impossible heights — reggie & nico.

The Seam was quiet when the train arrived, only the distant echoes of the crowd—the entirety of Twelve—reaching his ears because he'd kept his window open. He didn't want to be a part of it, but he still wanted to know it was happening. To confirm the realness of it all, in case it had been a trick. A fever dream as he chugged down the bottle of moonshine he'd bought at the hob. If he was going to watch Nico die, he was going to be drunk. So he'd picked it up on his way home from work, chose alcohol over food with good reason, and found comfort in its bite in the back of his throat before he'd even reached his front door. 

He'd finished the whole bottle well before the killing blow, much quicker than it took Nico to decimate the last thing standing in his tidal wave of hate and decimation. Yet even in his drunken stupor, when the boy Taylor had been so sure would die had won, Reggie had laughed. So hard until he cried. Smile wide as tears streamed down his cheeks. But when he woke the next morning, it hadn't felt real. Like it was just a dream, something he imagined. Something he wanted desperately to be true. Something he needed, more than air in his lungs or food in his belly. 

Nico.

Alive and coming home.

At work, though, it was all anyone could talk about. The mines were filled with whispers of the boy from the Seam who'd actually done it. A victor from Twelve. One of us, they'd said. It couldn't be real, could it? He spent the day asking himself, asking those around him in casual conversation. Can you believe it? He'd start, and they'd confirm it, lifting up the huge weight of doubt that hung about his shoulders. Crazy, right? He would say again, just to make sure. Just to cover all his bases; this wouldn't be the first time he's lost his mind with grief. And if Reggie was great at anything it was creating worlds in his head to live in instead of the bleak reality he's meant to call his own. 

He asked himself again—did it really happen?—as he rested atop his mattress in the corner of the room, feet crossed with an arm behind his head. The hangover loomed, though somewhat dulled as the crowd in the distance begins to chant a familiar name. Nico, Nico, Nico, they cheer louder and louder. He must have done something, shot them with that pearly white smile of his. It brought a similar grin to Reggie's face at the thought, the memory of it painting itself in his mind as his eyes fall shut. 

It's real, he finally relents. Nico's victory. And Reggie's happiness as a result, a welcome relief from the stress of it all. From the selfish worry of what he was supposed to do with him gone. From the gut-wrenching acceptance of losing the last person he truly had. It felt disgusting, caring about himself when Nico was out there literally fighting to the death to survive. He felt so small, just sitting there in his little house on the other side of the world. Completely worthless in comparison to the boy from five who'd been in that arena with him, who'd been able to open Nico's eyes better than Reggie ever could. Heartbroken that it hadn't been him, even more so because Nico had found him and lost him. And yet still—somehow, someway—so happy, thrilled at the soft hum of praise floating into his room. It was the sweetest lullaby he could have asked for and it soothed him into the best sleep he'd had in weeks.

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A few days pass and the joy starts to fade, the small bandage it placed atop the festering wound in his chest starting to peel away at the edges, losing its grip and Reggie's lightheartedness along with it. The truth of it all remained, glaring him in the face at every turn, the name of Twelve's victor on the lips of every single person he came across. He couldn't escape him. Not now. Around every corner, he lurked. Behind every door, in every room there Nico was. In tall tales. In exaggerated story. In retelling of favorite moments during the games. In some gushing about the loss of love and some admiring the edgy hero that emerged victorious.

It started to become too much to bear, the constant reminders and choking sensation each overheard conversation brought, Reggie retreated within himself. Imagined a world where things were normal, tuning out those around him as best he could. Living within the picture perfect vision in his head of what it was like before all this. Before the games and the reaping, when Twelve was quiet and he had never seen Death embrace Nico so sweetly. A place where he was happy and still and free.

The clearing. 

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He waited till moon barely came into view opposite the sun, until the Seam made its way home from work to feed its children and tell them a bedtime story. After they all retired for the night and the streets were silent, that's when he made his way to the edge of Twelve. Through the woods, careful not to miss the path when the brush got too thick—just like Nico had taught him. There's a pain in his chest at the reminder, self-inflicted this time but it hurt less as he approached. He knew peace was waiting just beyond the trees, and nothing was going to keep him from finding it, not tonight when he needed it the most. 

It took a bit longer than he wanted, losing his footing twice as the sun began to set,  vanishing from view behind the thick branches above, but he found it despite the setbacks. Reggie emerged from the other side of the forest and took a deep breath as the faint hint of stars greeted him, trying their best to shine brightly as the sun departed quickly, ready to take the sky for their own. Just as he was ready to take this place for his own, too. 

Nico wouldn't need it now with that big house he wo—

"Oh, I—" or so he thought. He looked awful. Miserable, even. Like nothing had changed. Like everything had. "I didn't know you'd be here. I'll go." He took a step back on his heel as his heart lurched in his chest, a squeeze hard enough it sucked all the breath from his lungs in an instant. Still it rose in the back of his dry throat like bile, like venom. Anger he thought he'd long since swallowed in favor of grief, for its sorrow was more like a comfort than rage's vice-like grip around his neck. Yet now they waged a war inside him as he turned to leave, and all Reggie could do was toss the word over his shoulder, only half-hoping the dagger it became as it left his lips missed its intended target—Nico's heart—and found a tree instead. 

"Congratulations."