twenty

Poppy

He left her alone, crying on the floor.

He was getting into the habit of abandoning her, wasn't he? How graceful.

Must make him respect himself all the more. Not.

In his defense, crying—on the floor, no less—was not something she would ever want to do in front of a gentleman or, in general, a human being. Or, in this case, Hades, whichever part of the spectrum he might fall into. Still, he had held her and wiped her tears, and her blood, and had stroked her back, things she had only heard of friends or mothers doing.

She had never experienced them herself, not until tonight.

Someone comforting her, allowing her to cry, and not punishing her for it. For instance, ever since she had started living with her brother, her nose seemed to start bleeding at regular intervals, always coinciding with one of the most strenuous forms of discipline he would order. No one had worried over it, or taken care of her, least of all the vicar. But Hades had.

But then, he had left. He had probably had enough. She certainly had.

She tried to stop the tears, just in case he was coming back soon, but she couldn't. She wasn't sure if she wanted him here right now. His revelations had opened up a floodgate inside her, it seemed, and she could not deny the truth any longer. It came rushing in, unstoppable, with the force of a flood that laid waste to everything in its path.

And the truth was ugly.

Who her brother truly was.

What he had done to her.

Who she had become while living with him.

And the deep, dark hell, of how she could un-become it, or if she ever could.

She had caught a glimpse of Hades' face as he fled the room, his features twisted by anguish, and she thought she recognized its source: self-loathing. She recognized it, because she had felt it all too often. Her heart twisted in pain for Hades, but it was not her place to help him; she could barely help herself. Besides, the man had run away from her, practically screaming.

She would burden him no more. She got up and resolutely wiped her face, wondering if she could make her way out of this room, and the club, without being stopped by his guards. But, when it came to it, she did not even get to try.

As soon as she opened the door, Rania and Dante came tumbling in most ungracefully, as if they had been bent at the waist, eavesdropping at the keyhole for hours.

"What on earth—?" Poppy said, watching them try to pick themselves up from the floor, a tangle of limbs and clothes.

"Hades told us to come keep you company," Rania said.

She stood in one fluid motion, her dancer's body straightening up with ease. Dante huffed and puffed, his thin frame moving painfully slowly.

"He said you shouldn't be alone," Rania added. "But he said to wait until you opened the door, in case you needed privacy."

"He did?" Damn him for being so considerate when she was on the verge of starting crying again. "Looks like you took him at his word."

"We," Dante said, standing on unsteady legs and making a big point of dusting imaginary particles of dust off his waistcoat, "were curious." Rania elbowed him in the ribs. "What? You can't blame a person for being curious."

His eyes were rimmed with red and his skin looked pale and sickly. His eyes were the eyes of a drowning man. Poppy's heart constricted, but his flippant behavior was a wall, forbidding anyone to approach or ask him what was wrong. She respected it, hoping she was making the right choice.

"Can you not?" she asked.

And then Dante went and ruined everything.

"Course not," he replied in his easy, arrogant way. "Not when someone loves you."

And Poppy lost the fight against the tears.