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🌱 kaitlin.
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aspiring beam of light

relapse — francis & nico. blitz Jan 5, 2020 11:58:39 GMT -5

Post by 🌱 kaitlin. on Jan 5, 2020 11:58:39 GMT -5

N I C O T H O R N E

I'm not sure why Francis is easier to see than Reggie.

Maybe because Reggie's death is still fresh, but I can still see Diana digging her weapon into Francis's skull as clearly as I can see Ridley killing Reggie. Maybe because Francis doesn't belong here, but this whole place reminds me of Reggie. I'm not sure.

Either way, I search for Francis's name, give into the night.

For the grand opening, they called me in, had me look at myself, stare into hollow eyes and see nothing but darkness. They asked me if I wanted to see anyone else, if they wanted me to spin up Reggie, or if I wanted to see the boy that I loved in my games again.

I couldn't do it then.

I can't even do it now, but I will anyway.

It's the middle of the night and I'm not even sure how I got in, but I was walking down the middle of the street staring at the stars and thinking about light and dark and the moon and the sun and I just—I climbed through a window and pressed a button and then sat down in the middle of the floor, crossed my legs and sat like I did in first year at school, back when we didn't have desks.

Not that I really made it to the years where I needed a desk.

I listen as the machinery warms up, let it scan me and process who I am before a boy with the sun in his bones is in front of me once again. It's been years since I spun him up last at the museum in the Capitol. Seeing him here, knowing he's here but not here in Twelve—it's worse.

I don't hesitate.

"Hey 'cisco," I say, a callback to our first night together.

what are men to rocks and mountains?

a haunted house.

gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.
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relapse — francis & nico. blitz Jan 5, 2020 12:52:17 GMT -5

Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jan 5, 2020 12:52:17 GMT -5

The sunflowers come first, sprouting from the wooden inlay of the floor in a spur, amber and honey colored buds opening their dark mouths and letting their stalks, green as forest moss, rise to Nico’s waist. It is that sun-kissed field again, the place where the boy laid down to be devoured by the earth.

An invisible wind threads through the sunflowers and makes them sway, the dance of them the same as it was before: lulling and poetic.

He appears with no sound, only a flash of light, like the gentlest thunder upon a summer sky. Sitting in between the sunflowers, he has his knees drawn up to his chest with his head cocked to one side at Nico in a bird-like way, studying the other’s face. The other has always been so sharp, jagged edges and splinters, but he had never made Francis bleed, not even once.

“Hey ‘cisco.”

“Hey, Mr. Thorne-in-my-side,” he laughs, that mouth arching up in that smile of his, sweet and bright.

It is a smile that remembers their shared touches that felt like the finest silks, the way Nico held him tight in the field of grass, the feel of Nico’s ribs against his fingertips, the wind across the sunflowers carrying the scent of pollen and Nico to him.

It is a smile tinged by memory, bright with it.

We’re pressed flowers, you and I.

We’ll never die.

“You look tired,” he murmurs after staring his face for a moment. There is a trace of something to his face that he couldn’t quite catch. “Come,” Francis pats the space next to him. “Sit with me.”

Last Edit: Jan 5, 2020 12:53:56 GMT -5 by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.

堕落天使

🌱 kaitlin.
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aspiring beam of light

relapse — francis & nico. blitz Jan 8, 2020 15:42:08 GMT -5

Post by 🌱 kaitlin. on Jan 8, 2020 15:42:08 GMT -5

N I C O T H O R N E

My first instinct is to say sorry.

I know that there's another way, that no matter what I say, Francis isn't in pain anymore and what has been done has already been done, that there's nothing I can do or say that undoes the pains we have felt. He calls me Mr. Thorne-in-my-side again and it feels like a fracture in my bones, a memory that I don't deserve to have anymore. I have spent so many nights trying to patch myself up, trying to be whole and happy and healthy. I have cried so many tears that I have been so sure that I will never be able to cry again, have thought surely I was dried out and spent all the pain this world had to offer me, like some kind of zero-sum game.

That was optimistic.

I was always wrong, always felt more pain, always made another mistake or said the wrong thing or gave myself to the wrong person. Even here, with Francis telling me I look tired and asking me to come and sit next to him, I feel like I must be making a mistake.

I always think I'm right when I'm wrong.

"I don't think I should," I whisper, unable to look him in the eye. Instead I train my gaze on his chest, watch as it rises and falls. The hologram mimics life so well, I almost forget. "I don't think I deserve it." We are surrounded on all sides by tall grass, and I recognize the fields where I fell in love with him. It's disorienting, to see if remade so perfectly. Over the years I have forgotten pieces of it, I think, or they morphed in my brain. I remember the grass being higher, the ground being darker. I reach out to touch a strand, but my hand passes through the light, tricked. "I tried, Francis." I inhale. "I tried living." I swallow. "But Reggie is dead, and that's on me."

what are men to rocks and mountains?

a haunted house.