a whiplash of roses — mackenzie. & lazarus.

a whiplash of roses — mackenzie. & lazarus. Jun 10, 2019 8:51:00 GMT -5

Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jun 10, 2019 8:51:00 GMT -5

and my feet are spinning around
never knew i was a dancer
'till delilah showed me how

A lover once told Lazarus he had a creator’s hands, all jagged bones and delicately-planned roads of dark-green veins beneath a sunburnt skin that was freckled with hard scabs and callouses from handling textiles or spending hours with a pen wedged between two fingers. They were hands that could create and erase things; hands that could spin entire worlds and swirling, vast galaxies of their own without much effort. A creator’s hands, like a god’s sacred and ichor-filled ones, that quivered with the power to make something as effortlessly as they can unmake it.

Lazarus, after exhaling a chuckle, kissed him on his beautiful mouth to eat the compliment whole, his hands placed upon the man’s stubble loosely. He remembered him for that mere compliment alone, nothing more.

A creator’s hands, under which mountains rose and flowers bloomed, twisted open the cold door-knob whilst the man slept. He tiptoed out of his home, onto the beautiful dark and fluorescence of the Capitol’s streets, never to return to it ever again.

About eight hours before Mackenzie Pryce was scheduled to arrive for his mentor duties, the bell to Lazarus’ door rang loudly, the mechanic clink reverberating on itself.

He stirred awake on a wide table strewn with unfinished designs, unfinished poetry and stale coffee mugs, all very much still in process of being completed or emptied, and cursed to whoever was behind his door under his breath. It was an avox, a messenger, here to remind Lazarus for the third time since yesterday morning that Mackenzie’s train would reach the station in eight hours.

“For the third time,” Lazarus smiled, the arch of his mouth oozed with disdain, “i am aware.” He knew the reason for the incessant messengers at his door—Lazarus Holt had a heavy reputation for being fashionable late, the last one to arrive to any event. But, this was not just an event; this was the dressing of his centerpiece, the assemblage of something that he would be remembered for the rest of the year. Mackenzie Pryce was the delicate whorls and stylized ridges that would make up Lazarus’ eccentric fingerprint, and he knew better than to be late for his arrival.

He rose from his chair and disregarded the sunshine, making way to his studio which was a complex, outlandish world of its own.

Strings laid on every surface there was in the room, each one colored differently than the next, and textiles—of various sizes, shapes, material, scent, color—were their jovial neighbors. A paper wall of sketches and diagrams and fittings leaned against the white curtains, each sheet of paper filled to its limits with either inchoate ideas or whimsical drawings. The air, Lazarus noticed with glee, smelled of peppermint and fresh roses. He felt more at home here than anywhere, where he recognized each material and each unfinished idea, where he knew the locations of each material or tool he desired precisely.

He knew this studio
like the back of his hands,
like the color of his skin.

Standing at its center, was a veiled, human-sized mannequin. The fabric draped loosely over its form couldn’t hide the strange light that the mannequin glowed with. Fingers lifted the fabric by an inch, fixed a small flaw he’d noticed the night before, and fell back to his sides. He took a few steps back, and then admired his work. Even when it was hidden by a layer of fabric, it shone and it intrigued, a mysterious nebula whose light peers through the dark of space.

Then, he showered and ate before heading out, coffee-stains and white lace on his woolen sweater’s sleeves. Lazarus moved and lived as a tornado would—by heading into whatever direction it felt like going. His feet were restless songbirds, moving from one place to next, open markets dissolving into the fireplace of warm hillside cafes. He loved to move and to live until the only thing familiar to him was the trembling staccato of his heartbeat in the throat. Lazarus’ creator hands were stuck to a traveler’s body, never having the time or the stillness to create something meaningful because he was always in motion.

Somewhere, amongst macchiatoes and hand-squeezed lemonades, between handsome faces and flirtatious smiles, he lost track of time.

It was near eight when he returned to the training center, the moon in the clouds casting a disappointed glance at Lazarus along with the axoves and the officials. He climbed up the stairs to the center, and then fixed the crinkles on his clothes before heading towards his room. Once he entered, he could feel the heavy stare of the mannequin from the other side of the room, pleading to Lazarus unveil the suit it was wearing. “Okay,” he breathed out, shakily, placing a hand on the mannequin’s shoulder, “the time has come.”

During the time it took for him and the mannequin to reach Mackenzie’s chambers, his heart was a frantic orchestra, aloud with noises and rackets. For once, he was nervous, his synapses caught in ecstatic motion.

Mackenzie Pryce, at first glance, looked like a mere boy. But, as his eyes adjusted and sank into the man’s countenance, his features became weathered and gnarled, his transition into adulthood salient from these features alone. He was a god in refusal of its divinity, a king in denial of its crown. He would rather be anything than here, in this city of fluorescence and planned massacres, and Lazarus knew it.

However, it was his job to make it seem like Mackenzie loved it here, like the Capitol’s air had magically rejuvenated those worn features of his. He was the gold everyone said Mackenzie Pryce was encrusted with. “I thought I told you to shave regularly the last time you were here, Pryce,” Lazarus said, immediately striding forward to grasp Mackenzie by his chin, rising it up to examine the stubble on his face.

He looked less a god and more a midlife crisis; Lazarus sighed, a theatrical sound.

“Sorry for missing the special district seven dinner, I was—” flirting, drinking, feasting, dancing, “out.” His eyes averted to the veiled mannequin and, with utmost care, he brought it closer for Mackenzie to see. “Here’s the skin fit for a god that you’ll become once more.”

Hands, belonging to a creator’s, tugged on the fabric and tore it away, unveiling the suit beneath. At first glance, it appeared modest and meek—a black suit—not the ornate designs that Lazarus was enamored by; a mere, ordinary thing like he’d thought of Mackenzie to be. But a thorough inspection would reveal the faint glitters in the suit’s material, bright like the tiniest crystals in a bowl of dark ink, and the roses that bordered shawl lapel which grew up to the collar and emitted a strange, pink glow. “Phosphorous and roses hybridized together,” Lazarus explained and caressed one petal, a grin across his face, “the chemical enriches the color of the flowers to the point where they glow.”

He turned back to Mackenzie.

“All the bright eyes in any room they put you in shall be yours, Pryce. I made sure.”

now i'm dancing with delilah
and her vision is mine

lyrics : delilah — florence + the machine

words : 1205