i know you so well // (justice)

[arx!!]

justice
f r a y.

you're a man now,
b o y .

His breath billowed in front of him, clouds thick, burning and eating away at his lungs like smoke. He felt the rose color leaping into his cheeks and the ache of cold in his joints, but still he did not move. Frozen. Huh. The fence creaked and groaned beneath his weight as he shifted, settling back in to gaze out over amber waves as time tick, tick, ticked by. Snow would begin to fall soon.

The contents of his bottle sloshed as he raised it to his lips—"Cheers."—he hiccuped, wincing and sucking at his lip as he rubbed alcohol into the cracks there.

"Fuck."

Apparently the universe didn't know he was celebrating. There was no need to punish him...this time. Maybe he should've been more clear. He extended the bottle further, higher. His balance nearly betrayed him, but he caught himself with a chuckle in his tone as he spoke this time.

"Cheers to eleven years of victory and glory and splendor a-a-and honor and...and-uh," he pressed the bottle to his lips so that the words would stop spilling. The stinging increased, but he kept going, waiting for the warmth to spread like fire through his veins. "And to- uh, this field, I guess." He nodded, drank some more. "Yeah."

What was he doing here? Toasting to open fields and fake stars over the corpses of children as Capitolites argued over their scripts—fuck's sake, they all had it wrong anyway. Or at least, he was pretty sure they did. Maybe he'd been passed out on the floor with blood dripping from a broken nose, busted lip crusted in puke, and eye swollen and colored the hues of sunsets when she'd forced her scythe through a heart. Maybe. Maybe.

Maybe he should've offered the new girl a drink before coming out here and celebrating the fact that her life was over. That nothing would ever be the same. That she won and that meant the weight of the crown would bury itself into her scalp and blood would mix with the tears in her eyes and she would drown. Because they all did, right?

Or was it just him?

Paper caught at his boot, wrapped itself around in his metallic toes and strained against the biting wind. So crisp and perfect, crinkling in his hand as he flipped it over and smoothed the corners against his thigh.

---

111

RIDLEY LE ROUX (CONT'D)

I can't fix that, BELL.

(grimacing)     

Neither can a crown. But I don't care about being enough for other people anymore. Where are they now? They can't save us.

---

Someone called to him as the lines blurred together. He heard his name, admiration seeping through with every word. He wanted to keep reading. Or maybe he didn't. Maybe.

He handed the script back with a smile, hopping down from the fence. "Pleasure to meet a fan." He signed what he was asked to, smiled when was required, flexed and posed despite the ache in his bones. But mostly they wanted to get back to their scene. He was grateful. He was celebrating. Ten years of waiting had finally given him someone else to- to...

"Cheers to Ridley, yeah?"

They asked him to join, he obliged. He knew none of the words. He knew nothing. He stumbled so many times he'd lost count. They pretended they didn't care when he read the words wrong. A celebration. That's what this was. It was, it was, it was.

Ridley Le Roux was the new victor. He didn't have to do this anymore, right?

Right.

"Yeah."

That was right.

"i'm not growing up, i'm aging. my mind's incarcerated, still a boy."

♪