my life, a song ❁ mateo&haze

It always seemed to Mateo that some Izars were born for leaving.

Like dandelions with their petals, growing only to be carried by the wind, Izars came into this world and were spirited away towards faraway lands. Some flourished there; others were never found again. That’s why, from a young age, he liked to keep something important that belonged to a person he loved. If he had it, then they couldn’t leave without it. They would have to come back for it.

Mateo has been wearing Elias’s old watch since he stole it.

The thing can’t even tell time anymore—he doesn’t know whether it’s too late or too early when he reaches the Justice Building, satchel in hand, looking around the place. The building resembles less a monument of justice, more a mausoleum for the soon dead.

Lay it off, he chastises himself. Haze has a chance, with her street smarts and encyclopedic knowledge when it comes to plants, with her wits and cunning. He just … wishes this didn’t happen. He wishes they said some other girl’s name on that stage and they left the reaping, relieved for the rest of the year before making plans to hang by the vineyard, laying on dry grass as the bees hummed their sweet honey songs.

But fate’s never been their friend.

He clutches the satchel in his arm tighter before making his way inside, and “ugh,” there’s already a procession. Mateo weaves through, ducking and sidestepping every other relative, all before he tumbles into the room, cheeks flushed.

“Hey, dude,” a ragged chuckle. He sets the satchel down on the floor, between them. “Enough for a wedding. You’re pretty popular, you know?” His lips split in a lazy grin, or as nonchalantly as it could, pushing back the worry. Mateo nods down at what he has brought. “Did some, uh, light breaking and entering into your room for old times’ sake. I got something from there.”

“Can always count on the best thief in town.”

“Collector,” he corrects her.

Stealing is the easy part. He would have been a good thief if he makes an effort at it, spindly boy with too light hands, but he doesn’t take the items because of their monetary values. It’s the memories, the sentiments, the worth of love letters over gold and heirlooms over diamonds. It’s the searching of what truly matters to a person other than the usual flashy stuff. The handpicking, like the way Ma picks the fruits in the bazaar with each careful finger for dinner.

After years and years, he’s nearly a natural at what he does.

Mateo drops to one knee as Haze does the same, resting his chin on his own propped knee. His eyes try to collect the image of her. Sharp chins and narrow noses, there are some features that mark them both as related, but it’s the curiosity for trinkets and odd things in their chestnut eyes that truly binds them together as siblings. They have always had it out for thrifts and vintage stores. For nostalgia. They had always been kids determined to remember the good times.

He lets loose a chuckle. “Go ahead,” he says, dipping his head towards the package again.

The ukulele catches the sun as it is pulled out, a fragment of daylight bleaching it a pure white for a moment before fracturing in bright shards over Haze’s face. Over his own. He leans in, runs his ringed fingers along the strings, and nods a third time. “You gotta’ like, outsell their best singers, sis – make ‘em go crazy for your music. To me, it sounds awful, but,” he laughs. “They’ll love it.”

Her eyes are puffy, stained with old tears, and there’s a suspicious pinprick feeling at the back of his own throat that he doesn’t like. Mateo shifts, reaches a hand out to pat her shoulder.

“Listen to what all those victors have to say, yeah?” he urges. “Have the asshole visited you yet?” One of their favorite names for Elias, but really he’s saying it to stroke her easy anger and the mention of their father does it like an incantation.

That way, she won’t notice Mateo’s fingers when they try and pick something on her person. 

---

[sleight of hand] + 3

Vml1pfOay81-20

11+3 = 14