s a f e // ollie/marley/mackenzie

There's frost on your lips. But it is a minor pain, one you've survived before.

The flower boy hides his nature well, beat downs and bruises and anguish behind a mask so perfected it might as well be natural. Curiosity, naivety, a look so fragile that surely not a single blow could ever have landed on that form - surely, he would break before he bent.

You are a flower boy in many ways. But where there might be fragility in your bones, your soul makes up for it in other ways. Flowers may look delicate and pretty, but they've withstood being stomped on, mutilated, neglected, and lived to tell the tale.

So has the flower boy. Or, at least from what you know.

There's acid in your chest. Exertion, a blow, or perhaps a bit of both. It's nothing you haven't felt before.

There'll be a bruise tomorrow, another mark to hide beneath silk and polyester. Another drop of paint on a pale canvas, though the art comes at a price and is hardly for prying eyes. No matter.

The flower is strong, durable. The flower boy must be, too.

And you have, many times before. But never in the dead of night in the dead of winter. And as you've quickly found out, even flower boys feel the cold.

An exhale forms a cloud, before dissipating forever into the night. The inhale is ragged, freezing, oxygen sharp inside your chest. And you think, this cannot last.

In the past, you've made do when you've left. A tree, a meadow, a shed, you are no stranger to perseverance. A day, maybe two, and the storm would mellow, the fires would cool, and you could return.

But right now, you're not sure you'll last the night. It's not an easy task for the most prepared to brave the cold, and even scions of your home such as Margaret DuBois couldn't survive without ample resources.

And alas, of those you have none. Never before had you been so critical of your skinny frame - an inability to retain heat, often just a mere annoyance during the winter season, may very well prove fatal without assistance.

You're stubborn, resilient, resourceful, you name it. But you are not equipped to survive the cold.

There's a chill in your spine, a thin sweatshirt doing nothing to chase it away. But you have one last trump card still in your pocket, a recent addition to your arsenal, but a trustworthy one nonetheless.

You hope.

It's never difficult locating the Victor's Village. Right on the edge of town, in houses so quaint and polished that they stick out from the remainder of Seven like a sore thumb. Capitol architecture at its finest - what point is there for the trees and the flowers when the glitz and glamour shows its true nature?

But you don't begrudge anyone who lives here of that. And right now, in a twisted sort of fashion, it could be a byproduct of the glitter that saves the flower.

Courage gives you haste, the rapping of knuckles on wood mark only the slightest jump in your heartbeat. You know this tree boy, know of his family, of course - who wouldn't know of the famous Mackenzie Pryce?

It is not the legend that answers the door but the familiar, and for that, you are grateful.

"Marley!" you manage through clenched teeth. But the grin on your face is genuine nevertheless, even if only then do you realize just what time it is. "Hi! Uh, long story." There's warmth crackling in the background, and despite yourself you gaze longingly over the other boy's shoulder at the orange-red glow. "C-can I come in?"

Carry on with your tired, your battered, your poor self - and trust, in the only friend you have, to provide a salvation desperately needed. You will persevere, flower boy - but there is no shame in seeking shelter under the trees.

There's frost on your lips, but a bonfire in your heart as you match gazes with the other.