seen the ebb and flow :: lance

[pogue]

L A Z A R U S ;

Seconds flat, he paces his room in the dead of night, running fingertips through his hair, eyes catching every dust speck that floats in the moonlight. It seeps through his window, blankets him against the clock that ticks in the corner. He is a night owl, sitting atop spiked branches, watching his prey from above- ignoring the reality that he is prey for someone, something else, something darker.

His mother's voice rings in his ears, words with venom hanging from them, injected into his bloodstream to keep him at bay- to keep him from questioning, from wondering. She'd threatened them, sharpening her threats into daggers and pressing them softly, slowly into their hearts, keeping them there until she felt them stop. Of all things, the only thing he had in common with his sister was the fact that they were prisoners-

Of their own choosing, he guesses. Sister dearest, it puts a bad taste in his mouth, the way they worry for each other on the cameras, the way citizens fawn over the prospect of them dying together, pushing heart shaped daisies down one another's throat. Fuck, he reaches for the door handle.

And then, he pauses, years of his mother's influence pulling on his heartstrings, puppetry at it's finest. Control, he knows it well. After a moment, he scoffs, she isn't here anymore. But she is, in the way he carries his burdens carved into his shoulders, the way his eyes follow the path of every Peacekeeper that crosses his path-

Because maybe, perhaps her control extends all the way to the Capital- puppet strings have no end length, not for her. 

He needs a smoke, unfurling his fingers from the door handle. It feels like a burning beneath his skin, extinguished only when he laces the cigarette between his fingers. When he holds it, he doesn't even think about his Mother. But he knows, she's there.

The rooftop has a breeze that whispers to him, telling him all the secrets he's ever sewn into himself. He shudders, lighting the cigarette before leaning against the railing, flicking the lighter in his hand on and off- seeing his past in the flames as he doesn

[lance]

l u c a s   o ' h a r a

He's taken to the rooftop for his periods of solitude as of late. His preferred times of sundown and moonrise taking him back to his rooftop back home, if only for a moment.

The Capitol is not home, not with its flashing lights and restless spirit and general over-indulgence in anything resembling the word extravagant, yet even it cannot erase the magic of a dying sun or a star-filled night.

He'd been uninterrupted the first night, and the second, but on the eve of the third night he finds the rooftop already occupied by the time the elevator opens. The silhouette is distinctly masculine in shape and has his back to him. A burning ember in one hand is the black sheep in the world of neon flashes and fluorescent lighting, and he can't help but keep a fixated stare on it, even as he walks over towards his own position on the railing.

The flame flickers as he takes his position on the rooftop edge, and his gaze wanders from one natural wonder to another, head tilted back as the full glory of the night sky glitters before him.

And there they stand, two solitary souls with a shared fate fixed in time. They stand, the sage and the enigma,

t h i n k i n g ,

b r e a t h i n g , 

e x i s t i n g.