meadowlarklogs | Wᴇ ʜɪᴅᴇ ᴏᴜʀ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴs Uɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ sᴜʀғᴀᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴇɴᴅ ( closed )

[Kyna has spent the past few weeks—the lead up to the Quarry, the Quarry itself—hyperfocused on hoping Ian got out. Nothing after that seemed to matter. Logically, she knew things wouldn't go back to the way they were, but nothing could be as miserable, surely. All that mattered was his survival.

Turns out, the week or so after Ian wins is torturous. She gets to reunite with him (all filmed, of course), but that's it. Everyone wants to interview him, to grill him, to fawn over him. Kyna barely gets to see him at all, and she fucking hates it. They've grown up together, and this entire Quarry bullshit has been like losing a part of herself with him gone. Now she gets to watch him put on a brave face while spotting all of the tells that seem like blazing neon to her. He's not okay. He's really not okay, and she can't do anything about it.

Eventually they turn him loose. There's another group of guineas to start obsessing over, after all. He'll be back soon for all those parties and that training bullshit, but for a little while, he gets to come home. Kyna has an iron grip on his hand the entire way back, like she half expects someone to swoop in and steal him away again, and she doesn't let go even when she unlocks their apartment door.

It's already late, and being back with him beside her feels almost surreal. Kyna's seen other victors come home to balloons and banners, but she hasn't done any of that. After everything, it would have felt... ghoulish. Like a mockery. All she wants to do is try to help him feel as comfortable and safe as she possibly can. The problem is, she's not entirely sure how to do that.]

Thank God for no cameras, huh?

[ He is fucking exhausted. He's so exhausted. None of them understand - not the reporters, not parliament, not stylists or publicity people or whoever. They don't get what it's like to walk out having done the kind of shit he did and not have a day of fucking respite. No real time to come to terms with it before being thrust in front of a dozen cameras and made to smile.

It's probably a tactic. Probably some kind of psychological thing meant to immediately condition victors into being the image they're meant to portray. He doesn't know.

He just knows that he runs out of mental energy the day before the last day, and Kyna leading him home is practically like being in a fucking fugue state. It doesn't feel real. His amped up brain's expecting them to walk out in front of another audience, another camera, another anything besides where they actually wind up. The door shuts, and it startles him back into the present.

Quiet apartment.
Private.
Familiar.
Safe.

It's like waking up from a nightmare or a bad trip, suddenly thrust back into reality.

He's silent for a second after her question, and it looks like he's at a complete and total loss over what he's supposed to do. How he's supposed to react. It's like he's forgotten how to be a normal fucking person who just came home, it's bizarre, and he--

Fuck, she brought him home. Instead of answering, he wraps his arms around her shoulders and hangs on too tightly. Squeezes his eyes shut, and blanks on words. ]

[The past few days, Kyna has told herself over and over again that she wasn't going to have a total breakdown. He's been a rock for her so many times, and now she needs to be that for him. She's managed it all the way home, even, but the second he hugs her, everything becomes so much more... immediate. Overwhelming. Hugging him back is pure instinct, but the way she clings is all fear and fierce protectiveness. It's a sort of childish, irrational thought, but it keeps looping through her head: She's never going to let anyone take him away again.

Except when the next fucking party pops up, and she can't be there. He doesn't deserve this shit.

Maybe that's the thing that sets her off, ruins her stupid attempt to "breathe through it". Her vision blurs, and she buries her face in his shoulder so at least he won't see. Nothing can keep the tremble from her voice, though.]

I missed you so, so much.

[ It's probably an absurd image, this tall and lanky young man bent over like a damn sapling tree in order to be able to hug her. Rather, maybe hugging isn't even the right word. It's practically more like he's clinging to her like a fucking kid, like a child. Not even two minutes in the door and the dam's already threatening to break. She says I missed you and he opens his mouth to answer into her shoulder but he knows if he makes any fucking sound at all it's gonna be some kind of a pathetic sob offshoot.

He's trying to hold it together, despite the fact that he's crying into her damn neck.

A long and shaky exhale later he manages to muster up his voice. ]

I--

[ Impressive feat, Fowler. One whole single letter word.

And then stupidly, for reasons he can't even articulate right now, feels himself twist up with some kind of guilt. The impulse that he's done her wrong somehow. Hoarsely, throat catching: ]

I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

[ For getting caught. Putting her through that, leaving her. Being a fucking mess right now.

Killing someone. Killing people, plural. ]

[It utterly breaks her heart, the way he's bent over, the way he doesn't even seem to trust himself to speak. The apology totally shatters it, and she sucks in a sharp breath. She's run the possible iterations of this moment through her head over and over, desperate not to screw it up, but I'm sorry was never even something she'd considered he would say.]

No, no.

[It comes out a little too quickly, her voice too soft and shaky.]

That's— It's not your fault, Ian. It's not.

[She refuses to let herself think about the fact that he broke the law. It doesn't matter. Other people fuck up and deserve the Quarry, sure, but not Ian. She doesn't care how irrational that double standard is.]

[ It's a stupid little thing, isn't it? Liv dies, Ian can't keep his shit together. He makes it, what, a year? A year, hobbling along with the crutch that is low-grade recreational drugs. Not fucking meth, not blow, not heroin. It was still stupid of him, he still did it to himself. One wrong shrike in the wrong place watching twenty bells change hands, and apparently that's a big enough crime to warrant him fucking murdering people.

That's one thing about the quarry you don't think about. It's not just the threat of death.

It's that after you win you get to sit with your crime and stack it against what you did to survive. You get to decide for yourself whether or not the cost was worth it.

If he starts thinking about that right now he'll laugh himself into an asylum.

He shakes his head against her shoulder, a nonverbalized denial. An argument he doesn't have the energy to back up right now.

A few seconds later he peels back, scrubbing quickly at his face to wipe away evidence. ]

Can we just- go lay down. I just wanna lay down. I'm just really... really tired.

[Ian pulls back, but Kyna isn't ready to let go yet. She keeps her hands on his upper arms, eyes locked on his face even as he covers it. She's getting more and more afraid that she won't be enough to help him through this. She sat through every second of coverage when he was in the Quarry, but that doesn't mean she gets it. Kyna can bring him home, stay with him as long as he wants her to, let him cry as much as he wants, but what if that isn't enough?

Okay. Okay, one step at a time. Panicking is just going to wreck them both. She swallows, doesn't respond until she's certain she can force her voice steady.]

Yeah. Yeah, of course. Come on.

[And then she tries, gently, to guide him to his room.]

[ Is there really anybody left on the planet good enough to help the victors fully recover? Some of them paint on a good face, but they're either covering up the damage or they're a fucking sociopath.

Still, some people fare worse than others. Some people go straight to parliament to scream uselessly into a political void and are never heard from again. Some kill themselves quickly, some kill themselves slowly. It's impossible to know for the first little while how it's going to go.

He's passive as she guides him, following along placidly until they get into the bedroom. He closes the door, falters, and then locks it. There's no point, nobody else is going to be here, the front door is locked, but... he just feels a little better about it.

He's silent as he sheds his jeans and his overshirt; he's hung around her wearing boxers and tank tops since he was a fucking kid, he doesn't even think about it now. He just slips beneath the sheets mechanically. ]

[It's just going to be like this, she thinks. The weird little quirks he didn't have before, stretches of time—maybe long, long stretches—where he just seems off. She tries not to look worried as she watches him, because that will just make it worse, won't it? She doesn't want him to start faking that he's fine for her sake.

Maybe she can just think of this as an extension of every other time they've needed each other. All those stupid breakups, all the normal heartbreaks of growing up. The awful things, like her dad leaving or his mom dying, that had seemed utterly insurmountable.

So Kyna just kicks her shoes off, ditches her jeans and steals a pair of his shorts to drown in like she always does. Climbs into bed after him and snuggles close, like she always does. They've been staying up all night together when they couldn't sleep and filling the time with stupid stories since they were kids, whether they were in the same room or just texting over Warbler. Kyna's not sure silly conversation will cut it this time, but maybe the familiarity will. She brushes his hair back from his face, keeps her voice soft and fond.]

I jacked up the thermostat for you, you know.

[ He winds his arms around her, and it's better than any actual security blanket. Being surrounded by his own room, the smell of his own laundry detergent, his best friend, it does wonders to soothe the building anxiety attack that had been threatening to take root. It isn't a fix, the hollow feeling still lingers. That strange sense of disassociation still lingers. It's dull instead of sharp.

He can't muster up any version of a laugh, but he puts a modicum of energy into sounding wry. ]

That bad, huh?

[ His state, he means. How crappy he seems. Pathetic enough that she'd jack up the temp despite being a damn snowman. ]

[She hesitates, visibly torn as she keeps combing her fingers through his hair. You look like shit would be totally true, but she doesn't want to say it. They don't make a habit of lying to each other, though, so brushing it off feels... wrong. Unfair. God.

Kyna shrugs a shoulder, swallowing.]

I was trying to think of ways to—

[She cuts herself off awkwardly, frowns as she struggles to figure out a way to explain that doesn't feel stupid. But everything is going to feel stupid, so fuck it.]

Make you feel... better. Safer, maybe. You know?

( A lot of his emotions feel... distant. Muted. It's like being underwater, trying to listen to music playing above the surface. He's grateful, appreciative. Fond. All of those things, of course he is, but they're like shadows. )

Thank you.

( He'd have made a joke, before. Something about the worst threat of all being hypothermia. Now, there's mostly just quiet for long stretches. )

I don't think it's set in yet.

( He admits, voice small and tentative. )

That I'm here. Home. I keep... realizing it, but it doesn't... stick.

You've been in front of fucking cameras for like three weeks.

[She doesn't mean to sound heated, but it sneaks in anyway. Kyna has never put a huge amount of thought into the Quarry—it's just there, a force of nature like the tides. Watching him go through it has been entirely different.

He probably doesn't need more anger, though, so she lets out a breath, focusing on her fingers through his hair. When she continues, it's quieter.]

It'll stick. Things will feel normal again. I'll just annoy you until they do.

( If it makes her feel any better, the heat in her tone doesn't evoke much of a response from him. It doesn't really penetrate the fog any more than calmness does.

What does help is the feeling of her fingers running through his hair. It makes a few tense muscles relax, makes his eyes slit to something more half-lidded. Still unfocused, still settled on nothing in particular on the ceiling. )

Yeah.

( A quiet murmur, an easy relent. )

I hope so.

( But somehow he gets the feeling normal's going to have a new definition from now on. )

Wᴇ ʜɪᴅᴇ ᴏᴜʀ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴs Uɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ sᴜʀғᴀᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴇɴᴅ ( closed )

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