#gcdhoods

[cathartidie]

(TW death, murder, suicidal behavior)

“There’s still time. I could get Caladrius.” “I’d rather you hold me instead, if that’s alright.”

The funeral is held on a Monday. Roje isn’t invited. He’s barred from going in fact. They’re a little disappointed about that. They have so little of Pasi. Fragments. Stolen moments. It will never be enough. But it never is.

He took the pack of cigarettes from Pasi’s pocket before they dragged him away from the body. He lights one, smokes it. When it’s burned to the filter he lights another. 

—

They move Pasi as carefully as they can, mindful of the wet, red spot on their stomach. 

“I’m sorry for getting my blood on you,” Pasi whispers against their collarbone. 

‘It’s alright,” they reply. “It’s yours.”

–

Isa wants to kill them. Magpie warns them of this fact the day before the funeral, voice clipped and carefully polite. Roje was already aware. She’d attempted to put a knife inside of him the night that she’d found them. Her face had been a jagged picture of grief and rage at the time. That’s not the kind that fades in a day, or even a year. She will hate them for the rest of her life. It’s likely that she’ll begin to hunt them very soon. 

She stays the longest, after all of the other mourners have left. Roje watches her from the roof. He smokes slowly through Pasi’s last pack of cigarettes. Her body is a distant speck beside Pasi’s grave. Even from here, he knows she is weeping.

—

“You’re sure this is what you want?” Roje asks, desperate. Their hands are shaking. “You could live. They could save you.”

Pasi reaches up then, their hand against his cheek. Small, cold. They’ve touched him like this before. Roje just wants to make them warm.

“Please.”

Roje settles then. Moves to take Pasi’s hand in theirs. “I’m sorry. I won’t make you stay.”Something in Pasi comes undone at that. They sag fully against them, the tense cord of their spine unknotting. “Thank you. I’m so sorry to ask you to do it. I would-”

Roje hushes them with a press of his mouth to their hairline. A mirror image of the moment they shared-

God, it feels like it was so long ago already. And it will only grow more distant from here. Roje kisses Pasi again for good measure.

“I’ll do whatever you want me to. I understand.”

—

They have no say in what is done with the body. That’s made clear to them immediately. One of the murder snarls to him that the only reason they don’t kill him is because they know it wouldn’t stick. Roje listens. He doesn’t speak. Pasi’s blood is still all over him. His hands and neck and mouth. 

They insist on burying them. Roje watches them put Pasi into a hole in the ground, inside of a box. 

They’d only ever wanted to be free.

Night falls, the moon bright and gray. Isa cannot stay forever. Eventually someone comes to drag her away. Roje waits until he is certain that they are gone, then he gets to work.

—

There’d been something tender and real growing between them since the moment they met. It stays between them still. It will be there even when Pasi isn’t. Roje knows this, lets the knowledge of that settle into their bones. 

They always knew this day was coming. Every meeting is just the precursor to a goodbye. They chose this grief when they chose to open the raw aching space of their chest up. They did it for Pasi. They’d do it again.

—

The dirt of Pasi’s grave is soft and damp. It crumbles apart easily in their hands. It’s feather light as they lift it out, shovel-full by shovel-full. By all accounts it is an exquisite burial site. Whoever arranged the funeral spared no expense. The headstone is marble and carved with images of flowers. The coffin is beetle black. The body inside is beautiful.

“I told you I would always come to find you.”

—

“Can I be selfish?” Pasi asks them, and their voice is very small. Their teeth are pink with their own blood. 

“I never told you that you shouldn’t be.”They smile at him then, but it’s not right. It’s not like the one at the beach. This too is so desperately sad.“Will you come find me? When it’s all over.”Roje cups the back of their head in his hand, tilts it so he can look them in the eye.

“I will never let you be alone.” —

It’s a quiet drive to the ocean. They took this route once before. One last bright spot before the world ended. Pasi curled beside them in the car, long fingers fiddling with the dials of the radio. They don’t do that now. 

By the time they reach the beach, the sun is nearing the surface of the horizon, washing the distant sky in gray and blue and lilac. 

Coming here is like walking on glass. Roje’s familiar with grief at this point. The memories will always cut them this way, these jagged, beautiful shards. Pieces of their life where Pasi was alive with them. Here is the sand where they sat side by side, watching the sun rise. Here is the place where Pasi turned inside the circle of their arms to face them, their laughter bright and crystalline. 

—

“Does it hurt?” Roje asks them. The signs of blood loss are growing worse. They’ve begun to shake.

Pasi looks at them and nods, mouth trembling. “I can withstand it.” “You shouldn’t have to.”

—

They swim with Pasi for a very long time. Roje belongs to the water as much as he belongs to the dirt but Pasi’s body drags behind him, skirts billowing. They’d been so nervous the first time Roje took them here, convinced they couldn’t even manage to learn to float.

The sun kisses the sky in an outpouring of gold. Roje holds Pasi’s body and watches it rise. The shore is a distant line behind them. They will swim back to it alone. “I do wish we had more time,” Roje says into Pasi’s hair. “I think I would have loved you very much. I think I will even if you’re not here to see it.”

When the sun breaks free from the horizon, Roje takes one final breath and he dives.

—

“Roje,” Pasi whispers. “You don’t have to either.”

“I think you deserve to not hurt anymore,” Roje says. It will take at least another hour for them to bleed to death. This will take markedly less time. 

—

There’s a point in diving when the weight of the water above neutralizes buoyancy, where the body can sit in place, not sinking, not floating. It is here that Roje stops their descent. They press one last kiss to Pasi’s face. Then another. Then another. They do not say goodbye. 

Pasi will become part of this sea. The sand. The coral. The endless, teeming life that pulses with every movement of the tide. He will come here often. He will miss them terribly.

—

He wraps his hands around the soft column of their neck. Pasi’s eyes are bright and wet with tears. They look at him as if he has given them the world. As if he has returned a piece of them that has been missing for an unbearably long time. 

Roje breaths. Tightens their grip.

— 

They return to the surface alone.  

@gcdhoods

#gcdhoods #drabble #meme prompt #TW #death #murder #suicidal ideation/behavior #chewing glass munch munch

[nvghtingale]

𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄  ─  9:03  PM

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍  ─  THE  LIVING  ROOM

 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒  ─  CLOSED  FOR  @gcdhoods​

𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍  𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊  𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄  𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄  𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒,  what  do  you  see  ?  a  couple,  smitten:  harmonizing  in  melody  and  movement,  hands  that  meet  each  other  in  a  choreographed  dance,  eyes  that  gleam  with  devotion  &  adoration.  lyrebird  and  nightingale,  inseparable.  entranced  by  one  another.  i  never  thought  i  could  love  someone  like  this,  she'd  whispered  once  while  dozing  off  in  their  embrace,  i  never  thought  anyone  could  love  me  like  this.  there  is  something  all  -  consuming  about  love,  she  found  ──  something  holy  in  the  way  it  devoured  the  two  whole  and  carved  a  new  world  for  only  the  two  of  them  to  inhabit.

𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍  𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊  𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄  𝐓𝐖𝐎  𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒,  what  do  you  see  ?  misery  in  hollow  loneliness,  a  woman  redefined  by  tragedy.  betrayal  stings  every  morning  when  she  rises,  memory  of  a  fight  still  fresh  and  tender  like  a  bruise.  in  violet  shades,  a  scene  is  depicted:  a  tearful  goodbye,  a  door  slammed  shut  with  what  was  always  meant  to  be  finality.  you  betrayed  me.  a  nightingale's  song  turned  more  mournful  than  ever  before  ──  reviewers  comment  on  the  fact  that  her  eyes  gleam  with  tears  whenever  she  sings  of  heartbreak  and  they  praise  her  for  the  authenticity  of  a  heart  -  wrenching  performance.  she  no  longer  looks  her  audience  members  in  the  eye.

𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍  𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊  𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄  𝐓𝐎  𝟗𝐏𝐌,  what  do  you  see  ?  eyes  finding  each  other  one  more  time.  there  was  meant  to  be  finality  to  betrayal  ──  they  were  never  meant  to  cross  paths  again.  and  yet,  she  waltzed  into  the  room  at  another's  side  and  found  her  entire  self  tensing  at  the  sight  of  her  then  -  everything.  she  fled  the  second  she  was  able  to  ──  turning  on  her  heel,  willing  normality  to  fill  the  speed  of  her  strides,  the  depth  of  her  breaths.  there  is  no  ease  in  anything  about  this  situation,  no  way  to  escape  the  heavy  tension  hanging  in  the  air,  filling  her  lungs  like  dark  smoke.  it  all  fills  her  with  a  sense  of  dread  ──  she  moves  to  the  living  room  in  pursuit  of  respite,  unease  filling  her.  isabele  is  a  haunted  house.  she  is  filled  with  ash,  what  was  once  cream  -  colored  has  gone  grey  and  what  was  once  pastel  is  as  crimson  as  painted  lips.  too  much  is  wrong.  it  overwhelms  her,  drives  her  towards  solitude  like  child  reaching  for  safety  blanket:  there  is  comfort  in  the  well  -  known,  in  the  end.  not  all.  for  she  recognizes  who  follows  behind  by  footsteps  alone.

❛  𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐈,  ❜  𝐒𝐇𝐄  𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐒,  𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑  𝐀  pause  ──  too  long,  too  brief.  she  turns  then,  hands  in  the  pockets  of  her  faux  fur  coat.  neck  adorned  by  rubies.  lips  ought  to  quirk  upwards  on  one  side,  yet  there  is  nothing  playful  about  her  expression.  there  is  nothing  much,  in  fact.  isabele  remains  guarded.  exhales,  forcing  the  smoke  out,  wishing  the  intrusive  and  contradicting  thoughts  would  flee  with  it.  i’ve  missed  you.  i  hate  you.  i  haven’t  forgiven  you.  i  want  to.  i  will  never.  stop  haunting  me.  inhales.  speaks:  ❛  you  haven’t  been  sleeping.  ❜ 

#𓅪 ❛ 𝐈𝐂. ‣‣ ( PROSE. ) ❜ #𓅪 ❛ 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍. ‣‣ ( GCDHOODS. ) ❜ #i WILL add like an icon or smth when i get ps back #....maybe

[ohbluejay]

KILL ME & CARRIE AU. for @thecaladrius @kasimirfrei @infelicits @nourflage @nvghtingale @wardeniii @peregrinefalcvn @gcdhoods @ofrooks @parabellxm // trigger warning for murder, graphic violence, death, abuse, animal murder, lots of religious mentions

     They had all laughed      (papa was right) when the bucket of blood toppled. They had all been in on it. Would you believe him, if he said he didn’t intend for it to happen? Would you? If there’s someone to blame, it’s the pig-killing animals of prey that had drained an innocent animal      (clean of original sin) of its blood and collected it in that iron, murderous bucket. Intent had killed the pig, collected the blood, strung up the bucket and let it topple. Intent had made them laugh, hand-on-belly, wiping-tears, slapping-thigh, fingers-pointed. They’re going to laugh at you, they are all going to laugh. Papa had been right.

     They didn’t laugh now. Mateo had raised his arms like a choir director and demanded that his singers screamed in stead of sung. Now, he walks the streets of the town that has haunted him since the very beginning. A church burns behind him, a gas station plays along in the fiery games     (brought hell to earth) and he has only one place to go: home.

     The first person to die had been his date. Empty bucket-to-head, hardly noticed by the laughing crowds. Nour had been a classmate previously observed from afar who had spared a little kindness, guiding him through the jungle that was high school prom — adjusting his tie, suggesting a different colour for the next time, making idle conversation as if it was the easiest thing in the world, speaking of matters       (sinful, like the rest of them) his papa would disapprove of in a way that made him think maybe papa was wrong. She hadn’t had any interest him, not like that — but she’d been kind and she’d danced with him when he’d never danced with another before and she’d laughed at his jokes which meant that she’d listened. She was the first to die.

    The first to die hadn’t been his fault     (oh but it was! i shouldn’t have gone with her, i shouldn’t have exposed her to the things i always come across and if i hadn’t gone she wouldn’t have died) but the ones that followed had been. But first there was the laughter, the realisation that he was covered with it, that blood, the stinking blood and that someone had done this to him. And he had just wanted to run, but there had been the gym teacher, Mr Crow, rushing over with mock-concern on his features as he reached out. Flex, Mateo had thought, and he’d flown away from him, he and that expression of mockery, crumpling on the floor. Alive, still, nose bleeding, heart hurting, but not long now, not long. 

     He had ran and maybe that could have been it, but remember: they had all laughed. All of them, they had all laughed. They had to learn, he had to teach them a lesson. So he went back in, he came back into the school and he trapped them all     (mice in a trap, oh yes, they’re vermin now, vermin and i will kill them, trapped trapped trapped, hurt them hurt them hurt them) in the gym and made it rain. The sprinklers wept and it was like the deluge, one of papa’s favourite stories, but the biblical flood had been just water, had drowned everyone. Mateo didn’t want to drown them, he wanted shock and fire. To bring hell on earth because that’s what life had been for him all those years and they just watched.

    It’s Javi who tries to reach Nour, who screams for help and it’s Javi who first meets the deadly combination of water and electricity. Shaking body, dancing to a non-existent song, a hymn of screams and Mateo watches, wide-eyed, blood-faced, bodily temperature rising. When he laughs, he loses. This pull of power is excruciating in its intoxication and he watches them pound at the doors, pleading and he keeps them closed. Flex. Light fixtures rip and fall, bulbs explode, crepe paper catches fire. 

    Isabele’s dress is disaster-prone. Tulle catches fire and she’s ablaze and Mateo should feel bad, because she had been nice tonight, she had approached him and Nour and complimented the suit he’d stitched together himself and laughed at his jokes. But all he can think of is     (they all laughed at me!) how her face had turned too, at the sight of him covered in blood and he watches the paper descend on her, flames licking fabric, flames licking skin and when she screams it almost sounds like a song. Mateo smiles. He feels like he’s on fire, too. 

    The fire spreads as intended. Rachel, one of Nour’s friends, popular and cruel and kind all at the same time gets hit by a stage light that falls with a flex. Case of bad luck, being in the exact place where she is: standing on a chair, avoiding the water that was growing increasingly dangerous to stand in with the exposed wires making the trap bigger, worse. Her body topples     (sinful ragdoll) just like so many of the others and the electricity makes her shake involuntarily, blood mingling with the water. 

     He is pounding at the door, Kasimir Frei. Outcast, like him, whose father thinks him the Antichrist when it should have been this avenging angel named Mateo he should have feared. Maybe if Jesus had been kinder he would have made them meet and speak of it. But Mateo is starting to understand that there’s no such thing as kindness. So Kasimir is pounding on the doors and he is calling his name, “Mateo, Mateo, Mateo!”, and it sounds like a mockery of the three syllables, not at all like a plea. Now they wanted something of him! Now he had something to offer! Now they saw him! Someone joins the chorus, it’s Delilah — the smartest one from English class, who berates everyone and thus might be the only one who treats Mateo equally. But she’s cruel because she’s cruel to all and he cannot swallow it any more, all the cruelty in the world, handed to him and to others. 

     He can feel the door budge under their determined weight and he turns to look at them through the glass. Blood-streaked, tear-streaked, fearing-eyes and laughing-mouth. It’s them a alone who will see the doubt and the terror and the fatigue, that endless fatigue with it all. They will see it as they die. Flex. Ceiling beam crashes against their backs, pushes them into the door and flex, Mateo keeps them closed. He looks at them, eyes-popping, mouths-pleading and he doesn’t hear them     (they just watched too) he just waits until they stop and then turns around.

    The fire destroys the school. It reaches fuel tanks and it’s unable to be kept at bay. A handful of students get out, live to tell the tale, led by Xi Fei who avoids all collapsing objects and stray wires. . Mateo does not look back as he walks through Verum, pig-blood starting to clot. He moves. There’s the gas station, a gorgeous cloud of furious fire left in his wake. The church, where he sinks to his knees and finds no forgiveness, not for himself nor his God. And so the town meets his wrath as he walks from school to home, a route walked a thousand times     (none of you ever stopped to help me and you saw how my papa was and none of you did a thing so now you will have danger in your homes too and now i won’t do a thing, not a thing at all to save you, how do you like that) and now walked for one last time. 

    His papa waits for him at home. A knife glints in his hand.      “Let’s pray.” Convicted. “He’s in you, Satan, let’s pray. Sit, kneel, go, now. We will get rid of Him, I will get rid of him.”     “No, papa.” He doesn’t listen to him. Jesus. He never had.      (i’ve felt never more alone than when the lord looked down on me and called me sinful.) “They all laughed at me.” His father wipes at his son’s face with his free hand, blood streaking his hand. He shakes his head, cups his son’s head at the highest point, the point where God can see him best. “But I made them stop. And I’ll make you stop too.”     The knife glints. Mateo feels it course through the air and dives away and it misses his heart, but it doesn’t miss his flesh. It burrows through sinew and bone and he screams out, fury and pain. “Let’s pray. Genesis 22.” His papa kneels, either through choice or Mateo’s force or both, hands folding together as his son caves and bleeds. “But my version.      “When they reached the place God had told him about,” he begins, but there’s a hesitancy, a hand reaching to his own heart. “Wha—      “If I focus,” Mateo begins, “I can picture your heart. It’s not very big, papa. Just a muscle. Some blood. If I focus, I can slow it.” Jerk. Flex. Thump-thump-thump. “I’m going to teach you a lesson this time.”      “Abraham built an altar there and arranged the wood.” Thump-thump. “He bound his son Isaac and laid him on the altar, on top of the wood.” He’s getting out of breath now, hands on the floor, head bowed. “He reached out his hand,” Thump, “and took the knife to slay his son.”      Silence. The heart had slowed and then it had stopped. Mateo’s fingers unflex      (where’s papa) and he lets out a sob.

     Mateo leaves his home and it caves in behind him. It barely takes any thought now, the power that he’s always contained. It just happens. From his shoulder the knife protrudes     (can’t take it out, hurts too much, why did you do this to me papa) and his blood flows steady, mingling with the pig blood, the clots, the dirt. He walks, barefoot, and lets something carry him. To the edges of town, where people only come to exit and enter. He waits.

    A car arrives. Driving too fast, the reckless driver behind the wheel looking nothing but terror-struck but determined once he sees who stands there. Mateo, in the middle of the road, yellows stripes beneath his feet, blood pooling around him. He stares at Warden in that automobile he’d drive up to the high school to impress the girls with and Warden stares back at him. Mateo knows it was his hand that wielded the knife that had slit the throat of the pig, the first real death that no one even began to mourn.     He looks to the passenger’s seat. Erin, wrathful thing, whose fingers had nimbly curled around the rope that had made the buckets topple    (you killed her you killed her you killed her) and started off the chain of events that had followed, who had slipped from the school before Mateo could have crushed either of them with smoke-in-their-lungs or voltage-in-their-bones or     “Hit the fucking gas, Ward! Go!”      And he does. But the car does not answer to him any more and he drives, full force ahead, intending to, “Kill the bitch!”, as he moves towards Mateo. Flex. Not even a raise of the hand required. The steering wheel moves on its own accord, towards the trees, full speed ahead and the Porsche crashes, folds around the wood, and fire rises. 

   Mateo collapses. He does not see their heads slam against the glass, the instant death, he just feels that they are no longer there. Just the fire, the impact, the smell of rubber on asphalt. The car, the crash, the sudden curve of the road. 

   It is Pasi that finds him. Pasi who had been most open to the way telekinesis had not just moved objects and organs but telepathic thoughts. Pasi who had always held a nugget for this bullied boy. Pasi who hadn’t gone to the prom, who hadn’t laughed, who had felt regret where no one else had. Pasi who rises in the death of night and knows which way to go to find him. Pasi who knees at a crumbled, bleeding body and knows that it’s because of him that they’re all dead, who sobs and wants to rage.    (who’s there?)    “Pasi.”    (i killed her i killed him i killed them all i killed my papa and now i’m dying too aren’t i)    They take his hand. The one that’s not connected to a stabbed shoulder. “Yes.” They say it like someone who knows death. And they stay, Mateo’s dying thoughts spilling over as the blood cascades, as the fever rises, as the energy used up to destroy an entire town seeps away and leaves nothing but a dying breath. Mateo dies and silence rules.

#drabble. #ummmm #yeah idk if i can tag everyone #the (style) of writing is directly stolen from the original novel <3 #bit weird but i am v fond of it so i hope i did it justice

[thecaladrius]

prompt: GET ME — a drabble about one character saving another. from @nvghtingale, ft. @gcdhoods. trigger warnings for drug cartels, not-that-graphic violence, and not-so-implied death. 

“Javi,” Pasi croaks. “Javi, please, please.”

Shut up, Javi wants to snap, but instead, he bites his cheek. For as difficult it is to think with a clear head in the midst of their weeping, he can’t fault them for reacting the way they are — not when Isabele’s still bleeding out in their arms from a gunshot wound to the lung, limp, barely unconscious, but still gasping for breath.

The last leg of their plan hinges on her. It is Isabele that has set up a meeting with the capo’s son, and it is only Isabele that can get him to surrender the passcode to the vault Behi and the others have found themselves trapped in.

No room for hesitation. He presses his hand over Isa’s shattered ribs. Pulls the fractures and the shredded tissues to his palm, feels the pain gnaw at his body. Head cloudy, now, he makes the mistake of meeting Pasi’s gaze, and winces.

“Javi,” Pasi sobs again. “Javi, Javi, Javi—“

The last of Isa’s bullet wound shrinks to nothing. She opens her eyes, looking confused, likely still lightheaded from phantom pains.

Only four minutes until Isa’s meeting. Only ten minutes until armed goons find the others in the vault. Nobody else is around.

He can find a way to place the wound on their body without killing them. But an alteration that major is going to leave him too weak to carry himself out of the base, much less haul a fatally injured Pasi out with him. If he leaves them, there’s no doubt the goon that finds them will shoot them dead.

He’s not a god. It’s not on him to choose who gets to be martyred. Pasi pulls their arms from Isa’s body, and puts their hands on his hands.

“Javi,” Isa says. “Don’t.”

He’s already closed his eyes, so her order doesn’t get to him. Yet another name on the list of people he’ll need to beg forgiveness from. Javi throws his arms over Pasi, pulls their body to his chest, and nudges their head to the crook of his shoulder. One hand curves over their neck, palm to carotid artery.

#ask memes. #every day i pull heist stakes out of my ass and pray that u believe them.

[infinityhq]

please  unfollow  :

@gcdhoods

#infinity.unfollow #due to players decision !!

[nvghtingale]

𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐓  𝐌𝐄  .

         ── from @gcdhoods​ .

tw   ──   blood,  death,  grief.

❛  it’s okay.  ❜

except it isn’t. not by any account. realistically, nothing about the scene is okay. envision this: nightingale in centre stage, meant to sing of a bleeding wound that has come to stain everything in rose - petal - crimson. blood red, the shade of an iron death. picture a woman who fell to the floor before they could catch her with a scream dying in her mouth as shock took hold on her instead, a coldness rushing through her veins and escaping her with every droplet steadily rushing out of her and staining everything ── everything, unstoppable river running its course and consuming it all, painting it the colour of imminent death. the scene is set, the woman holding her beloved’s hand with rapidly fading strength. you cannot see this from your place in the audience ── not even the front row is privy to this, only the nightingale herself ── but red gives way to black at the edge of her vision. on the stage that has been set, a once - lover ( once ? current ? almost ? forever ? ) shakes with the force of one hit by the same cold gust of wind that has made her fire turn candlelight turned wavering flicker of a lifeline. 

          isabele did not ── does not ── regret being the one who took the bullet.

❛  take something, ❜ isabele whispers, pouring what little strength she has left into a final plea, ❛ i will stay with you forever. ❜ they nod then, stroking her hair ── she knows that it will take them a little bit to pick something to take. they must still first. she will give them however long they need, hover at their side for eternity with that same sad smile still on her lips. she promised this, once. vowed that she would slay living and dead in their name and that if this were ever to happen, that she would be the loudest voice in their head. she would cry out their name. she would drown anyone else out and exchange cruelty for lullabies, she would drown out any of the accursed voices tormenting them with her own oath of waiting forever until they came together again.

her eyes look up at the crystal chandelier above as the life fades from green irises, leaving them dulled. she’s paled, she is a semblance of what she once was ── her beauty marred by the skeletal hand that has taken her own and pulled until it tore her from their arms. isabele de azevedo, the nightingale, has fallen ── oh, audience member, it is the greatest tragedy you have witnessed. when they rest their head on her chest and find that there is no longer a heartbeat, you replace the sound with your applause and rise to your feet in a standing ovation. 

the curtain falls.

isabele is a phantom, one who looks on at the scene before her and is relegated to an audience member herself. she cares not for her corpse, but for the one holding her ── still, the shock is momentaneously too large for her to lunge forward and speak to them immediately. they aren’t shaking anymore, fading into a dangerous stillness. she knows better than to deem this acceptance ── oh, even if they might not love her the way they once did ( she didn’t get to find out ── at least she gets to tell them that they were the love of her life ) , this is a new kind of mourning. she grieves too, in her own way ── isabele has not gone willingly, she has been torn from their side and does not dare to scream in protest in case they hear ( they’d worry, she knows ) .

❛  my love ? can you hear me ? ❜

they bow their head and she can see their shoulders shake once more ── this time, wracked by the strength of grief and tears. there is no sidestepping this simple fact: nightingale is dead, and only a wisp of her remains. alas, she remains nonetheless. were she able to, she would smile to herself ── she gets to speak to them still.

❛ isa ── yes. yes, i can hear you. ❜ they tremble even within their own mind, her new home. she will tend to it nicely. decorate it with compliments. in time, maybe even jokes. she intends to spend eternity here, speaking to them constantly, drowning out the others. the ones that won’t let them sleep. the ones that scream at them. the nice ones usually fall silent, they’d once told her. too bad ── she won’t let the bad ones win.

❛ i am right here with you. ❜

that night, she will try to sing them to sleep ── with her funeral being held the following afternoon ( her insisting that they don’t have to go, that they can stay home and try to get some rest, that she’ll stay with them ) how could they do anything but stare at her blood on their hands ? it’s all over their clothes, their skin. they can’t bring themselves to wash it off yet in a display of tragic longing and refusal to accept that perhaps this is what they’re doomed to carry of hers, no matter how many times she tells them that she’ll still be around when they do.

they end up taking more than one thing of hers ── she knows they’re scared to lose any of them. they wear one of her earrings. they make a face cover out of the rubies in her necklace. and they tuck a strand of her hair into a locket that they do not dare to take off, not for a second. she understands ── were the roles reversed, she would never let go either.

the night of her funeral, she lays next to them in bed the way she did when they were together. she sings to them all through the night as they smoke an entire pack of cigarettes. she sits by their side, urges them to drink water instead of alcohol ── they lay together, until dawn washes over them, moving through her spectral form and bathing them in honey the way it did for their first anniversary. it’s a nice memory. and over and over again, she makes the same vow:

❛ i will never leave you. ❜

#𓅪 ❛ 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐘. ‣‣ ( MEMES. ) ❜ #𓅪 ❛ 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄. ‣‣ ( GCDHOODS. ) ❜ #i'd usually double space but this is 1k words so #oops !

[nvghtingale]

𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄

you  are  given  a  sealed  letter  the  morning  before  her  funeral.  it  has  your  name  on  it  written  in  elegant  scrawl,  her  perfume’s  scent,  and  the  mark  of  a  kiss  in  her  red  lipstick.  it’s  the  same  way  that  you  received  her  love  letters  once.

𝐀  𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑  𝐈𝐍  𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐄  𝐎𝐅  𝐌𝐘  𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄'𝐒  𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇

𝒕o  my  beloved  pasi,

𝒓emember  when  we  found  ourselves  at  the  opera  house  for  the  last  time  ?  you  said  help  was  on  the  way  when  you  heard  the  sirens,  and  i  said  help  was  already  there,  because  you  were  holding  me.  the  injury  meant  so  little  to  me  when  i  remembered  what  it  felt  like  to  be  home.  my  heart  yearned  to  be  by  yours  before  we  ever  met  ──  and  you  felt  it  too,  that  moment  of  recognition  when  we  found  each  other  and  looked  at  each  other,  really  looked  at  each  other,  for  the  first  time.  when  you  held  me  as  i  was  hurt,  i  swear  i  felt  it  again.  the  feeling  of  two  souls  finding  each  other  and  linking  hands.

𝒖nderneath  my  bold  flirtations,  you  always  saw  me  for  who  i  was:  a  woman  trying  to  be  good,  to  be  kind,  to  be  tender.  i  told  you  what  i  thought  love  was  like  once  and  looking  back,  i  realised  something.  when  i  thought  about  it,  i  imagined  love  to  be  caring  so  deeply  about  somebody  else  that  you  would  give  them  the  world.  not  because  of  their  talents,  their  beauty  or  their  gifts  ──  no,  caring  about  another’s  very  soul,  and  just  wanting  to  make  them  the  happiest  they  could  be.  do  you  see  now,  the  poetic  beauty  of  it  all  ?  i  had  described  you  without  even  knowing.  you  care  so  deeply  about  people,  you  love  wholeheartedly,  and  you  give  them  the  world.  sometimes  excessively,  my  dear,  please  remember  to  take  care  of  yourself.  i  loved  you  then,  and  now  that  you  have  found  this  letter,  you  can  be  certain  that  i  will  love  you  for  eternity.  i  told  you  i’d  always  care,  didn’t  i  ?

𝒔weet  pasi,  you  always  brought  out  the  very  best  in  me.  you  taught  me  how  to  be  tender  by  showing  me  the  gentleness  of  your  heart,  inspiring  me  to  do  the  same  with  mine.  like  a  newborn  animal  trying  to  stand  for  the  first  time,  i  always  struggled  to  be  good  ──  a  mess  of  greys  within  me  instead  of  the  pure  white  of  an  unblemished  heart.  but  you  looked  upon  what  i  thought  was  a  cacophony  and  arranged  the  most  beautiful  symphony  out  of  it.  

𝒕here  is  no  greater  regret  within  my  heart  than  leaving  you.  it  was  the  biggest  mistake  i  ever  made.  i’m  so  sorry  for  the  pain  i  caused  you.  i  wish  we  could  have  had  more  time  together,  more  happiness,  more  smiles  and  more  of  your  beautiful  laughter.

𝒏ostalgia  can  get  the  best  of  us  sometimes,  sorrowful  trick  of  the  mind,  yet  all  my  memories  of  you  are  rose  -  colored.  they  always  will  be,  for  i  cannot  separate  my  thoughts  of  you  from  how  much  i  love  you.  when  you  think  of  me  in  the  future,  i  hope  you  can  feel  an  inkling  of  that  love.  i  hope  it  makes  you  smile.

𝒐h,  my  love,  i  know  it  will  be  hard  at  first.  it  would  have  been  hard  for  me  if  it  had  been  you.  mourning  a  loved  one  is  never  easy,  we  both  know  that  to  be  true  ──  we  both  met  grief  when  we  were  too  young.  but  please  remember  that  i  was  not  the  only  one  who  loved  you.  there  are  many  out  there  who  do,  whose  shoulders  you  can  rest  your  head  on.  let  them  hold  you.  let  them  wipe  your  tears  away.  please,  please  don’t  try  to  go  through  it  alone.

𝒃ecause  you  are  a  gift,  not  a  burden,  my  love.  you  were  the  greatest  gift  i  could  have  ever  been  given.

𝒐ne  final  love  letter  is  all  i  can  offer  now.  and  all  my  love  within  it.

𝒅on’t  forget  to  listen  for  me  in  that  beautiful  head  of  yours,  my  love.  i  will  be  singing.

─  𝒚our  isa

       ──     for  :  @gcdhoods  

#𓅪 ❛ 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐘. ‣‣ ( MEMES. ) ❜ #𓅪 ❛ 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄. ‣‣ ( GCDHOODS. ) ❜ #peep the fancy text ever :eye emoji: #this is what happens when u say dealer's choice #i wanted death and love and encoded #u get all three

[nvghtingale]

𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋  𝐌𝐄  .

         ── from @gcdhoods​ .

tw   ──   death,  spiders.

she’s  always  preferred  sunrise  to  sunset,  surprisingly.  for  one  so  passionate  and  grandiose,  isabele  delights  herself  in  watching  the  sun  paint  strokes  of  muted  yellows  and  pinks.  where  sunset’s  colours  speak  of  opulence  and  magnificence,  sunrise  is  softness  and  tenderness  and  it  holds  her  gently  in  its  arms  and  rocks  her  back  and  forth,  letting  everything  else  melt  away  as  she  closes  her  eyes  and  lets  the  pinks  and  violets  peek  in  from  behind  her  eyelids.

she  tilts  her  head  back  to  look  them  in  the  eye.  smiles.  ❛  i  think  i  like  sunrise  so  much  because  it  reminds  me  of  you.  ❜

pasi  smiles  back  at  her  and  presses  a  kiss  to  her  forehead.  they’re  blushing  ──  she  can  feel  the  warmth  of  their  face,  can  see  the  way  their  cheeks  flush  red.  she’d  be  able  to  tell  from  an  opposite  corner  of  the  world  with  her  eyes  shut.  

❛  my  isa,  you’ve  always  had  a  way  with  words.  ❜

they’ve  stolen  this  moment  from  the  hands  of  the  faceless,  the  first  thieves  ──  they’ve  stolen  their  freedom  and  their  future.  they  have  erased  any  possibility  of  a  life  where  she  forgives  pasi  for  exposing  the  depths  of  her  heart  to  the  whole  world  and  they,  in  turn,  forgive  her  for  leaving  ──  she’d  sit  beside  them  at  the  piano  at  night,  yawning  but  still  fighting  to  stay  awake  in  the  name  of  keeping  them  company  (  she’d  fall  asleep  with  her  head  on  their  shoulder  a  little  after  and  they’d  have  to  carry  her  to  bed  ).  they’d  follow  her  lead  when  getting  dressed  to  match  their  outfit  to  hers.  it’s  been  ripped  from  their  grasp,  turned  into  nothing  but  a  faraway  dream.  

the  two  of  them  don’t  get  to  make  it  out  of  this  alive.  

the  plan  has  gone  off  without  a  hitch  ──  the  true  iteration  of  the  tear  has  been  tucked  away,  and  all  isabele  has  to  do  is  go  to  the  agreed  upon  location  and  retrieve  it.  she  weaves  through  crowds  gracefully,  stopping  to  make  idle  chitchat  on  the  way  there.  the  guests  must  know  that  she  was  here,  that  she  is  not  in  the  opposite  side  of  the  room  where  hell  is  about  to  let  loose.  in  their  eyes,  isabele  must  be  no  more  than  an  innocent  bystander  ──  one  among  many,  blending  into  a  crowd.

it’s  reminiscent  of  the  wine  cellar,  the  hiding  place  ──  after  the  blood  that  was  spilled  there,  isabele  is  hesitant  to  smash  more  glass.  but  she  must  ──  so  she  takes  one  of  the  vases  in  an  empty  hotel  room  (  the  tall,  cream  -  coloured  one  with  the  pale  yellow  lines  ──  it  also  reminds  her  a  little  bit  of  pasi,  the  softness  depicted  )  and  smashes  it  on  the  ground.

this  is  how  nightingale  retrieves  the  last  tear  of  heaven.

❛  don’t  be  silly,  ❜  she  giggles,  turning  to  face  them  ──  still  in  their  arms,  never  leaving  their  arms.  ❛  it  is  only  a  simple  observation.  ❜

she  isn’t  one  to  downplay  her  acts  of  romanticism,  usually,  but  a  mere  truth  feels  like  so  little  right  now.  she  wishes  that  there  were  more  flowers  in  this  rooftop  garden,  or  that  she’d  gotten  them  a  gift.  they  brought  her  one  ──  rather,  they  sort  of  returned  it.  a  simple  golden  bracelet  that  they  used  to  share  all  the  time.  originally  isa’s,  she’d  slid  it  onto  their  wrist  once  because  she  said  it’d  look  nice  on  them.  it  had  ended  in  a  fit  of  laughter,  the  discussion  where  they  insisted  on  taking  it  off  because  what  if  i  lose  it,  love  ?  and  she  fought  back  because  so  lose  it,  but  wear  it  until  then  ──  it  looks  so  lovely  on  you  !

❛  let  me  observe  you  instead  …  please.  let  me  remember  this.  ❜  their  plea  may  be  the  most  gentle  request  she  has  received  ──  or  perhaps  it’s  the  tragedy  of  it  all,  making  her  heart  flutter  like  so.  the  fact  that  this  is  the  last  time  that  they  get  to  spend  a  small  eternity  looking  at  each  other,  relearning  the  lines  of  their  face  or  the  way  they  smile.  they  get  to  rediscover  the  flecks  of  colour  in  the  green  of  her  eyes  and  she  gets  to  memorise  their  freckles  once  more.

gunfire  echoes  behind  her,  and  she’s  running  down  a  hallway.  her  shoes  were  discarded  somewhere  back,  her  pace  frantic.  she  knew  this  would  happen,  of  course  ──  a  diversion  was  always  meant  to  be  part  of  the  escape  plan.  it  is  an  undisputed  classic,  and  it  is  a  classic  for  a  reason:  it  is  a  highly  effective  way  to  keep  anyone  from  noticing  that  there’s  something  in  a  secret  pocket  in  isabele’s  gown.

❛  isa  ──  isa  !  ❜

isabele  freezes,  a  chill  running  down  her  spine  as  though  a  spider  made  of  pure  ice  were  crawling  along  her  back.  

this  is  wrong.

pasi  isn’t  meant  to  be  here.

❛  the  sun’s  coming  up,  ❜  she  whispers.  it’s  barely  audible,  lips  part  in  the  slightest.  she  doesn’t  want  to  ruin  the  moment  by  speaking  ──  but  isabele  is  reminded  of  a  simple  fact:  if  they’re  lucky,  only  one  of  them  would  hypothetically  have  enough  time  to  forget.  the  awards  are  tonight,  their  last  sunrise  spent  together.  one  last  date  ──  a  vow  in  itself:  to  transcend  death  and  remember  each  other  for  eternity,  no  matter  what.  it  is  an  act  of  defiance  against  the  forces  that  want  to  keep  them  apart.

they’ve  always  been  a  tragedy  -  touched  pair,  and  yet,  they’ve  managed  to  love  each  other  through  it  all  ──  they’ve  conquered  grief  with  held  hands,  defeated  death  with  an  embrace.  they  do  the  same  now,  basking  in  the  warm  glow  of  a  rising  sun  that  gives  them  one  last  day.

❛  it’s  beautiful,  ❜  they  whisper  in  return.  their  eyes  are  still  locked  on  hers.

it’s  chaos.

broken  glass  litters  the  floor  of  the  main  ballroom  after  the  destruction  of  a  window  from  someone  hidden  in  a  pocket  of  congealed  shadows.  enveloped  by  darkness,  she  knows  that  said  member  of  her  team  will  not  ──  cannot  ──  be  found  in  time.

but  pasi  does  not  know  this.

pasi  runs  towards  her  and  envelops  her  in  their  arms  ──  god,  their  heart  beats  too  fast,  hammering  against  their  chest  at  frantic  pace.  isabele  is  too  stunned  to  do  anything  but  blink  in  shock,  feeling  dread  rapidly  piling  up,  the  world  being  placed  on  atlas’  shoulders.  the  weight  of  a  life  in  the  pocket  of  her  gown.

❛  are  you  hurt  ?  ──  let  me  look  at  you,  ❜  they  say,  frantically,  pulling  back.  she’s  dishevelled,  but  unharmed.  so  are  they.  with  a  breath  of  relief,  isabele  throws  herself  back  into  pasi’s  arms  ──  pasi,  her  beloved  pasi,  who  held  her  so  gently  just  that  morning.  they  kiss  her  forehead,  and  this  is  when  she  notices  that  she’s  been  crying  ──  this  is  when  she  breaks  altogether,  a  sob  escaping  her  as  she  curls  into  them  and  holds  onto  them  tightly.

❛  pasi  ──  pasi,  please  ──  ❜

what  is  she  begging  for  ?  perhaps  isabele  is  begging  them  to  leave  ──  it  was  easier  to  go  through  with  the  plan  when  she  did  not  have  to  look  them  in  the  eye,  when  she  was  blinded  to  the  stakes  by  the  desire  to  live  another  day,  to  see  another  sunrise  and  a  sunset  and  a  sunrise,  and  so  on,  in  a  long  -  lasting  chain  of  days  with  peaceful  endings.  but  is  there  peace  to  know  when  two  -  thirds  of  the  murder  is  to  be  gone  ?  perhaps  isabele  is  begging  them  to  stay  ──  it  is  easier  to  forget  about  the  stakes  like  this,  when  they  kiss  their  forehead  and  they  hold  each  other.  they’re  also  crying.

❛  i’m  right  here.  my  isa,  i  am  not  letting  go.  ❜

❛  here,  ❜  isabele  says,  taking  off  her  ruby  necklace  and  putting  it  around  their  neck.

❛  here,  ❜  isabele  says,  taking  the  last  tear  of  heaven  out  of  her  pocket  and  placing  it  in  one  of  their  hands.  they  look  at  her  in  a  moment  of  pure  shock  ──  for  once,  isabele  cannot  tell  what  they  are  thinking.  she  can  only  see  the  dread  ──  because  fate  is  quite  literally  in  their  hand  now.  they  get  to  decide  who  lives.  who  dies.

oh,  but  by  handing  the  tear  to  them,  isabele  has  already  made  that  decision.  almost.

❛  nightingale  !  where  the  fuck  are  you  ?  ❜

no.

❛  promise  me  you’ll  wear  it  ?  for  me.  there’s  gold  in  it.  we’ll  match.  you  always  love  it  when  we  match.  ❜

warden  comes  running  in  her  direction,  and  isabele  frantically  makes  pasi’s  hand  close  around  the  tear  ──  but  they  shake  their  head  and  try  to  give  it  back,  and  it  is  a  terrifying  push  and  pull  where  neither  of  them  wants  to  condemn  the  other.  take  it,  pasi,  please  ──  no,  my  isa,  it  is  yours.

it  all  happens  too  fast.  it’s  a  blur  of  motion.  it  is  warden  grabbing  her  by  the  midsection  and  pulling  her  out  of  pasi’s  embrace,  it  is  her  sobbing  and  kicking  and  screaming,  crying  out  no  and  pasi  and  please  so  many  times  that  her  throat  goes  raw,  nightingale’s  sweet  voice  turned  to  shrieks  touched  by  all  -  consuming  sorrow.  pasi  lets  warden  take  her,  but  isabele  still  refuses  to  let  her  hands  close  around  the  tear.

time  is  running  out.

pasi  picks  it  up  and  solemnly  puts  it  around  her  neck  when  she  is  too  debilitated  by  her  own  struggle  to  fight  back  ──  and  in  this,  there  is  a  moment  of  finality.  acceptance.  they  know  this,  too.  they  give  her  a  sad  smile  and  press  a  kiss  to  her  forehead.

❛  i  swear  it.  i  love  you,  my  isa.  ❜

❛  i  love  you  too,  my  pasi.  ❜

❛  promise  you’ll  remember  me  ?  ❜

they’ve  always  wanted  to  be  forgotten,  yet  they  choose  her  heart  to  take  residence  in  when  they  are  gone.  she’s  stopped  fighting  by  now,  but  warden  still  won’t  let  go.  he  doesn���t  trust  her  ──  as  he  shouldn’t,  for  isabele  would  sooner  be  the  one  becoming  a  phantom  that  exists  solely  in  sunlight  -  dipped  memories  floating  around  the  beautiful  heart  within  their  ribcage  than  be  the  one  who  dons  the  black  of  mourning  once  again  in  life.  grief  has  chosen  her,  though  ──  silly  of  her  to  think  she  would  ever  fully  climb  out  of  its  jaws.

she  pulls  them  in  and  presses  a  kiss  to  their  lips.

❛  i  swear  it.  i  love  you,  my  pasi.  ❜

they  leave  that  morning  to  return  to  their  team,  and  she’s  left  alone  in  the  sunlight.

one  day,  she  will  watch  every  sunrise  with  a  gold  bracelet  on  her  wrist.

#FUCK you ever #𓅪 ❛ 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐘. ‣‣ ( MEMES. ) ❜ #𓅪 ❛ 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄. ‣‣ ( GCDHOODS. ) ❜

[nvghtingale]

𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄  ─  AUGUST  12TH  1987

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍  ─  VERUM

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒  ─  CLOSED  FOR  @gcdhoods​

𝐒𝐇𝐄  𝐖𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒  𝐔𝐏  𝐈𝐍  𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑  arms,  as  she  does  every  morning.  nearly  an  entire  season  performing  at  the  anastasius  venator  opera  house  behind  her,  a  number  of  heists  under  the  codename  she  has  been  granted  ─  isabele  de  azevedo’s  name  passed  from  one  set  of  lips  to  another  in  the  language  of  reverence,  that  of  nightingale  passed  along  her  peers  where  she  is  treated  as  another  member  of  a  larger  group.  one  which  has  earned  her  own  respect,  her  own  affection  ─  after  all,  it  is  one  that  gave  them  to  her.

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌,  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐎𝐍𝐄  𝐖𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐄  𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐒  are  wrapped  around  her  waist  and  whose  head  rests  on  the  same  pillow  as  hers.  the  sheets  cover  them  both  even  though  the  warmth  is  that  of  hearts  beating  in  tandem,  the  sun  streaming  in  through  a  half  -  open  window  bathes  them  both  in  golden  halo.  there  is  a  laziness  to  it  all,  a  slow  rhythm  to  the  rising  and  falling  of  chests  in  synchronised  dance  despite  the  gentle  silence  filling  an  unofficially  shared  bedroom  ─  she  has  been  calling  this  place  home  for  months  now,  after  all.  the  first  time,  it  slipped  out  and  she’d  put  a  hand  over  her  mouth,  felt  her  cheeks  warm  and  attempted  to  move  on  with  the  conversation  only  to  glance  in  their  direction  and  find  them  just  as  pink  as  herself.  the  second  time,  weeks  later,  it  had  been  intentional.  home  is  not  their  apartment,  she’s  realised  ─  not  the  increasingly  familiar  sight  of  photographs  or  the  records  she’s  already  memorised,  not  the  piano  the  two  of  them  sat  at  together  because  as  usual,  they  were  having  trouble  falling  asleep.  she’d  made  them  a  cup  of  tea,  kissed  their  temple,  and  asked  them  to  hold  her  knowing  her  presence  would  help  scare  the  ghosts  away.

𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐄  𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐒  𝐓𝐎  𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄  𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌  gently,  so  she  turns  around  as  slowly  as  she  possibly  can  ─  a  feat  in  itself,  not  to  slip  out  from  their  arms  (  she  doesn’t  want  to,  she  doesn’t  believe  that  she  could  ever  want  to  )  yet  she  successfully  stays  in  their  hold  by  the  time  she  faces  them.  a  feat  in  itself,  not  to  press  the  softest  of  kisses  to  each  one  of  their  features.  god,  they’re  so  beautiful.  isabele  presses  her  lips  to  theirs  gently,  brings  hers  to  their  ear  to  whisper  into  it:  

❛  𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐘  𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓  𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐀𝐑𝐘,  𝐌𝐘  𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄.  ❜

#𓅪 ❛ 𝐈𝐂. ‣‣ ( PROSE. ) ❜ #𓅪 ❛ 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍. ‣‣ ( GCDHOODS. ) ❜ #hehe #surprise <3