fall from high places ; ﹙angel ∕ mackenzie ）

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

[presto][/presto]

"Don't try to save us
cause we're doing it right.
We are the wasted youth"

Gilded, the pathway of a winner was.

Since his victory, Mackenzie had learned to call a lavish lifestyle his own. It was all fur coats he never wanted to wear, hair full of products he hadn't even heard of before the reaping; he certainly wouldn't have been able to afford them. The Capitol had done a good job of erasing Mackenzie Pryce's canvas and repainting him as they saw fit. His image was much darker than he would've ever imagined. Something to match his fellow victor; the Capitol had been calling them the divine pairing. Sultry Salazar and Proud Pryce, they'd said. It was laughable, the things they came up with.

He stood next to Jacinta; the father who hadn't raised him was just on her other side. How Mackenzie had managed not only to avoid punching Bryson in the face, but to avoid talking to him at all was a phenomenon he wouldn't have ever been able to comprehend.

And that was the rub of everything, wasn't it? Try as they might, the Capitol couldn't erase a boy's past. Skeletons lurked within Mackenzie's closet, deeper than the surface that they'd wiped away so easily. No matter how hard they tried, Mackenzie still made wearing fur look like a necessity for survival of a cold winter more than a fashion statement. No matter how much gel they pumped into his hair, a single curl always managed to fall into his face, as it always had.

They had done a very good job of erasing him, but some marks were too eternal for even the Capitol to take away.

Mackenzie found Marley in the crowds, young and pure. Mackenzie had been a lot like him once; he hated the idea of someone ever taking that away from his newly-found brother.

He played it cool, but his throat was tight and his palms were sticky with sweat in the moments leading up to Jacquelyn reaching her hand into that bowl. The worry that Marley would be reaped was almost enough to force Mackenzie's gaze down to the ground, but it was just enough that he couldn't bare to look away for fear of jinxing it.

"Luke Collins!"

He exhaled in relief; he hadn't even realized he'd been holding his breath.

"I volunteer!"

——————————

He sat in his quarters on the train, devastation wearing on him like rain. It seeped through his clothes and made him shiver as it ran down his back. He knew he needed to help them, but how? He was hardly an expert; any advice he could've given the tributes would've paralleled "kill them before they kill you;" and he figured they could gather that much for themselves.

Finally, he straightened himself, looked at his reflection. The man staring back at him was sculpted: freshly-shaven and tall, with pouty lips and a glass of deep red wine in his seemingly capable hands. The surface was just about as beautiful as the Capitol could make it; the inside burned with consequence.

Mackenzie found the boy first, tall and thin. So sure of himself that he'd asked for a chance to live the very life that gave Mackenzie nightmares every time he slept.

"Angel de Costa."

He tried the words out for the first time; they sounded nice. The vino tasted better, so he took another sip from his glass and sat himself directly in front of the boy.

"You volunteered. Pipe dream, or death wish?"

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

my running feet could fly
each breath screaming
“we are all too young to die”

Mackenzie smells nice, of flowery aftershaves, of aureate luxury and opulence. the dark silhouette belongs to a sybaritic man, crowned victor, with gold that near compensate the adolescent blood smeared across those hands.

he is godly. lethal. showered in gold
and almost, a coruscating physique.

but, i don't think his hands would ever be steady enough to wield a dagger for another time. victor breakdowns aren't a secret – i am not so dull to be oblivious to that fact that gossip is encouraged and stoked amongst the capitol, like a flare. victors come out of the arena with more of a broken soul than bones.

but, they survived.

that's what's at stake here, survival. born in a desolate orphan system, one would assume that i am akin to it but there are tremors under my skin. there are tremors shattering my heartbeat asunder.

it feels like a free fall before impact, down a great abyss that does nothing except devour. the twist here is: i stepped forward and

l e a p t , 

voluntarily. how much of a fool am i is beyond numbers and measurements.

fingers trace the waffle pin, discovering a soft comfort in the smoothness of its enamel coat. i still feel like i am falling down a chasm but at least the trepidation has subdued to a bearable extent.

my nerves are on the steepest edge, i desperately need a cigarette. despite this nerve-show, eyes can't tear themselves away from the intricate wonders the capitol's forged exclusively for its lambs. albeit the blurred-out meadows and woodlands indicating tremendous velocity, the carriage is quiet. lights dangle from mahogany sheaths, keeping the space alight with yellow luminescence,

and there's a distinct aroma pervading amongst the metallic notes. i trace it to a platter of strange foods, intricate pastries.

but, Mackenzie Pryce returns before throat could entirely wolf down the scones i found, an air of ominousness to him. “angel de costa” and here i am, making a futile attempt to bury the scones down my throat.

“you volunteered. pipe dream, or death wish?”

it's obviously the latter, so i mock him. “pipe dream. i've been wanting to get murdered ruthlessly since the tender age of three.” a quick gurgle of effervescent liquid washes the lump in my throat down. 

“congrats on being the first, close witness to my little death crusade, gold pryce.” lips rise to a crescent grin. “any cloves around here that i can smoke – for good luck?” 

[ lyrics: florence – between two lungs ]

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

[presto][/presto]

"Don't try to save us
cause we're doing it right.
We are the wasted youth"

Angel de Costa laughed in the face of death. Hundreds of corpses in varying states of decay must've rolled over in their graves at the audacity of his cavalier remark; the rather intrusive image of Wynter Rochelle reaching for a knife at her side to teach him a lesson, only to feel the inner-lining of the casket which held her burned its way through his train of thought.

("Pipe dream. I've been wanting to get murdered ruthlessly since the tender age of three.")

It was enough to set Mackenzie's teeth on edge. Perhaps it was a defense mechanism or perhaps this boy's soul was little more than a simple bargaining chip to be offered up for the highest bidder. Mackenzie had not chosen to be reaped. He had not chosen this life, but he had still fought for it. Tooth and nail and blood and flesh, from the vanquished and the damned, he remained. He lived.

He hadn't chosen this, but he hadn't ever, ever been so foolish as to wait and see what happened. He found a single ray of sunlight in that dark, dark place, and he used it to find his way out.

"Congrats on being the first, close witness to my little death crusade, Gold Pryce. Any cloves around here that I can smoke for good luck?"

Angel smiled; Mackenzie frowned.

He stood, yanking the glass out of Angel's hand and leaning down close to his face. So close that when he looked in Angel's eyes, he could've counted his eyelashes.

"This isn't funny. People will die; your enemies, your friends. Possibly you as well. It's all the same to them, so long as they get a victor in the end."

Life and death. No wrong, no right. No heroes, no villains. There would just be the living and the dead in the end. He still remembered the numbness that followed Belladonna's cannon; still remembered how her face had faded from terror, to understanding, to relief before her eyes had become hollow for good. How could he have forgotten when he saw it every night when he slept?

"There's no sense in acting like you are unbreakable, boy. It just gives them a reason to prove you wrong."

Or, maybe he was already too broken to fix.

He finally took a step away, reclaiming his seat and handing Angel his cup back.

"Now, I plan on working my ass off to keep you alive, so you damn well better do the same."

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

my running feet could fly
each breath screaming
“we are all too young to die”

his idea of an assiduous confrontation forces my eyes to observe him meticulously. there’re no scars anymore, hidden beneath products. i pick up the aroma of red-wine on chrome lips and synthetic fabric. his hair sheens almost, a sparkling black.

it’s an awe – the boy in those cheap-technicolor playbacks was no more, replaced by this divine creature with glowering hazel eyes. i crave that sort of complete metamorphosis, shedding new skin after having the old worn-out one be scorched down to cinders.

let the bloodshed wash over me and compensate for its many tragedies with endless wealth.

“i know what’s ahead. a faint idea of it, at least.” i hold his gaze, never wavering. there is bite to my fangs and it’s up to me to prove it. this isn’t a street brawl made illicitly under the covers of evening shadows anymore – we’re broadcasted, loud and in the highest definition there is. “if there’s a chance for fun before death, i am going to fucking take it.”

he retreats, i stand up also.

there’s so much ground to stride upon, acres and acres of polished wood stretching out to empty compartments that have something to offer its resident.

i find a bath robe in a small corner – all silk, deluxe softness. under the woolen cuffs of the robe, hands stop trembling, warmth restored to cold bones.

(“now, i plan on working my ass off to keep you alive, so you damn well better do the same.”)

irony hums in how Mackenzie Pryce wants me alive when i, myself, don’t. digits trace the wooden edge of a table, and then voyage further, onto a dormant record player with a vinyl already fixed to it.

after indulging in childish curiosity by pressing some buttons, one gives start to a bubbly tune that pervades through the carriage's thick quietness.

footsteps pitter patter like a soft drizzle as feet begin to sway in accordance with the melody – weightless are my movements; vessel is my body, for songs and reckless merriment.

on the path of my dance, i find a chalice of wine, and the red paints my lips crimson,

and i am already fleeting.

with wide strides, and head-whirls, and the melody coursing throughout my body, i stride back towards him. “do you know how to dance, Mackenzie?” a peal of laughter is loosened as i circle around his mahogany throne, barefoot and with dancing limbs like wind: free and flowing. 

“c’mon. be a party.”

[ lyrics: florence – between two lungs ]