, and this time he couldn’t help the cry of pain. They were ripping his scalp off.

Instead of kicking him into the dirt, they started walking, keeping Louvain in tail by his hair. He had grown it out because he liked the feel of it, and he always thought it emphasized the cute frame of his face. Now it was being used against him. They purposely increased their pace and made it difficult for him to match, allowing an occasional tug to burn another inch of his scalp. He didn’t dare try to fight him off. Bravery wasn’t bravery here. It was stupidity.

The texture of crunching leaves beneath his heels shifted to something softer. He couldn’t raise his head up all the way quite yet, but he could see the color change. They were in grass again, and the trees had vanished. When he was finally released, he saw the expanse of water gleaming at him. They were at the lake. Why?

They were unusually quiet. He didn’t like that.

”Hope you can swim!”

A pair of arms hoisted him up over a broad shoulder. The world spun for an instant, and then he was staring at wooden planks of a dock. His body tensed up in anticipation. Snickers echoed in both of his ears before his stomach traveled to his throat, and he was weightless.

For two seconds.

He entered a world of ice, skin doused in what felt like an electric shock. His experience in swimming was limited to childhood lake visits, but he managed to control his flailing legs and kick. He resurfaced and gasped, eyes frantically searching for the dock’s poles. Their laughter was lost on him. He focused on paddling his way from pole to pole, inching his way to the shore before his blood frosted over. Hair clung to his forehead. His drenched clothes made him feel like an anchor, stumbling over the shore only to feel his own muscles spasm from shivering.

He didn’t hear what they shouted afterward. He simply waited for them to leave, and moved his hair out of his eyes. If he was crying, he didn’t notice.

maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]
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it's me again {alexis/louvain} Oct 2, 2015 7:35:19 GMT -5

Post by maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte] on Oct 2, 2015 7:35:19 GMT -5

A L E X I S K A N G

Her lips are soft, embrace sweet as hands travel the length of my body. Nails ghost over exposed skin, something that would have sent shivers down my body had I been able to feel it. Sticky gloss sticks to my lips staining them bright pink all the way down to my collar bones. It should feel good, the way she holds me as though I am the last drop of water and she a dying man. I didn't catch her name over the music and the shouts, the acrid stench of sweat and alcohol was much too consuming to be bothered with such pleasantries.

It all feels stale; my reactions mechanical as hands find her hips, guiding them to the thrum of music as she busily sucks bruises beneath my jawline. (Inconsiderate of her, really. Those will be impossible to hide.) I think I would push her away if I could remember how to move my fingers. Instead they crawl up soft fabric hiding curves, brushing my fingers through hair that reaches somewhere to her mid-back. Because this is what I should do. This is what I know.

If I push this soft girl with lips that stick to my skin away, I will be left alone with my thoughts. And I cannot have that. The flimsy fabric has found its way between my fingers, taking the smaller thing by surprise as I press her back against the wall. It wasn't for her benefit, not really even my own, it was from necessity. The only way I could bear another second of this was to find the glass I'd set somewhere on the table beside us.

I down the contents of a plastic-lined cup, ignoring the way it burns and instead focusing on the heat crawling to the tips of my fingers. Honestly, I don't even know what's in it. I don't care.

Soon enough the world goes black.

(I'm pathetic.) Hammers crack against my skull, mallets into a spike with every heartbeat. (I wish it would just stop.)

Not the pain, my heartbeat.

Mom has set a glass of water on the molding nightstand which is the only other bit of furniture aside from this cot upon which I now lay. A clumsy frowning face is scrawled in black ink underneath the glass. (I'm sorry.)

I'm lucky it was her turn to deal with me. Mum would've poured the water on me.

Not that that isn't what I deserve.

They're scared to punish me I think. How do you discipline a child who came to you scared and small, who could barely talk for fear of being beat? It was easy to put up a front at school, to talk back to teachers when they asked me about the black eye I'd somehow acquired in the time between yesterday and this morning. As though it wasn't easy enough to guess.

Sometimes we'd skip school altogether. I'd take my little brother to a spot by the lake, lay out a ratty hole-ridden blanket and we'd snack on the candy bars I'd swiped earlier that week. It was easy to be strong for my brother. To keep him safe.

I had no reason to hide anything by the time I came to my mothers.

And so they saw everything.

Maybe they're the only people to ever see me cry. (Besides my father, of course.)

But they don't have to worry. Not about the punishments. Even the worst possible thing they could come up with is tame. Nothing compared to what I'd been through. This quiet disappointment somehow stings much worse.

Once I think I've remembered how to walk I stumble out into the living room. "Look, I'm sorry-"

"I don't want to hear it, Alexis. We're not mad." That's Mum, her voice brittle and sharp as her arm snakes around the waist of the taller, fair-haired woman next to her. Mom's eyes are red and I know she's been crying but I can't bring myself to really look at her. The anticipation of seeing the pain there is so much worse than waiting for someone to strike me.

"Listen, I'll do better." The promise is empty, but pleading. I pull my jacket tighter around my shoulders and I try not to shake. "No more getting black out drunk. I'll do better I promise. C'mon guys, please don't... don't tell anyone."

I don't want them to leave me. Not when they've made everything so much better. This wasn't their fault. I wasn't their fault.

"Just sit down for break-" I cut off Mom with a fervent shake of my head.

"I'm going to the lake."

The door slams behind me before I can hear their reply.

(I'm sorry)

Today wasn't going to be a good day. I can taste it in the bitter air, usual pleasant pine somehow absent from the tip of my tongue. Instead I taste dry lips, chapped from before last night's blackout. The skin underneath my jaw is peppered with light black and red, the soft girl's claims annoyingly present upon the sensitive skin.

I hate it. The desperate territorial marks upon my throat when I am not hers. I am no ones but I'm especially not hers. There's no way to hide them either, not when they are so close to my face. Maybe she knew that or perhaps she was too wasted to give a shit. (I certainly was.)

The trek to the lake seems to take eons too many. Seven's air is cold, empty as soft breezes blow frost upon my cheeks. I'll sit on the bank anyway, I know. I'll sit there until my fingers fall off and my flesh turns to dust and flutters away in even the slightest wind. My shoes will find themselves flung somewhere in the dirt and my toes will be pressed into the mud, welcoming the cold laps of water stirred by some monster hiding beneath the surface.

Or maybe not.

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

Today most certainly wasn't going to be a good day.

A small thing is curled up on the bank, clothes hanging off him as though they're some sort of melted second skin. Something desperate to drag him back into the depths he had most obviously been encased in moments before.

The closer I come, the more familiar he gets. There is a curve to his shoulders, something obviously not feminine but something pretty. Something sweet. I wonder if I were to look into this boy's eyes if I would see the constellations that once made him up that night when I was wasted and maybe a little high. Then again, it should have been obvious who this was. I didn't know any other boy with hair as long as he.

"Louvain?" I shrug my jacket off unwilling shoulders, half sprinting in my haste to wrap the heavy material around him.

"I'm pretty sure today is too cold for a swim. Especially fully clothed."

(So what the fuck happened?)

i've lost control
and i don't want it back
i'm going numb
i've been hijacked

Last Edit: Oct 2, 2015 7:40:13 GMT -5 by maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]

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it's me again {alexis/louvain} Oct 4, 2015 22:23:44 GMT -5

Post by Python on Oct 4, 2015 22:23:44 GMT -5

L O U V A I N

"AS I SIT HERE FROZEN ALONE, EVEN GHOSTS GET TIRED AND GO HOME"

Hypothermia; it was a condition he had read in books and heard on television. Pale tributes with ink-tipped fingers and red noses, flesh dying from harsh weather conditions, scrambled for simplicities such as fire, clothing, and shelter. Anything to delay the inevitable. The flame of instinct glinted behind their blown pupils, rationale having been buried in snow. Louvain was suddenly thankful that winter had not yet shadowed the sun or laid down its white blanket. He felt as if his skin matched his bones, but he wouldn’t die. He was at risk of a cold, and perhaps that was the worst of it. Humiliation was another illness he couldn’t quite cure, but the source of his misery had already abandoned the premises. Their work here was done.

Despite the optimistic outlook, his misery had become tangible. His heart was drenched and decorated with pointed icicles, and his body shivered in a stream of endless reflexes. He wrapped his arms around himself, seeking heat where it couldn’t be found. Wisps of hair were glued to his temples. He felt like a walking block of ice, and the breeze only managed to press his muscles further into submission. The lake water was clean, but he craved a hot, sterile bath, where he could submerge himself under his own willpower and drown his world for as long as it took to make his lungs ache.

Trees lined the end of the bank, forming a boundary between wood forest and open grass. He trudged up the hill instead of running. The ice dip had woken him up, but somehow drained him of the energy he needed to sprint and generate heat. It wasn’t far to the graveyard; he would retrieve his shovel and head home. It was a longer walk than he wanted. The short-cuts would lead him through cobblestone paths and decrepit buildings, where illegal rebel’s artwork decorated the walls. The air always carried the stench of smoke, and he never trusted it.

But he was desperate.

The wind whispered into his ears, and a boy’s voice interrupted. Lou instantly flinched, anticipating a return of the group of boys. It wasn’t them. His eyes scanned a familiar face, a somewhat comforting face. One he never thought he’d see again outside of school. After their original graveyard encounter, his judgment had become clouded. Left with the words, ”Should I kiss you goodnight?” and ”This is goodbye,” he had been torn between scowling at the snide remark and frowning at the idea of never seeing him again, when he happened to be the only person who would help him. Now that his friends had abandoned him, he had a new perspective on the matter. Lex wasn’t snide or ridden with secret, ill intentions. He was trying to help. Lou regretted not cherishing it.

A warm jacket embraced him. He held it tightly to his own shivering frame and wiped the droplets from his face. ”I-I know t-that,” he breathed, teeth chattering. He wondered if Lex even knew about what his friends were doing. There had been no use approaching him. What could he do? He was one boy, he couldn’t protect him from anything. He probably didn’t want to. So when Lou had noticed him sitting in the back of one of his classes, he didn’t try to capture his attention. The day he spotted him smoking outside the school grounds, he turned the other way to escape detection.

Oddly enough, they had met again at the lake of all places.

”Your f-friends threw me in,” he muttered, too weak to add the necessary edge of contempt. He hated them, but all he could do now was sniffle and frown like a helpless child. ”I-I don’t know…why. They follow me, and,” he shoved his hands into the jacket’s warm pockets, wondering how Lex could sacrifice his comfort. ”I think they think it’s fun.”

He was lying. He knew for sure they enjoyed it.

Last Edit: Oct 4, 2015 22:25:08 GMT -5 by Python

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it's me again {alexis/louvain} Oct 6, 2015 7:24:05 GMT -5

Post by maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte] on Oct 6, 2015 7:24:05 GMT -5

A L E X I S K A N G

I'm not actually too sure why I asked Louvain if he wanted a kiss. My words are often carefully chosen, if not kept sewn to the tip of my tongue for fear of saying the wrong thing. A side effect of getting the shit kicked out of me most of my life. (Such a reality little Louvain seems more than aware of now.) Perhaps I've thought a little to hard on my parting words, thought too much of that night I carried him home.

He's the reason I started drawing again.

Such a habit was one I had not indulged for a long time. Nowhere in the seven months that I have stayed with my moms did I dare take out the tattered notebook with edged worn by years of turning. I was scared of looking through them, of seeing my brother's face staring up at me with faded lines and careful shading, embraced by the soft lead that was all we could afford. (We were poor then, but rich men compared to what I have now.)

I spared no expense, penciling in the bruises that so often kissed his jawline. There sat the heavy purple swelling over his eyelid, smile showing teeth although it must have hurt. Perhaps I hoped to immortalize these moments so that when things got better, when things were okay like I so often promised, we could look back on these moments and see how much we had grown. Now those fading images are all I have left.

There was no way I could ever open the leather bound obituary, not until I met the boy made of stars that now takes up at least three pages of the yellowing script. Louvain.

I can't help but wonder if I would have said no, had he asked for the kiss.

But I don't think about that, not with him dripping onto the mud below us. He could catch a cold out in the bitter wind, bugs could crawl into his lungs and turn them black. And I certainly wasn't going to have my sketchbook be the final resting place for two small, sad things. So I guess I've got to protect him.

(But that decision was made the minute I drew the boy into my arms and carried him home.)

My friends. I can't help but flinch at the mention of these protectors to which I have so fatally entwined myself. It seems they have chosen another plaything, a mouse to trap between their claws, to pin down by the tail and to watch squirm. I've only ever heard mention of their last toy, of brutal beatings with both words and fists that were enough to make me spill my lunch into the trash can which sat beside us. (They assumed it was a product of my drunkness.)

The story always ends with the boy hanging from the ceiling with a noose around his neck.

I don't know if I believe them, frankly I don't want to find out. Because I would like to think such cruelty is impossible, that people like them could not possibly exist. But I grew up with a man just like him and that tombstone sitting in a graveyard is proof enough to what they are capable of.

It's best that Louvain not know that.

"They're assholes." I murmur, draping my arm around the smaller boy's shoulder and pulling him into my side. "Fucking psychopaths, but... let's just get you home yeah?"

I don't carry him this time. It's more productive for the boy to warm himself up by walking, it's safer. (Funny, how little regard I have for my own well being. Funny how much I care for his.) I'm certainly not going to take any risks and give my friends the satisfaction of turning his lips blue with sickness.

I must be a fucking idiot.

They like me because I am quiet. I do not look when the steal and lie, when they hold a knife to an old man's throat and demand his money. I'm another body, an intimidating presence to help with their excursions. In return, no man like my father will ever dare touch me again.

And now, I might as well have declared war.

This silence is driving me insane.

"You know, I'm pretty sure fate is a bunch of horse shit and whoever is sitting up there is either make-believe or a huge dick so-" the corners of my lips twitch as I lead the shivering boy down paths that I need not ask directions for "you must have really wanted to see me again to get his attention."

i've lost control
and i don't want it back
i'm going numb
i've been hijacked

Last Edit: Oct 6, 2015 7:29:06 GMT -5 by maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]

the m o o n controls the t i d e, it could cause you to d r o w n

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it's me again {alexis/louvain} Oct 15, 2015 20:40:00 GMT -5

Post by Python on Oct 15, 2015 20:40:00 GMT -5

L O U V A I N

"AS I SIT HERE FROZEN ALONE, EVEN GHOSTS GET TIRED AND GO HOME"

He wondered if weakness was hereditary. His craven tendencies to cry under pressure were not something he saw in his mother. She could be docile, perhaps a pushover in the right circumstances, but she was protective. Whether it was attributed to maternal instinct, he didn’t know and he wouldn’t ask. He respected her far more than he respected himself, because nothing admirable had grown out of him. A seed of intellect at best, but it wasn’t enough to plan an escape from hell. Either a clever ploy to land him to safety was beyond his comprehension, or it didn’t exist. He was helpless. His mother, in a way, was also at a loss of control, but for a different reason, and she couldn’t be blamed for any of it. They were both introverted, conscientious, and cautious. The difference was in her spirit; she was resilient, and he was seamless, having already been fragmented by pain.

And for that, he was weak.

An overcast had blotted out the sun when he needed it most. Lex substituted the beacon of light and warmth, pulling his shivering body toward comfort. They walked up the hill and weaved through the trees, past the graveyard and into the streets with no sign of trouble. The blood shooting through his system seeped the numbness out of his fingertips and cheeks. He was sure he looked pale from the cold, and flushed around the eyes from his insuppressible sorrows. Not once had he ever seen his mother cry; not even when she noticed the bruises adorning his arms. She was worried about him, but she always bottled her pain. All he could do was feebly lie and blame it on shenanigans, as if he still had friends to use as an excuse.

The boy glued to his side was all he had right now. Louvain had already forgotten the way he sounded, and how bluntly he spoke. He certainly wasn’t wrong; they were assholes, probably psychopaths that would one day be arrested for a crime (and hopefully never seen again). The energy he spent hating them was a waste, yet he couldn’t manage his feelings like he used to. Stress was making them haywire. He would rather scream into a pillow than walk it off or read a book. His scrapbook was collecting dust in his drawer, because he knew he would ruin it if he let his emotions guide his work. It was hardly fair; they deserved to have their names and faces plastered on a paper so he could cross them out or slice them with scissors, but it made for an ugly, unproductive project.

He closed his eyes and listened to Lex’s voice. The chitchat was distracting, albeit ridiculous. His lips were too busy trembling to form a smile. ”If I want to see you, I can just walk up to you in class. Did you know we had a class together?” He said it in a rush, swallowing any stutters that surfaced. It wasn’t surprising that Lex probably hadn’t a clue. Louvain was unremarkable, and just a peg above invisible. In a painting, he was a blurred color. In a garden, he was a stray twig. He was worth less than the people around him. Part of him could accept that and live with it. The other parts didn’t; they wanted attention like a needy child, and coaxed him into wrapping his arm around Lex’s torso.

This made Lex’s theory partially right. He wanted attention, but not from fate or some cruel, nonexistent, supernatural or religious force. It was much simpler than that.

He sniffled and pressed his cheek against Lex’s shirt. It was homey. He didn’t reek of cigarettes or alcohol this time, but that only summoned more questions. He decided to voice one of them before the coincidence and curiosity taxed his brain.

”Why were you at the lake?”

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it's me again {alexis/louvain} Oct 17, 2015 4:06:48 GMT -5

Post by maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte] on Oct 17, 2015 4:06:48 GMT -5

A L E X I S K A N G

It's ironic how warm this boy makes me, a deep flush crawling onto the apples of my cheeks the closer Louvain presses himself. Surely they must be painted hot pink by now, steam crawling down my face like the fog that currently clings to the forest's canopies. The ones that I have only just noticed are stained the colors of deep autumn. They crackle underneath us like a fire's familiar purring and despite how thoroughly fucked the whole world is, I can't help but smile. Louvain has managed to turn the world into something beautiful once more, as though the God I do not think exists has taken a paintbrush to the canvas he long since forgot.

For the first time since Anthony died, I think that I can be happy. I feel bad, like I am betraying my brother every time a smile cracks through lips I so often keep drawn in a thin line. Happiness should have died with him. I should not enjoy living when my brother is not. I should suffer, I should feel guilt. I was trying to die with him. And for a while, that worked. For a while I was two seconds from simply standing still as my superiors sawed into a bark-laden giant and to let the thing fall on me. Crush me into the dust so that I did not have to live in a world that no longer had direction. That was dark and cold and meaningless. The sadness is still there, still lingering like a shadow behind my eyes. Most of the time, it's embrace is all consuming.

But not all the time.

My moms say it's because I'm moving on, accepting that Anthony is not coming back and living the life that he would have wanted for me. I always tell them that we have no idea what Anthony would have wanted seeing as he was decaying under the dirt. Maybe he would hate me because I sat there and watched while my father killed him. Maybe he would want me dead instead of him. He was just twelve. He was too young.

”If I want to see you, I can just walk up to you in class. Did you know we had a class together?”I didn't. Honestly, I don't even know what classes I have. I hardly attend school, most of my days are spent seated in the back for the first few lessons before sneaking off to sit on the front steps and get really fucking smashed before lunch. I'm in a dead end job already and I doubt I'll amount to much more. This is District Seven, for fuck's sake, it's not like we'll amount to anything other than glorified lumberjacks. School is useless.

"Honestly the only class I even pay attention to is lunch. President Snow could be in my science course and I'd have no fucking clue." I squeeze the boy's shoulder and run my free hand through his hair, gently tugging at the damp knots as we come to a stop in front of his house; just as we had not too long ago. His hair is soft, even soaking wet and sticking to his cheeks. I quite like the length, how it clings to the gaps between my fingers as I fix a lock that had been standing at an awkward angle this whole walk.

”Why were you at the lake?”

I shouldn't flinch so hard at a single question but he might as well have brought his palm across my cheek. What was I supposed to say? How was I supposed to tell him that I was visiting my dead brother without sounding utterly pathetic?

Instead, I stall for time, running my palms down his waist in an attempt to smooth the soaking fabric clung to his skin. My hands fall upon his hips, resting comfortably as my eyes search the sky for an answer I don't want to give. Talking about Anthony is like shoving a heated blade into my throat. (But perhaps even more painful.)

"Same thing I was doing at the graveyard." I manage, voice little more than a mumble, "Visiting my brother."

And I hope he gets what I mean because I can't say it. Not out loud.

(Anthony is dead.)

"Do you want me to leave now or uh..." (Please say no.)

(Because I really don't want to go.)

i've lost control
and i don't want it back
i'm going numb
i've been hijacked

Last Edit: Oct 17, 2015 6:30:35 GMT -5 by maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]

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it's me again {alexis/louvain} Oct 24, 2015 23:54:24 GMT -5

Post by Python on Oct 24, 2015 23:54:24 GMT -5

L O U V A I N

"AS I SIT HERE FROZEN ALONE, EVEN GHOSTS GET TIRED AND GO HOME"

Lex was rough around the edges – a delinquent by his mother’s standards. He still remembered the ripe stench of cigarette smoke staining the fabric of his clothes the day they met. He remembered the forgotten bottle of liquor abandoned in the graveyard by his grandmother’s victimized headstone, but couldn’t image the smell or taste of it. He hadn’t had a drop of liquor in his life. Lex was certainly the opposite, having the indecency to get wasted in a ghost land and befriending sociopaths who enjoyed a good cackle at suffering. They relished even further when they could cause the suffering themselves. Lou didn’t understand why he was this way, hanging around those people, but he had definitely proven himself a better human being than them.

Despite everything that should steer him away from contact, he sought comfort in him. He had an angel’s touch and a rough way with words that kept him intact with the real world instead of romantic fantasy. He felt he should’ve known Lex wasn’t the type to care much about schoolwork and grades. It made them opposites on the spectrum, and he was usually eager to spit in the face of “opposites attract” because he didn’t believe it. Now he supposed it was possible. A friendship, at the very least, could blossom from this.

He wasn’t sure if he believed in forces beyond pure coincidence. If everything happened for a reason, then Lex appearing at the lake to aid him meant something sweeter, and he wanted to hold onto that. But it also begged the question: why was he being hurt in the first place? Did he deserve it? Was it a test of resilience? The bottom line was, he couldn’t believe in meaning when the scales were tipped. The bad dominated the good in this world. People were killed, kids were reaped, and Lex’s brother was gone – I’m sorry. He hoped it wasn’t recent. He hoped he hadn’t carved out that grave. He was an only child, he couldn’t imagine what it was like, but he constantly feared for his mother. If she died, he would be alone.

Maybe Lex was already alone.

”No, you should stay,” he muttered, tightening the jacket around his shivering frame. Then he opened the door and invited him in. The house would be empty – no cat, no father, and mom was at work. He hadn’t counted on returning until sunset. His gloves, water bottle, and shovel were still at the graveyard, lingering by his unfinished work. He hoped his boss would understand.

”I’m gonna change. Make yourself at home.” He shrugged off Lex’s jacket and draped it over the couch. The heat wasn’t turned on but the air felt like warmth from a campfire. In his room, he cracked the door and peeled off every layer of clothing until he was a pale mannequin in the mirror. The purple splotches on his skin drew his eye. Some were a shade of yellow, nearly healed but terribly grotesque. His mother had only noticed the ones on his arms, and they were mild. He wanted to spare her the pain, but she also wasn’t stupid. She probably knew it was worse than it looked.

He warmed himself up with a towel and slid into long, baggy pajama pants and a sweater. He rubbed his hair into a shaggy mess then brushed it out, preferring to pretend he wasn’t a mess instead of flaunting it when he had company he didn’t want to drive away.

He winced at the tender spot on his stomach. There was no bruise, but the impact of bone to gut still throbbed beneath his skin. He touched it gently, grateful they hadn’t aimed for one of his ribs.

He shuffled out of his room and stood behind the couch, waiting for something. For Lex.

”I’m back.”

maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]
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it's me again {alexis/louvain} Oct 29, 2015 16:11:29 GMT -5

Post by maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte] on Oct 29, 2015 16:11:29 GMT -5

A L E X I S K A N G

I suppose I have gotten used to the idea of rejection. Of failure, of not being wanted. There is so much about me that is unwholesome, unwelcome to so many that I have forgotten how much more I can be than a puppet made of flesh. For perhaps I am a person, a person who needs and who wants just as much as them. The happy faced that pass me on the street with smiles carved upon their lips and I cannot help but hate them for their ability to do so. Smiles are so hard to maintain.

The world is a dark and an ugly place. A place filled with dark people in dark clothes with dead eyes trudging down dead streets. I don't pretend to be any different. I am not a flame, a fire to guide lost souls back to hell. Hardly anyone in this world is special, a cut above the rest, no matter what we might like to think.

A long few moments pass between me and Louvain, my eyes fluttering between the teardrops clung to the tips of his lashes and to the door we now stand in front of. Does he have a mother? A father? Are they home? Do the marks on his arms bother them or do they assist in their placement? There is so much that a closed door cannot tell me and yet there is so much that I want to ask. (But the words have lost themselves on the tip of my tongue, sewn themselves there with sinew.)

"No, you should stay." Louvain's words snap me out of a familiar downward plunge, forcing my eyes shut and open a few times before I can focus on the small boy and manage a stiff nod. Okay. I try to tell him, but the words once again dissolve between my lips, muscles still contracting uselessly as my head bobs up and down.

"Make yourself at home." Louvain tells me, slipping out of sight and behind a thick wooden door that might as well have put us a hundred worlds apart. It's hard to relax, hard to find comfort in four walls that do not hide the slightest of tones as my eyes trace every last corner. I wonder what kind of monsters hide between these walls. What nightmares has Louvain faced behind a bolted door?

I do not pretend to know.

By the time Louvain returns I have settled myself upon his couch, heels perched on the edge of the cushion and waiting for the silence to end. "I'm back."

"I noticed." I turn to look at him, almost shocked at how well the boy had cleaned up with only mere moments on his own. "I like your hair." my mouth gives a half hearted twitch before I turn to stare at the wall once again. "...I'm sorry I wasn't there sooner, Louvain. Maybe I could've helped. Or stopped this or whatever."

I rub the back of my neck in an attempt to calm my stuttering heart. "If you're mad at me, you have every right to be."

i've lost control
and i don't want it back
i'm going numb
i've been hijacked

the m o o n controls the t i d e, it could cause you to d r o w n

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it's me again {alexis/louvain} Dec 10, 2015 2:01:01 GMT -5

Post by Python on Dec 10, 2015 2:01:01 GMT -5

L O U V A I N

"AS I SIT HERE FROZEN ALONE, EVEN GHOSTS GET TIRED AND GO HOME"

Heroes were the heart of his favorite stories. In his idealized fantasy world there was a glimmer of hope for every bout of suffering, like a single blue star twinkling against a cloudy backdrop. The hero figure – draped in glory and charm – would swoop by at the perfect moment to rescue the damsel before she lost too many fragments of her sanity. In the classic romance novels, he pulled her gracefully into his arms and planted a sweet kiss on her pink-painted lips. Louvain didn’t even need that. He just needed someone to slay his dragons before they burned him to a black crisp. At this point, he would gladly accept a simple heal after the weekly ordeal; someone to wrap his burns, wipe his tears, and caress him like he still mattered to somebody.

It was gullible to believe that Lex could’ve saved him. Challenging a group of sociopaths led to one possible outcome, and it was equally miserable. Dragging Lex down with him was a selfish thing to do. As much as he craved a hero who would try, his judgment wasn’t compromised. He knew that would lead to disaster and unnecessary pain, and who was he to shove that onto somebody who had lost his little brother? That type of invisible agony was enough to anchor anyone to despair. Although it was tempting to believe in him, and reinforce the idea that he wasn’t just as powerless, he was not about to spread false hope like some plague. That wasn’t fair to anybody.

”I’m not mad,” he mumbled, they would’ve hurt you too. They were outnumbered. Every Reaping the Capitol preached that overused cliché “may the odds be ever in your favor,” and in this case they simply weren’t. Every odd was against them in every way. Lex couldn’t play hero for a damsel who couldn’t be saved.

”There’s nothing we can do, really.”

He hadn’t meant to sound so defeated, but week after week of fear and pain was wearing on him. They were constantly chewing him up and spitting him out, lacking remorse in every action and word. It was astounding how such stereotypical evil could exist, but it did. And it was hell.

He shuffled to the couch and sat on one of the arm rests, fixing his hair again despite Lex’s earlier compliment. It was a filler sentence to ease his stress. He appreciated the effort, but he couldn’t take it to heart. He was a tragic mess and he knew it.

”I’m the one who should we sorry. I-“ I remember, and with such horror. He had been a cornered animal in the graveyard, clawing at Lex even though he hadn’t deserved it. All he had tried to do was help him, and even after Lou consistently lashed and lashed, he followed suit. He carried a complete stranger all the way home without uttering a single complaint. How could someone like that exist, and receive such an ungrateful attitude? He couldn’t believe himself. Fear was not an excuse to be rude. It was out of his character, and the guilt had woven itself into this pathetic, last-minute apology. He wanted to fix this. He needed to. Lex was the only person who could act as that healer. He couldn’t be the hero but he could be there for the aftermath, and treat Lou like a human being again.

He desperately needed that.

”I shouldn’t have been so nasty to you when we first met.” He hung his head, physically ridden with guilt. ”It was really nice of you to bring me home and I never properly thanked you.” He felt warmth gather in his cheeks. Embarrassment. He didn’t want to be associated with that behavior, but now he was and he was surprised to still see Lex lounging on his couch. Faith must’ve kept him there. He hoped Lex could share some of it.

maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]
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it's me again {alexis/louvain} Dec 21, 2015 7:30:21 GMT -5

Post by maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte] on Dec 21, 2015 7:30:21 GMT -5

A L E X I S K A N G

He sits himself upon the arm of the couch, raking his fingers through hair that needed no improvement. Louvain's words are cold, that of dismay and hopelessness. I don't know him well but it feels wrong to see such a pretty face so bruised and so dark. He was not branded a delinquent, he has not done anything to deserve the world's ire yet here he is and here I am. I am next to him and I don't know what to say.

Sorry is just so empty a word.

Sorry is what the nurses told me when they told me Anthony was dead. That I had just carried my broken, beaten brother three miles on a broken foot for nothing because he was dead. He had been dead. Dead the moment my father released him and let his body fall to the floor and they said that they were sorry and that there was nothing they could do.

I cannot stand this emptiness. This loneliness burning a hole through my lips and turning everything I touch into rot. I am so tired, so hopeless. I am so empty and here sits a colorful boy with smiles rested upon his lips, hidden below the grimaces and clenched teeth. Trapped below the tears there is a kind of raw beauty that is so intoxicating that I reach out.

Through the silence, I swim. And the current so rough that I think it just might tear me to shreds before I manage to wrap my fingers around the hem of Louvain's shirt and tug him down onto the cushion beside me. He is more potent than the alcohol I so often used to numb the pain, sweet smelling despite the lake water he had once been trapped within.

It's ridiculous to apologize for his lashing out. It's stupid to think I would be mad about it because I was drunk and he was scared and I had just sat there and watched him be torn to shreds. I'm good at sitting and watching. I'm good at being a coward. But my lips are too heavy to move, sewn together by some invisible needle and thread so I simply tip myself into his lap and rest my head upon his thighs.

That is how I will tell him it is okay. That I am not mad and that he was an idiot to think I would be. He is the victim here and I the villain. He is the one who has any right to be mad and he is simply looking for a reason to angry at himself.

And this is how I will tell him to stop.

Because I am tired of empty words, of moving my lips and wasting breath upon what could be said without them. I grow tired of how easily they are manipulated, filled with false promise and honey tainted with cyanide. Imagine how sweet one could sound with a dagger clutched behind their back. The only thing I have come to trust less than words is humanity itself.

"Don't thank me, Lou." I press my face into his stomach, a kitten starved for attention. Desperate. Dying. "Let's just feel better. You and me. Right now. Let's just forget about it all because I'm tired and I'm scared and I just want to be your friend."

And he is so good at vanquishing the emptiness. A pain so potent that I cannot feel anything anymore. My nerves have long since been severed, ripped away from my fingertips and yet I can feel the fabric of his shirt against my cheeks and I can feel the breaths he takes with his stomach. He is so real beneath me that I almost can't believe it. Everything about Louvain is soft, sweet and so much better than the roughness that makes up everything I've ever touched.

He is fresh porcelain, not yes smudged by greedy fingers.

I hope that never changes.

i've lost control
and i don't want it back
i'm going numb
i've been hijacked