back to hey hi, hello // beck & enzo

[Deleted]

---

"Full house, huh?" He said to Saylor Bell, the latest dead boy on this train. Sometimes Lorenzo's convinced he's just a ghost, like he can focus on his hands and slip straight through the attention of anyone who's around. Twenty one and maybe he's just made the whole thing up, fancy collar choking up to his jaw.

They say when you die, it all goes in a blink of an eye, right? 

You're on the ground bleeding at eighteen, and maybe he's just between the shutter frames. It feels like just three months ago he was happy to be alive, eating shrimp on a stick with Beck - three months before that, that same kid was bleeding from a bullhorn. Time flies so fast that Enzo could believe it's all just his final blinks clicking along. Hollywood never left his mind and he's been searching for that treasure trove ever since he left. 

Siren song, it calls him back the same way Beck always did, and Lorenzo tries not to answer the phone anymore. 

He was doing just fine too, before Saffron. 

And then he picked up the call, and yelled and cried, and laughed that shit off like a pink little bandaid on his kneecap -- it fucking stings. He sits in an empty room on the train, trying to steer away from Ansgar's tributes. Who is Lorenzo to give advice on winning? The best thing he ever did in his games was fucking die and go to therapy. 

His best advice is to get someone else to adopt you and pray for a miracle. Maybe Stella or Shelby are looking for kids, hell if he knew. Instead, he lays on the high rail bunk, replaying every shit conversation he's had in the last year and getting sick over it again. The ride is smooth as ever, just as he remembered it, and yet he's still down from motion sickness. Twisted gut, Lorenzo buries his head into the deco pillow, scraping his forehead on bedazzles. 

Call it what you will, but Lorenzo's never been a fan. The phone rings and he doesn't answer, the lock to his room bolted shut with the do not disturb sign set -- if they need him so bad, they'll see him soon enough. Not like he can go anywhere crazy on a whole ass train. 

If he could have jumped, he would have done so a long time ago. 

He sleeps the rest of the way, cuddled onto a bench under his lightweight coat. Every year he matures and finds new ways to make a fool of himself, it's kind of his whole thing. Three years ago it was running away from home, hiding out with Jimmy and being excited that Saffron and Mace were so worried. Two years ago, the boat - that motherfucking boat. 

Last year it was the self destruction, melting his own foundations until he could feel comfort in the rubble. Laying his dues and wasting away, as if he could die hard enough to match his own sister; he hasn't talked about it, and he still doesn't need to. He feels it enough, and that's enough for him. It's like an emotional hip pain, Lorenzo kept convincing himself that it would stop hurting after a few days. 

A few weeks. 

A year. 

And now he's in the middle of the beginning, escorted behind Mace, behind Saff, behind Saylor and Langley, dressed up like he belongs in the group. Some people are just lucky, he takes his pain in strides and reaps all the benefits. Mace and Saffron killed their dues, Ansgar too. Langley and Saylor will figure out the middle of the sentence, but Lorenzo can't be responsible for that. 

That's not quite his forte, you know? 

He splits from them early, hugging his father and getting an ear full from his mother. She hugs him, of course, tucking into his ear with a "you act smarter than you think you can, okay?" And he doesn't know if it's about Beck or the publicity or just simply wasting money he didn't earn. Part of him should be more humble, he hasn't been in the Capitol since stealing from Temple and Saff to sell to that Poria lady. 

Since then, he's just stuck to actually working. Works like a charm, honestly. 

"Don't worry ma, you know me!" 

"That's what I'm scared of," Saff laughs it off, but he sees the nerves. 

Lorenzo hasn't been in the Capitol since Shy killed Piper. There's a lot to assume there, and none of it feels good. He's done his interviews, rented his apartment and brought his own suitcase -- can't this just be another get away? Maybe that's asking a lot of this world, but he packs himself into the elevator some kind of hopeful. There are times where nothing is comforting, being in public is terrible, being alone with Beck is worse right now. 

Being alone just sounds miserable. 

Especially here, in Panem's most glamorous mausoleum. The bell ticks, from ground floor, to first floor, to second. He remembers how long the descent felt after it all. Lorenzo remembers the lowest floor, how lifeless the vault was and how empty the elevator felt as they all boarded one last time. It was Bette and her partner, Eon and Shy, the twins from three. 

Annie wasn't there, just Wander. 

He always wondered what that felt like. Lorenzo had Temple in the world's longest elevator ride, silently and loudly as it came, it's something he sees in his nightmares. The way they couldn't look at each other, or touch the walls or buttons. Their first time coming up, he had mashed every button and forced her to talk to him, treat him like he was still alive. 

That second time around, he just wanted to go home. He doesn't know how he feels anymore, straightening the cuff of his collar and seeing his face in the steel reflection. When the door opens, he can feel the pressure drop from his coffin, like district four's lobby fills him with a life he hasn't seen in seven years. He's always tried to imagine what the other floors look like, and this whole time he was wrong. 

It feels like trespassing, district four's tributes have already been escorted out and the victors going along their own ways. 

Annie and Leon could be anywhere, but Enzo knocks on the one locked door. It smells like what he remembers, which could be Beck or Morrison but at least it's not Krigel -- little securities, y'know. Makes it feel a little better as he knocks a second time, holding his breath to himself. Swallowing his own inhales; he's scared, oddly enough. If they know it's him, who would answer? 

Does Beck even want to see him again? 

"uhh, hello?"

He tries to sugar-sweeten the tone, like it's all a joke to him. It feels stupid, I shouldn't be here -- a waste of time as he clenches his fist before considering knocking a third time. 

Must be an empty house, most mausoleums are after all. 

As edgy as it is, Lorenzo finds it comforting. You can take the ghost from the grave, but you can't keep him from coming back after all. 

[[nyte]]

---

Beck Hailsham has made a mess again.

Turner Grey is gone, off to give that dead-eyed stare to some unlucky soul for the rest of the trip and Beck finds himself in the aftermath of yet another storm. All empty bottles and shattered plates, defiance for defiance's sake.

He's jealous of bloodstains, gathering up the remnants of shattered crystal and wishing he could feel the slivers sinking into plastic skin. "You're better than this!" A publicist with a whistle-tone looms over him, tapping her heeled shoe to a tune he can't hear. She's got a name, they all do, but Beck has had the luxury of being too important to remember those for as long as he's known them.

"I'm sure." He meets her eye only to revel in it's contempt, dropping the broken plates back onto the table without ceremony. It must be hard to keep this golden boy up on his pedestal, an image Beck himself had crafted when he was young and so fucking afraid.

Falling from grace is worth this fearless feeling.

Like an hourglass turned on it's axis, it's all happening again. Two more tributes he'll spend long nights hoping he'll see again. Strangers that somehow have the nerve to mean something to him. They're not Luke but he keeps seeing him out of the corner of his eye, memories rotting into ghosts again. And again and again and again and-

Are they killing him? Or is he doing that himself? Always fighting against high tide or running from a forest fire - Beck's found so many wonderful things watched idly as they let him down. He's consumed by miracles and it's running him ragged.

He's not the asshole, he knows he's not. That's worse. Painted pathetic, drenched in scarlet as he catches himself checking his phone for missed calls that he knows aren't there. Told over and over again that he's less than nothing like he didn't already think it.

Well, fuck that. If Lorenzo wants Beck to play victim he'll have no fucking part in this particular downward spiral. He's never been in love but keeps convincing himself he's come close. Obsessing over stolen glances, of lingering touches and long nights wasted talking about nothing. If this is how it always ends he's better off without the bittersweet.

He's been vulnerable for too long, second guessing smiles because he gave away too many. Beck was never meant to be a hopeless romantic.

He's got kids to fail to save. You need a clear head for that.

He can't quite bring himself to speak to Turner again so he stays in the coach he claimed for himself, head pressed against cold glass that's all that keeps him awake as the horizon bleeds brown and shapeless. It's not like he meant to survive. The hero worship gets a bit tiring, you know? Life really goes to shit when you don't mean to make it past seventeen. How's he supposed to tell them how to live when he's never figured it out for himself.

Wish upon a star or two, can't hurt. He chews on the inside of his cheek.

This train ride gets longer every year. He's out of empty platitudes halfway through and can't even fake a phone call to get out of the rest of the ride. It's heavy with that silence that feels so much like mourning. He's almost relieved when they reach the Capitol station.

Crowds have always made him feel like he's drowning but never more than this one. Shy's somewhere out there, gliding on those fresh laurels. His PR team was pissed when they found out he'd skipped the new Victor's tour, but there was no way he could look that man in the eyes and do anything but try his best to break his nose.

Scars tend to glow silver under the moonlight and Shy Aubergine was one of Lorenzo's deepest. Hidden under that lopsided smile that wouldn't stop haunting his nightmares. Pissed as he was, shaking that murderer's hand was never an option. He still cares about Enzo. So fucking much. Some part of him probably always will.

Sure they'd made peace in the aftermath of whatever that phone call was, but Beck still isn't sure he ever wants to see him again. Lucky then, that he's got time to figure it out, things have gone so twisted that his old prison is starting to look a lot like safe harbor. It's not like Lorenzo Emberstatt has any reason to be in the Capitol.

He lets Annie and Leon show Turner and Nanette around the training center, mumbling something about a migraine he's not sure he's faking. His eyes never linger in one place too long here, like he's scared of committing more of it to memory.

They hang 84th Hunger Games memorabilia in his room, a new piece every year. It's Walter's sword this time around, nailed right about his headboard. The kid would have turned sixteen by now, if Beck hadn't killed him that is.

He's halfway to a break down when he hears it. Sharp and clean, knuckles against wood and nowhere near as frantic as they would have been if he'd fucked up somehow. There's a brief second of fight or flight and he spends a couple moments convincing himself no one's about to burst through the door and shove a blade down his throat.

The knock comes again, accompanied by the bittersweet.

"Uhh, hello." It's familiar. Too lighthearted, just like the last time. His heart gives an indignant thud and, huh, guess he's still a bit pissed at Lorenzo.

But not as pissed as he should be.

Against his better judgement, he opens the door just as the third knock comes; arms crossed tight against his chest and leaning against the door frame to keep his knees from going weak. Every time he sees him it's like Beck has to remember that Lorenzo isn't just a voice on the other side of the world. Safe in the ways that would always leave him lonely.

The first time they met as strangers, the second as friends.

What marks this time? "Well, are you coming in?" He's learned to thrive under pressure, still reeling at the sight of him but Lorenzo's lost the privilege of knowing that. These walls were seven months in the making. "Or are you going to tell me why you've shown up here first?"

Always on your terms, aren't we?

[Deleted]

---

"Well, are you coming in?"

"Oh."

This is why you don't give zombies a brain. Somewhere is a list of all the good ideas Lorenzo's ever had, neatly pressed onto a desk with an ink well beside it, and not a single word is on that list. A boy that not even three victors could save, Enzo Emberstatt stands at the door frame of Beck's apartment room, a nation of eyes staining the inbetween of his shoulder blades -- he didn't prepare a speech. Words fumbled around in his mind on the train ride over, something romantic, something stupid they could both laugh at, but Beck looks him in the eyes and it's like the bones in his jaw are paralyzed.

The hate he held for a year counting, it's warm to the touch. Breeding in his blood until he sees Beck Hailsham; "yea- pfft, yeah," oh I fucked up. It catches in his turtleneck, the way his confidence melts off his skin in forming sweat. Sticking to the expensive clothes his parents set him in, walking into the bedroom of a boy who earned this life instead. There's always a survivor complex hanging over Lorenzo's head, he sees Beck and feels even more inadequate.

Beck looks down on him, it only gets worse, huh?

"So, we ran out of minutes at the house. You know," he jokes, rubbing his hands together as he glimpses at Beck before looking at the rest of the room. A sword hangs over the mantle, the room sickly salty; not like the ocean, but of the brine. Of the high tide, when it burns the nose before a day of hard work. The smell burns his forearms and breaks his heart, something he used to bathe in now just a foreign cologne, "and Kieran's banned me from using the JB phone. Some mayor he is," come on man, at least fix my problems for me.

Lorenzo wonders where it all went wrong with him and Beck, when the sun sets and Kieran still makes things work with Paige. How Saffron and Mace get away with their rough weeks, Enzo shuts in on himself and Beck isn't waiting on the other side. Is that how this works? "I figured we still had some talking to do and uhh," he trails off with a laugh, hoping Beck will beck the sentence up on his own half.

Insinuate me like you know how, "six minutes may not cut it." Can't cover all the bases in six minutes, they hadn't even broken the ice the last time they talked. Broke about everything else; Enzo continues to look the room over, as if it's any easier than looking at his friend. The pieces of references he doesn't understand, 84th and district four printed on every wall- it's a Beck he doesn't recognize.

Not Beck Hailsham, the hot mess who cries on bathroom floors on the phone.

This is Beck the Victor, right? There's a photo of Lysander and him on the dresser, presented as a couple despite the space between them. Lorenzo can't help but grin, it's so stupid; everything in the media is so stupid. The way none of it makes sense, he remembers the train rides of he and Beck talking about her. Killing Kahinta as if that was the last time Ten would lose family.

And here they are.

With six districts of space between them, covered in one day. He stands across the room and it feels just the same, just weaker; it's harder to hate him. Every time they see each other, Beck looks worse and worse. Man made of plastic, melting away under the pressure and Enzo can't help but notice the bruises, the eyebags, the weariness that is Hailsham.

Lorenzo clears his throat, "we can talk about whatever you want." Like a form of compromise, a boy who's one bad day away from breaking like china. Part of it's reassuring still.

At least he's doing better than Beck is.

( pog 4,000th post )

[[nyte]]

---

It's funny, Beck thinks, that the same poison runs through their veins, killing them in vastly different ways.

He shuts the both of them in, away from prying eyes and revels in the way it hurts to let Lorenzo back into his space. Somehow more suffocating than all the memories the Capitol packed into this small apartment. Not even safe in his own skin, rather wishing he could crawl right out of it. This is what Beck wanted, right? Or else he would have slammed the door in his old friend's face.

Does Enzo buy into all these excuses? He looks so earnest as he spits them. Beck lets his back fall against an adjacent wall, teeth sunk into the inside of his cheek to bite back the contemptuous grin fighting its way onto his lips.

They're both made of glass and they've both cast their stones. Beck lets Lorenzo's voice wash over him, as calming as it has always been. A lone lighthouse amidst a raging hurricane. How many times had he forced Enzo to bear the weight of his panic attacks or begged him to ward off all those waking nightmares? It's no wonder they went about crashing and burning like they did.

He wishes he could call himself blameless, but he's tired of lying to himself.

"I figured we still had some talking to do and uhh," Enzo trails off with a nervous laugh and Beck is forced to avert his gaze to keep from joining in. With all that changed between them, it's a shame that not everything has. Whether or not it was a mistake to let Enzo as close to him as he had, seems Beck's stuck caring about the guy. He missed the sight of that smile and noticed just how well Enzo has grown into his own. It stings that he missed every moment of it.

He's wanted Enzo right here for a long time. Picture perfect as he says everything he thinks Beck wants to hear. He talks like he really thinks they're fixable. Toy soldiers with rusty springs, racing each other toward yet another breakdown. Past not believing him, Beck doesn't think it's possible to do anything but salvage all that's left.

"I'm so tired of talking." He pushes himself off the wall, taking a measured step closer to Lorenzo. Careful to keep his arms crossed against his chest so as to convince himself he's still in control. Is this the Beck he knows or is this the victor stood next to Lysander in that photo there? Best to keep him guessing. "Haven't we said all there is to say?"

Another step and Beck realizes Enzo is taller than him now, head tilted up ever-so-slightly to keep their gazes locked. He's hurt and he's angry but Enzo already knows that. Beck does enough opening of old wounds on his own time. "Let's skip that part and get to something new." Self-destruct, but sweetly. With calm words this time around, with mistakes instead long nights wishing he'd made them. "Or do you really think we can talk our way into a white picket fence?"

[Deleted]

---

Truthfully, it's arrogance that keeps the anxiety away. 

Something something apples to doctors, Lorenzo thinks one thing and says another. Always looking to please, he offers honesty as a last resort. Everything else comes first, every safe guard and fail proof, every brick, straw and clay to hide ugly thoughts behind. Lorenzo sells it to Beck, and doesn't make a goddamn dime with it anymore. It's the only thing he knows how to offer really, when you can hide away in the property and tell stories over the phone, share only the beautiful parts, the funnest parts of what it's like to be an Emberstatt. 

Don't get it wrong, there's a genuine happiness with being with them, he has always and will always be grateful for his family. That's not the problem; the problem is him. Lorenzo goddamn Pevek, that stupid kid who won't just shut up and let the birds get him. Moments like this where he's locked in a room with Beck Hailsham, and he can't run from it anymore, Beck stares him in the eyes with his arms crossed, in front of a door that never existed in their phone calls. The easiest exit is to hate this, to hate Beck, to not feel the heat rising in his own neck. 

And in front of that, is Beck himself. 

His hands twitch when he's nervous, he hides it in the way he ruffles his hair as Beck talks to him. Haven't we said all there is to say? Lorenzo keeps his feet planted, pushing his feet as hard as he can into the tip of his shoes to keep himself from tapping or pacing, to show his cards. Lorenzo speaks half his truth, and his body says the rest -- maybe that's why he's always loved phone calls better. 

No matter how hard it is, his voice never shakes. From the fact he never shuts the hell up, probably; has Beck gotten everything off his chest? Enzo could spend this entire afternoon in his own head if he could, wondering what Beck is thinking about instead of asking. His hands leave his hair and rest in front of him, wrist locked in palm as Beck takes another step closer. 

Closer than he's been in a year, closer than he'll be come next year. 

Lorenzo's eyes widen almost as fast as his heart beats, why does he feel so trapped? Beck asks to stop talking, to shut up and skip to the fun part -- and fuck if that ain't confusing. Something new? Boy, when did this stop making sense. It's a back and forth, seeing what Beck does and twisting every possible scenario out of it; not just thinking about what comes next, but everything that could come next. Every terrible scenario, every good one. 

His heart hangs between them, and it catches on that last line.

"Or do you really think we can talk our way into a white picket fence," three strikes, baby. His ears are ringing, desperate for the word that comes next but it's broken by Enzo's own grin. Beck tells him three times: shut up, and get to the fun part. He backs up a step, just to get a better look but the corner of the bed buckles the back of his knee. A small stumble, a more attractive smile. 

"Oh..." a pendulum, the way his heart's tugged by gravity. 

"OOHH!" Almost too excited, he perks up when he grabs Beck's right hand. Palms unapologetically clammy, is that right? His lungs feel so tight as he wraps his arm around Beck's back, almost condescending in the way he smiles down at him, circling to lean this goddamn victor on the bed. If this is what he wanted so bad, all he had to do was ask -- shit. 

Lorenzo's gentle with it, half part confused as he is anxious, with Beck looking damn near the same way. His heart skips a beat as he skips to the new part. 

Twenty one awful years, one good night seems like a fair trade off, right? 

"Just know, darlin'," Enzo starts, dragging his arm from under Beck's back and propping himself up over him with it. "It takes a lot to get me to stop talkin'." Part of him already regrets it, begs him to get a grip and get the fuck out of here -- you're embarrassing yourself. Part of him's terrified Beck'll use this against him, either now or later, that integral part of somebody that makes them hate Lorenzo will pop back up and sell this like an Adroxis sells ammunitions. 

But it's a bit of hope that makes Enzo kiss Beck Hailsham's right knuckle. 

"You okay with that?"