paper cages . naomi & zeke . clue

I miss you. Her fingers trail along the indentations made by Warren's pen. The sky is so much bluer here, like they splattered raw pigment against a canvas. He paints a beautiful picture but it remains bittersweet, almost wrong without the gruff baritone of his voice accompanying it. The same one that pulled her from the depths of her nightmares, once upon a time. She remembers waking to Warren smiling down at her with eyes the similar to hers but somehow alight like molten caramel. Winter gave way to Summer when she met his gaze, settling into late Spring.

Be good, try to get into some trouble this year. Live a little Nomi. A nickname born from a child's clumsy tongue. It used to embarrass her but it stuck. He only ever called her Naomi when she'd done something near unforgivable.

(Like when she'd stolen his knife, intent to cut all of her own hair off to spite their mother.)

I know I'm far away, but you'll be okay. You always are. I'm proud of you.

It was that bit that broke her. A whirlwind of too many things to feel at once: spite and affection and jealousy and fear. Her brother hadn't been home in years, he only knew Naomi through the sunshine she hastily scrawled onto parchment paper. Lies about how happy she was, about how she was doing just fine without him. (I've got Mav and Grady to look after me, you know!)

All for the greater good, she tells herself, while selfishly scratching an image better than she could ever hope to be into his mind's eye.

Warren doesn't know about Scarlett. Or about the way her ghost ate at Naomi all summer long, that final image of her slumped over a bench - body wracked with sobs. Because the Naomi in her letters would have stopped for Scarlett, offered the poor thing a shoulder to cry on. She would have played the hero. That Naomi was worthy of his pride.

This one? Not so much.

How she ended up slotted between the stove and the fridge, knees pulled to her chest as tears soaked her leggings as quietly as she could manage, is a mystery. Her composure had been rotting throughout the day, the little bits of lace that held her together snapping beneath the pressure of her brother's great expectations.

This had simply seemed like the most convenient place to break completely.

A twinge of annoyance digs her fingers into her arms at the sound of footsteps, frustration allowing a particularly loud sob to slip between her lips. "Sorry," She mumbles into her knees, and offering a watery attempt at a laugh at his good-natured joke.

And yes, the familiarity stings but Naomi's too busy trying to recover composure to dwell on that pain.

Zeke was probably the least terrible person to stumble upon her in this state. He keeps to himself, seemingly unconcerned with the political games his sister revels in. If he found her any other day she'd probably think him cold, find his disinterest rude and inconsiderate. Lucky it's today, then.

She shakes the letter clutched to her chest, dabbing gently beneath her eyes even though her makeup has almost certainly already begun to run. "Just a bit homesick." And then she changes the subject because that's easier than elaborating. "That looks painful." Naomi stands on unsteady legs, placing gentle fingers on Zeke's wrist and pulling his hand close for careful inspection.

It was always up to her to bandage Warren's bloody knuckles. A mottled painting of all the terrible things that fester in those forced to be strong. "I can fix this up, good as new. If you'd like."

Naomi definitely doesn't waste time realizing that Zeke had proved himself a better man than she could hope to be.

He'd offered the poor little thing a shoulder to cry on.

"Who lost the fight?"