greek hymn; my eyes

ulysses .

He had tried not to feel love. Isn’t that ironic? A body count higher than district twelve’s population size and running off with new watches, new wallets. A boy who’s done - not quite it all, just a lot. 

Just enough.

Myrcella had always made it a point to stick around, filing nails on the rooftops until he wrapped things up. He never really expected her to be there still regardless — that he’d just swallow peppermint to get rid of the bad taste and walk on home alone. It was nice not having to be, at the end of the day Uly was a social boy, loving to his core. Deeeep down, hands in his pockets and his emotions tucked somewhere deeper. 

It felt alienating to walk into that room alone instead. Beer bottles strewn lose, stains on the carpet and springs coming out the couch cushion, olive in color. An island with take out noodles and roaches, a mirror that reflects himself — some one special. It was always a pretty face, shaven and romantically unkempt hair, maybe a bruise on his neck. Skin deep, his eyes, his lips, the background of his flickering lights; he didn’t bother changing the lights. Killer when he was hung over and that was more common or a state. 

He would be somebody unique, that he would survive to the point of feeling warmth on his skin and not having it be a guy who bought him for less cash than he’s worth. Ulysses has Myrcella, and maybe she loved him, she always made sure he was okay,

she believed in him. The one person who truly thought Ulysses Fray was allowed to be something like that last name. 

So it’s bitter when he opened his eyes and didn’t wake up back in his living room, Myr yelling at him because the couch cushion stabbed her ass cheek open. That he couldn’t fake being cautious that she’d steal from him, use him, take something — it was bitter when he realized she was more genuine than him. 

Instead it was a nicely polished marble floor, seats lined with polyester and didn’t smell like sweat or cum or blood. He stared into his own reflection and just saw Myrcella, saw a name who’ll be plastered across the district and then die again by next year. Saw Hudson, not Fray, just a tribute, just a gravestone. 

”Cellllllla, baby,” and he blinked. And Ulysses plastered a smile on his face, he had to be jealous of her. Of the ability to be loved, to some degree if not the greatest, hands wrapped around her forearm. ”Fuckin’ dude, you’re gonna be a star!” 

Arched back, manic smile, ”you’ve gotta tell Justice I said hey! And there’s Sardonyx and- oh god, you’re going to meet Kinkaide, do you think he’s gamemaking again?” A smart boy, he knew capitol talk, he knew success. 

Like an old friend at least, it remembers him.