how the folk mourn // oberon

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l o r e n z o .

"you are weak
but not foolish
you have learned
how to die."

There's a lot of things teenagers are ungrateful of, but staying alive wasn't one of them. Lorenzo never expected to make it to nineteen -- hell, making it to fourteen was a pain in the neck. And the chest. And the calves and a severed ear to boot, yet he heard all the same. 

Oberon Fairbairn, he heard it and it echoed in his very bones. 

It was disgusting the way he found himself so cheerful in Oberon's demise; thank god, thank fucking god, in every way Lorenzo believed it should've been him. Those lanky legs meeting the stage a second time with more muscle, he spent his entire teenage span running a race that never existed. Had he known that, he would have been happier for it the entire time, but through all that pain he had never felt more euphoria in another kid's death. 

Especially after the fall of Kahinta -- one of them would die, and Lorenzo hated that he hoped it would be Oberon. Hated himself for living in spite of it, for having trained and killed himself to make sure he'd be able to win if he got thrown back in; Oberon wouldn't be ready. There's no real way to prepare for it besides living in, Lorenzo knew every mistake he had made and that's the only way to improve on it. 

But there wouldn't be a second chance, not for Oberon and not for the Jones' family. 

He had supported Temple in the lobby, Lorenzo would never truly be family but watching her break all over again while he stayed so intact- it didn't seem fair. He was family enough to sit with her and her parents, and to wave at Kahinta in that fleeting moment. 

For the last time, perhaps; he tried not to think of it. 

The right hall's door closed behind Temple and Lorenzo was called before taking a seat again, to face that lonely room all over again. Five years ago, he had sat alone avoiding the realization, the reality of the situation, and maybe had somebody just talked to him he would have been more ready; though, he knows this is a lie. That he still avoids the weight of reality, of everything that he lived through. He was just the lucky one, closing the door behind him as he saw Oberon in that waiting grave. 

They could easily have swapped spots had Lorenzo been a stronger man. 

Been like his father. 

"Hey, there ain't nothin' I can tell you that helps, but," he clasped his hands together on the Polaroid camera. That old trusted thing, five years old and rusted and the bits were still burnt from Lex's weapon. "If you got any questions, anything you need to hear besides how sorry I am that it's you," and not me. Not Lorenzo, never again Lorenzo. 

"Or if you need a kick ass token, it may just be good luck, y'know." The Polaroid in his hands, Lorenzo replaced the film before the day began. 

It may just keep you alive, Oberon. 

It did for me.