Limbo States [Cyro / Vasco]

[marguerite harvard d2a (zori)]

Vasco Izar

(Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia)

Out on the porch, seated back against the cushion of the hanging bench, I twisted one of the plastic beads on a necklace between my index finger and thumb. I had to pause to find the words, almost like I was reaching out through the darkness of my mind to find them. Eyes closed, I turned up another bead and pressed along the necklace, pouring over the same old prayers whispered through the chill of the morning.

I’d always believed in an afterlife, even if I hadn’t the faintest idea what it could look like. When I was half the height of the corn stalks in the fields, we always found ourselves talking about the stars, and how the energy that made up our bodies had to go somewhere. So, I always made up the story that there’d be a place for us up in the sky, together. A space where all the Izars would belong, without the fear we’d ever have to separate again. It felt like a good dream, to imagine some space with warm light and a place to lay down together, all enveloped in happiness. Freedom from pain. Freedom to exist.

My mother had taught me some of what she’d been raised to believe, and lately I’d found myself turning back to her for a better state of grace. I wish I had paid better attention when I was a kid and listened to her stories. She’d spend an afternoon lighting candles and sitting in the corner of the kitchen, whispering out little prayers and pouring over scraps of yellowed pages that her own mother had passed down to her.

It’s nice to have faith in something when everything else felt as though it didn’t make any sense.

When the world seemed ready to hurl you right up off the ground and into the sky, to believe in something like that felt like another source of gravity. It was grounding, something that could be bigger than me or anyone else.

The morning of the reaping, I just kept thinking, let us have peace, each time I turned over another bead. Let us go one more year without any kind of pain. I didn’t know who I was praying to but it felt it might have been someone that had the power to do something. Let them take me instead, I had offered, because it felt unselfish, even when the words that came out of my mouth reminded me of my daughter and wife sleeping inside.

There’d always be consequences, no matter what sort of ending I chose.

When I sat next to Katelyn on stage and looked out at the sea of faces, I thought I was going to have another panic attack then and there. I’m sure I was stark white, I could barely breathe through the last ten minutes before the escort had come to pull the names out of the bowl. I couldn’t tell you if Harbinger or Kirito said a damn thing to me. All I could do was keep thinking, please, please let there be a better ending this year.

The girl’s name was pulled, the boy’s, the scuffle, and Cyro Krane volunteered.

Then it was over. Another reaping, my fifth one as mayor.

The last one, if I wanted it to be.

I was standing in the hallway, staring at the wooden doors trying to piece it back together in my mind.

Cyro was Jon’s sister’s son. I held on the door for another minute, my stomach twisting into another knot, and thought about how long it’d been since I’d bothered to even think about the Kranes. Not since Levi had died, aside from seeing Wilson now and again.

“Hola, Cyro?” I closed the door behind him and stood, hands behind my back. What are you doing? I wanted to ask, selfishly. I thought how it’d be if Raquel had been the one leaving behind a beautiful little boy. Maybe I've seen too many years to come close to understanding. Instead all I can do is try to make peace (for once).

“I wanted to see what I could do to help you.”

[Tom]

The reaping sinks into the depths of his head, cold like the ice of Katelyn Persimmon's arena. The white walls the peacekeepers throw him in leave his skin crawling with the truth of what he had done, but he's known for weeks this was the only way. Others were going to criticize him for what he'd done. Cyro Krane was a father, but people would see the selfishness of throwing away his life and forcing his son to be an orphan, but he wasn't planning on dying. Despite what people think, Cyro Krane's been a fighter since before he had Xander. Pushing through hell and back, carrying all of his strength to being able to stand up against those who wish for him to kneel, to give in, and to break.

Cyro Krane had to pluck his own name from the bowl, let Eleven know the suffering still plaguing the streets of Eleven. Amira having died in childbirth and from his father's own alcoholic issues, leaving him behind with the worst of world. Xander was the light in his life, a piece of himself who would glow brightly no matter the outcome. A better life for his son; one he couldn't provide for him. The white walls melt together; too pristine, too clean, and nothing like the walls Xander would dirty up on accident.

Alone; once more he's alone in the chair of those who stand above him. Political powers who stand for those who are in direct care of them. Vasco Izar hadn't helped him since becoming Mayor. Cyro wasn't an Izar; just a Krane with enough family problems to build a mountain of pessimism, yet he stands here continuing to think about the chance of surviving and coming home. The door finally opens, knowing Wilson would be coming by at some point, probably with Xander to say goodbye. His heart in his throat; hands clammy and eyes closed, but the words that reach him aren't Wilson or Xander.

"Hola, Cyro?"

Vasco Izar closes the door behind him, enough of an image to remind him the way Mayor Izar had left him out to dry. Kranes weren't Izars, despite what Mayor Izar believed. Cyro wasn't some project for the mayor to mold into whatever he so desired. This wasn't about pride in standing together as a family. Cyro Krane had no family anymore. Xander had been the only one he needed anyways and now he was going to give him the life he deserved, whether it came from Katelyn Persimmon, Kirito Miristioma, Harbinger Rhodes, Kassandra Nerys, or anyone else he could ask. Vasco Izar could talk all he wanted about whatever it was Izars believed in, but Cyro wasn't anyone's hindsight.

The ugly piece of a family; hidden away behind broken hearts and bad luck.

"I wanted to see what I could do to help you."

Help. The word is grating to his ears; nails along a chalkboard. Vasco Izar was too late. Help wasn't coming for Xander or him. Cyro Krane's slept so many sleepless nights, exhausted mentally and physically, counting the paychecks he had gotten just to make sure they survived. If Vasco Izar wanted to help, he would have came sooner with a family who actually cared about them. Not an entire family who forgets about them; leaves them in the dirt to pretend to play mayor with Eleven. Isn't that how it worked? Out of sight. Out of mind. The feeling burns through his teeth, grinding together with the way he stands up now, arms crossed together, shoulders raised, and voice filled with so much hurt over the years.

Cyro Krane burns red hot with anger.

Nothing more than a boy who's been shoved under the staircase for too long.

"You're too late, Mayor Izar."

Too late to save Cyro Krane. Too late to help out the Kranes.

"There's no helping what you've left behind. Did you even know about us before today?"

Slapping the palms angrily on the desk in front of him, eyes staring into Vasco Izar's trying to make the man hurt the way he has been. It's all broken tears that fill his memories. The funeral for his nana where Wilson Izar-Krane told him that he cared, even if it was just a little bit. Their past is still heavy with many questions about how Cyro Krane was left behind with a mother and a father who didn't care about his son. Isn't that what his family was meant to be? A selfish woman who only wanted him when he didn't have Xander or sent away her husband for good. A father who drank so much that Cyro Krane had become empty inside from the amounts of times his father shouted in his face threats of harm.

"Do you even fucking care? Did you even realize that my son and I were going to be on the fucking streets days after the reaping? Aren't you meant to be a mayor for the people?"

It's painful; letting the anger boil up on his lips. Tears breaking from his eyes at the frustration he's felt for weeks towards every single fucking person in his life.

"You should have wanted to help me weeks ago; right now I don't need your false promises and united as one bullshit you believe in."

The burning sensation of anger shaking his hands, wrapped around the desk now, holding himself up as emotions burst forward. Ones he's held back for weeks, finally spilling over with the hurt he's feeling.

"I don't need your help, Mayor Izar. My son does."

[marguerite harvard d2a (zori)]

Vasco Izar

As he stood from his chair, fractured sunlight cast Cyro Krane’s shadow across the carpet. I stiffened against the heavy oak door, right hand grasping again and again at my left wrist, threatening to rub it raw. The momentary lull built to a rupture; tension readied to ignite both of us whole. It wasn’t in the way he folded his arms across his body that telegraphed the words to come. Looking into Cyro’s eyes, I saw the same pained expression that had been in Sampson’s when the peacekeepers had left him to rot in a cell. A flash of that same fury had been in Raquel’s on that stage all those years ago, too.

‘You’re too late, Mayor Izar.’ His words caught me off balance. ‘There's no helping what you've left behind. Did you even know about us before today?’

I flinched when his hands came down hard on the desk.

I didn’t know Cyro Krane any more than from a passing glance at our family tree. Far enough removed that he’d get a short wave when we’d moved along in the market, and perhaps a cómo estás if Emma had tugged at my arm to remind me. I could use the excuse that a drop of Izar blood permeated through the roots of this district, but that didn’t explain why I hadn’t claimed this boy as one of my own.

Silence didn’t absolve my guilt when it came to helping those who’d been in need. Especially ones that should’ve been close enough for me to know better.

‘Do you even fucking care? Did you even realize that my son and I were going to be on the fucking streets days after the reaping? Aren't you meant to be a mayor for the people?’

"I do, Cyro... I..."

His voice punctuated the empty space between us. How many Cyros were there in district eleven now? How many boys had been forced to become men in the blink of an eye while the rest of us carried on as though all it took was two feet on the ground and a way forward? He had every right to rage at me, the man who’d promised five years ago to put an end to sleeping in the street. Yet there had been no answer for the unending days of labor, or the peacekeepers who’s boots echoed louder now than ever across the district.

All the wells we'd built, the schools we'd fixed up, or irrigation pipes we'd added across the district didn't go far enough.

When the lockdown had started and fire swept across the fields, I’d been fighting to keep us afloat rather than getting us forward. Except I’d been lucky enough to have been in the boat at all, because as I’d swept the rising tide of chaos out with a bucket, people like Cyro had been struggling not to drown.

‘You should have wanted to help me weeks ago; right now I don't need your false promises and united as one bullshit you believe in.’

When you get old enough, you find a reservoir of patience that’s far deeper than it could’ve been in youth. Not without lack of effort, or experiences you’d rather forget. Age brought a better wisdom to remind me that I didn’t have to have an answer, and sometimes, an answer couldn’t offer the silver lining I thought it did.

He’d been told that we needed to love one another. That there was virtue in kindness. I preached a gospel of unity and yet what did those words mean if a boy like Cyro hadn’t felt himself a part of them? When the lockdown had roared on and fires swept away parts of the district, had any of that remained for him? What good were those words when he had to make a choice between life for his son, and life for himself? I’d been seated at a table with my family, Katelyn, and those I’d put into my orbit all while he’d been starving, alone.

‘I don't need your help, Mayor Izar. My son does.’

“Cyro… I’m sorry. You’ve every right to feel as you do. I didn’t do enough for you or your son.” There may not have been an answer to his pain; sometimes we lived a life without justice for what we’d have to endure. That didn’t mean we had to live without mercy for each other, too.

“I should’ve thought of you, Cyro. It’s my fault for that, for leaving you out when you should’ve been a part of us.” Even the best intentions could still leave out those on the margins. I’d been so focused on keeping my family safe, I’d forgotten to open my eyes and see those that were falling behind. Loneliness was just as painful as any wound, and sometimes just as deadly.

“We can keep him with us until your return,” I said without a second thought. Whether he’d made arrangements, I’d be willing check-in on the youngster daily. “I’ll do whatever I can to make sure that he’s well taken care of. I want to make this right.”

[Tom]

Vasco Izar is quiet; calmer than he expected.

Not entirely sure of what he had been looking for from Mayor Izar, there's a certain burning in his heart that aches. The feeling hurts, ripred does it hurt him. All of the emotions from the past bundled up in a messily in a package meant for not just Mayor Vasco, but everyone else who decided he wasn't enough. He's never been enough to anyone. A father who used to let the words hang heavy in the air, cut wounds so deep that he could barely breathe without his mind breaking away, avoiding the harm it had caused to his mind. Yet, he's still standing, burning with the same fight he's always had. The same voice that's saved him from crashing and burning in places so heavy.

"Cyro… I’m sorry. You’ve every right to feel as you do. I didn’t do enough for you or your son." Validation. The words feel real. More real than the days slaving over himself trying to feed his son, trying to keep himself afloat, and trying to be the best father he can when it's just him against the world, against a system that's so harshly against them that he can't breath underneath the water shoving him under over and over again. Cyro Krane's built a life surrounded by pain and hides it away beneath the surface, bursting in a brilliance to get someone, anyone, to see. There's never been enough people to save them. Not enough people who cared about one another to save all of District Eleven. His heart bleeds red like the fires that burnt through Eleven; hot and filled with suffering.

"I should’ve thought of you, Cyro. It’s my fault for that, for leaving you out when you should’ve been a part of us." The words strike him hard; a match burning down and down until it's gone. Blame. There's blame that Vasco is taking, but Cyro can't feel his fingers, can't feel the way his heart beats in that same state where he would hide away, take the blame for his mistakes with Xander, and burn heavy with tears. They should have been apart of the Izars and the Kranes and the rest of Eleven, but no one cared about them. Only small smiles when someone told the others they were related. Small words here and there meant to end and satisfy their lack of curiosity and move on with their days.

The days spent bleeding over hard work and determination to make his son live a better life than his own had been. Life before his son had been rough, they were still rough, but he found something to look forward to after it all. Life before Xander had been filled with cigarette smoke, bonfires in the middle of fields, and alcohol to numb the pain. Just like his father, he had used it to cover the bruising and the emotional strain built up from home. A mother who never truly loved him, letting the pain pass with soft words and trying to pacify him. Soothing touches meant to keep him in his cycle, whispers of you know how he is and your father was different than others.

The words Vasco Izar breaks the memories of pain from bubbling up to the surface. "We can keep him with us until your return," Home. Xander would have a home while he was gone. Wilson Izar-Krane had already begrudgingly offered to take Xander with him into his home. Afterwards, he didn't know who would end up with Xander. Part of him knew Vasco would be a good choice, but after the years of sitting in the background, he's seen what happens to Vasco Izar's kids and despite that, Cyro didn't know if Xander would truly be safe there. "I’ll do whatever I can to make sure that he’s well taken care of. I want to make this right."

It's a start. A wave to the pain he's felt for years from the lack of familial bonds he's never shared. It's a start for Xander that could be apart of Eleven. The desire to leave behind something more for his son, but he's silent as he stares down Mayor Izar. There's still an anger that bubbles there, but he's calmed down with Vasco's endless ocean of calm. It's building up in his chest as he starts to breath, gripping the table between them with white knuckles and the anger bubbling over, until he's calmer. Jaw still taut in the leftover anger in his heart.

"A-And what happens when I don't come home?"

The possibility still hangs heavy in the air, knuckles white and his heart beating out of his chest. Cyro Krane wasn't dumb. Eleven was hated by the capitol, but this had been the only way. The only way to give his son everything he deserved when he couldn't give him anything. A possibility to escape all of this. A possibility to grow up happier than he had, with a family that truly could build him up and keep him happy for the rest of his life. Xander was his world and he would die for him if it came down to it.

He would die for Xander to be happy if he had to.

"What then? Will he still be welcomed? Will all of you still care for him like you were supposed to care for me? Or would he be left behind again, just another orphan on the streets?"

It's painful to think about. The idea of his son without a place to live, but it would have been the same if he didn't do this. Left behind in the streets of Eleven begging for someone to take them in. Cyro begging to get any work that he could in Eleven after the fire. Except, they'd toss him measly coins, barely enough to buy the grains used to feed the poor people of Eleven. No one got to experience Katelyn Persimmon's baked goods or the harvests of Eleven without suffering loss of their worth.

"Will you promise me to find him a home? Will you make sure he gets a real home, with someone who will raise him right? S-Someone who he'll be able to look up to and grow up happy. Will you be there to do the things I won't be able to Vasco? Can you promise me that?"

It's painful. It's humiliating. It's hard. It's everything he had to do in order to provide the one thing for his son at the chance he doesn't come home. There's always a chance, but Cyro sure as hell won't give up without a hell of a fight for him. A fight for Xander that no one else would be able to have. Taut jaw, so tight that he can feel his heartbeat in his throat as he stares into Mayor Izar's eyes. Unwavering belief behind him, knowing that Vasco Izar would help him if it came down to it, but he was not the man who he wanted Xander Krane to live with. Vasco Izar was a good father, but Eleven stood in his visions rather than the family he's now lost.

"Will you promise to make up for all the years you've missed, Vasco?"

The words hang heavy in the air, letting his grip go.

"Or will you fail me once more?"

[marguerite harvard d2a (zori)]

Vasco Izar

There was a tremble in his voice. Enough to separate the boy from the man. It didn’t diminish how he spoke. Rather, I could feel my stomach knot over and under itself at the sound. Shame crept up over my shoulder for the pain that Cyro felt. The bravery of how honest all of it was, that he’d lost himself to the sting of loneliness and couldn’t find a single other solution other than throwing himself in front of a speeding train. All because of his child. One that would be alone, if only for a little while, but maybe –

Not yet.

Cyro had been written out of the narrative by each of us inasmuch as we’d never taken time to see him. I could have just as easily blamed him for not finding the courage to speak to me before then, but that’s something a weaker man does. Small men, confronted by someone that tells them open and honestly of pain, how they’d been abandoned, or left behind, must not have worked hard enough to be noticed. If he’d done anything worth noticing, we would’ve done something. Celebrated him, even, if Cyro had been worthy enough.

But there could be no President Snows if there were no Cyro Kranes; and we were all complicit in its creation, no matter how hard we may have been struggling against it.

‘A-And what happens when I don't come home?’

“Cálmate.” I shushed him, though it’s barely a whisper. I took the time to be selfish because I refused to believe that Xander could go without his father. They’d pried enough of us out of the ground, salted the earth, and left us to be choked on what remained but still – we went on. But this? Who did they think we were? We were prisoners, and Cyro had been smart enough to figure it out. The chains that shackled us down only stretched so far. Sampson had tried to show all of us but we’d held our hands over our ears and blocked out our eyes, but he’d always been right.

(Maybe it was time someone finally razed the prisons to the ground.)

All of it was rigged so that the moment we stepped out of line, or dreamed too big, we’d get yanked back just as quickly as we’d started. By now it wasn’t even the ones in the capitol that needed to keep us down; we were so content to look after ourselves that envy was a powerful enough weapon to keep us divided. A system that preyed on boys like Cyro, one that kept some of us in power because we’d thought we could change all of it from within.

‘What then? Will he still be welcomed? Will all of you still care for him like you were supposed to care for me? Or would he be left behind again, just another orphan on the streets?’

Alfonso. Sarina. Gabe. Raquel. Salome. Levi. Iago. Benat. Uxue.

Justice had forgotten about us. Which on its face seemed selfish to say (hadn’t Kass just come home)?

But that was where they’d convinced us there was any sort of glory, any sort of bittersweet symbolism in one of our own coming home. Looking at Cyro drew out something primal. Something about a man giving up his child, sacrificing himself for a boy he’d never get to raise. He could act tough then, could go into the arena and be as terrible as Iago had been, but that wouldn’t change a damn thing.

‘Will you promise me to find him a home? Will you make sure he gets a real home, with someone who will raise him right? S-Someone who he'll be able to look up to and grow up happy. Will you be there to do the things I won't be able to Vasco? Can you promise me that?’

Cyro Krane was just a frightened boy making the only choice in his mind that we’d left him with.

I’m trying – I wanted to tell him so desperately, Cyro, I’ve talked to the other mayors, we’re trying, I promise you, it’s coming, there’s something different this time – but they’re too hollow for this. Too small, too uncertain.

‘Will you promise to make up for all the years you've missed, Vasco? Or will you fail me once more?’

I watched his grip loosen across the table. I let the silence take hold and sit heavy between us.

“Mijo…” They wanted him angry and afraid. For us to despise one another for the choices we’d make. “I’ll make it so that every day he remembers how special he is. That he’ll know all about who he is and where he comes from. That being kind isn’t weakness and that… we need to step outside ourselves to do the most good, for the most people. That his father, this incredible young man, he stepped forward because he hadn’t had the choice…”

The worst of it all? Cyro Krane would die to no one’s great alarm.

The thought bristled within my chest, settling next to my heart and staying.

“He won’t go hungry and he’ll always have a friend in me. He’ll get a new coat in the winter and boots, too. Marisol will knit him comfy sweaters and he’ll get presents from olentzero, but only if he’s good. Cyro, I promise you, I swear…” I stumbled again. It felt as though I was grasping at the side of a mountain, ready to slip off into the endless nothing below.

“I’ll teach him dominos, and how to play the guitar. And I may not be young anymore,” I laughed, sucking in air and choking, “But I’ll keep up with him as best as I can. All of us will, he won’t forget who he is. He’ll see a better world, I promise… I don’t know how to prove it, Cyro. But I want to, for you.”