a light in the darkness {avery/isaac}
Jul 1, 2017 0:15:02 GMT -5
Post by lance on Jul 1, 2017 0:15:02 GMT -5
It wasn't often that he succumbed to the temptation of the liquid fire.
There were many factors that fought its pull, united in a war from within. First and foremost was the ever present reminder of the war it had fought with his father - a war that the latter had ultimately lost, overwhelmed by many factors but the drink proving to be the straw that broke the camel's back.
Second was the one attribute within himself that he prized above all else - his mastery of self-control. It was a talent honed through many hours of practice and a natural talent for social anxiety and caution - no one knew what was really in his head except for him, and he loved it that way. And yet, one of the main draws of the drink was the very ability to remove that talent for a few tantalizing hours - along with any coherent thought, for that matter.
It was the latter aspect that was most appealing to him, however, for along with a carefully maintained mask of emotion - or sometimes, lack thereof - came a mind that was constantly in motion in one way or another, one where new thoughts were as abundant as breaths of air, where the crowd that inevitably came with each and every new round of input acted as a double edged sword to even the most careful of wielders.
And on nights like these, even the most careful of wielders would find themselves subject to the curse of their own mind working against them.
Months, the doctor had said. A year or two at most, if luck was on their side. That's how long she would have without treatment.
But this was not the Capitol, where wealth was but an afterthought to all but the most unlucky of its residents. Indeed, wealth was something of a foreign concept to the Westbrook family - or at least, what remained of it.
The closest that any of them had ever gotten had been when Tyler had gotten seventh place in a Hunger Games nearly half a decade ago.
But therein lay the problem, for if the fateful reaping had never happened - had his older brother never been selected to die - then he had no doubt that this would have been a problem that he wouldn't have had to face alone.
Even Kira didn't understand, not truly. Now there was someone who clearly had luck on her side - both parents still alive, a well-paying apprenticeship that she didn't hate, and a natural talent with people that drew even the most awkward soul to her side.
There was a saying that opposites attracted, and the two of them were living embodiments of that rule.
But he was not Kira Galloway, and she was not him.
Not that he'd wish the pain of seeing his family halved in less than a year upon anyone.
And soon, if nothing changed, if the plague of bad luck that had befallen their family in the last half-decade lurked over them forevermore, than history would repeat itself and the family would once again be cut in half.
And he was not ready - emotionally or otherwise - to become the last living person with the Westbrook name and blood in the world at a mere age eighteen.
So, following ninety nine days of control came one night where he did everything in his power to relinquish his hold over his better instincts and simply forget for a while.
That was how he found himself sitting on a bench on the outskirts of the District Five urbia well after the sun had gone down, his head in the clouds and his cares scattered to the wind.
It was so... weird not being in control, but a small part of it was liberating. Intimate, even, for through external influences, he had managed to match his interior to that of the one person who had been more genetically similar him than any other soul on this god-forsaken world.
A figure - young, babyfaced, and sporting an unreadable expression - crossed his path, a surprise within itself given the hour of the evening. But what surprised him more was the sudden urge to initiate conversation - an urge unheard of by anyone who truly knew him inside and out.
But the night was clear, the number of souls besides him and the other seemed to be at a firm zilch, and the liquid fire ignited a rare courage within his veins.
After all, if he was to be more like Tyler, then this would be what he would do.
"Hey, you there," he called out, his words betraying the only hint of his control as they left his mouth with only the slightest of slurs dulling their edges.
The figure turned in response, and - Oh lord, he's cute.
But the courage was aflame, and there was no turning back now.
"What's a pretty thing like you doing out all alone at this hour?" came the question.
Conversation initiation and flirtation in the same thought process?
Tyler would be proud.
There were many factors that fought its pull, united in a war from within. First and foremost was the ever present reminder of the war it had fought with his father - a war that the latter had ultimately lost, overwhelmed by many factors but the drink proving to be the straw that broke the camel's back.
Second was the one attribute within himself that he prized above all else - his mastery of self-control. It was a talent honed through many hours of practice and a natural talent for social anxiety and caution - no one knew what was really in his head except for him, and he loved it that way. And yet, one of the main draws of the drink was the very ability to remove that talent for a few tantalizing hours - along with any coherent thought, for that matter.
It was the latter aspect that was most appealing to him, however, for along with a carefully maintained mask of emotion - or sometimes, lack thereof - came a mind that was constantly in motion in one way or another, one where new thoughts were as abundant as breaths of air, where the crowd that inevitably came with each and every new round of input acted as a double edged sword to even the most careful of wielders.
And on nights like these, even the most careful of wielders would find themselves subject to the curse of their own mind working against them.
Months, the doctor had said. A year or two at most, if luck was on their side. That's how long she would have without treatment.
But this was not the Capitol, where wealth was but an afterthought to all but the most unlucky of its residents. Indeed, wealth was something of a foreign concept to the Westbrook family - or at least, what remained of it.
The closest that any of them had ever gotten had been when Tyler had gotten seventh place in a Hunger Games nearly half a decade ago.
But therein lay the problem, for if the fateful reaping had never happened - had his older brother never been selected to die - then he had no doubt that this would have been a problem that he wouldn't have had to face alone.
Even Kira didn't understand, not truly. Now there was someone who clearly had luck on her side - both parents still alive, a well-paying apprenticeship that she didn't hate, and a natural talent with people that drew even the most awkward soul to her side.
There was a saying that opposites attracted, and the two of them were living embodiments of that rule.
But he was not Kira Galloway, and she was not him.
Not that he'd wish the pain of seeing his family halved in less than a year upon anyone.
And soon, if nothing changed, if the plague of bad luck that had befallen their family in the last half-decade lurked over them forevermore, than history would repeat itself and the family would once again be cut in half.
And he was not ready - emotionally or otherwise - to become the last living person with the Westbrook name and blood in the world at a mere age eighteen.
So, following ninety nine days of control came one night where he did everything in his power to relinquish his hold over his better instincts and simply forget for a while.
That was how he found himself sitting on a bench on the outskirts of the District Five urbia well after the sun had gone down, his head in the clouds and his cares scattered to the wind.
It was so... weird not being in control, but a small part of it was liberating. Intimate, even, for through external influences, he had managed to match his interior to that of the one person who had been more genetically similar him than any other soul on this god-forsaken world.
A figure - young, babyfaced, and sporting an unreadable expression - crossed his path, a surprise within itself given the hour of the evening. But what surprised him more was the sudden urge to initiate conversation - an urge unheard of by anyone who truly knew him inside and out.
But the night was clear, the number of souls besides him and the other seemed to be at a firm zilch, and the liquid fire ignited a rare courage within his veins.
After all, if he was to be more like Tyler, then this would be what he would do.
"Hey, you there," he called out, his words betraying the only hint of his control as they left his mouth with only the slightest of slurs dulling their edges.
The figure turned in response, and - Oh lord, he's cute.
But the courage was aflame, and there was no turning back now.
"What's a pretty thing like you doing out all alone at this hour?" came the question.
Conversation initiation and flirtation in the same thought process?
Tyler would be proud.
a v e r y w e s t b r o o k
