Behind the Enemy's Eyes ~VT~ [South]

Hide the details, I don't want to know a thing
My pen is the barrel of a gun
Remind me which side you should be on
Woah, I want to hate you
Half as much as I hate myself

Time has a way of blurring together and slipping between Riley's fingers lately, leaving him dazed and confused and hanging on by a thread (not that that's any different from the way he's lived his entire life, teetering on a dangerous ledge with only the siren's call of shiny-sharp metal and crimson redemption to bring him back) in the wake of the devastation that's turned his life upside-down for what feels like the millionth time. Avon's death, the earthquake, his mother's retreat back into a fantasy world where nothing can touch her and life will be okay as long as she keeps adopting more children, they all get muddled in his mind until something beneath his skin screams for release and he ends up hiding in the bathroom of his new apartment scrawling sins and tragedies into his already abused flesh before he can stop himself.

The fact that he wouldn't even have to hide his macabre coping mechanism anymore if it wasn't already a force of habit never fails to strike him as bizarre. After a lifetime of the Lightwood home, constantly swarming with people and siblings that had been knee-deep in each other's business, the solitude of the apartment feels eerily empty and tomb-like, even with Fenn and Bridgit coming and going all hours of the day and night. The nights are the worst; while Riley has the girls' company during the day, Bridgit has a home and a family and Fenn ends up crashing in her trailer on the set of her latest film more often than not, too busy to run across the District on a whim. He can't quite get used to lying in bed and not hearing the sounds that have lulled him into a fitful sleep for eighteen years - the crickets chirping outside, the air conditioner thrumming to life across the hall, Avon stirring on the other side of the wall because she was just as much of an insomniac as him - only the sterile silence of the apartment complex and the deceptively steady beat of his own heart. He won't lie to himself (not anymore, never again, he swore he'd be better and despite the fresh lines of scarlet down his arms at least he's trying, Ripred is he trying) and say that he doesn't miss the broken sort of comfort that comes from within the place he called home up until a few weeks ago, but in the light of certain situations Riley knows that he couldn't stay there and retain his sanity. Avon's presence haunts every corner and everything is broken and his mother's flawed logic that more Lightwoods would be the solution to everything was one of exactly three events in his life that have made him actually raise his voice. After that fight, he'd packed his bags and six of his favorite guitars (having to choose nearly killed him but there simply wouldn't be room for them), withdrawn his portion of inheritance from the bank, and signed the lease on the apartment, small and impersonal but clean and bearing the small sliver of pride at being something that's actually his.

People think I'm trying to grow up too fast, but I was forced to grow up a long time before this.

And in all honesty, he doesn't have a lot of time to think about the logistics of being on his own. The internship at the hospital takes up so much time that he can barely even make time for Fenn and Bridge, working all day and spending most of the night hunched over piles of books that probably outweigh his tall, lanky frame by a good twenty pounds. Yet another all-nighter on a constantly growing roster of them is the reason that Riley ends up oversleeping the morning of the victory tour.

The phone beside his bed shrieks and he groans pitifully, smacking blindly at the surface of the bedside table until he slams the button to cut the call to his answering machine and the damnable thing shuts up. His fuzzy half-asleep thought process registers the lack of Fenn's warmth beside him as he attempts to roll back over and fall asleep again, and it's enough to cause Riley to crack open a bleary brown eye and look at the rumpled nest of empty covers. Mumbling something confused and incoherent, he props himself up on a spindly elbow, blinking in the milky light filtering through the blinds. Fenn had been here when he went to sleep, finally off the set in time to actually stay with him for a few hours even if that time had been occupied with him studying and her perched on the bed trying to knit some horrible attempt at baby booties. It's odd for her to not be here, she normally doesn't leave until later in the -

Beep.

"Ri, where the hell are you?" Antoinette's voice crackles through the answering machine, urgent and irritated. "You told Mom you'd be over for breakfast two hours ago, you putz, and I swear if you're late for the Victory Tour because you're having a morning roll in the hay with one of your stupid girlfriends I'm going to march over there and personally rip off your -"

"Oh shit!" Riley lunges for the phone all the while musing that it's weird to not have to watch his language in a house full of little ones anymore, just one more oddity for the list of things that bother him about being on his own. He now sees the alarm clock sitting next to the phone, and more importantly sees that he's overslept by a good four hours. "I'm so sorry! I know, Nettie, but I overslept and... yes, I know... Yes. Yes, I'm a pain in the ass with no time management skills, I understand. Tell Mom I'm sorry and I'll meet you all in the square, okay?"

Antoinette only spares the time to insult him a bit more before hanging up. Riley sighs. Maybe living on my own isn't so bad.

An hour later and he's standing on the time-worn platform designated for the families of the fallen tributes. Riley's certain it's never been so full, between the combined Lightwood and Moreno clans, each with more children than can be easily counted at first glance. Again, he's struck into the edge of oblivion, darkness eating at the edges of his mind like it did on Reaping Day a million years ago, hands shaking as he watches the blonde boy from Two ascend the stage and tumble through his speech with a sort of tension in his voice that doesn't match the regal confidence that lies inherent in his features. Around him, the other Lightwoods aren't faring well either. Chyba's been keeping up a steady wail since the anthem started playing, Keela looks so far gone that he wonders if she's even reachable and beside him, miracle of miracles, Antoinette lets out a choked sob and curls into his shoulder, sandy hair falling in a disarray down her back. Inhaling shakily, Riley wraps a spindly arm around her and tries to hold it together, standing in the spot on the platform reserved for the family patriarch and noting that Mr. Moreno looks far more composed than he does. Never taking his eyes off the Victor at the podium, Riley holds his sister a bit tighter, the only remainders of what used to be the Lightwood triplets clinging to each other in the face of a grief that is still too big for them, the third puzzle piece ripped away and leaving them teetering on a crippled axis.

He tries not to cry. He really does. But all he sees when he looks at that stage is endless crowds and bright summer days and Avon walking away from him for the last time, and just as the anthem blares a few tears fall into the silky nest of Antoinette's hair. Nothing is okay anymore. Nothing.

He can't get away fast enough after it's over. Antoinette seems to realize that she's just shown him affection and promptly jumps away like she's been burned, wiping fiercely at her eyes, and Riley knows that he can't face the tide of siblings, half of whom he doesn't even know. He mumbles hasty goodbyes while swiping at his own cheeks with his shirtsleeve, hugging Edana, Keela, Aris, and Chyba (he's never really thought of himself as bitter until he finds himself reasoning that only the real Lightwoods here deserve his comfort) before clambering off the platform and mumbling something about being late for his shift at the hospital. They don't need to know that he has the day off today.

The pressing of the crowd around him feels claustrophobic and so frantic that Riley barely even hears the whispers that shoot in his direction. He's grown used to being that boy who made such a fuss at the Reaping and shamed the whole District on national television and he's okay with that. People usually change their tune when their child's had an accident or fallen ill and he's the one stitching them up or giving them medicine. Breaths ragged and feeling more than a little nauseous, he tries to focus on getting out and far, far away from all of this, sepulchered in a sterile white bathroom with waves of red and pain that sings salvation to the remnants of his shattered mind. Riley is so caught up in his slipping consciousness that he hardly even notices running headlong into someone.

"Oh Ripred, I'm sorry!" he rushes out, delicate fingers combing through mussed chocolate curls. "It's crowded and I wasn't looking where I was going, are you okay? I'm really so- Oh."

He wonders what one is supposed to say when one crashes into a Victor.

He blinks owlishly for a few seconds, eyes the color of tree resin wide and disbelieving as a million things rush through his mind. You would have killed my sister without a second thought, wouldn't you? You're smaller than I thought you'd be, but then again I'm tall. What's it like to be alive after all that? I don't think I envy you, really. Julian Bryze is an interesting looking person, all fair hair and graceful limbs and eyes so piercing that Riley gets the uncomfortable feeling that the smaller boy can see into the warped recesses of his soul. He stammers for a bit, voice its usual soft, uncertain tenor as his fingers fumble for something, itching for six strings and pretty words to hide behind in his default defense mechanism. But then his gaze is drawn to the length of cord between the Victor's fingers, and Riley draws in a shaky breath, attempting to steel himself. There are some things that just have to be addressed.

"I, um... well, congratulations? I think. I don't know. Should I be congratulating you? I'm not sure how this is supposed to..." he murmurs, barely audible over the roar of the crowd. Riley knows he's not Avon, not good with confrontation or accusation. Actually, he's kind of a doormat. It's taken eighteen years to realize that about himself, and the fleeting thought crosses his mind that Julian Bryze probably eats people like him for breakfast. Riley stutters to a halt, taking a deep breath before leveling his gaze on the Victor, feeling a ghost of Avon's determination settle in his veins as warm amber meets icy blue. "Can I have my pick back, please? I'm Riley. Avon was my triplet, and I gave her that as her token. She wanted me to get it back, I think."

((OH GOD I'M SORRY THIS WAS SO LONG. Feel free to make yours shorter, oh god. Bahhhhh.))

We're drawn to be what we wish to see
You only half believe
Now I have strayed, falling far away
Let me clear my lungs show you everything I have done
Gritting my teeth to perfection

"I didn't know she was a triplet." Riley is struck with the frigid monotone of the Victor's voice, but writes it off. Who's to say what he would be like if he'd gone through the same ordeal? Who am I kidding? I'd have been dead in a day.

In this city's callowness we've lost our innocence
Cheek to cheek but my maps are changing
Oh don't forget, we were all so undone that we couldn't think of one
My eyes won't seem to close, I don't want to see it go
It's amazingly strange how we all seem to change

Riley has never been good with people, never known what to expect from them. He's so used to other people expecting so much from him that considering the opposite has never crossed his mind. Julian Bryze is no exception to this rule; in fact if anything he's even harder to read than most of the people Riley's ever met in his life, icy walls of tremulous composure thrown up thick and impenetrable around an otherwise diminutive form. He's not sure what to expect from him, so he certainly doesn't expect the jarring impact of unyielding knuckles bashing painfully against the defined line of his jaw, sending him reeling to the side and very nearly knocking him over.

And in this moment, in the bloom of pain that rockets across his bone structure and shakes him down to his core, Riley is no longer standing in the middle of a Victory Tour rally conversing with a boy whose eyes seem to see right through him. In this moment he is something so much more frightening; no more than a skinny ten-year-old bearing the weight of a cruel stepfather's unwarranted rage for the sake of his siblings, convinced that his suffering might bring about their salvation.

But I couldn't save them. I can't save anyone. Not even myself.

"Is this what you wanted!? To make me out to be the monster because I can’t feel!? Because I don’t know what it’s like to live!? Well here you go!" Julian screeches from what seems to be a million miles away, and Riley brings a hand up to the side of his face in a detached, phantom movement, roughened fingertips ghosting over what promises to be a very impressive bruise in an hour or two. He blinks once, twice, staring bemusedly into twin pools of crystalline blue. Julian. Not Xavier. Not the last person who hit him, not nearly as frightening even though for such a small form he certainly can throw a punch. The dull ache in Riley's jaw throbs in time with the loud, wet one-two thumps of his heart in his ears, and for a moment he simply stands there, trying to remember how to breathe and trying to remember what place and time he's really in. Monster, the word seems to echo over and over in the vast darkness of his mind. Monster, monster, monster...

"I don't think you're a monster," Riley says softly, almost inaudibly, the pick enclosed in his palm feeling heavier by the second. "I think you're a victim. You're more of a victim than the rest of them were."

Riley has never been good with people, but something tells him that the words that just bloomed over his lips are not ones that Julian Bryze wants to hear. There's a hard edge behind the pools of icy aquamarine, a glaring broadcast that he doesn't want anyone's pity. But there's also something else, quiet and almost unnoticeable. Riley wouldn't have seen it if he hadn't been looking at it in his own reflection for years - hurt. Guilt. That sort of unquenchable loss that haunts and corrodes and never leaves. He inhales shakily, leveling his gaze with the Victor's and letting his hand drop from his face back to his side. "Let me tell you a little secret, Julian Bryze. Something no one else knows."

In the days to come, Riley will wonder why he's doing this. Maybe it's because it's been weighing him down for close to five years. Maybe because he's just stupid. But most likely, he muses, is that he sees the isolated glimmer of removal in Julian's eyes, a bottomless loneliness that looks like it could swallow him whole. Riley's more than familiar with it, that darkness (his constant efforts to run away from it cover his body in red-pink-white tally marks that only work for so long), and the selfless part of him can't bear to see it in someone else, even if that someone is indirectly the reason his sister is dead.

"You saw the recap video. You saw Avon talk to Reyes Moreno as she died. You saw her tell her life story, about our dead father and our mother who still doesn't care and about how she got so fed up with our abusive stepfather that she killed him." Something presses acrid and burning like bile against the base of Riley's throat, long-repressed truth twisting at his stomach and making his head spin, but he presses forward, breaths shallow and pulse hammering because this is something that has to be said, even if only to one person. "But she lied. My sister lied with her last breath, Julian. She didn't kill him."

The darkness gnaws at the edges or Riley's consciousness, screeching at him to stop. He's never said it aloud (if we don't talk about it in this family then it isn't real), never given voice to the scars and the nighmares and the silent scream that always lies in wait in the hollow cavity of his chest. He's never said it, not until now, on a voice that breaks and shakes and nearly falls apart. "I did."

Riley's never been good with people, including himself. He doesn't know what to expect (destruction, carnage, for the sky to finally fall) with the revelation of his darkest secret, but he certainly doesn't expect the sensation of freedom for the very first time in his life. That constant threat of a scream seems to dry up and fly past his lips on a heavy sigh, the ever-present tension wracking his lanky beanpole of a frame relaxes, and even though the scars on his body will never heal, the ones on his soul whisper a fragile hope of maybe getting better one day.

"So I know what it's like. Knowing what you did. How it eats away at you." His eyes dart down to the carefully-concealed structure of his arms, wrapped-up reminders of how every day is a war and it feels impossible most of the time. "How they never really leave you. And it gets lonely, because for the longest time you think that you're the only person in the world that feels like that, that you deserve to be alone. But you're not, Julian, and you don't deserve to feel like you are. I just..."

The thin sliver of plastic in his hand almost burns with the knowledge of what he has to do - words have always failed him and something about this boy with the quiet brokenness in his gaze calls for an action that tears at his heart but is nonetheless necessary. Fingers lacing through the thin leather of the cord, he extends his arm in Julian's direction, letting the worn surface of the pick gleam in the sunlight "Here. Just... I want you to keep this. You need it more than I do. Just so you can remember that you're not as alone as you think you are."