as i wait, i suffocate || beckenzo
Sept 3, 2020 1:45:55 GMT -5
Post by ᴥ on Sept 3, 2020 1:45:55 GMT -5
beck hailsham
He's changed his shirt three, maybe four times. Expensive material and subdued patterns stretched out by anxious fingers pulling at the seams or worn by the callouses that smoothed over them incessantly. The man in the mirror looks an absolute mess, with his curls pulled out of place and the way his hands keep fumbling over silver buttons. If he didn't feel on the verge of a breakdown maybe he'd find it in him to laugh at himself. A killer pulling himself to pieces over which shade of black looked best against sunken cheeks.
It's like he's been waiting for this day an entire lifetime. That's a terrible, cliched thought that makes him want to rip his hair out the moment it crosses his mind, but it still rings true. Beck doesn't like to expect much of people - hell, the fact that Lorenzo hadn't up and volunteered the last Reaping was a marked improvement - so he'd never really asked to see him again. He'd barely entertained the thought that he'd like to.
Surely, it wasn't hard to be happy with what they already had? A feeble friendship forged off a series of stolen minutes. He knew the grainy static of Lorenzo's receiver far better than the sound of his voice. Beck could pretend to be everything he thought his friend wanted when he wasn't here to see the late stage of his decay.
Lorenzo was a good, untouchable thing locked safely away in District Ten.
Until he wasn't.
Beck hadn't expected to be so happy about that.
There's more empty cigarette cartons in this mansion than there is food. Beck spent most of a frenzied morning erasing every trace of his terrible habits. Hell, he'd even gone grocery shopping. Given he's never cooked anything in his life but he bought enough meats and leaves to at least make the thing look nice.
His world used to be made up of a handful of enemies, even fewer friends, and a little island he'd never thought he'd escape. Though all he'd done is trade that prison for a larger one, Beck appreciates that he's at least found people he'd want to wither away with. Happiness might just be a hand to hold while you watch the world go red.
Fucking hell, he's gone all sentimental.
A few outfits later, he settles on a simple white button up. It's nothing special but Beck's wardrobe doesn't venture very far from monochrome to begin with. He's quickly running out of time as he tries, and fails, to battle his tangled hair and ends up leaving the mansion in abject defeat. In the end, he's only a little less of a mess than usual. It's got to be good enough.
He hasn't left the house out of disguise for over a year now. His face was horribly recognizable and privacy post-victory was a thing of fairy tales. There'd be a thousand photos of him in the papers tomorrow, speculating about weight loss or weight gain or maybe if he'd had plastic surgery on his pinky. Gossip had become little more than white noise and for some reason he really doesn't care what they have to say about his friendship with Lorenzo.
Let them talk.
Should he pick up flowers on the way to the train station? No, that's weird.
Is it weirder to wait on the platform, hands shoved in his pockets and shoulders slumped against the breeze? Maybe, but that's what he ends up doing. A strange mixture of emotions erupts up through his chest when he hears the train approaching. Anticipation and excitement laced with the distinct urge to turn tail and run. He wants to see his friend again, so desperately that he's sure that means he absolutely shouldn't.
Come on, Beck Hailsham, be a little brave.
The train screeches to a halt and it takes all of two seconds for Beck to find Lorenzo. It's funny how well he remembers a face he'd seen all of one evening. A knit sweater hangs limp on his shoulders and Beck thinks he recalls him something about a wildcat having made him one. "Enzo!" He stops himself from running over to the boy, resulting in a couple of weird shuffled steps that kind of look like he's tripped over air.
He stops in front of him, smiling stupid wide.
His arms ache, so he clenches his hands into fists in his pockets to keep from hugging him. That would definitely be weird.
"Hey." Breathless as it's carried on the ocean breeze.
Euphoric, almost.
It's like he's been waiting for this day an entire lifetime. That's a terrible, cliched thought that makes him want to rip his hair out the moment it crosses his mind, but it still rings true. Beck doesn't like to expect much of people - hell, the fact that Lorenzo hadn't up and volunteered the last Reaping was a marked improvement - so he'd never really asked to see him again. He'd barely entertained the thought that he'd like to.
Surely, it wasn't hard to be happy with what they already had? A feeble friendship forged off a series of stolen minutes. He knew the grainy static of Lorenzo's receiver far better than the sound of his voice. Beck could pretend to be everything he thought his friend wanted when he wasn't here to see the late stage of his decay.
Lorenzo was a good, untouchable thing locked safely away in District Ten.
Until he wasn't.
Beck hadn't expected to be so happy about that.
There's more empty cigarette cartons in this mansion than there is food. Beck spent most of a frenzied morning erasing every trace of his terrible habits. Hell, he'd even gone grocery shopping. Given he's never cooked anything in his life but he bought enough meats and leaves to at least make the thing look nice.
His world used to be made up of a handful of enemies, even fewer friends, and a little island he'd never thought he'd escape. Though all he'd done is trade that prison for a larger one, Beck appreciates that he's at least found people he'd want to wither away with. Happiness might just be a hand to hold while you watch the world go red.
Fucking hell, he's gone all sentimental.
A few outfits later, he settles on a simple white button up. It's nothing special but Beck's wardrobe doesn't venture very far from monochrome to begin with. He's quickly running out of time as he tries, and fails, to battle his tangled hair and ends up leaving the mansion in abject defeat. In the end, he's only a little less of a mess than usual. It's got to be good enough.
He hasn't left the house out of disguise for over a year now. His face was horribly recognizable and privacy post-victory was a thing of fairy tales. There'd be a thousand photos of him in the papers tomorrow, speculating about weight loss or weight gain or maybe if he'd had plastic surgery on his pinky. Gossip had become little more than white noise and for some reason he really doesn't care what they have to say about his friendship with Lorenzo.
Let them talk.
Should he pick up flowers on the way to the train station? No, that's weird.
Is it weirder to wait on the platform, hands shoved in his pockets and shoulders slumped against the breeze? Maybe, but that's what he ends up doing. A strange mixture of emotions erupts up through his chest when he hears the train approaching. Anticipation and excitement laced with the distinct urge to turn tail and run. He wants to see his friend again, so desperately that he's sure that means he absolutely shouldn't.
Come on, Beck Hailsham, be a little brave.
The train screeches to a halt and it takes all of two seconds for Beck to find Lorenzo. It's funny how well he remembers a face he'd seen all of one evening. A knit sweater hangs limp on his shoulders and Beck thinks he recalls him something about a wildcat having made him one. "Enzo!" He stops himself from running over to the boy, resulting in a couple of weird shuffled steps that kind of look like he's tripped over air.
He stops in front of him, smiling stupid wide.
His arms ache, so he clenches his hands into fists in his pockets to keep from hugging him. That would definitely be weird.
"Hey." Breathless as it's carried on the ocean breeze.
Euphoric, almost.
