up in smoke || beckenzo

b e c k .

"when the lights come down,
got an empty crown"

He was a coward above all else. Months had passed since he'd killed Walter Blake, seconds stretching into hours into days in the blink of an eye. Not a day passed that a memory didn't erupt from somewhere out of sight, merciless as a blade biting into his skin. His lungs were collapsing beneath the strain of running away. Beck had promised to live for them. He'd sworn on the ghost of a boy's last breath that he would never forget him.

And he's so fucking ashamed of himself because that's all he wants to do.

Beck doesn't belong on this side of paradise. The amber glow of evening spills dappled light through curtains he'd half a mind to sew shut. He's fragmented, only bothering to wear a smile when he found himself on the right side of a camera lens. He couldn't bring himself to do much else these days.

What was he meant to do? Sip champagne along the shoreline? Rub shoulders with Anatalia and Leon while smiling and laughing like that had ever been easy? The very thought made him nauseous.

Instead he leans into the velvet of a couch dyed bright cream, the kind that incessantly brightens shadows cast about this grand living room. He hasn't been outside in a few days. Hell, he can't even tell if he's moved from this very spot in that time. His ash tray is full, soot spilling over the sides but somehow there's still a cigarette perched between his fingers and smoke rolling over his lips in lazy waves.

Living like this is so familiar it's scary. Adrenaline and optimism had stained the world a bright red but as his eyes sweep across the horizon that peeks through the gap in his curtains it's nothing but deep purple, like a bruise that has yet to fade.

He can't sleep.

No, it's more accurate to say he doesn't want to. Months of waking up exhausted, of reliving memories that made him feel like a live wire in the midst of an electrical storm had worn away at him. The nightmares were inescapable. They were inevitable. They hollowed him out, turned him into a shell of a thing. Sometimes he feared he'd never actually left the arena and sometimes he was sure none of it had been real at all.

It's been a day, maybe two, since he last slept. Beck has grown used to running on empty, going until he simply cannot. Perhaps a part of him hoped that sheer exhaustion would ward away his demons but the rest knew that was foolish. He was only ever delaying the inevitable, but that was okay. Some time soon was not right now.

His cheeks are starting to go gaunt again. He cringes inwardly, perhaps a little guilty that this slow decay meant more work for his team. Was he especially weak or was this victory? A delusion of grandeur which turned his sunken skin into a work of art. He'd have ask the others if he ever gathered up the courage.

Fighting against infinity has turned his eyes toward the ceiling, his head too heavy to lift off his shoulders. Sleep is coming. He can feel it in the pleasant weight of his eyelids, blinks lasting longer and longer as silence stretches on. It's deceptively peaceful. It promises everything will be okay and he's a fool because he believes it yet again.

And, as they always do, the nightmares come.

Eloise stands over Sophie, their blade feeding a pool of congealed crimson that soaks into the soles of their shoes. His friend's severed limbs begin to twitch, digging into the soil as they drag themselves toward Beck. Noel's weapon erupts from Silas' back but the boy's eyes find his, filled with cold hatred as he screams. Laurent stares up at him, eyeless, sprawled amongst a field of daisies and it would be peaceful if not for the monster hunched over him, sobbing quietly. It's features, shrouded in shadow, are familiar. Beck doesn't dare to step closer.

Smoke burns his lungs, acrid and thick with every inhale. A wildfire erupts from the treeline, veering toward him with vengeance and-

His coughs wake him. Burning fabric stings eyes gone wide, a small flame born from where his lit cigarette had eaten into the couch.

Panic is instant. His palm snuffs out the embers, heart stuttering and stopping in his chest as he searches for a thread of reality. For something safe. His vision is half coated in fog, the scent of the rainforest surrounds him but he cannot see the trees. Four walls replace them, no better than a cage. "Not real. Not there." His voice, a desperate gasp, is lost amongst the roar of a storm. He stumbles to his feet, guiding himself toward the kitchen but he still hears the crunch of earth with every step.

He picks up a lifeline, numbers glowing gold within his palm as he tries to remember the last time he felt okay.

There were open fields and starry skies, spiced tea and stories that carried on for hours. A family.

A friend.

Listening to the dial tone takes a century or a second. "Lorenzo?" He hisses the words, barely able to force them from his throat. "I know. I know it's late. I probably woke you up I'm really sorry. I'm sorry." He can't catch his breath and that makes it so hard to pretend he's okay. "At least I hope it's you or this is really fucking awkward uh-" It doesn't matter what he's saying; the words feel good, "I was bored. Wanted to talk. Been a while right? How're you?"