the end }} poppy x justice

 JUSTICE FRAY

Normally the alcohol will keep me in a deep enough sleep until the sun rises, but today I beat the sun and wake with cold sweat sticking my bed sheets to my back and a throbbing ache in my head. Apparently whoever I brought home last night has already gone. I find a small note on the nightstand—"Nice meeting you. -AD"—and have no recollection of what those initials might stand for. And I'm too hungover and too wrapped up in my nightmares to work it out.

I toss my blankets aside and swing myself over the edge of the bed, choosing my crutch over struggling with my prosthetic. My head spins as I stand and the floor tilts. And so do I. I crash to the floor and for once I'm grateful for a big empty house. I groan, cheek pressed to the floor, and resign to my fate. I don't know how long I lay there, but the sun is peeking through the window when my eyes flutter open again.

I sigh, palms pressed to the floor and arms weak as I roll over. I feel my stomach roll over with me and I'm frantic as I pull myself up, head in the toilet and last night's endeavors spilling from my stomach and burning my throat. Fuck. Cough, spit, splutter and after what feels like an hour I wipe my lip and roll myself into the bathtub, letting the cold water rush over my face. It sends a shiver down my spine, but I don't really care. Anything is better than feeling like a piece of fucking trash.

I know I should stop this. I know it's unhealthy. I know that if I keep going like this I will eventually end up in a dumpster in some back alley or dead in a ditch, but--

Heh. I need another drink.

I sit for what feels like an eternity. At least I feel like an eternity worth of memories has passed through my mind by the time I decide to get out.

I think about fire and blood and molten gold and glowing blue lights and fire pits. I think about how much I hate the dark. I think about what it feels like to hack off someone's limb and what it feels like to have a limb hacked off. I think about the time I nearly broke my right knee and I flinch because I feel the pain all over again even though the joint no longer exists. I wonder if the Capitol keeps them, all the severed limbs.

I think about Opal and Ky and how I don't visit them nearly as often as I should. I hope everything is okay with them. I hope they're happy. I think about Petelia and hope she's happy, too. Like really truly content. I think about Bambi and Sardonyx and wonder if they get along well or not. I think they would. They're both really agreeable people. I think about Poppy and wonder where she's been lately. I feel like I haven't seen her since-- forever ago. I think about Elara and what sort of dates she likes best and what her favorite flowers are...if she even likes flowers?

I think about how much I used to like showers and how much I really can't stand them anymore. They give you too much free time. Too much time to think, too much time left alone with nothing but my own thoughts and memories. And I don't have enough good ones to keep me sane.

I shut off the water and sit for just a little while longer, trying to find a memory that makes me smile amongst all the others that make my heart race and my blood run hot. But I'm too down to put in much effort. All I can seem to think about is how much Scout Krigel loved drawing and what if felt like to see the life melt away slowly from her cheeks and eyes and how heavy her body suddenly seemed when she'd died.

I've taken to hiding a flask in every towel knowing how much I'll need it after every shower. I finish the whole thing in a few pulls, but it doesn't make me feel much better. I'm about to reach for another one when I hear a banging on my door.

"Fray!"

Loud. Insistent. Cracked and broken and shit, shit, shit, what the hell is going on? I'm startled into action, my mind thankful for any sort of distraction as I scramble for a foothold. I stand, slip, fall, and stand again as I hear her voice leaking through the door—"Please, help me."—echoing through my empty mansion. And I still feel like shit but it all suddenly feels second rate to the panic I can hear in her voice.

I struggle into my leg, wince when I stand and feel it grinding awkwardly against my skin, but limp through it as I rush to wrap a towel around my waist and head for the door. I grab the shirt I wore out last night off the floor and try not to feel annoyed as water drips from my hair to my shoulders and soaks it through in seconds.

"I'm freaking the fuck out and..."

"Just come in, it's open!"

But either she doesn't hear me or she doesn't care or, fuck, she's bleeding out on my doorstep or--

"Just answer the fucking door."

I rip the door open to a girl crumpled on my stoop, tears falling down her cheeks and—shit, I don't think I've ever seen her cry.

And I'm a huge fucking mess. Whiskey settled in the pit of my stomach, hair soaking wet, breath a mixture of alcohol and puke, towel wrapped around my waist, wearing a shirt with red stains on the collar, head throbbing, throat aching, leg pulsing, and a five o'clock shadow all before noon.  I'm a huge fucking mess, but I'll pretend. I'll pretend to be the strong one and I'll pretend I'll know what I'm doing and I'll pretend to be less of a mess for her sake. I think she deserves that much, at least this once.

"Shit, hey," I slide slowly down the door frame so that I don't have to bend either of my legs.

I glance around for strangers, make sure to look specifically for the glimmer of camera flash, and look her over carefully, my mind fearing she could be hurt. I find nothing out of the ordinary but-- fuck it, let the cameras flash and journalists have themselves a front page story.

I pull her into me, rest my chin on her head and just sit there wallowing in worry and concern, but trying to keep my composure for her sake. I've never seen her like this; I feel like it'd take a whole hell of a lot for her to show up at my doorstep with tears in her eyes and a plea falling from her lips. It scares me.

"What happened? What's wrong?"

I wish I knew what I was doing. I wish I knew how to do this. She deserves better than what I can give—always.

"Are you okay?"

Shit, Poppy, I'm sorry.

 JUSTICE FRAY

Her hands ball into fists and pull at my shirt. And I don't like feeling helpless; I never have. So as she cries and the tears soak into my shirt and I feel her shaking with fear and frustration and pain and-- I hate not being able to take it all away. I hate uselessly sitting here with my arms pulling her close and eyes settled on the horizon because I feel like to look down at her tears would only make me feel worse. I don't have the time or luxury to feel worse; I'm trying to make her feel better.

I feel like I haven't seen her in a month. I feel like this is the closest I've been to her since the morning I woke up with her in my arms. What is it about holding her close that brings out the pain hiding behind her eyes? What is it in my touch that scars her skin with burns? Why does she let it happen? Why can't I keep it from happening? Does she know I care? Even though I hurt her—does she know?

"'Member that night at the bar?"

Heh. Which night? Which bar? Doesn't she know the reason I go out to the bars is so that I can't and don't remember anything?

No. The answer is probably 'no.' But I start rifling through muddled memories and blurred thoughts anyway and try to think about which night we went out together, but I can't distinguish one night from another. We never go home together; I always go home with someone else. It's like a silent arrangement of sorts. Silently agreeing that we'll go out together and I'll buy the first drink and then we separate. It's--

It's just better that way. For both of us.

I pull her closer as she struggles to get the words out, I hold her head against my chest and pray that my touch doesn't sting. Her voice is broken, her sentences split into bits and pieces as her shoulders shake with fits of sobbing.

"There's this guy I've been..."

Wait, what?

"Been seeing and..."

Seeing? Like-- what?

My thoughts dash around in circles inside my head. She's seeing someone. Someone I didn't know about and she clearly didn't care enough to tell me about and yet here she is on my doorstep because he—

"Who is he? Did he hurt you?"

And she's crying again and I'm worried all over again, but the worry is all muddled and tainted with-- I don't know, but it tastes bitter. Something so bitter and so poignant that I can feel it heating my cheeks and burning behind my eyes. I swallow it back and force it down my throat where it burns hot and violent. And I don't know what's happening, but I feel my grip on her loosening and my brow furrowing.

And I'm worried, but it's tainted. Tainted by all that bitterness I just swallowed down like a goddamn pill. And I'm trying to keep it in because I know this isn't about me, none of this is about me, and I shouldn't care and I want to say that I don't care, but here I am.

"Justice I'm pregnant."

Caring.

And I hate myself for that bitter taste that's still lingering on my tongue, flaring up every time I try to open my mouth. I'm stuck in limbo, somewhere between stunned and lonely, and I'm not sure which direction I should start walking because there is no light at the end of either tunnel. So I sit in silence with my arms around her and silent words falling from my lips, things she can't hear and things I know would hurt if she heard them.

So what do you need from me then? Why are you here if there's someone you've been seeing? Clearly this one is on him to take care of. Is he really so awful that he's already bailed? Do I need to find him, force him to stay, force him into the realization that this is his problem to deal with? A consequence he has to help with? Do you-- want money, resources... something to-- make this go away? Do you want to keep it? Do you need me to lie and tell you it'll be fine? That it'll all be okay?

I stand then, pulling her up with me and holding her as steady as I can as I lead her inside and shut the door behind me. I think about grabbing a drink from the kitchen—nearly offer one to her, too—before deciding against it all together. But that doesn't stop the craving burning within me.

"Oh god, it's gonna have hands."

What's happening? Is this really happening? Is she really pregnant?

"Are you sure? Like, 100% sure?"

And I try to be gentle, but even I can hear the annoyance laced within my words. And everything is coming out in a flurry, questions I need the answers to and things only alcohol could ever make me say to her. It's vile and I'm a villain, but isn't that how it's always been? I'm the villain sitting on my throne and she's the victim? Everyone around me, everyone who counts on me and reaches for my hand when they're in need—aren't they all just victims who can't seem to escape my grasp?

"And who is this guy anyway? Some low life scum who's pushed you aside now that you're--" and I pause because the word tastes funny in my mouth. "Pregnant. What a fucking coward."

And I'm past the hugging and I'm past wiping away tears because I just feel so damn angry all of a sudden. And it's not at her. Well, maybe a little. Maybe. I don't know. I feel like punching through walls and throwing glass against the floor.

"What's your family say? Your dad? Holy shit," I run my fingers through my hair, water droplets spraying everywhere when I twist to throw my foot into the coffee table. "Are they--"

The words, 'making you get rid of it' sit on the tip of my tongue for a moment, but I swallow them back. I'm sure she's already thought about this. Fucking hell, she isn't stupid. I know she's likely already made up her mind about what to do. Like she said, it's going to have hands. But I can't help from pacing and asking the question anyway.

Except it comes out all wrong.

"What do you want?"

I'm yelling when I know my voice should be soft, hands balled up in fists when I know they should be intertwined with hers. And what I mean to say is, 'Do you need money? I can pay.' and 'You can live with me. I've got plenty of room.' and 'I'm here for you. I'll always be here for you.' But for some reason my mouth refuses to say it all.

I'm breathing heavy, eyes turned on her with a fire burning red hot behind them. But suddenly, looking at her all broken with red, puffy eyes, dried tears on her cheeks, and a weakness I never thought I'd see swimming in her eyes, I feel myself soften. I feel her despair drowning my anger and dousing the flames fueling me.

And now I feel broken, too.

"Please, just tell me what you want," I say, voice barely above a whisper.

"And I'll give it to you."