lucci . four

pogue Graphics 1,811 POSTS Pronouns: He/Him last seen Apr 16, 2024 18:41:45 GMT -5 Is she trying to interrupt our henna session?	lucci . four Aug 16, 2020 23:23:59 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by pogue on Aug 16, 2020 23:23:59 GMT -5 Lucci De Sol. Eighteen. Four. Credit to Christian Blanco on YouTube for the last name. Please check out his “Tales of the Hunger Games stories, they are fantastic!
	Last Edit: Oct 1, 2020 14:26:21 GMT -5 by pogue

pogue
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1,811 POSTS

Pronouns: He/Him
last seen Apr 16, 2024 18:41:45 GMT -5

Is she trying to interrupt our henna session?

lucci . four Aug 26, 2020 22:16:41 GMT -5

Quote

Post by pogue on Aug 26, 2020 22:16:41 GMT -5

L U C C I D E S O L

"Our family is as old as the cliffs of Four."

"Yeah, and you sure look it Pops."

It's a mother fucking knee slapper of a joke and he's convinced of it even before he lets the words leave his lips, as they simmer and brew in the back of a brain he considers too big for his own family. They're all locked hand in hand, tracing their own lineage between each others calloused hands around the dinner table, steam rising and dissipating from the hot dinner placed in front of them. He follows the tendrils as they twist and tangle in the air, eyes darting between the foggy lines that map their course up towards the ceiling and the dimly lit faces of his own family, candlelight dancing across their cheeks and catching under the angular features of the De Sol's, all sharp and freckled and lanky.

The words are a harmless jab, held tight on the tip of his tongue as his father starts their weekly tradition, wrinkles embedded in skin too old for his age twisting and curling as he speaks, deep voice booming out over the table. It's the same words he's heard so many times before, scattered out into the empty spaces of the woven stories of their family lineage on each first Friday of every month. Tales of the old and tales of the new, with age came the slow yet steady disinterest that brims inside of his bones and courses a path into his heart and up and out through his tongue, too busy interested in the boys he sees in the training center to think about the ancient heritage his Father so proudly speaks of. Once upon a time he'd done nothing but listen to those stories that dripped from his Fathers lips, considered them the only escape from the woods they'd lived in so many years ago, hidden amongst the trees and silent against the sounds of the birds and the animals, biding their time before slipping past the borders of Four in the midst of a fallout, flooded district and loss of life their entrance. But he'd grown out of that as the time went on, as they readjusted into the life of district citizens instead of wanderers, embedded their memories into the peeling wallpapers of a house he'd never thought they could afford, drenched in mystery and riches that appeared too suddenly for him to make sense of.

He bites his tongue as soon as the words leave his lips and he hears them slice through the far too serious words his father speaks, his own little tradition of breaking the silence at the worst times bubbling up and over and reappearing at the worst time imaginable. Fuck, he thinks, as a harmless jab dances and floats heavy in the air, dead as a floating corpse and just as rotten.

Making light of situations that were meant to remain in the dark, it'd always been his little golden achilles heel.

"Lucci, please leave the table."

"Fuck."

Two minutes and a flight of creaking steps later and he's sprawled out on a mattress that screams and groans in creaks whenever he shifts his weight, watching the form of a crumpled up piece of paper rise and fall from his vision as he tosses it up in the air above him, switching which hand it's caught in with every toss. He sighs, breath heavy in his chest as he soaks in the silence he'll stew in for the rest of the night. To think, his Father had once told him in confidence that he was the future of the De Sol family, seriousness laced deep within his words and hand pressed to his eldest sons chest, palm crossed over the heart.

Pride, what a fearsome and deadly thing he'd found it to be, desperate and addicting at best and poisonous, painful at worst. He'd found that it'd been the lifeblood and the poison that ran through his own family's veins, so obsessed with survival in the face of extinction that they couldn't see they were killing themselves off. Took him eighteen years to realize it, that he couldn't live up to the ol' De Sol legacy that his father so easily spoke of, that his stolen glances of the boys at the training center and the way his heart flutters in his chest when he speaks to them meant that he'd never be what his father wanted, what his family needed.

He finally misses the catch, feeling the ball of paper bounce harmlessly against his fingertips and down onto the floor below, a sigh dripping from his lips as he hears the distant sounds of sliding silverware against glass from the kitchen below.

He'd been closer with all of them back then, when they'd finally planted their roots in Four in the midst of the tsunami, cloaked in shadows and anonymity as Panem rebuilt, rebuilt, rebuilt as the Capitol so lovingly called it. To go from the woods to the waves was a special sort of leap, one that expected the world and everything else, one that pressed down heavy against the shoulders and demanded everything he'd ever known and everything he'd ever had. It'd been something he hadn't been able to keep up with, something he hadn't been able to fulfill like the rest of his family. Maybe it was overload or maybe it was a longing to be something he wasn't, something that the structure of a De Sol household had always wanted him to be.

Survival, rebuilding, that's what the De Sol's were focused on in Four, that's what had been drilled into their family since the moment his five year old mind started grasping what it meant to feel like you weren't living up to an expectation. His father speaks in ancient tongues of ancient lineage, that the De Sol's could trace themselves back through to the beginning of Panem itself, yet even with all the heavy handed passion his Father spoke with he'd never really fully believed him. Just stories, he tells himself, convinces himself. But with a man as cut and dry as his father he'd found it easy to read between the lines, and in a household like his own that'd meant he'd spent eighteen years knowing that who he was wasn't right, wasn't enough, and wasn't what the world deserved.

Because he can't really help it, the way he notices his fathers grimace and grumble and venomous words whenever the victors from Eleven and One appear on the screens, fingers laced together. Can't help but notice the way his father emphasizes the men finding a wife, continuing the line, growing the family and deepening the roots. Can't help but notice that there's never room for what his own future might look like, that it would never fit into the De Sol legacy that he's meant to uphold.

Because he can't really help it, when he cracks a joke and slips a smile across his face and feels the butterflies pound against his chest as he looks at his crush at the training center, bites his lip and feels nervousness course through his bones whenever he talks to him. Lays awake at night, following the grain in the wood of the ceiling as he thinks about it in the early night before the sadness sets in, smiling even though he knows he shouldn't.

Because he can't really help it, when he flicks on the bathroom light at three in the morning, silence dripping from his fingertips and a heartbeat thump, thump, thump heavy in his chest. Can't help but feel the way his chest starts to tighten when he looks at himself in the mirror, all disgusted and heavy and tears held back behind the eyes, staring down the barrel of a gun. Staring down a boy he wishes wasn't the way he was. Staring, just not liking who is staring back at him.

Another night with sleep that comes far too late, heart heavy underneath his covers, trying not to let the sadness he feels so heavy in his own bones drown him again.

Because he can't really help it, who he is and what that means.

He just wishes he could.

Last Edit: Aug 28, 2020 9:05:15 GMT -5 by pogue

pogue Graphics 1,811 POSTS Pronouns: He/Him last seen Apr 16, 2024 18:41:45 GMT -5 Is she trying to interrupt our henna session?	lucci . four Aug 27, 2020 23:26:05 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by pogue on Aug 27, 2020 23:26:05 GMT -5 Trying to take myself less seriously when writing and just write from the ~heart~, whatever that shit is. Also Lucci, it's like the word boochie but with an L! That's crazy. ripred_bot
	Last Edit: Aug 28, 2020 9:04:31 GMT -5 by pogue

ryan Advertiser 2,907 POSTS Pronouns: he/him last seen Apr 27, 2024 1:23:53 GMT -5 over the moon, where all the wild things are	lucci . four Aug 28, 2020 17:47:56 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by ryan on Aug 28, 2020 17:47:56 GMT -5 A jokester with a heart? Love it!!! xx accepted