winter's wanderer | brooklyn/reyes [alex/blitz]

Brooklyn knew he shouldn't have been out so late. Well, scratch that, he didn't exactly care that he was out so late. His mind was wandering and his fingers were itching for something to write. But he was stymied. He wanted to write but nothing was coming. Like a nervous tick,
his fingers flexed as he walked. Less from the cold and more from the sheer need to do put pen and ink to paper. His hands covered in ink stains. His breath leaving his lungs and mixing with the dark air on this winter night.

He walked through the District - all were celebrating, no doubt. But he could not, would not be at peace untill he was able to explain the feelings inside of him. And yet he could not find the words. Boots kicking through ice and snow, Brook stumbled. He looked down and saw his problem - his lace untied. Bending down and dropping his notebook, the blonde dutifully laced up his boot, swearing into the evening. The hairs on the back of his neck moved in the breeze and his head snapped up, eyes meeting dark eyes. He was not alone.

Brooklyn straightened, his right hand gripping his notebook and his left hand on the strap of his black backpack. The man was older than him and armed with a knife. Brook never carried a weapon with him oustide of the required few hours of training a week, mandated by the District. Not that he could do anything with a knife. A spear - long and thin - that was his weapon of choice.

Brook shrugs at the other's taunts, fear dripping down his body. He was unarmed, but he was fast. And he was far enough away that he could easily dart into the shadows if need be.

"Seemed like a nice night for a walk," he answered vaguely. "What's your excuse?"

The distance between the two was closing and Brooklyn was finally able to make out the features. Older, but only just. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Dark clothes. All on a dark night. This fortuitous meeting seemed less like chance and more like fate. Brook shifted his weight from foot to foot as the man moved closer. His words betrayed his motivations for lingering in the dark on a chilly winter's night. Brook narrowed his eyes, hands still clenched on his notebook and bag strap. The air smelled like danger and something more.

"Then why are you skulking in the shadows if it isn't for a leisurely walk in the night?"

The hand that wasn't gripping his bag - knuckles tight and white - clutched at the collar of his dark wool coat after he had safely deposited his notebook in one of the large pockets on his front. It was getting colder and in his haste to leave, to wander to write, Brooklyn had forgtten his scarf. Harper would no doubt shake her head at him, the smile on her face when he returned. His cheeks blood red from the winter's chill. Brook exhaled a laugh at the man's words, accusing Brooklyn of being a Peacekeeper and an artist.

"Not a Peacekeeper. And definitely not an artist. I write. Not very well, but I write." The honesty was a dumbass move, but those words hung in the air like the breath around them.

"What do you do when you aren't deflecting questions?

The man speaks of hell as if he has seen it. As if he has been there. Wandering through the various circles like he is Dante himself, forced to traverse the evils of Hell to find his love, Beatrice. There is no hell here and there is no god, at least that is what Brooklyn is convinced of. The hell is in the Capitol and the machinations of evil men and women so poisoned by their luxury that they cannot see the toxicity of the Games and the oppression that plagues the land.

"On the contrary," Brooklyn begins, his eyes moving upwards to gaze at the stars. The galaxies hovering above him, holding stories from the past in their light. "There are many things from which to draw inspiration." Brook watches the man rubbing his arms. "I have another sweater in my bag if you like?" he offers. "It's not much but its...something."