until we say goodbye on our dying day; [dream sequence]

[arx!!]

JUSTICE
FRAY

Everything was glowing around him. Not like the harsh, glittering lights of the Capitol, but like the soft flicker of a well-lit fireplace. He couldn't decide which setting was more familiar anymore. Maybe they were both a comfort to him? Or was it neither? He didn't know.

Indecision left him slightly on edge as he leaned against the bar, ice clinking against the side of his old-fashioned. The glass was sweating in his hand, condensation dripping between his fingers and snaking around his wrist. The droplets left scars in their place, but they didn't burn. They didn't feel like anything at all. And for some reason, he wasn't alarmed either.

He wasn't wearing his wedding ring. Not atypical; he was trying to enjoy himself after all. But he couldn't feel the weight of it in his breast pocket either. He patted his chest and came up empty. He twisted to check the pockets at his sides, bashing his right knee against the bar as he came up empty handed once more. He knew it should've hurt, the way the collision still rang in his ears. It only tingled, warm against his palm.

He sighed. Waited. He wasn't sure what for, only that he had to wait. He was meeting someone. He hoped it was her. She'd fit right in under the soft glow of firelight with a wine bottle in hand and a flush in her cheeks. He knew that much; he'd beheld that perfect image once before. Something told him that was wishful thinking- she was wishful thinking. He knew that much, too.

Why couldn't he remember who he was meeting, why he'd come here to this quiet little bar somewhere between District 1 and the Capitol? Maybe it didn't matter. Most things didn't matter anymore. That's why the anxiety and excitement buzzing at his surface felt so strange.

His glass had been refilled. He raised it high before finishing the contents with a flourish. The drink didn't burn like it usually did, but the glass sounded like a wind chime in a soft breeze, ringing gently through the place like some happy song.

He felt his companion sit as he let his glass slide away from him. "Fuck's sake," he smiled, kicking playfully. "What took you so damn long? I've been here for like- ages."

He turned his attention back to his refilled glass, carefully leaning to slide it over to his friend with a clap on the back. "My gift to an old bro, huh?"

[   v i c t o r y   ]

[[nyte]]

IF YOU NEED ME, WANNA SEE ME

A T L A S

BETTER HURRY 'CAUSE I'M LEAVING SOON

Atlas White is very dead. Dead and gone, a pile of bones beneath the dirt. He has been for a long time now, stuck in the nothing that comes along with it. He's a notch in the belt of better men, a failure in every sense of the word. The promises he'd made with blood stuck to his lips and bruises like butterfly kisses mottled across his skin are now merely silent lullabies.

How strange it is, then, that tonight he finds himself breathing. He feels the warmth of skin on skin as faceless strangers push past him. Soft instrumental music leaks from behind a bar cast in golden light, the edges of the room go hazy white as though the world starts and ends where his gaze falls.

At some point over the course of his death, open wounds faded into thin white scars, countless as they trace the contours of his body. He remembers well the pain he felt before death, an incomprehensible kind of suffering, but finds only peace where panic once lay. There's nothing more he can do about it now. Atlas lost his game.

He's confused as to why he's here, though. Being pulled up from the abyss is terribly disconcerting. There's got to be a reason for his sudden existence. Atlas certainly can't live for himself anymore, that right was taken from him. That's fine with him. Dead men can't tell tales anyway.

Well, when in Rome, right? If the universe is going to drop him at a bar one last time it's practically begging him to get absolutely shitfaced. His legs are unsteady but the crowd parts for him, faceless gaze trained on him as he draws closer to the only patron who hasn't turned to gawk. Fuckin' creepy. Is it logical to be scared when you're dead?

"Fuck's sake." A terribly familiar voice breaks the silence, as though all has been righted as Atlas takes his seat next to Justice Fray. The music resumes, the faceless things start moving. Life's going on like it always has without him. Justice looks as strange as he does familiar, subtle changes stark in light of Atlas' absence. He pushes his drink toward him and Atlas wastes no time in knocking back the whole thing.

Much to his dismay, it's tasteless. "Ah, come on. I'm not even allowed to get drunk?!" He shakes his fist at the bartender as though it's his fault, smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he takes his time drinking in every last detail of an old friend. His chest aches, swollen with a melancholy kind of happiness.

He missed him.

"You're so old! Dude! Are those wrinkles?" He leans back in his chair, "Y'know I typically didn't go for older guys but you pull it off." He slips back into banter like a bad habit. Like nothing's changed at all and the last time they saw each other wasn't hours after he'd killed a girl to save him. "So, you did it huh? Tell me I'm lookin' at the Victor Justice Fray. Or else death did you real dirty, dude."