put on a show {poppy x ellie}!blitz!

 ELLIE

Apparently Justice Fray is going to be at the bar tonight. At least that's what everyone keeps saying, as if that is some sort of new information about our most recent victor. It's pretty common knowledge the kid is an alcoholic. So to hear all the hopeful bachelorettes of District 1 claiming wildly that he'll be here has become a rather redundant statement. Of course he'll be here. He's always here. Always obnoxious, always wrapped around a different girl, and always, most definitely, crazy stupid drunk.

My grandparents always thought it was important to stress just how toxic alcohol was, considering our apartment is above a bar. I was never allowed to answer the door when I was younger since it was almost always some drunk teenager who'd wandered up the stairs thinking they were back at their own apartment building, knocking on their own door.

One morning I woke up to Grandma screaming. When I rushed to the door I caught a glimpse of a half-naked man sprawled across our doormat. That was the first bare ass I'd ever seen besides my own; there were two new deadbolt locks on our door that afternoon.

Grandpa used to tell me it was okay to drink in moderation—"Just don't get sloppy. Girls don't like sloppy."—before his memories started slipping away and he forgot who he was every hour or so. I think he was a firefighter who'd seen too much shit when I locked him in tonight. He'd already stripped down to his underwear and finished off a bottle of whiskey by the time I got home from work. When I asked him what he was doing he said his clothes needed to be washed; I found them in the microwave.

I think maybe tonight I've earned the right to at least one strong drink. Or a few.

Truth is I don't even remember the last time I had a drink. Odds are I won't be able to stomach much anyway. Never really had a taste for the stuff. But as soon as I sit down a friend is patting my shoulder and shouting words of encouragement as the bartender hands out complimentary shots to—"the kid who lives upstairs!"—with a smile on his face. After about three I'm already feeling it.

I think tonight is going to be a good night.

I sit with my back against the bar, elbows resting in someone's spilled beer, but I'm just too happy to care. In truth, I can barely feel it. I bob my head to the music, sing the words just a little too loud to myself. A girl waves an air microphone in my face and we scream the lyrics until we hear our voices above the pounding of the beat. All I smell is sweat, smoke, and liquor—I never really knew that fun had a smell.

Everyone looks so happy. I can't help but smile at them from where I sit, admiring their grins and cries of pure joy as someone's favorite song plays or someone wanders to me at the outskirts of the jumping, swaying crowd to tell me that this is the best day of their life.

It's a beautiful moment in a less than beautiful world. I admire it for as long as it lasts; it'll be gone in the morning.

"Come here often?"

I feel a cheek pressed to my shoulder, a knee pressing against mine. I thought the alcohol was numbing me, but her touch feels like electricity against my skin. Suddenly I can't concentrate on anything but the points of contact; I can't even keep the smile on my face. Grandpa always told me it was impolite to stare at a woman without telling her she was beautiful first. So I tell her because all I want to do is stare.

"I think you're the most beautiful human being to have ever existed."

Damn. Alcohol really does make you fucking fearless.

I know I'll have a thousand things to regret doing in the morning, but that statement will not be one of them.

Her finger finds a strand of my hair and I've never been more thankful for how long it is. She giggles and I don't think I've ever heard a more wholesome noise. Words threaten to pour off my lips without going through the filter first, but I swallow every single one back down so that I don't come across as impolite for not answering her question.

"I live here. Above the bar," I say, pointing to the ceiling and yelling above the sound of the music because if I leaned in to whisper in her ear I'd have to stop looking at her.

"With my Grandpa. He's not here though. I locked him in for the night."

I realize far too late that none of that information was necessary. And it certainly isn't something you tell a stranger, even one who is biting her lip and blinking all slow at me with deep brown eyes that look as sweet as chocolate drops and a gaze that I'm certain is going to stop my heart--

I rush to fix it with words stuttering and spilling out of my mouth like a some sort of word potluck. It's a mess until I get to a question.

"What's your favorite thing in the whole world?"

That was always another one of my Grandpa's rules when it came to talking to girls—ask her what she loved, watch her smile when she thought of it, and always remember her answer.

He would first say it was a way to her heart, then nudge me when Grandma left the room and tell me that if you ask once, you'll always know what to get her when the anniversary date came around.

 ELLIE

Her smile widens and I think she's probably trying to kill me. I'm certain the next person to tap me on the shoulder will be the Reaper. And where most might be scared or disappointed, I'll gladly resign and follow him straight to my grave because at least I got to see that smile. And I know it sounds cheesy and silly and so much like a little schoolboy crush, but I'd do anything to keep putting that smile on her face.

Fucking hell, I don't even know her name. I always thought love at first sight was just something my grandpa added to the stories to make them feel more magical. I always thought that he was just being a hopeless romantic when he told me how he knew grandma was the one for him the very first time he met her. I always thought he was just trying to keep his hopeful, upbeat grandson around to listen to his stories as long as he could by pulling at my tiny heart strings.

I don't know if I ever really believed that it existed. Even now as my heart pounds in my chest and my breathing slows, I'm sure it must just be my horrendous alcohol tolerance. Except I feel so damn helpless when I look at her, the entire atmosphere simply disappearing and the music hushing as if the entire world is twisting to get a glimpse of her. And normally I'd want to ask her a thousand questions so I could memorize every answer, but--

I'm so stupid drunk. It's taking every ounce of my self-control to keep from kissing her. And though I know more alcohol certainly isn't the cure for what ails me, I take the beer they offer me gladly.

It feels good, a warmth running through my veins and radiating from the pit of my stomach. And then there's that smile, hidden now by the lips of the beer bottle, but I know it's still there because I can feel it against my ear as she leans in and speaks softly—"Sweet things."—lips soft and warm, skin that smells so much sweeter than the beer and smoke surrounding us, and hair that feels like silk against my cheek.

One—"Candies."—a single finger resting on my chest. A lump in my throat and the sudden inability to breathe. I wonder what her favorite candy is, I imagine she has one of those insatiable sweet tooths. I could hide candy bars between the sofa cushions for the days when she's too lazy to walk to the kitchen to get them from the pantry.

Two points of contact running electricity through my body—"Or flowers."—and I try to swallow the lump in my throat as I try to figure out which flowers are her favorite. The sophistication of a rose? The sweet smell of lilac or honeysuckle? The untamed nature of wildflowers? I think I could become a florist. Bring her flowers everyday, place them behind her ears and let her lace them in my hair.

Three fingers dancing across my chest, restarting my heart and making me pull air into my lungs. I have to steady myself against the bar as she leans in closer and speaks even softer.

"Or boys."

The words sort of drift from my lips, quickly and without much thought behind them. I'm just a drunk, lovestruck fool at this point—"I'm a boy."—and I hope she can forgive me for it.

"My name's Platinum," she says, and all I can do is smile like a fool. I got her name. She told me her name. "But I'd rather you call me Poppy."

She's pressed into me and my heart is thumping so hard and so fast I'm sure it'll burst free of my ribcage. I wish her fingers were in my hair. I wish my lips were pressed to her neck. I wish I could make my voice work so that I could tell her my name and I'd get to hear it on her lips.

And I know grandpa says wandering eyes aren't polite, but mine are wandering across her jawline, over her lips, following her hairline, dancing over her neck—and I feel so desperate to reach out and touch.

"Or anything you want, Sweet Boy."

I giggle because I'm drunk and happy and oh my god, she's so damn beautiful.

"I'm Ellie, but if you want to call me 'Sweet Boy' you can."

And I think I'm supposed to ask more questions or something, but whatever is in this beer has made me so impatient. I just want. I can't help but tell her the truth, my filter compromised and my better judgement tucked away in my back pocket.

"Poppy," I say, leaning close, lips brushing against her ear. "I really want to kiss you right now."

Grandpa always did say honesty is the best policy.