𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬

okay,  well,  OUCH.  you're  used  to  insults,  usually  courtesy  of  your  favourite  skeleton  puppeteer  princess,  but  they  hit  a  little  DIFFERENT  coming  from  the  quite  literal  mad  scientist  who  recently  decided  you're  her  new  favourite  lab  rat.

you  can't  really  blame  @localdemonz,  though.  from  what  you  know  about  moira  o’deorain,  and  what  you've  heard  about  the  time  before  you  woke  up  on  an  operating  table  with  this  science  scarecrow  leaning  over  you,  you're  pretty  much  tailor  made  to  FASCINATE  her.

you  died.  medically,  literally,  officially  DEAD.  moira  brought  you  back  to  life  —  and  has  done  a  lot  more  since.  in  between,  though,  was  a  period  of  months  during  which  your  body  refused  to  decay.  pretty  unusual,  for  a  corpse.  probably  the  reason  moira  chose  you,  over  a  billion  other  cadavers  she  has  at  her  disposal,  for  her  weird,  freaky,  invasive,  experiments.

which  brings  you  to  now.  your  eyes  are  watering,  sure,  but  under  the  circumstances  that's  normal.  not  PATHETIC.

EVERYTHING.

A  MEMORY.

oh,  your  baby.  your  little  nona.  sometimes  you  think  she  might  be  your  favourite  person  in  the  universe.  favourite  person  on  this  planet,  at  least.  definitely  your  favourite  person  in  this  room,  considering  it's  just  the  two  of  you  in  here.

and  you  went  and  got  yourself  STABBED,  even  though  palamedes  asked  you  to  keep  your  head  down  and  camilla  told  you  to  not  to  do  anything  stupid.  but  that  shit  gets  hard  when  you're  coming  up  on  your  11th  millenium,  and  sometimes  a  little  light  stabbing  is  just  what  you  need  to  keep  things  interesting.

you  didn't  really  want  @affectum  to  see  you  like  this,  but  better  to  bleed  in  here  than  OUT  THERE.  you're  healing  up  by  the  time  you  stumble  back  into  the  apartment  —  from  the  inside  out:  parenchyma  first,  then  nervous  system,  musculature,  and  finally  the  dermis  —  but  right  now,  you're  still  bleeding.  it  takes  a  lot  to  KILL  this  body  you're  in,  but  you  are  essentially  joyriding  a  vintage  muscle  car  running  on  fumes  that  you  hot-wired  with  blunt  wire  cutters,  so  you  need  all  the  help  you  can  get.

HELP  entails  of  strong  liquor,  your  bed,  and  rags  to  mop  up  the  blood.  and  NONA.  your  sweet  nona.  babiest  of  babies,  clutching  your  blood-slick  hand  and  not  even  caring  that  she's  got  some  in  her  hair.

'  well,  shit,  nums,  i  can't  turn  down  an  offer  like  that.  '  you  think  one  of  your  lungs  is  punctured,  and  your  voice  comes  out  a  little  wheezy.  there's  nothing  you  can  really  do  now  except  let  your  tissues  knit  themselves  back  together  —  a  sensation  you  never  really  got  used  to  —  and  wait.  

she  is  so  SWEET.  @affectum  will  spend  hours  at  your  bedside  when  you  are  at  your  lowest,  though  you  know  she  has  better  things  to  do.  she  asks  if  there  is  anything  she  can  do  to  help  you,  though  sadly  there  is  very  little.  but  still,  she  holds  your  hair  back  when  you  retch;  she  wipes  your  sweaty  forehead  and  chest  with  a  cool,  damp  washcloth;  she  doesn't  get  IMPATIENT  when  you  cough  for  minutes  at  a  time.  she  holds  your  hand.

it  must  be  painful,  falling  for  a  dying  woman.  certainly  more  painful  than  dying  itself,  which  you  have  grown  used  to  and  are  very  GOOD  at.  a  kind  and  unselfish  person  would  make  this  easy  on  gideon.  you  could  set  her  free  to  find  someone  better,  and  you  could  be  simply  her  friend  who  died  when  she  was  young,  forever  a  footnote  in  the  long  and  heroic  story  of  her  life.

but  you're  feeling  good  today  —  at  the  very  least,  you  haven't  vomited  today,  which  is  an  excellent  sign.  you  like  gideon.  you  WANT  gideon.  and  dying  has  made  you  SELFISH.

you  smile  at  her,  watching  her  own  smile  get  more  shy  and  more  sweet  at  the  sight  of  your  DIMPLES,  which  are  a  weapon  you  should  use  sparingly.  instead  you  show  them  to  her  every  chance  that  you  get.  you  raise  the  sunglasses  above  your  head,  as  if  she  couldn't  easily  snatch  them  from  your  grip  if  she  tried.

you  can't  believe  you're  here.  at  your  ten  year  high  school  fucking  reunion.  you're  pretty  sure  no  one  else  here  expected  you  to  come.  and  you're  pretty  sure,  judging  by  the  looks  you're  getting  &  the  wide  berth  everyone  is  giving  you,  that  they  all  remember  you.  once  you  were  a  LEGEND  in  henrietta.  now  ?  you're  a  fucking  HORROR  STORY.

the  kid  who  tried  to  kill  himself  at  a  fourth  of  july  party  —  way  to  put  a  damper  on  the  celebrations  —  the  kid  who  BURNED  OUT  after  a  high  school  career  of  drugs  &  violence  &  parties.  the  kid  who  went  to  rehab  ...  nobody  wants  to  be  that  kid.  but  someone  has  to  be.

and  you're  here  for  one  reason  and  one  reason  only.  even  though  you  know  there's  a  1%  chance  @shadysidcrs  will  even  be  here.  but  that  1%  chance  is  enough.  and  it  pays  off.  because  here,  at  the  hotel  bar,  away  from  all  the  fuckers  from  high  school  that  neither  of  you  ever  cared  about,  is  RONAN  LYNCH.

you've  pictured  this  so  many  times.  you  used  to  think  it  would  be  a  fight.  that  you'd  confront  him  with  all  the  shitty  things  he  did  to  you,  all  the  shitty  things  life  did  to  you,  a  list  of  EXCUSES  to  explain  who  you  became.  but  now  you  know  how  you  need  to  start  this  conversation,  and  it's  not  with  '  hey,  fuckface,  remember  me  ?  '

this  is  jinx  &  vi,  the  reunion.  take  two.  ACTION.

you've  planned  it  out  a  lot  better,  this  time  around.  there  are  no  props,  no  audience,  no  side  characters.  it's  just  you  and  your  sister,  as  it  should  be,  as  it  always  has  been  and  always  WILL  be.

it  was  surprisingly  easy  to  kidnap  @affectum.  she  has  always  had  her  guard  up  —  except  with  powder,  poor  powder,  too  bad  she's  gone  —  and  it  never  occurred  to  you  that  she  would  let  it  down.  but,  of  course,  at  CUPCAKE'S  house  vi  doesn't  even  check  the  lock  on  the  bathroom  door  while  her  girlfriend  sleeps  in  the  next  room.  when  you  kidnapped  cupcake  from  that  very  same  room,  you  dried  her  off  and  dressed  her  up  all  FANCY  for  your  tea  party  —  with  vi,  you  didn't  bother.  after  all,  it's  JUST  THE  TWO  OF  YOU.

you  take  your  time  tying  her  up,  taking  in  every  inch  of  her.  once,  she  was  so  familiar  to  you  —  but  now  so  much  is  different  it's  hard  to  see  the  vi  you  knew  beneath.  under  the  tattoos  and  the  scars  that  you  trace  with  one  finger,  careful,  gentle,  not  wanting  to  wake  her.  her  hair  is  shorter  in  the  back,  falling  over  her  eyes  in  the  front.  you  run  your  fingers  through  it,  tugging  it  back  so  you  can  see  her  face.  you  trace  a  line  between  her  eyebrow  and  her  lip,  joining  the  two  in  a  slash  that  cuts  right  through  her  tattoo.  VI.  she  is  so  peaceful  when  she  sleeps.  how  many  hours  did  you  spend  looking  at  that  face  as  a  child,  when  you  were  lucky  enough  to  share  a  bunk  with  her,  when  you  should  have  been  sleeping  ?

she  is  tied  secure  &  tight  to  her  chair,  calves  to  the  chair-legs,  torso  to  the  chair-back,  arms  to  the  armrests.  you  drape  yourself  over  her  lap,  legs  over  the  armrests  and  hooking  around  the  back  of  the  chair,  as  close  as  you  can  pull  yourself  against  her  body.  she  mumbles  and  flinches  when  you  slap  her  cheek  —  not  hard,  no,  not  hard  at  all,  just  enough  to  wake  her  —  and  her  eyelids  flicker.  when  her  gaze  meets  yours,  your  heart  swells  until  your  ribcage  bursts  and  viscera  &  bone  &  arterial  blood  splatters  outward  like  a  GRENADE.  or,  wait.  no  one  can  see  that  but  you.

does  he  really  think  that's  what  you  want  ?  you're  surprised,  but  perhaps  pinning  @shadysidcrs  to  the  floor,  at  the  wrong  end  of  your  offhand  blade,  sends  a  mixed  message.  you  may  have  gone  overboard.  but  it's  been  TOO  LONG  since  you  were  able  to  spar  with  an  EQUAL  —  though,  as  it  turns  out,  you  appear  to  have  a  significant  edge  over  diego,  after  all.  either  that,  or  you  went  too  hard,  too  soon,  with  someone  who  was  expecting  an  EASY  RIDE.  that's  the  problem  with  you:  everything  you  do,  you  do  like  it's  the  last  time.  you  love  and  you  fight  and  you  live  like  you're  DYING.

you  sheath  your  sword  to  help  him  up,  keeping  your  offhand  ready  in  case  he  surprises  you  with  another  round.  '  i  expected  an  actual  decent  fight  from  you,  but  if  you  want  to  give  me  the  win,  that's  up  to  you.  '  

a  light  sheen  of  sweat  covers  your  body,  sticking  your  hair  to  your  face.  you  reach  for  your  water  bottle,  taking  your  eyes  off  of  him  for  just  a  moment  —  he's  not  the  type  to  stab  an  opponent  in  the  back,  particularly  not  over  a  friendly  sparring  match.  he  is  the  type  to  hit  you  from  across  the  room  with  a  throwing  knife,  though,  and  that  unsettles  you.  you're  at  your  best  with  hand-to-hand  combat,  and  someone  like  him  could  take  you  down  before  you  ever  get  close  enough  to  do  damage.  you  need  to  master  throwing  knives  at  your  earliest  opportunity.