These are words to live by. Angry about your life turning upside down? Punch something. Haunted by the guilt of your own sordid and contemptible actions? Punch something. Spill coffee on your favorite shirt? Rear back an arm, thrust that arm forward and bask in the sweet electric shocks of pain through your knuckles. This intemperate advice finds its way to South Dakota, and by way of a miracle, she's coaxed into Carolina's yard for an impromptu spar.
The rest goes unsaid; that's if you can land a hit.
So, her yard. It's nothing special. You only need a few things to make a space like this function as a training floor. Namely, space. A dirt circle to step, old farm supplies hauled out of the way. A sandbag swings from the thick wooden branch its tethered to, currently occupied by a small, bipedal dog throwing punches like its life depends on it. Carolina doesn't know what this thing's problem is. She feeds it sometimes. She'll spot it in the early hours of the morning, hiding in a bush to watch her train. Whatever, it's doing its own thing.
"You can't lay around drinking booze all day and expect to feel better. So, you're bored? Do something about it. You have energy? Put it somewhere. Save your liver from giving out."
Carolina walks a slow back-and-forward line across the dirt. She's just finished wrapping her knuckles in tape; bends her neck and feels the vertebrae pop. There's an unmistakable focus to her; a lightness in each step. She's lethal. The best of the best. This is South's problem now.
"Sure you don't wanna fight as a matched set? I could call North."
(What's a spar without some friendly taunting as foreplay?)
She feels stupid for coming, now she's here. Mostly-sober and regretting that fact more with every passing second, South looks around Carolina's yard like it's going to bite her, somehow. Weird little blue dog thing over at the punching bag. Bunch of fucking farm supplies. Dirt. Lots of dirt. Just so much fucking dirt.
With so little to her name, she even has to borrow the tape to wrap her fists and she quietly resents that, too. She's used to that, piles upon piles of tiny little resentments that grow until they start to overflow and start hitting people. (Until she starts hitting people.) What's one more?
She steps into the circle anyway, stood firm at her chosen spot and just watches Carolina's slow back-and-forth with those ice-blue eyes that look equal parts sharp and exhausted. Rolls her shoulders. Cracks her knuckles.
"Ha, yeah, no—not unless you really want to lose a few fucking teeth in the next five minutes," she snaps back, bouncing loose on her heels, less preparatory than it is restless energy leaking out. "But maybe you're into that."
It's really not a good return zinger, but it's the best she's got right now.
"That's the spirit. Aspirations." The unrealistic kind, she means. The crayon self-portrait of yourself as president kind. Carolina shakes her legs loose. If South has retained any memory of how she fights, she'll know to watch out for those. Her fists are accessory; a pretty handbag you can break someone's nose with. "What, like you?"
I know you don't like me. That's fine. Utilize it.
South's big. She hits hard. Harder when she's angry, and twice as much with Carolina as an opponent. Another agent might choose to play defensive— wait for South to make the first move. Carolina isn't another agent. She's Carolina, and she strikes first and certain.
She charges. Dirt breaks under her heel. Where South Dakota is large, Carolina is fast, a blur of skin and red scalp against the shabby half-light of that afternoon. She siphons all her weight into her left heel, brings her opposite knee up and goes for a round kick, a one— two— three beat. Pelvis, ribs, face.
If the tips of South's ears go a little red (from rage or embarrassment? Yes) then no, actually, they didn't. Snorting air like a pissed off bull again, she refuses to rise to the bait, just raises her fists in a loose stance and waits for the strike she knows is coming. No chance in hell that Carolina lets her get in first. Nah. No way.
Carolina lunges, and South arcs back, reduces the strike at her pelvis to barely a brush and blocks her ribs with a cross-block, her face by throwing the leg away with the flat of her arm. Each point of contact brief and yet a flash of pain—sharp, and focusing, in the way it keeps her grounded in her own nervous system. (Maybe this is just what she needs.)
Her turn. She springs off her back heel, throwing herself back at Carolina fist-first—a wide swing to make her swerve, an uppercut aimed at the diaphragm, twisting on the ball of her feet to build momentum to backhand her in the face. Nothing held back. No holds barred. Pure, unrestricted strength and momentum, chaining one into the other with no sign of a break unless you force one.
Here comes the fists. They're an asset of South's, aside from the sheer size of her. They break air with the force of trains charging at full speed, squealing and spitting sparks on their tracks, and if she looked up to South panting out billows of steam, she wouldn't be surprised.
Carolina back-steps. The swerve meets air. South's on her again, ready to pulverize her organs, wreck her face— a bull rearing forward to spear Carolina's guard on her horns until it bleeds. She won't let her in so easily. Disengage and strike at a new angle. Ignore the pain flowering between her ribs, through her cheek. Carolina throws up her arms and dives into a back-handspring, drilling her toe up under South's chin, if she can catch her. A parting gift as she repositions herself a short distance away.
And forward again, using her shoulder to threaten South's guard. Jab upward with her elbow, strike at the throat, disengage with enough space for a hook kick and bask in the sweat sliding down her neck.
(When's the last time someone challenged you like this?)
One of those overdramatic, acrobatic flips of hers and South's teeth crack together so hard she'd be surprised if it didn't chip a couple, jaw throbbing and a shooting pain rocketing up the side of her skull. She spits, saliva tinted with the faintest hints of red, and barely looks back in time to throw her arms back up between them.
The block falls apart like Carolina's thrown herself through a brick wall and South avoids getting an elbow to the windpipe by millimetres, breathing hard and tasting iron. That's where her luck ends: Carolina's heel catches the side of her skull and the pain returns in a bright, burning starburst that blots her vision white for a half-second. Fucking hell, legs like fucking vipers—
Half-blindly, South grabs for Carolina's ankle on its way down and yanks—dirty fighting, technique and etiquette be damned. Throw her off rhythm, off balance, down to the fucking ground if she can manage it.
The impact of ankle to skull tolls like a bell through her leg. Carolina draws her tongue across her teeth, thoughtless gesture, wetting her mouth in the in-between. Good, she tells herself. Good. Just like that. Eight or so terrible months with nothing to do, no facilities to use, damned to sandbags and dirt circles and punching angry holes in her walls with no reciprocation— and she's fine. See? No worse-off than before.
(The stakes to this are larger than she's comfortable with. If she loses— unthinkable— it'll go in with the fast-growing mass of losses she's accumulated since she got here. Watch as it shoulders right up to her cold, dead body and the memory of that siege of black, come down on her like a wave. You can do this, she thinks— you're enjoying yourself— because if she doesn't, it's death all over again.)
Fuck—
Distracted.
Carolina yelps. Her stomach summersaults and her back hits the dirt with a force that squeezes her breath out like paste from a tube. There's one place you don't want to be in a fight, and that's on your back with someone on top of you. She tries her best to roll away.
One morning, South is caught outside by a familiar figure.
A teeny tiny cartoon-like person, dressed as a cowboy with a hidden face, toting around a weird little megaphone. South likely would have seen them without these face coverings at the Mittvinter party, being that they're close to Capochin and Hector as well as Carolina. Plus, they work closely with the Bizzyboys for similar reasons, so South would know them from work. They've just never spoken.
The primary reason for this being that they, in fact, generally do not speak.
Holding up that odd megaphone, they tweak a setting and pull the trigger, which prompts a "howdy" to emerge from the bullhorn in the voice of a rugged-sounding man. Then, upon pulling out a letter, they play another bit of audio, this time recognizably in Haley's voice. "Hey, this one's for you!"
They present her with the envelope, which prominently states that it is from North, addressed to her.
South stops short when they approach her. Of course she recognises them, they cut a pretty distinctive figure and she's vaguely aware that they run mail around thanks to their dealings with the Bizzies, but well, she doesn't get a lot of mail (any mail). And she really didn't socialise as much at Mittvinter as Carolina probably hoped she would. So she's a little caught off guard even before the megaphone starts speaking for them.
...huh. Sort of reminds her of her voice modulator, but that doesn't seem like what it actually is.
"Oh, uh— hey, thanks, Pokey." (That's the right name, right...?) She accepts the envelope as she speaks, turning it around to read it properly and— oh.
It's stupid, probably, but since they woke up from that weird nightmare she... hasn't reached out to North. The idea was always for him to call her when the time was right, and, even after everything they said in the caverns, she just couldn't bring herself to go against it. It's his call. It has to be his call. (And maybe she's been just a little scared she dreamed it all up.)
But this— Pokey will see a whole face journey happen in the split second before she tears the envelope open.
Pokey salutes, merrily and with poor form compared to someone actually in the military, before giving her a moment to read.
They linger, knowing what it is already, and that they will need to take something in return.
Within the envelope is what appears to be a legal form, marked with the "Pinhole Printing & Binding" label indicating who created it. The contents, however, are utterly ridiculous.
It comes with a similar fill-in-the-blank return form for South, and an envelope pre-addressed to North.
Once it seems like South has read it, Pokey is already on standby to offer her a nice red pen. How courteous!
"What the fuck...?" is the first thing out of her mouth as she pulls the form out, only able to tell that it is, in fact, a form of some kind before she looks closer. Which she does, squinting and muttering to herself as she reads part of it aloud under her breath, eyes slowly widening and expression shifting subtly until suddenly—
She just starts cackling.
"Holy fucking shit, he's such an asshole!" No one has ever made the word sound so fond, the grin splitting her face full as much relief as humour. "This is— this is so fucking stupid. This is so stupid."
And still, she immediately accepts the pen. "Thanks. No, seriously, thanks, this is... this is the best fuckin' mail I've ever gotten in my life."
Okay, that's stupid, but it feels true right now. This means something. This means a lot of things. Any fear that he's had second thoughts flew out the window about the time she read the stupid fart threat. He's— he's being his stupid, dork ass again. This is good. This is amazing.
She crouches down so she can use her own knees as a writing surface, chewing her bottom lip as she fills out her own return form.
She triple-checks the thing, then passes it in the envelope back to Pokey. "Okay, there."
Hooray! Mail success. They tuck the letter in their bag, give her a very enthusiastic thumbs up, and off they go back down the road to North's place. It's not far, after all.
Less than an hour passes, and they are back again, this time with yet another letter. They wave it over their head as soon as South can see them, picking up their pace to a jog and pressing it eagerly into her hands. This one's a good one.
Doesn't matter if she'd been planning to go back in soon, instead of stay out working some more on one of the odd jobs Lina's got her on; when Pokey leaves, South stays out in the snow, completely unable to focus on said odd job and mostly fidgeting restlessly. Sitting down, standing up again, pacing a bit—rinse, repeat.
She scrambles to her knees when she sees them coming back and opens the thing even more eagerly than the first, and—
South is not going to cry in front of the mail carrier that also happens to be one of Lina's closest friends. She is absolutely not going to do that. But fuck if her eyes don't get a little misty before she manages to blink the feeling back, sniffing in a way she'd blame on the cold if questioned. It's still so stupid. Stupid in that way North is when he's feeling like himself, stupid in that way he does to make people—make her—laugh, and it is the most reassuring, hopeful thing she's experienced in weeks.
"I-I gotta uh—" She clears her throat. Seriously, no crying. "—tell Lina, grab my shit, but uh— but you can tell him I'm coming home?" Again, less uncertain: "I'm coming home."
There's a letter in the Dakotas' mailbox one morning, before they even wake up. Seems like someone did the mail rounds by the farmhouse extra early that day. The font it's written in is simple and neat. Maybe even familiar.
Hi South,
Catherine told me what happened. She was pretty upset about what was said. I'm guessing she said things that weren't fair either, but I know that what you said is the reason why you won't meet my eye anymore, or Capochin's, or Hector's.
I want you to know that I understand. For a very long time, you've only ever had one family member that's stuck with you through thick and thin. You have a very specific idea of what family is, and you thought you lost him, just like Catherine thought she lost me. It's been hard on everyone and I can only imagine what you've been through.
But I want you to know that what makes North your family isn't blood. It isn't even that you've known him from birth. And I think you know that, too, but I also believe it bears repeating. What makes North your family is love. The fact that he's there for you, shows up for you the way that other people don't. I've seen it for myself, delivering your mail the day you reconnected. Blood helps, and you got a head start by being twins, but family exists outside of those confines. There aren't any rules--- it's all about connection. And if you didn't have that connection with your brother, the blood ties wouldn't hold either. He gets to be that because of who he is, not how he was born. And I think it's worth considering how many people wouldn't have family at all if it weren't for breaking those rules.
Maybe I'm being presumptuous, but I'm going to suppose that the reason you said those things is because you felt you needed your pain to be equal to or greater than hers in order to be taken seriously. That by asking for space, you felt she was invalidating you. That you needed her, but she needed room, and that hurt you. I'm sorry that happened. A conflict of needs between grieving people is a hard thing to navigate. She loves you very much, but she had different needs in that moment and it struck against what you needed in a way that hurt. I might be off base, but I hope that I'm not, and that you feel like you've been seen. You are my friend and I love you very much, and I think you deserve to feel seen. I know Capochin sees you often. He worries about you. He'd like it if he could feel connected to you again.
I'm not going to tell him or Hector what happened, and I don't think Cat is either. Things said under duress don't deserve to be ammunition to hurt each other more than we've already been hurt. We all went through something terrible, designed to cause us pain, and I feel we can spit in the face of that intention by finding unity with each other. I think if you wanted to talk to them yourself, that'd be okay, but I might advise getting some space from the situation first. But I don't think it'd make them hate you. It's not like they don't say mean things to other people, including each other, when they're stressed.
Anyway, the long and the short of it is, I am a little upset by what you said, but it's not enough to make me hate you. You're still my friend and I'm here for you if you want to talk. I don't think you're a bad person. I hope you're doing better now that you're home with your brother. From someone who was in his shoes--- go easy on him. It isn't easy to live with having made a decision like that.
Also, I'd like to hang out with you again sometime soon. If you wanted to go dig for dragon fossils this weekend and then grab a drink, I think that would be fun. Write me back?
South has to put the letter down several times to pace around the yard or go wail on her punching bag before she manages to finish it. Emotions too big, too volatile, to just sit with without pause, without a chance to expel them. (North and Theta are still inside, asleep. She was too restless even to lie in with them, today, decided to get up to spare them the disturbance when they need their rest now more than ever. It's the only reason she can read it at all.)
Why are they being so nice? Carolina hasn't even talked to her since they got back and, fuck, it's not like she can blame her. Why would she want to talk to her ever again, after she was so fucking cruel? They weren't friends (that's not true) she was just... just a problem Carolina had to manage (that feels true). So why would Pokey... how are they so...
Eventually, she ducks back inside to grab paper and a pen. Her already scrawly handwriting isn't made any better by trying to write sitting on the rear porch steps, paper on the wood beside her.
i'm sorry. fuck i'm so sorry.
i didn't mean it. or i guess i did when i said it but. i dont know. sometimes i say things bc i know its the thing thatll hurt. and i was so fucking and i didnt know what i did
i didnt know. i thought she just didnt want MY help. didnt want to help mebe my friend talk to me. i was stupid. i didnt know what else i was supposed to do she's the best friend i've ever had and i dont know how
youre not wrong. about me. or me and dmitri. im trying to help him. and his kids not even human let alone related by blood. i can't believe i said all i dont think i understand family very well. sorry excuses
i cant drink. but that might be nice
sorry again south
She stuffs it back in the letterbox and tries to keep herself busy instead of checking if they've come by for a response.
If it wasn't for what they say, she wouldn't even recognise the voice. Honestly she... kind of assumed they just couldn't talk, at all, but Maine never talked much before he actually lost his voice either so maybe that was a stupid assumption.
"Pokey?" Stupid question. She clears her throat, and keeps her voice low mostly because she doesn't want North and Theta overhearing her now they're bustling about. "...guess mocktails could be fun. I never uh, really did cocktails anyway, but."
Probably makes it even less likely to chance pushing her off the wagon, something that feels more and more of a risk by the day. (Sleep is... sleep is bad, right now.)
"Yeah, it's really good stuff. Sometimes it's nice to have something fun to drink, you know?" They'll stuff their hat extra good to make sure the noisy music bar doesn't destroy their ears. They've done it before for outings with Patty. "And maybe at the dig site we can find some buried treasure to impress our girlfriends with, heheh."
Two weeks, two days (the hour's a little harder to remember) since they last spoke. She shouldn't call it speaking. Scratch that, then. Two weeks, two days, an indeterminate number of hours since they last hurled knives at each other. Carolina knows this because she knows everything. No, not really. Her body's clock is too precise to let her lose track, and her mind supplements this ticking with blood and words and should have's.
She'd put herself to work, because she couldn't stand the idea of lying in bed. Thought if she did— if she let herself sleep more than a few hours— she'd never find the strength to get up again. She hurts quietly and rigidly and keeps to herself in the proximity of the people she loves.
And decides after two weeks, two days, and a probable handful of hours, that she needs to do something.
Carolina calls South on her sending stone. She fusses with her engagement ring.
"Hey. You there? It's Carolina. I want to talk... in person—" a beat, shuffling, "—if that's fine."
Even after talking to Pokey, South... kind of figures they're done for good. Hard to fight off the part of her brain that feels silence like a forest fire raging through her synapses, making it near impossible to think through the smog. No one would look at them and think Carolina was in the wrong to decide she'd had enough. Not after everything she's put her through for nothing in return.
So she all but jumps out of her skin when it's her voice that rings out from the other end of the line.
"Ca—" her throat closes. Can't pick a name. "...u-uh. Yeah. Where?"
It's finally getting warmer, after all, and she's had some help over the last two weeks picking weeds and cutting the wild lawn. It looks almost presentable. It's where she sits now, chin in one palm— her hands are bandaged— staring out through the fence at her budding strawberry patches. She can't bring herself to care about the harvest— and yet the work's done anyway.
South sits up and stares out the window of her room where she's been laying since she told North she needed a nap, doing absolutely fuck all. Just... needed time to be broken without worrying the boys. They're outside. Doing things that need to be done. Keeping busy.
"...nah, I'm not doing anything. Gimme uh— gimme a few minutes. I'll be there."
Then she pulls herself to her feet and forces herself to get dressed.
"Take your time. I'm not, ah..." She rolls a stone under her bare foot, "...not going anywhere."
She's not.
"Okay, b— see you."
Carolina pockets her stone. She's anxious. Anticipatory. Her palms are wet and she rubs them on her pants to dry them, skin against gauze against fabric, then waits to see how long it takes for them to get damp again. No reason for this, just something to pay attention to. Be conscious of her body— of the choice to rub her knees. And she waits.
...South refuses to let herself read into the word choice. She let herself hope once and got slapped in the face for it, she's not going to assume anything about this conversation until it happens (except, of course, for the fact she's assuming the worst anyway).
She pulls on the cleanest of her growing pile of needs-to-be-washed clothes, but doesn't bother to comb her hair into anything more presentable. Considers ducking out without telling the others where she's going, but... if they come to check on her and she's gone, they'll freak out, so, she pulls it together enough to go through the yard. Ruffles Theta's hair, kisses North's cheek in a stupid overdramatic way to try and make him laugh, then leaves for Carolina's.
Even then, she stalls at the gate. Has to take a deep, grounding breath to push ahead, to approach and join Carolina on the porch. She doesn't sit down.
What does she even say? Greetings all feel stupid. Pointless. They already did that. So what falls out of her mouth is a heavy: "...I'm sorry. Fuck, I'm so fucking sorry."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Hit Me Once / Early November in Carolina's Yard
"What you need is to punch something."
These are words to live by. Angry about your life turning upside down? Punch something. Haunted by the guilt of your own sordid and contemptible actions? Punch something. Spill coffee on your favorite shirt? Rear back an arm, thrust that arm forward and bask in the sweet electric shocks of pain through your knuckles. This intemperate advice finds its way to South Dakota, and by way of a miracle, she's coaxed into Carolina's yard for an impromptu spar.
The rest goes unsaid; that's if you can land a hit.
So, her yard. It's nothing special. You only need a few things to make a space like this function as a training floor. Namely, space. A dirt circle to step, old farm supplies hauled out of the way. A sandbag swings from the thick wooden branch its tethered to, currently occupied by a small, bipedal dog throwing punches like its life depends on it. Carolina doesn't know what this thing's problem is. She feeds it sometimes. She'll spot it in the early hours of the morning, hiding in a bush to watch her train. Whatever, it's doing its own thing.
"You can't lay around drinking booze all day and expect to feel better. So, you're bored? Do something about it. You have energy? Put it somewhere. Save your liver from giving out."
Carolina walks a slow back-and-forward line across the dirt. She's just finished wrapping her knuckles in tape; bends her neck and feels the vertebrae pop. There's an unmistakable focus to her; a lightness in each step. She's lethal. The best of the best. This is South's problem now.
"Sure you don't wanna fight as a matched set? I could call North."
(What's a spar without some friendly taunting as foreplay?)
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She feels stupid for coming, now she's here. Mostly-sober and regretting that fact more with every passing second, South looks around Carolina's yard like it's going to bite her, somehow. Weird little blue dog thing over at the punching bag. Bunch of fucking farm supplies. Dirt. Lots of dirt. Just so much fucking dirt.
With so little to her name, she even has to borrow the tape to wrap her fists and she quietly resents that, too. She's used to that, piles upon piles of tiny little resentments that grow until they start to overflow and start hitting people. (Until she starts hitting people.) What's one more?
She steps into the circle anyway, stood firm at her chosen spot and just watches Carolina's slow back-and-forth with those ice-blue eyes that look equal parts sharp and exhausted. Rolls her shoulders. Cracks her knuckles.
"Ha, yeah, no—not unless you really want to lose a few fucking teeth in the next five minutes," she snaps back, bouncing loose on her heels, less preparatory than it is restless energy leaking out. "But maybe you're into that."
It's really not a good return zinger, but it's the best she's got right now.
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"That's the spirit. Aspirations." The unrealistic kind, she means. The crayon self-portrait of yourself as president kind. Carolina shakes her legs loose. If South has retained any memory of how she fights, she'll know to watch out for those. Her fists are accessory; a pretty handbag you can break someone's nose with. "What, like you?"
I know you don't like me. That's fine. Utilize it.
South's big. She hits hard. Harder when she's angry, and twice as much with Carolina as an opponent. Another agent might choose to play defensive— wait for South to make the first move. Carolina isn't another agent. She's Carolina, and she strikes first and certain.
She charges. Dirt breaks under her heel. Where South Dakota is large, Carolina is fast, a blur of skin and red scalp against the shabby half-light of that afternoon. She siphons all her weight into her left heel, brings her opposite knee up and goes for a round kick, a one— two— three beat. Pelvis, ribs, face.
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If the tips of South's ears go a little red (from rage or embarrassment? Yes) then no, actually, they didn't. Snorting air like a pissed off bull again, she refuses to rise to the bait, just raises her fists in a loose stance and waits for the strike she knows is coming. No chance in hell that Carolina lets her get in first. Nah. No way.
Carolina lunges, and South arcs back, reduces the strike at her pelvis to barely a brush and blocks her ribs with a cross-block, her face by throwing the leg away with the flat of her arm. Each point of contact brief and yet a flash of pain—sharp, and focusing, in the way it keeps her grounded in her own nervous system. (Maybe this is just what she needs.)
Her turn. She springs off her back heel, throwing herself back at Carolina fist-first—a wide swing to make her swerve, an uppercut aimed at the diaphragm, twisting on the ball of her feet to build momentum to backhand her in the face. Nothing held back. No holds barred. Pure, unrestricted strength and momentum, chaining one into the other with no sign of a break unless you force one.
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Here comes the fists. They're an asset of South's, aside from the sheer size of her. They break air with the force of trains charging at full speed, squealing and spitting sparks on their tracks, and if she looked up to South panting out billows of steam, she wouldn't be surprised.
Carolina back-steps. The swerve meets air. South's on her again, ready to pulverize her organs, wreck her face— a bull rearing forward to spear Carolina's guard on her horns until it bleeds. She won't let her in so easily. Disengage and strike at a new angle. Ignore the pain flowering between her ribs, through her cheek. Carolina throws up her arms and dives into a back-handspring, drilling her toe up under South's chin, if she can catch her. A parting gift as she repositions herself a short distance away.
And forward again, using her shoulder to threaten South's guard. Jab upward with her elbow, strike at the throat, disengage with enough space for a hook kick and bask in the sweat sliding down her neck.
(When's the last time someone challenged you like this?)
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One of those overdramatic, acrobatic flips of hers and South's teeth crack together so hard she'd be surprised if it didn't chip a couple, jaw throbbing and a shooting pain rocketing up the side of her skull. She spits, saliva tinted with the faintest hints of red, and barely looks back in time to throw her arms back up between them.
The block falls apart like Carolina's thrown herself through a brick wall and South avoids getting an elbow to the windpipe by millimetres, breathing hard and tasting iron. That's where her luck ends: Carolina's heel catches the side of her skull and the pain returns in a bright, burning starburst that blots her vision white for a half-second. Fucking hell, legs like fucking vipers—
Half-blindly, South grabs for Carolina's ankle on its way down and yanks—dirty fighting, technique and etiquette be damned. Throw her off rhythm, off balance, down to the fucking ground if she can manage it.
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The impact of ankle to skull tolls like a bell through her leg. Carolina draws her tongue across her teeth, thoughtless gesture, wetting her mouth in the in-between. Good, she tells herself. Good. Just like that. Eight or so terrible months with nothing to do, no facilities to use, damned to sandbags and dirt circles and punching angry holes in her walls with no reciprocation— and she's fine. See? No worse-off than before.
(The stakes to this are larger than she's comfortable with. If she loses— unthinkable— it'll go in with the fast-growing mass of losses she's accumulated since she got here. Watch as it shoulders right up to her cold, dead body and the memory of that siege of black, come down on her like a wave. You can do this, she thinks— you're enjoying yourself— because if she doesn't, it's death all over again.)
Fuck—
Distracted.
Carolina yelps. Her stomach summersaults and her back hits the dirt with a force that squeezes her breath out like paste from a tube. There's one place you don't want to be in a fight, and that's on your back with someone on top of you. She tries her best to roll away.
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cw: emeto metaphors
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Wrap?
wrap!
Gone Postal [Late January]
A teeny tiny cartoon-like person, dressed as a cowboy with a hidden face, toting around a weird little megaphone. South likely would have seen them without these face coverings at the Mittvinter party, being that they're close to Capochin and Hector as well as Carolina. Plus, they work closely with the Bizzyboys for similar reasons, so South would know them from work. They've just never spoken.
The primary reason for this being that they, in fact, generally do not speak.
Holding up that odd megaphone, they tweak a setting and pull the trigger, which prompts a "howdy" to emerge from the bullhorn in the voice of a rugged-sounding man. Then, upon pulling out a letter, they play another bit of audio, this time recognizably in Haley's voice. "Hey, this one's for you!"
They present her with the envelope, which prominently states that it is from North, addressed to her.
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South stops short when they approach her. Of course she recognises them, they cut a pretty distinctive figure and she's vaguely aware that they run mail around thanks to their dealings with the Bizzies, but well, she doesn't get a lot of mail (any mail). And she really didn't socialise as much at Mittvinter as Carolina probably hoped she would. So she's a little caught off guard even before the megaphone starts speaking for them.
...huh. Sort of reminds her of her voice modulator, but that doesn't seem like what it actually is.
"Oh, uh— hey, thanks, Pokey." (That's the right name, right...?) She accepts the envelope as she speaks, turning it around to read it properly and— oh.
It's stupid, probably, but since they woke up from that weird nightmare she... hasn't reached out to North. The idea was always for him to call her when the time was right, and, even after everything they said in the caverns, she just couldn't bring herself to go against it. It's his call. It has to be his call. (And maybe she's been just a little scared she dreamed it all up.)
But this— Pokey will see a whole face journey happen in the split second before she tears the envelope open.
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They linger, knowing what it is already, and that they will need to take something in return.
Within the envelope is what appears to be a legal form, marked with the "Pinhole Printing & Binding" label indicating who created it. The contents, however, are utterly ridiculous.
It comes with a similar fill-in-the-blank return form for South, and an envelope pre-addressed to North.
Once it seems like South has read it, Pokey is already on standby to offer her a nice red pen. How courteous!
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"What the fuck...?" is the first thing out of her mouth as she pulls the form out, only able to tell that it is, in fact, a form of some kind before she looks closer. Which she does, squinting and muttering to herself as she reads part of it aloud under her breath, eyes slowly widening and expression shifting subtly until suddenly—
She just starts cackling.
"Holy fucking shit, he's such an asshole!" No one has ever made the word sound so fond, the grin splitting her face full as much relief as humour. "This is— this is so fucking stupid. This is so stupid."
And still, she immediately accepts the pen. "Thanks. No, seriously, thanks, this is... this is the best fuckin' mail I've ever gotten in my life."
Okay, that's stupid, but it feels true right now. This means something. This means a lot of things. Any fear that he's had second thoughts flew out the window about the time she read the stupid fart threat. He's— he's being his stupid, dork ass again. This is good. This is amazing.
She crouches down so she can use her own knees as a writing surface, chewing her bottom lip as she fills out her own return form.
She triple-checks the thing, then passes it in the envelope back to Pokey. "Okay, there."
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Less than an hour passes, and they are back again, this time with yet another letter. They wave it over their head as soon as South can see them, picking up their pace to a jog and pressing it eagerly into her hands. This one's a good one.
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Doesn't matter if she'd been planning to go back in soon, instead of stay out working some more on one of the odd jobs Lina's got her on; when Pokey leaves, South stays out in the snow, completely unable to focus on said odd job and mostly fidgeting restlessly. Sitting down, standing up again, pacing a bit—rinse, repeat.
She scrambles to her knees when she sees them coming back and opens the thing even more eagerly than the first, and—
South is not going to cry in front of the mail carrier that also happens to be one of Lina's closest friends. She is absolutely not going to do that. But fuck if her eyes don't get a little misty before she manages to blink the feeling back, sniffing in a way she'd blame on the cold if questioned. It's still so stupid. Stupid in that way North is when he's feeling like himself, stupid in that way he does to make people—make her—laugh, and it is the most reassuring, hopeful thing she's experienced in weeks.
"I-I gotta uh—" She clears her throat. Seriously, no crying. "—tell Lina, grab my shit, but uh— but you can tell him I'm coming home?" Again, less uncertain: "I'm coming home."
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Black Sheep, Come Home | After March 15th
Hi South,
Catherine told me what happened. She was pretty upset about what was said. I'm guessing she said things that weren't fair either, but I know that what you said is the reason why you won't meet my eye anymore, or Capochin's, or Hector's.
I want you to know that I understand. For a very long time, you've only ever had one family member that's stuck with you through thick and thin. You have a very specific idea of what family is, and you thought you lost him, just like Catherine thought she lost me. It's been hard on everyone and I can only imagine what you've been through.
But I want you to know that what makes North your family isn't blood. It isn't even that you've known him from birth. And I think you know that, too, but I also believe it bears repeating. What makes North your family is love. The fact that he's there for you, shows up for you the way that other people don't. I've seen it for myself, delivering your mail the day you reconnected. Blood helps, and you got a head start by being twins, but family exists outside of those confines. There aren't any rules--- it's all about connection. And if you didn't have that connection with your brother, the blood ties wouldn't hold either. He gets to be that because of who he is, not how he was born. And I think it's worth considering how many people wouldn't have family at all if it weren't for breaking those rules.
Maybe I'm being presumptuous, but I'm going to suppose that the reason you said those things is because you felt you needed your pain to be equal to or greater than hers in order to be taken seriously. That by asking for space, you felt she was invalidating you. That you needed her, but she needed room, and that hurt you. I'm sorry that happened. A conflict of needs between grieving people is a hard thing to navigate. She loves you very much, but she had different needs in that moment and it struck against what you needed in a way that hurt. I might be off base, but I hope that I'm not, and that you feel like you've been seen. You are my friend and I love you very much, and I think you deserve to feel seen. I know Capochin sees you often. He worries about you. He'd like it if he could feel connected to you again.
I'm not going to tell him or Hector what happened, and I don't think Cat is either. Things said under duress don't deserve to be ammunition to hurt each other more than we've already been hurt. We all went through something terrible, designed to cause us pain, and I feel we can spit in the face of that intention by finding unity with each other. I think if you wanted to talk to them yourself, that'd be okay, but I might advise getting some space from the situation first. But I don't think it'd make them hate you. It's not like they don't say mean things to other people, including each other, when they're stressed.
Anyway, the long and the short of it is, I am a little upset by what you said, but it's not enough to make me hate you. You're still my friend and I'm here for you if you want to talk. I don't think you're a bad person. I hope you're doing better now that you're home with your brother. From someone who was in his shoes--- go easy on him. It isn't easy to live with having made a decision like that.
Also, I'd like to hang out with you again sometime soon. If you wanted to go dig for dragon fossils this weekend and then grab a drink, I think that would be fun. Write me back?
Your pal,
Pokey
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South has to put the letter down several times to pace around the yard or go wail on her punching bag before she manages to finish it. Emotions too big, too volatile, to just sit with without pause, without a chance to expel them. (North and Theta are still inside, asleep. She was too restless even to lie in with them, today, decided to get up to spare them the disturbance when they need their rest now more than ever. It's the only reason she can read it at all.)
Why are they being so nice? Carolina hasn't even talked to her since they got back and, fuck, it's not like she can blame her. Why would she want to talk to her ever again, after she was so fucking cruel? They weren't friends (that's not true) she was just... just a problem Carolina had to manage (that feels true). So why would Pokey... how are they so...
Eventually, she ducks back inside to grab paper and a pen. Her already scrawly handwriting isn't made any better by trying to write sitting on the rear porch steps, paper on the wood beside her.
i'm sorry.
fuck i'm so sorry.i didn't mean it. or i guess i did when i said it but. i dont know. sometimes i say things bc i know its the thing thatll hurt.
and i was so fuckingand i didnt know what i didi didnt know. i thought she just didnt want MY help. didnt want to
help mebe my friendtalk to me. i was stupid. i didnt know what else i was supposed to doshe's the best friend i've ever had and i dont know howyoure not wrong. about me. or me and dmitri. im trying to help him. and his kids not even human let alone related by blood.
i can't believe i said alli dont think i understand family very well. sorry excusesi cant drink. but that might be nice
sorry again
south
She stuffs it back in the letterbox and tries to keep herself busy instead of checking if they've come by for a response.
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"I forgot you can't drink, sorry about that," says the other person, barely above a murmur, "but Empty Pockets has fun mocktails. And good snacks."
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If it wasn't for what they say, she wouldn't even recognise the voice. Honestly she... kind of assumed they just couldn't talk, at all, but Maine never talked much before he actually lost his voice either so maybe that was a stupid assumption.
"Pokey?" Stupid question. She clears her throat, and keeps her voice low mostly because she doesn't want North and Theta overhearing her now they're bustling about. "...guess mocktails could be fun. I never uh, really did cocktails anyway, but."
Probably makes it even less likely to chance pushing her off the wagon, something that feels more and more of a risk by the day. (Sleep is... sleep is bad, right now.)
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South snorts at that. "Mm. I do like spoiling Haley."
Not the same word, but the same intention. She likes giving Haley nice things. Likes seeing her happy.
"...probably good to. Get out of the house, too, I guess. Dmitri will survive without me for one day."
She hopes.
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In time I'll suck it up | End of March
Two weeks, two days (the hour's a little harder to remember) since they last spoke. She shouldn't call it speaking. Scratch that, then. Two weeks, two days, an indeterminate number of hours since they last hurled knives at each other. Carolina knows this because she knows everything. No, not really. Her body's clock is too precise to let her lose track, and her mind supplements this ticking with blood and words and should have's.
She'd put herself to work, because she couldn't stand the idea of lying in bed. Thought if she did— if she let herself sleep more than a few hours— she'd never find the strength to get up again. She hurts quietly and rigidly and keeps to herself in the proximity of the people she loves.
And decides after two weeks, two days, and a probable handful of hours, that she needs to do something.
Carolina calls South on her sending stone. She fusses with her engagement ring.
"Hey. You there? It's Carolina. I want to talk... in person—" a beat, shuffling, "—if that's fine."
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Even after talking to Pokey, South... kind of figures they're done for good. Hard to fight off the part of her brain that feels silence like a forest fire raging through her synapses, making it near impossible to think through the smog. No one would look at them and think Carolina was in the wrong to decide she'd had enough. Not after everything she's put her through for nothing in return.
So she all but jumps out of her skin when it's her voice that rings out from the other end of the line.
"Ca—" her throat closes. Can't pick a name. "...u-uh. Yeah. Where?"
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"My porch is fine."
It's finally getting warmer, after all, and she's had some help over the last two weeks picking weeds and cutting the wild lawn. It looks almost presentable. It's where she sits now, chin in one palm— her hands are bandaged— staring out through the fence at her budding strawberry patches. She can't bring herself to care about the harvest— and yet the work's done anyway.
"I'm here now, if you aren't doing anything."
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South sits up and stares out the window of her room where she's been laying since she told North she needed a nap, doing absolutely fuck all. Just... needed time to be broken without worrying the boys. They're outside. Doing things that need to be done. Keeping busy.
"...nah, I'm not doing anything. Gimme uh— gimme a few minutes. I'll be there."
Then she pulls herself to her feet and forces herself to get dressed.
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"Take your time. I'm not, ah..." She rolls a stone under her bare foot, "...not going anywhere."
She's not.
"Okay, b— see you."
Carolina pockets her stone. She's anxious. Anticipatory. Her palms are wet and she rubs them on her pants to dry them, skin against gauze against fabric, then waits to see how long it takes for them to get damp again. No reason for this, just something to pay attention to. Be conscious of her body— of the choice to rub her knees. And she waits.
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...South refuses to let herself read into the word choice. She let herself hope once and got slapped in the face for it, she's not going to assume anything about this conversation until it happens (except, of course, for the fact she's assuming the worst anyway).
She pulls on the cleanest of her growing pile of needs-to-be-washed clothes, but doesn't bother to comb her hair into anything more presentable. Considers ducking out without telling the others where she's going, but... if they come to check on her and she's gone, they'll freak out, so, she pulls it together enough to go through the yard. Ruffles Theta's hair, kisses North's cheek in a stupid overdramatic way to try and make him laugh, then leaves for Carolina's.
Even then, she stalls at the gate. Has to take a deep, grounding breath to push ahead, to approach and join Carolina on the porch. She doesn't sit down.
What does she even say? Greetings all feel stupid. Pointless. They already did that. So what falls out of her mouth is a heavy: "...I'm sorry. Fuck, I'm so fucking sorry."
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CW emeto mention
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