it's like you’re made of angel dust ✺ mateo &. arcadia

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

↳ MATEO IZAR

Lacy, oh lacy, skin like puff pastry, girls like Arcadia Lumiere Fray has always unnerved him.

She was beauty and wealth, perfect and flawless, the girl slated to win prom queen at the end of the school year, and Mateo was ... well, he flunked his classes too often to smoke with his friends instead that he doubted he would have ever graduated.

Girls like Arcadia were fated to look down or past him.

They ruled two separate domains, hers a sparkly world of pageants and soirees, his a grey world of daydrinking under a ruined overpass, and those two could never exist in the same realm.

But he was curious.

A girl of means, a girl of legacy, who was she underneath that shiny name? Eager to give Arcadia the benefit of the doubt, Mateo pulls out a flimsy joint he has ‘borrowed’ from a Capitolite and sidles up next to her as least awkwardly as he can. They are an event hosted in the training center where they met a bunch of sponsors and the party has ended, the people slowly but yet leaving, empty glasses and confetti on the floor.

“You smoke?” he asks her, then flashes the contraband. 

[ines izar d11a 🖤 cait]

arcadia lumiere-fray

The sponsors evening ends, all too soon. Always too soon. It’s the part of the night where back home, I’d be whisked away to an afterparty to mingle and drink and dance and remind everyone of the sparkling Lumiere-Fray legacy. A diamond’s gotta shine!

But tonight, there’s no second wind on the horizon. The room has already cleared out, for the most part, and I’m disappointed, honestly. I thought these Capitolites would know how to have a good time, be more than ready to continue celebrating into the night.

That’s not to say that there isn’t some pre-planned VIP-event taking place right this minute, with the caveat of no tributes allowed. I can understand it – buzzkills at a party are the worst – but I’m still insulted by the thought of rejection. I am the party! I attract attention when I enter a room; I reflect back the longing gazes, the envious stares, the barely-there sighs of yearning. I know the exact moment someone finally musters up the courage to approach and talk to me, to try and sneak a glimpse into the sparkling life I lead.

I know it even before he does.

Mateo Izar is an unfortunate soul. Our similarities are as obvious as our differences. Last names of fame and infamy; lifestyles of glamour and drab; futures of hope and promise, of despair and uncertainty.

I wonder which way the scales will tip.

“You smoke?”

We’re worlds apart, “Nah, it’s all yours,” but I’m a chameleon. I’ve been blending in my entire life.

I make a show to look down at my wrist, feigning reading the time on my imaginary wristwatch. “It’s soooo early. I’m not ready to go to bed yet.” I stare at him as he brings the joint to his lips. I sense the hesitancy, the nervous curiosity at what I might say next.

“The way I see it, we have two options. We can either find out where this exclusive afterparty is happening and crash it. Or... we steal the alcohol that’s been conveniently left unattended over there and sneak up to the rooftop to drink in peace.”

What are you made of, Mateo Izar?

Which world do you want to belong to?

Who do you want to be?