reality was malicious | PaytonxTom

[d4 Panda Scope [Gayton]]

Bubby Caro

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My, my love had been frozen
Deep blue, but you painted me golden

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The breeze was lighter there. When you’re smack in the middle of  a city that’s in-imaginably large, the wind exhausts itself in its search to find you that it has no strength remaining to loosen the hair on your head. But there I was, standing on the rooftop of the training center, begging the universe for any leftover fresh air. A scrap of wind to remind me of home.

My hair was greasy. The water is pumped with so many chemicals  that you can barely call it water. The things these people will put in their bodies. I missed the water from home. I missed being alone, strolling the beaches. Don’t get me wrong, I’m alone now. But in Four, it was a choice. The self-isolation was therapeutic and comfortable. Here, I’m alone because everyone here is going to try to kill me in a week. Getting to know me can only complicate that.

It was pathetic, really. I was trapped in a building, seeking freedom on the rooftop. I was facing imminent death and instead of training, I was pretending to be home.

I thought of my family a lot. How they must be feeling. I’d play our final moments over and over again. And then move on to any memories I could focus into view. And then I’d start over. And the pain hurt worse and worse, knowing I’d never see them again, but I couldn’t shove them from my mind. If I did, I’d think of Alistair. And that hurt worse.

I can’t think about Alistair.

I can’t think about Alistair.

But there he was. Standing next to me, leaning against the rails of the balcony, staring over the city. For a moment it felt like we live there, together. But reality was malicious and loud.

Alistair wasn’t there. But another boy was, cigarette in his hand.

You said there was nothing in the world that could stop it
I had a bad feeling

[Kingston Cesaire D3A [Tom]]

Grey smoke fills the lungs of the tired. Nicotine lips and city expanses giving way to burning flames of a red light and the neon signs of a place where the sky extends forever. Endless possibilities along a skyline covered in shadow and light, pulling at the seams of his own comfortability. Lucas will never forgive him for what he's done, but Bellamy Scott knew what the price to pay was for answers of a dead man. He should be afraid of the people surrounding him; eyes haunted or determined with emotions bursting beneath their skin. Pieces of themselves plastered across their faces, hearts tied up in the smell of gunpowder and the fire of a gun. Bellamy didn't come to fight, but to find answers he's been looking for.

Isn't that the worst part?

The deduction skills of one of the smartest districts, but he choose to be there. Put a metaphorical gun to his own head and swore he'd shoot the gun in order to find the culprit of a murder that's gone stone cold against his skin. Chills that burn the edges of his fingers reaching out for peace, but he couldn't find it. The warmth long growing away from him with nothing more than smoke left. Smoke on his lips, in his eyes, behind his brain; the smoke resides within his own walls. Burned lines in the sand where he's never supposed to cross, but one look at Sierra and Lucas was all it took. A love so deep in his soul crushing him until he's finally let go of the sun around him to find the answer to his world.

Bellamy Scott was tired in every way. Nicotine lips and city skylines could only do so much for him. Pieces of a puzzle that don't fit quite right for him; eyes always looking around as if he could read a room with just a single glance. In most cases, he can, but right now standing next to a boy who smells like sea salt waves, there's nothing to read about him. The embers of a cigarette between them, burning to a filter where the smoke folds into itself. Fingertips tightening around what's left of the single bud, bursting the silence of the cityscape between them.

"Escapism doesn't ease reality."

Careful eyes sent towards the sea salt boy; a peace given forth for him to take if he so desired.

"Bellamy. What's your story?"