rigor mortis ; justice & cedric 89th

[ᴥ]

c e d r i c   s p e n c e

The cold runs bone deep. It's an expression he'd once bemoaned to Sage, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he stared up at the ceiling he'd spent the better part of the afternoon decorating with astronomically correct constellations. "By the time the cold reaches your bones you'd definitely be dead or too hypothermic to feel it." And he knew he was being difficult and that that wasn't the point but it was fun. Like he was winning some sort of game no one else knew they were playing.

He gets it now, he's finally in on the joke or whatever. There's goosebumps all up and down his arms and his back is uncomfortably damp. Making the places where it sticks to his skin nearly numb. This weather is miserable - that's the word. Wind howls through loose boards and though he's too old to worry about ghosts the hair on the back of his neck is standing on end anyway.

"Fuck that guy, heh."

And Cedric doesn't know what's worse - that Justice Fray is still here for some unknown reason or that he's still being shitty about his dad. "Ah, shit."

He knows he looks a mess and a painful twinge of anxiety sets his nerves alight. He would rather not be seen like this. Curls matted with rain water and whatever else had been living in between the walls in this abandoned wreck. The ground smells sour, like spoiled fruit or something worse. He's covered in a thick layer of saw dust, so much so that when he tries to speak he has to curl up on his side and hack a few coughs before he can get the words out.

"Can you please stop talking about my dad like that?" He tries to compose himself - to speak politely because you catch flies with honey not vinegar or whatever (yet another stupid idiom) - but he can't help the defensive pitch the words take. That's his dad after all, walking his sister home after she'd had an anxiety attack. He wants to protect them, he feels like it's his job.

"You're being mean."

The words teeter on the edge of a whine.

[arx]

j u s t i c e   f r a y

It's hard to believe that children are making them look like a bunch of fucking idiots - proving they were, actually. If a bunch of teenagers were sneaking their way into secret meetings and contractual deals, it seemed only natural that someone else was, too. Someone far more capable than Spence's weeping daughter and-

"Can you please stop talking about my dad like that?"

He can't help it; he's cranky, cold, and covered head to toe in soaking wet cotton. He can feel it squeezing at his neck and chafing his fucking armpits and it's enough that the laughter just sort of sputters out hearing him call Ellington Spence his dad. And he knows it lasts longer than it should, the way his laughter bounces and echoes off the drafty walls and creaking floorboards.

"Yeah, alright," he shakes his head, shakes it harder and pulls his fingers through his hair until the water droplets turned the plaster dust on the floor all clumpy. "Whatever you say, kid."

There's more bite to the words than he'd meant; he's just not in the mood.

Not to sneak out in the middle of the night to some dilapidated apartment, not to sign contracts opposite Poppy's ex-husband, not to stand in the rain for an hour, not to tear a hole in his jacket, not to squeeze through a too tiny space in the wall, and certainly not to start a fucking revolution when there was so much too lose—so much the people at the top could still take, destroy

And honestly? He wasn't in the mood to hear Cedric call someone else 'Dad' anymore either.

"The world's a mean fucking place though," he says as he struggles to get his fake leg helpfully beneath him. "Ain't no way he's preparing you for it."

He leaves it at that, with a scoff and a shake of his head.

This was going to get them all killed.

[ᴥ]

c e d r i c   s p e n c e

He longs for the days when he did not know that laughter is sometimes cruel. His first instinct is to shrink away from it but instead Cedric pulls himself into a sitting position, knees pressed to his chest to preserve the last of the warmth rapidly seeping out between chattering teeth. Justice's lips have twisted and he speaks with a venom probably meant to hurt Cedric. The victor had never had the patience to feign that saccharine happiness Cedric had been force fed his entire life. It was part of the reason he'd become so damn fond of him.

They sit in silence for a moment as Cedric tries to figure out how Justice wants him to react. His eyes dart across his features, struggling to make them out in the dim light. Furrowed brows and matted curls and a fake leg that aches when the weather's too cold; a scowl or a sneer or a mask that looks like them when he's hiding something else underneath it.

"Ain't no way he's preparing you for it."

And Cedric wants to be upset - is upset because Justice Fray is being a fucking dick - but admitting that would feel a whole lot like losing. The intention of those words was clear the moment he said them. So instead he pushes himself up with the heel of his palms, wincing as bits of gravel dig into his skin. It takes a couple of steps to remember how to walk and when he laughs at himself it carries just as much loathing for himself as Justice's had.

"Don't see how that's your business." And maybe it's a little harder to pretend he's not angry than he thought. The words grate against his vocal chords, sparking like a live wire. They spill out uncontrollably and he almost gags on the sensation. "You helped him tonight, so you can stop feeling guilty about what happened with Mom." He does not offer help, more seizes Justice's hand in his and stars pulling him in the direction of home.

"I know the world's a mean place, but all you're being is a sore winner."

Because she chose you. She'll always choose you over us.

That part is better left unsaid.