buried in broken dreams .| justice + jacinta

[я𝑜𝓈𝑒]

i don't want to know
who we are without each other
it's just too hard
i don't want to leave here without you

"I would rather suffer forever than die."

"You're wrong."

She could never have taken that drunken grin seriously. But if she had, maybe she could have done something — found some way to deflect the attention away from her, or at least found a way to appease Snow. And if not, then at least she would have been ready.

When Jacinta speared her weapon through Cynthia Rose Delgado's skull, she had only been thinking of herself. As she felt her own heartbeat fade, she was only able to focus her thoughts on one thing: living. It was not her family that kept her strong in what she believed would be her final moments; it was herself. After all, she had done just fine without them for seven years before.

But blood would be repaid with blood; Cynthia's for Violet's. The Gamemakers are god in the Arena; there is nothing Jacinta can do to save her beyond sending sponsors her way.

Jacinta Salazar is standing on the balcony of Justice Fray's Capitol apartment in the Training Center. The air is frigid enough to prick her skin, but she has more pressing things on her mind than the weather.

Her arms are crossed as she stares out at the stars and city lights; the light fabric of her white dress billows around her in a cool breeze that gently sweeps over the terrace. The wind takes her hair with it and makes a low roaring sound against the dark, curled locks of her hair. She still hasn't heard Justice come back; judging from his usual habits, he should be home from the bar or wherever soon. Jacinta glances down at the small, elegant watch on her hand, which is decorated with diamonds on its chain. The clock reads that it is half past midnight — if Justice isn't back within the next ten minutes, then with any luck, he would at least be home before Jacinta grows too tired to talk.

He and Saffron are the only Victors she would be comfortable admitting her feelings to, but Saffron is likely asleep by now or taking care of Quinn. Justice is the better option for now, as he is more of a night owl. (Hopefully, he wouldn't be so hammered that he can barely comprehend her when she speaks.) Surely Justice would understand her, having lost three siblings to the Games since his victory. Three siblings, four years — is that the future Jacinta is looking at?

Instead of turning to alcohol like Justice, she would rather turn to people first. And if that doesn't work... she doesn't know. She doesn't want to think about it.

Jacinta stares at her clock and watches the thin, long hand spin around a few more times, indicating that a few minutes have passed. She looks up when she hears the door open, which is following by heavy footsteps that slowly near closer and closer to the balcony. Justice, no doubt — there is no one else who sounds as clumsy as he does when they walk.

She's rehearsed what she would say a few times in her head, but now that Justice is actually here, her mind goes blank for a moment and she forgets almost all of it. Either way, prepared or not, this isn't going to be easy to say.

"The District One escort let me in," she explains, anticipating that Justice would ask why she is here.

Jacinta would have turned around, but she opts to stay fixated at the city view when she feels the heat of blush rush into her face. It's probably just her lack of experience admitting her feelings; she was never taught how to express herself in a healthy way. Marina taught her to be a tough girl, and that meant no crying, and no discussion of anything that would make her seem weak and vulnerable.

And that's exactly how she feels right now, even when she has barely begun this conversation.

"Sorry for showing up unexpected, but I was wondering if you had a moment."

i don't want to lose a part of me
will i recover that broken piece?
let it go and unleash all the feelings
do we ever see it coming?

[arx!!]

JUSTICE
FRAY

You'd think being a victor would get you certain privileges at the bars. But apparently even with a crown you can be "drunk and disorderly." Usually they accommodate me; I think maybe I shouldn't have flirted with the not-so-single bartender. At least that's what her husband said when he clocked me in the nose and had me thrown out onto the pavement.

I grin as I stumble down the sidewalk towards home—or, well, what I call home when the games roll around. Even after several pulls of my beer I'm tasting asphalt and blood. I don't know why, but it makes me smile wider. Probably because all I'm thinking about is how damn talented I am, not spilling a single ounce of my drink even after getting my nose broken and my ass thrown to the dirt.

Everyone says alcoholism is a disease, but really? It's a talent. I'm fucking talented.

I down what's left in the bottle as I approach my apartment, tossing the bottle aside before stumble in rather dramatically. I sort of expected to be alone. My heart leaps out of my chest when a voice greets me as I shut the door behind me.

"The District One escort let me in."

"Shit."

If her voice had been a drink, I probably would've been able to find her faster. But I'm a bit lost in my own apartment. I twist around, searching for the source in daze. Unfortunately, finding her only makes more questions swirl through my mind. Like, what is she doing here? How did she even get here? How'd she get out? Shouldn't she be hiding or something? Like, with her sister? Did the games end? Did I miss who won?

"Sorry for showing up unexpected, but I was wondering if you had a moment."

My words are a little garbled when I reply, but I'm just so surprised. I was pretty sure when I offered her that drink a week ago that I was serving a dead girl. I figured the last I'd see her was on the television screen, but clearly she's fucking brilliant if she somehow got out of that icy hell and looks-- well, fucking hot for lack of a better description.

"Violet? How are you even here, like, did I miss the entirety of the-- Oh."

I think maybe laughing isn't the correct way to field her question now, but this—"Fucking hell."—really is quite the comedy.

"Sorry," I manage to get out through a shaking head and stupid laughter. "You and your sister look very similar from behind."

I lean forward against the balcony, stretching out into the open air so that I can twist to look her in the face with a devilish grin.

"You can slap me now if you want. Y'know, just to get it over with."

It's a good thing I'm plastered. Pretty sure even now I can feel guilt twisting in my skin like a very long, serrated blade. I chuckle to keep the feelings at bay, shaking my head, staring at the ground below and remembering that my lips still taste like asphalt. Reminds me no matter how drunk I get I'm still gonna feel it when life's a bitch.

"Sorry," I mutter as the grin falls from my face.

Shit.

Apparently guilt is a fatal wound to the heart, too. Sobering and painful, an alcoholic's nightmare.

Fuck that.

"My schedule is pretty packed, but I think I could give you a few of mine during pillowtalk."

My grin is my only defense. I pray she doesn't know how to break through it.

[   v i c t o r y   ]

[я𝑜𝓈𝑒]

will we ever let it go?
we are buried in broken dreams
we are knee deep without a plea
i don't want to know

Just as she expected him to be, Justice Fray is absolutely hammered.

"Violet?" he says, words slurred and voice muddled by the alcohol burning in his veins. Justice is so ridiculously wasted that he can't even tell Jacinta from her sister, even though Violet's hair is shoulder-length and Jacinta's is long. But she supposes she can't really judge him too harshly; the gears of a drunk man's mind just don't turn very quickly. "How are you even here, like, did I miss the entirety of the— oh."

Jacinta opens her mouth to say something, leaning her elbows against the railing, but then stops when Justice begins to laugh. "Fucking hell," he chuckles. Then, through further laughing, he apologizes with, "Sorry. You and your sister look very similar from behind."

She narrows her eyes, not sure whether to find him funny or inappropriate. Spend a lot of time picturing our backsides, do you? Jacinta doesn't let that thought escape verbally, but she almost laughs to herself about it. Justice always finds some way to be crass, but she decides it's probably best not to encourage him at the moment.

He steps toward the balcony and leans against it so that they are face to face now. Justice grins at her with that stupid, drunken grin, the same one she woke up to after being carried out of the Arena.

"You can slap me now if you want. Y'know, just to get it over with," Justice tells her. Maybe she would have obliged if she didn't feel to broken inside. If she didn't want to cry right now, if she didn't feel to weak and powerless, maybe she would have. He probably deserves it.

Sometimes she wishes her time in the Games had truly left her hollow. There have been countless tributes that lost the will to feel, and so they didn't. They left their hearts behind and never looked back. She once thought that perhaps she could do the same, but all she could do was numb the guilt and the pain for a little while, for just long enough so that she could do what was necessary to survive.

"I should have cut your head off when I had the chance," she had said to Cynthia Rose Delgado in the finale. Even in that moment, she had never truly regretted not killing her sooner. Because she could never bring herself to stoop so low, because she believed that Cynthia deserved better.

Even Justice can't drown his emotions. Ripred knows he's tried, with all of the alcohol he drinks.

She watches as his stupid grin slides right off his face. "Sorry," he apologizes again. But then he smiles again, and Jacinta isn't sure if it's forced or if he just can't stop grinning because he's a drunk idiot.

"My schedule is pretty packed, but I think I could give you a few of mine during pillowtalk," Jusitce says. She raises an eyebrow in response, and catches a sound that is somewhere between a scoff and a giggle in her throat.

"You really don't know when to stop talking, do you?" Jacinta says, half playful and half pointed, with a sigh at the end. But to her utter dismay, she realizes that there is an alarming amount of heat flaring up in her face. She places a hand under her jaw and feels the burning of her own skin, no doubt the result of blushing again. Normally, she would brush it off, but Jacinta is wearing no makeup to even slightly hide the pink in her cheeks, leaving her chagrin exposed. As drunk as Justice may be, he would surely be able to pick up on it.

"Anyway, uh—" she pauses for a moment, so flustered that she forgets all of the words she had trapped in her head for hours. "I wanted to talk to you about something." Jacinta stops again, her eyes trailing the lines of Justice's fingers and the iron railing. The blush in her face has not quite subsided yet, and it's beginning to make her even more uneasy than she already was.

Marina would laugh if she could see her now—the former Salazar heir, torn up inside over grief and embarrassment for her own emotions. Her mother would tell her to toughen up, that a real Salazar is never vulnerable like this.

"It's—stupid," she continues, but she doesn't mean her distress over Violet. Missing her sister and worrying for her makes sense. But it's stupid that it's so easy for Justice to catch her off guard, stupid that her stomach is twisting itself into knots.

"But I think you would understand," she says. She wants him to—needs him to. If Justice Fray can't relate to grief and guilt, then she doesn't know who can. Jacinta does not want advice on how to handle her emotions; not with the way she has seen Justice handle his problems. "Even if you're drunk."

Jacinta forces a half smile. "Think you can be serious for a few minutes?"

what it's like to live without you
don't want to know the other side
of a world without you
is it fair, or is it fate?

[arx!!]

JUSTICE
FRAY

She smiles, something like laughter and exasperation following shortly after my play at arrogant flirtation. It's one of two responses I always get. The blush she can't hide beneath her own palm or curtain behind her hair is what I typically hope for. The forced grin turns into a genuine one, or at least a ridiculous, drunken one. Good to know I've still got it after--

My thoughts drift off course. Makes me feel sober for a moment, rips away the facade and leaves life staring me in the eyes with no defenses. Being drunk is such a good excuse. Life just passes by, doesn't stick around to taunt or torture you because it's not like you'll remember anything in the morning anyway. Life is cruel. It wants you to feel its wrath. Sucking down bottle after bottle until my mind turns into nothing but a black hole?

Life passes by. It's grown bored of me. I'm not very fun to toy with anymore. Doesn't mean there aren't scars left behind.

I think I need another drink. Before all I can think about is being in love with someone who I've pushed too far out of reach.

"You really don't know when to stop talking, do you?"

Her voice reminds me of where I am. Sorta keeps my feet locked in place, stops me from drinking every bottle of wine on the rack in my kitchen.

"Only in the presence of a beautiful woman," I grin, raise an eyebrow in her direction. Just looking for any kind of distraction. It's admittedly very easy to find in the curve of her hips and the glow of her white dress.

"Anyway, uh—"

But something tells me she didn't come here to distract me, but to distract herself.

"I wanted to talk to you about something."

Or perhaps to let her own walls crumble. Give up her own facade for just one night.

"It's—stupid. But I think you would understand, even if you're drunk."

I drink so I don't have to do this. Doesn't she get that? Doesn't she understand that about me? Doesn't every fucking victor know that? It's just-- we say nothing. Not to each other, not to the people we love. We bottle it up and we keep it quiet and we bury it as deep as we can in the hopes that we can just completely forget everything. The death, the pain, the murder, and all the terrible, awful things that come with the crown.

"Think you can be serious for a few minutes?"

I drink so I have an excuse not to be serious. Ever.

The lights of the Capitol laid out in front of us are all blurred together. They melt into the sky, wash against the dark canvas and dance with the stars. And I think I'm looking for some sort of stability, but all I can find is the iron-cast railing. It's just not enough. I shake my head, chuckle in the hopes that if I pretend I'm alright I'll forget that the balcony is crumbling beneath me.

My head shakes 'no.'

But for some reason my lips don't.

"Serious sucks," I slur, standing to loosen my tie as I feel it tighten around my throat. It gives me a chance to turn away from her, to hide whatever despair is dancing across my features.

"But, uh," I struggle to find the words as all my mind is concerned about is getting the top button of my shirt to stop jabbing me in the neck.

"Sure, yeah, I can try. Just--" My fingers refuse to work the way I tell them to. It takes every ounce of control I have left not to turn to her and beg her to help me with choked, desperate words and tears in my eyes.

I turn back to her with the grin I can manage, chuckling and dropping my hands in playful defeat. My plea pours from my lips far more frantic than I had intended—"This top button is killing me, can you get it for me, please?"—but I hope the smile is enough to hide the panic coursing through my veins.

And then comes the real bit of laughter as my thoughts wander again. It's funny, isn't it? She came here because she thinks I can understand her, needs me to understand.

Turns out I need that, too.

[   v i c t o r y   ]

[я𝑜𝓈𝑒]

no one knows
the stars choose their lovers
save my soul
it hurts just the same

Justice is always such a blatant flirt and she hates it, and yet she always finds herself blushing and looking away. She wonders if he's really trying to get in her pants, if he's just drunk, or if he's trying to embarrass her.

"You really don't know when to stop talking, do you?"

"Only in the presence of a beautiful woman."

Jacinta would have scowled playfully if she were in a better mood, but she is not at all light-hearted tonight. She doesn't know how Justice can be, but then again, it's likely all just a facade.

When Jacinta asks Justice to be serious, he replies, "Serious sucks." And he's right, really; if she had the choice, she would be light as a feather, carefree and at ease. But she can't, not when guilt weighs her down like a ton of stones.

Jacinta can live with the fact that every year, she will watch two tributes from her district die and it will be partly her responsibility. What she can't stand is that this year, one of them is her sister.

"But uh," there is a pause as Justice sorts through his hazy mind to find the right words, "Sure, yeah, I can try. Just—" he looks away for a moment and tries to unbutton the collar of his shirt. It must be uncomfortable for him, because the way his hands move almost strike her as frantic.

He looks back at Jacinta with one of his classic stupid Justice smiles. The nonchalant, almost impish expression on his face does not touch his eyes, Jacinta notes. But she decides not to read into it, that it's probably just because he is absolutely hammered. "This top button is killing me, can you get it for me, please?" he requests.

Jacinta raises an inquisitive eyebrow. She tries to say something sarcastic, but she finds that the words simply won't come to mind. So instead she stands there for a moment, flustered and blushing like an idiot. If there wasn't a layer of makeup on her skin, her entire face would have been flaming bright pink; instead, it is a less severe rosy tinge.

"O-okay?" she responds, narrowing her eyes. Jacinta takes a tentative step forward, careful not to look Justice in the eye. She wonders if he takes pride in embarrassing her or if he's just not thinking at all. It could be either, really.

"But don't get any funny ideas," Jacinta tells him sternly. She is closer to Justice than she would like to be — it isn't that she's repulsed by him, not at all, but sometimes, he gives her this nervous feeling that is all too familiar. That uneasy feeling deep in her stomach; she had described it once to Valentino when she was a child and had felt it around a pretty girl, and he told her that she had butterflies in her stomach.

Jacinta has never liked the idea of having butterflies in her stomach, and she likes it even less that Justice can inspire that sensation. Clementa made her feel that way, too, but much more intensely. It was cliche and she always felt so stupid thinking about, because Marina always taught her that loving and caring too hard makes a warrior vulnerable. So the fact that Clementa made her flutter like a little caged bird made her uncomfortable. Jacinta did not want to be weak.

Her feelings for Clementa were her greatest weakness in the Arena. From a tactical point of view, it made her stronger that she died.

("I wish I could have loved you, Jacinta."

In another life, maybe she could have.)

Jacinta pushes the thought of Clementa Lowe away. Dwelling on her is dangerously depressing, and Jacinta has enough problems to deal with tonight.

She doesn't look Justice in the eye as she unbuttons the top collar of his shirt, because she knows that she would regret it immediately. Jacinta can feel the heat exuding from his body, and when she breathes in, she catches not only the smell of the city air, but also a musky scent that must belong to Justice. Alcohol, sweat, and cologne — it isn't the most unpleasant thing, she supposes.

Once the top button is undone, Jacinta does not linger. She quickly steps away from Justice, and now that she is at a more comfortable distance, she is able to muster the courage to look at him again. To her dismay, she was closer to Justice than she realized, only an inch or two away.

"Anyway..." she clears her throat, trying to change the subject before he can make a stupid joke or poke fun at her. "I came here because I wanted to know, because I wanted to understand... How are we supposed to live with ourselves, after everything?" She means killing less so; Jacinta is more focused on the part she has played in Violet's imminent death than the lives she destroyed in the Arena.

"Not that you've done anything wrong," Jacinta continues, careful not to strike a nerve in Justice. She isn't blaming him for Pillar's death, nor does she truly blame herself for Violet's encroaching demise; she blames Snow. "I just mean—how am I supposed to keep going on as normal when my sister is going to die?"

And there they come, the waterworks. Jacinta sniffles and blinks back tears; she doesn't want to smear her eyeliner and she doesn't want to cry in front of Justice. It seems like such a arbitrary, meaningless worry, but she tries to focus on the little things rather than the big picture. (Violet's death, her blood glistening on the snow, Marina's disappointed stare at the Reaping — that's enough.)

"I don't know how to pretend like everything is okay. Despite the fact that my sister's life is on the line, I still have be presentable to the press — and to Snow," Although her voice wavers, Jacinta's words are bitter and full of venom, but it is not directed at Justice. She doesn't look at him when she speaks; rather, she stares into the cityscape, picturing Snow's familiar, smug smile. Instead of focusing on her despair, Jacinta focuses in on the rage and hatred that has slowly been building inside of her since the moment Violet was reaped. "I still have to make appearances and smile and act like I'm happy."

Happiness, joy — they seemed so far out of her reach, now. There is nothing Justice can say that can take Jacinta's pain away, but she does not seek true relief. She knows that is impossible.

She came here for understanding; Justice might be drunk — he always is — but maybe there is something he can tell her that would make her feel less alone.

and i can't tear myself away
did we ever see it coming?
will we ever let it go?
we are buried in broken dreams

[arx!!]

JUSTICE
FRAY

I think I caught her off guard. Normally I'd be proud of the reaction—the pink in her cheeks and the way she struggles to respond. I wonder what would happen if I winked at her now? If I bit my lip and leaned in to whisper in her ear? I know it'd be far better than this serious talk she wants to have. I think about suggesting it, drunk mind lingering on the curve of her hips and the plunge in her dress.

I decide to hold my tongue. She'll learn eventually. Talking about all this? The Games, the death, the responsibility, the eyes that are always watching—it's pointless. But a distraction? Whether it be the kind you find at the bottom of a flask or the kind you find wrapped up beneath silk sheets or some other third thing I've yet to discover, it's far easier. And far more fun.

"O-okay?"

Tentative. Skeptical. Smart of her—"I won't bite. Unless you ask nicely."—I do have bloodied hands and dozens of ghosts haunting me. But I guess she does, too. Maybe I should be the hesitant one. I have seen her jam a spear through a girls eye after all. Two monsters soaked in the blood of our enemies, haunted by ghosts with every breath we take, both adorned with crowns that are far too heavy for anyone to carry.

She's still gorgeous though. If I didn't feel like I was about to be strangled by my own shirt collar I might actually consider reaching out to touch her cheek. It looks soft to the touch, her skin glowing in the moonlight. When she takes a step closer all I notice is how nice she smells. I blink slowly, admiring the way her dress falls off her shoulders and hugs her waist--

"But don't get any funny ideas."

I jump, eyes snapping to attention above her head. Didn't know she could read minds. Fuck.

The button comes undone and she moves away quickly. Small steps, just as tentative as she was before and I think she's a little surprised to see we're still standing so close. The corners of my lips twitch upward and I chuckle out a—"Thanks."—just as she decides to move the conversation along.

"I came here because I wanted to know, because I wanted to understand... How are we supposed to live with ourselves, after everything?"

I kinda want to go back to the bar. I think about going back inside and grabbing a bottle from the cupboards before we get too deep into this conversation. I sigh, smirk falling from my face as I roll her question around in my brain. She quicks to make sure she hasn't hurt my feelings—"Not that you've done anything wrong."—but how could I possibly be? It's the truth. I'm a monster disguised beneath pretty clothes and expensive jewels. A common killer. Murderer.

Her voice shakes and I wish I hadn't confused her with her sister earlier. She speaks as if she's already dead and, honestly, that's how it should be. Hurts just a little bit less when they're gone.

But I think she loves her sister ten times more than I ever did.

"I still have to make appearances and smile and act like I'm happy."

And I don't know what I can possibly tell her that will help. Me, Justice Fray, resident drunk fuckboy that the media adores following around because they don't even have to interfere in my life to fuck it up—I do that all on my own. Snow hasn't bothered me since he put the crown on my head. It's probably a bit different for her. Snow's shiniest, newest play thing and I'm sure he's smiling at a television screen right now as the replay the District 7 reaping over and over again.

"It sucks."

It seems like the appropriate response. I let it sit there in the air for a moment before running my hand through my hair and looking out over the cityscape.

"It all fucking sucks."

I hate serious conversations. I hate telling people how I feel. I hate sharing my experiences and I hate remembering what I've done to get here. Because if I'm honest, it wasn't worth it.

"We get to live in fancy mansions, eat the best food, wear the most expensive clothes, drink until we drop and then do it all over again because our only job now is to suffer in front of a camera for the whole world to see," I say, spitting the words a little angrier than I had thought I would.

It builds up. The anger, the depression, the bitterness. But I'd rather ignore it than put it all into words. Feelings are hard. Drinking is easy.

"It's easy to smile when you're drunk," I mutter, crack a small smile in her direction. "But I'm guessing since we're meeting here and not at a club that drinking isn't for you."

It's sort of just on impulse that I brush her hair away from her face and behind her ear. I smile softly at her, shrug because I don't know how to fill the silence. I wish I had something better to say, something that's actually helpful, anything to make her feel better. But I can't find anything. I'm not sure there is anything I can say except--

"I'm sorry."

I look into her eyes and wish that I could make her pain go away. I don't know how. I don't think it's possible. But I wish. She doesn't deserve this. No one really deserves this.

"We can pretend for the cameras together."

"You don't have to do it alone."

We don't have to do it alone.

[   v i c t o r y   ]