sunder || beck & cain

Cain Ellemore cannot decide who he wants to become. Staring at himself in the mirror, waiting for inspiration to kick in like watching paint dry. Nothing comes to him, of course. It never really has, but it doesn't stop him from trying. He seems to have gotten it into his head that his lack of talent has little to do with his lack of career options. He thinks he'll look at himself one day and see a lawyer, or a balloon salesman, or a fisherman, or a makeup artist. Anything other than just... Cain. So unimportant that his official job title is office guy, according to his paycheck. So alone that he has very few people to remember any single one of the three names he has been given in his short life, and most of them only remember him as the weakest link in a cemetery of an island.

That's the problem with looking, though. You look long enough, you find every single thing you don't like about yourself staring right back at you. He's a passionate guy, he just... doesn't have anything to be passionate about. He has never been a good singer or dancer. He's never been strong enough to fight, or fast enough to run. He isn't handsome enough to catch anyone's eye and he was so distracted by the hellscape of his adolescence that he is slowly convincing himself he isn't even very smart.

He's just... Cain. And the problem is that he thinks he should be more.

He sighs, craning his head up to get a view of the clock ticking away above the doorway. He doesn't have his glasses, but he can tell from the general impression that it isn't what he wants to see. He sighs, leans forward to rest his head on his desk. Sorry, on the desk. He shares it with the three other shifts- Frenchie, Honoura, and Ruth, all of whom exceeded him in age by roughly sixty years. There are so many photos of all their toothless grandchildren staring at him as he tries to work that it is unsettling. And it always smells like Honoura's aggressively floral perfume.

He clicks his fingers on the desk and thinks about why he isn't special.

Is it because of the institute? Not really; he'd never been much even before it all fell apart. Is it genetics? Okay, hear him out: whoever his birth parents were, they clearly weren't doing super great for themselves. What if they were sick or his mom used drugs while she was pregnant with him? Or maybe there was some kind of medicine he could be taking that would make him better. Not even better, necessarily. He'd settle for different at this point, punching holes into a stack of papers and sliding them into the appropriate folder. Even if he suffers, he'd be okay with that. Because he just wants to be anything more than ordinary, and he just wants- he just. He just-

He just has a headache.

"Train inbound in five," comes a voice through his phone. He groans.

So unimportant that Beck didn't even notice him on the way out. Cain rolls his eyes and pushes his sleeves up.

"Like I care," he mumbles to himself. Cain might not know who he is, but he knows who he is determined never to be. And that's the version of himself that Beck would have remembered if he had ever spared a moment to know Cain existed in the first place. He'd been so meek, so mild, so content to disappear. He convinced himself it was past it but then, there he walked, right past. Not an ounce of recognition on his face. Same as before, same as always. May as well have been thirteen years old again, sitting in a courtyard and surrounded by far more interesting people and wishing, more than anything, that he could matter to someone some day.

Hunger Games transportation is a hassle and a half to work through, with roughly three times the documents needed for other, similar forms. Insurances, backup plans, guarantees... discretion clauses. That's over his head though- sneaked a peak at some of it a couple months back when he was purging old files to the dungeon.

Point is, he has been working late for three days, and the train is rolling in approximately ten minutes before his shift ends. He clenches his jaw, and then checks to make sure his hair looks okay without realizing it.

And there he comes, and he's an exact replica of how one would imagine him to be in that moment. Disheveled, sharyp around the edges, 100% not sober, and devastated. And handsome, he guesses. He walks in cursive, comes to an unsteady stop at the desk and meets Cain's eyes, seemingly ignorant of how unimpressed he's trying to make them look.

"So uh, thissnt the bathroom. Right?"

He doesn't know what he was expecting, but... yeah. Definitely not this. He smiles then reminds himself not to, before pointing a finger at the giant, bolded letters spelling out "RESTROOM" in big, bolded letters.

He opens his mouth to speak, and then reminds himself not to. Or maybe he should, before Beck walks away. Or maybe he should just wait until after he uses the bathroom. Or maybe he should lie and say it's out of order just so he'll have to hold it for longer. No, okay whoa, Cain, he thinks, that's just spiteful. He ends up waiting an awkward amount of time, so by the time he perks up the courage to speak, Beck has already started turning to walk in the opposite direction.

"Do y- oh. I-.. no. You can- Or, if you-"

He is thankful he doesn't blush, because he would be.

"You don't remember me?" He knows it should be phrased as a sentence, but his own hope refuses to let him not ask. He offers an awkward smile- the kind of polite one you do in public when you accidentally make eye contact with someone.

He hopes Beck remembers him, but he's already convinced himself there's nothing to remember so it hurts less when he doesn't.