phoenix

          “ knowing how to use a camera like this has nothing to do with intelligence or lack thereof. there’s nothing wrong with being inexperienced, iris, ” he says mockingly, dark eyes trained on her, a sardonic grin on his lips. if he were more cliche, more cheesy, more anything other than who he is, he’d tell her the more she rolls her eyes, the more likely they’d get stuck or roll back into her head. if he was his brother, he’d be able to make iris laugh by saying something like that. but it doesn’t suit him, maybe it once did but he can’t imagine it anymore. for the same reasons he doesn’t let siren know he remembers, he doesn’t try to go back to who he was before mars was taken. he doesn’t want to. 

          that version of him was weaker, shielded, and wouldn’t survive. that version of him would’ve given in, would’ve said something, anything, to iris about how he feels. that version of him is pathetic, that’s what he decides time and time again. 

          at least, that’s what he thinks until he’s put in a situation where his past is screaming at him to care, to give a damn instead of pretending and constantly escaping. being in front of the camera again is odd to him and he can feel the different times of his life competing with another. the shyer amateur he was when his brother still lived in the same home and the arrogant professional he tried to come off as when the collective so cruelly claimed him. the confusion when he came into the game and his brother lied, said they weren’t related when every picture told him otherwise. it was seungho who took the very first picture of sehun and told him jokingly that he could model and now that it’s iris on the other side of the camera, he feels uneasy. 

          arrogance is an easy act, pretending this is an actual photoshoot is an easy act   —   all easier than acknowledging how he feels so he clings to that instead, chuckling at iris’ words and taking off his jacket for the next shot, each move calculated and perfected. “ it was the same outside too. ” he’ll never forget the first time he understood how fucked up the modeling industry was too. the entire world is corrupt. the collective, at the very least, embraces it the same way he embraces every shadow to drown out the faint remnants of sunshine his brother left behind in his wake. “ you ready to actually try now? ”

outside.

it’s weird to call it that, outside. it’s as if they can just open the door and step out, go back to a normal life before they were kidnapped, as if they can easily escape this prison and never look back. the outside is unattainable now, just a reminder of the things she can’t have, the life she can’t live. it’s why she doesn’t go out as much as she used to anymore, limiting her explored spaces to dark clubs where no one can see her clouded expression and bars where no one even cares enough to see.

“never said i was going to try,” she says with nonchalance, ignoring the implications in his question and instead keeping the camera pressed to her face, still peering at him through the viewfinder. it should make it feel less personal, like a smokescreen between them, but somehow it still feels just as personal as the nights he comes knocking in her door, looking for the type of solace only a mutual understanding can bring, a shared empty space that could only be filled by someone they’ve both lost.

maybe it’s because he’s shared a small bit of himself, of who he used to be, that she feels this way, as if peering through the camera is like looking past his thick skin and into a deeper part of him. it’s such a small bit of information, a tiny modicum of data, and yet it feels as if she’s trespassing into his past.

          it was cruel, that sehun lost his brother twice. purposelessly. wrongfully. helplessly. he could do nothing to stop it either time and that’s what disturbs him the most; that’s what made him blame iris for so long. his anger so misplaced that he took it out on the only person who understands how he feels. the emptiness, the loneliness, the anger, the pain, iris knows it too but she bore the brunt of the guilt while he had none. 

          but he should. 

          he should’ve been the third person on their team. he should’ve been there. if someone had to die, it should’ve been him. 

          whenever he looks at iris, whenever he acknowledges how broken she is too, he can’t forgive himself. he took away the future they had together, the feelings they had for each other, the possibility of more that his selfish self dares to think about. 

          but he can’t stay away. the guilt ebbs and flows when he’s around her, poison circulating through his veins. toxic and yet the only cure is to stay. because he needed to hear it, that someone misses seungho as much as he does. this must be what they mean by misery loves company. he can only spare a glance down at her, glad she can’t see the way his face falls, how his usually composed expression is gone, replaced with a weak facade of strength. 

          “ go with me to his favorite place. ” though they’ll both be out of place, awkward, and strained. if they didn’t do something to honor his brother, he might lose it more than he already is all over again. 

his favorite place.

her first thought is that there are too many memories attached, too many images of a past life, a past self that no longer exists. their situation is still the same, still stuck in this game, unable to make decisions for herself no matter how hard she tries to pretend she can live her life independent of the Collective's influences. they're still pawns to faceless cowards, and yet, without mars, so much has changed.

she's covered in old wounds, scarred by anger and guilt and she wears them unabashedly because that's how she can keep his memory alive best, to live for him, to try to achieve everything he's ever dreamed, an escape, safety, for herself, and for ares.

but it isn't enough, and she knows it. it's never enough. so although painful memories will always come rushing back, bathing them in a life they can no longer live, she sits up, a silent agreement. (besides, it's not like she has a choice, does she? not with ares. she never does.)

"i'll go grab a jacket," she says, hoisting herself up into sitting position, rubbing her hand down her face, wiping at the tears that had been stinging her eyes, hoping the seamless motion hides her true intent. she heaves a sigh before getting up, going over to her closet and grabbing the aforementioned item, throwing it over her shoulders and putting it on. before she closes it though, she lingers on a single item, a jacket he'd given her without prompting, another reminder of how things used to be. she hesitates for a moment before pulling it out, throwing it in ares' direction.

until i can find you again, iris

          “ tell me how you got that black eye, sehun. ” he hears his brother but pretends he doesn’t, a constant game of distract and deter, a skill he’s long ago learned from their mother. “ hey, did you notice jaekyung was wearing her skirt three inches shorter today? i think she heard me talking about her legs yesterday. thank god. ” they might as well be standing 300 feet apart, seungho’s sigh is that audible and sehun hides the smirk playing on his lips. his brother’s too shy when it comes to anything improper. short skirts, buttons undone, any semblance of indecency, he’s the first one to turn away if he’s not busy trying to encourage the others to follow suit. 

          their personalities and likes are just as different as their hair colors. seungho is the perfect student body president type with his quirky glasses and neatly-kept black hair while sehun is too unruly, the student the teacher chooses to avoid with blonde hair as messy as the way he makes his decisions. but there is one similarity between them that no one would pick out if given the option: a sense of justice. 

          it’s why sehun doesn’t tell his brother that he technically told him why he has a black eye. the other guy looks worse and he deserves it for trying to grope jaekyung when she’d taken brushes to wash in the school fountains near the track. it’s the same sense of justice that brings them to one person who makes those differences obsolete when it comes to their feelings. 

          one guy has his hand gripped around her forearm, tugging her along while the others leer, encouraging with shouts and cheers. it’s fucking disgusting, he thinks, and seungho is second to react, hand on sehun’s shoulder to give them a chance. “ hey, what’s going on here? ” rolling his eyes, sehun doesn’t need an answer. he knows, but he entertains seungho for the simple reason that it’s him. fists clenched at his side, he turns to stare at his older twin, brow raised as the inevitable replies will come in. 

humiliation is a feeling that's all too familiar. unfortunately, that doesn't mean she's become numb to its effects. a girl always content to fade into the background, attention always out of reach. she's only good for retrieving things, washing things, cleaning up after the young master, both in the physical sense and in the social sense, hiding his many errors behind a wall of money and connections. for a girl who has no talents, she's good at what she does, maintaining the illusion that she's keeping him in line.

but she's only human, and humans make errors. not that it makes any difference to him when he finds out he's been cut from his cash flow, articles about his binging spreading like wildfire on the internet, tarnishing his family name. there are rumors of disowning him, and the rumors bring gazes and whispers he doesn't know how to deal with, so he piles everything on her.

she wishes she didn't have to go to his school, a place only the rich have the luxury to attend as far as she's concerned, always surrounded by the same four corners day in and day out, home-schooled by her mother until she couldn't be anymore, forced to learn for herself, but no books could ever teach her how to prepare for this, for the way he grabs her arms as she arrives, drags her out into the schoolyard, throws her frail body onto the ground with such force she legitimately fears for her life. will she be joining her mother and father soon?

he raises his fist but the contact for which she braces herself never comes, replaced instead by unknown voices, redirecting his attention elsewhere. she takes the opportunity to attempt an escape, but his vice-like grip digs so tightly into her flesh she can hardly feel her fingers anymore. "it's none of your concern what i do with my property," he spits at the two arriving boys, sneering. "go back to whatever business you have and i'll get back to mine."

the one to create an ocean that will swallow it all, it’s you iris 

          just as before, he’s made himself at home, lounging on her bed as if it was his own. a notification lights up the device beside him and he eyes it with mild interest before a thought crosses his mind. sitting up, he goes through the processes to find the answer himself and it’s worse than he thought. 

          last post: a year ago. just tragic. 

          “ give me your phone, ” he says, voice gruff from not speaking for the last few hours. nothing had to be said, that was one of the problems. he knew that being able to stay in complete silence with iris and not feel the urge to find entertainment or satisfaction in some manner elsewhere meant something, just not something he was willing to acknowledge. not now. maybe not ever, even at the risk of his sanity. “ come on, i know you’re not talking to anyone right now. ” 

          but that was a lie, he knew she talked to enough people that he didn’t want to acknowledge either. when his own phone was often filled with messages or connections, he couldn’t complain or judge. yet, again, there’s something. too bad he says everything but what he actually means. 

it’s become routine, one she’d never agreed to, had never asked to take part in, but ares never asked questions, only did as he pleased, and she let him, too tired of putting up a fight, too busy fighting off her demons.

it’s a silence that’s comfortable but not comforting, one she can sit in for hours if she was allowed, but having ares around often meant it would break sooner or later, and it does break in in the form of a question that’s so unexpected, she can’t help but react to it with confusion. “what?” she asks, sitting up in her desk chair, bringing it back up from its reclined position. “what for?”

a rhetorical question, as many of hers are when it comes to ares. the confusion wears off, as does her interest in the matter, and she returns to reclining all the way back in her chair, head resting along the top as she rests her eyes. she doesn’t even know where her phone is, let alone having it in her hand in order to talk to anyone.

          “ did i ask if you want to? ” he asks, tone too dismissive to actually require her acknowledgment. of all people, iris should know best that ares doesn’t ask, doesn’t really care. he does as he pleases and that’s one of many flaws. a scowl is better than nothing and he takes a picture, amused by the fact that yes she can be attractive when angry. most as attractive as she is tend to be. ares knows this to be true despite her own lack of knowledge. most people don’t recognize their own appearance and ares is on the very opposite of the spectrum. he could’ve made a career out of it. he almost did. 

          that’s why he chuckles when iris tells him to be an example first. but he quickly realizes he doesn’t know if she knows that part of his past, if mars spoke of that, if mars truly cared about that aspect of ares’ life before. they looked so similar and yet wanted such different lives. “ can you even use my camera? ” in his defense, it is expensive. though a sponsor bought it for him, he thinks of the inconvenience if it had to be replaced, whether he paid for it this time or not. 

          taking hold of the strap, he strolls over to her, draping it around her neck. just as he takes a few steps towards where he plans on position himself, he turns on his heel. “ wait, ” he mumurs, standing behind her and reaching for the camera. head hovering over her shoulder, he adjusts the lighting and focus for her, not trusting her to do it herself. “ there. just aim and click. you can manage that, right? ”

“how stupid do you think i am?” she asks with a scoff, a rhetorical question, reaching out for the aforementioned item. she takes a hold of it carefully, because even though she’s offended that he would think she doesn’t know how to point a camera at a person and take a photo, it looks expensive and the last thing she wants to do is owe ares anything. she brings the viewfinder up to her eye, peering into it and at his retreating figure, but before she can even get it to focus, he comes back toward her, and messes with the camera’s functions from over her shoulder.

there’s a roll of her eyes and it’s all too familiar as he, once again, invades her space, and all she can think about is how unnecessary it all is. as much as she’d never had these kind of luxuries growing up, she’s become familiar with them now, items she never asked for, never needed, placed into her hands by sponsors. if only they knew how that fact alone only made those items even more repulsive in her eyes.

          he doesn’t need permission to stay, has never asked for it, not even once. instead, he brushes past her into the room and makes himself comfortable, as much as he can anyway when he’s sitting on the edge of her bed, arms resting on his knees as he slumps forward. it’s a pattern that never fails him, one he still follows even though he is the one that’s changed. silence lingers in the air and he’s aware she wants an answer. iris deserves an answer, but she’s always deserved better. the fluke is that ares is incapable of giving her that. 

          peace of mind, solace, comfort, everything she can give him with her presence, with the knowledge that he can trust her, he despises himself for taking without giving with the excuse that it’s what his brother would’ve wanted; it’s what his brother would be able to do. mars would want him to be there for iris, this is what he tells himself. it’s not that he needs iris, not that he wants iris, it’s all about mars. 

          he doesn’t know how long he can keep the lie going. 

          but he does, he keeps lying to make it through yet another day, another night. more time without his brother. almost a year and there’s one event that distinctly marks it: “ a year, iris. a year has passed. ” one year and it means his birthday again, mars’ birthday, mars’ death. 

she rolls her eyes, an automatic reflex, always rolling whenever he’s around. he’s rude, brash, never caring for others’ thoughts or input and is exactly the type to grate on her nerves, and yet, she never takes any action to push him away. she knows a part of it is because she still carries guilt about his twin brother’s death, had vowed to look after him should anything happen to mars, but there’s a part of her that can’t stand the thought of how empty things would feel without him around.

and she hates that.

she hates that she might actually like having him around, because she can never be sure if it’s genuine, or if it’s because he looks just like mars (even when she knows she could tell them apart in a split second glance). just looking at him brings back old memories, but it’s his words that bring about the unnatural pang in her heart. she looks away, unsure if she should acknowledge it, if she should open that wound again. but as much as she hates the pain, she hates the idea of pretending like it didn’t happen, like his existence didn’t leave a mark on her life. 

she sits beside him on the bed, no stranger to him being in her personal space, lets herself fall back, forearm coming to rest upon tired eyes. “i know,” she responds simply, because what else is she supposed to say to that? even though she’s moved through the stages of denial, anger, bargaining, depression, right back into anger, she doesn’t think she’ll ever reach that final stage of acceptance, not entirely, not when ares is around to remind her that she could have done something, anything. 

tell me why your face haunts me and yet your voice is the only lullaby that could put me to sleep, iris

( REWIND ↺ 180330 ) it’s nothing personal. he knows it isn’t. common sense deems it so but he’s a narcissistic idiot that would say he’s not common and a fool that secretly takes everything to heart. he hadn’t been in the game for long but it was still another attempt that resulted in failure. vermillion itself hadn’t even won the tournament and he couldn’t feel at ease. a child in an adult’s body. mars isn’t like this, that he knows too; that his brother went to iris for actual emotional wounds whereas ares only dressed up smaller ones to disguise what truly ails him. 

                             (   he isn’t his brother, that truth always hurts him most.   )

it’s unceremonial ; the way he often turns up in front of iris’ door but his usual abuse of the door is replaced. instead, he knocks placidly, dully, and it’s odd to himself too. probably because he has no real excuse for why he’s here again. he hadn’t for months but still he went and went and went. endlessly, tirelessly, again and again, because there was something about her that still meant comfort to him. 

the truth is, being that close to iris stops the nightmares. the dreams he never tells her about after the tournament, of how he sees himself dying from that bullet, how he sees her going down less than a minute after him, how he sees disappointment etched into his brother’s face the way it used to be in their parents’   —   a look he never wanted or even thought he could see from his brother. “ iris, ” he murmurs through the door. “ i know you’re awake. ” 

the nights are restless of late, a result of the recent goings on within the hive, the infighting, the unnecessary drama. she’s more than aware that it’s at the hands of the Collective, and yet she can’t look on at her fellow candidates participating without a sense of disdain. why were they allowing themselves to be manipulated by the hands that feed on their bloodshed? she will never understand anyone who takes any joy in being participaints---prisoners---in this game.

it keeps her up at night, the senseless loss of so many in her faction.

the sound of gentle knocking piques her curiosity, a sound she doesn’t hear often. not many visit her anymore, not when she’s distanced herself so far out of reach, and the one that did never knocked in such a manner, always fueled by anger, rage, emotions she could understand when she considers all the circumstance. and yet, his voice is clear as day, all too familiar, as it calls her name.

even in the darkness, o sole mio // irisblck

she doesn’t care for any of this and it’s odd that he does. odd that he cares, odd that he’s interested in this, odd that he still holds onto something from his past life as a wayward hobby now that they’re in this stupid game. peering through the lens, iris appears dismissive towards his efforts and it strikes too close to home for him for some reason. “ can you pretend to be interested so this isn’t a waste of my film? or like i would willingly choose you as a model today? ” words spoken if only to elicit a reaction, anger, hate, the bitterness they feel towards this life for taking away what mattered most. 

more lingers on the tip of his tongue and he hates thinking that mars would be so much better at this. he would joke, say stupid things, make her laugh and smile. the more time that passes since his brother’s death, the more he thinks of things like that. like wanting to make iris smile again the way she used to and it’s pathetic. he has his brother’s looks, more of it, he used to joke, but none of his brother’s effortless charm. 

“ sponsors live for pictures of their favorites. if there’s another team battle in the tournament, we both need this. carry your weight, would you. ”

it’s awkward. even before she’d been kidnapped by the collective, she’d never been comfortable with having her photo taken, not when her parents could never afford something as luxurious as a camera, not when she was so used to fading into the background that no one would want to take a photo of her. that, in addition to the fact that her photo is being taken for a social media that is only meant to give more ammunition to the soulless bastards who have put them in this godforsaken place, to say that she’s annoyed would be an understatement. “i already told you i didn’t want to do this,” she retaliates, a scowl appearing on her face, replacing her disinterested frown.

we’re not even in the same faction, she wants to say, but even though they’re in factions with such differing views, she knows that if there were another mission in which teams were required without regard for factions, then ares would be her first pick, the only one she can trust with her entire being.

he keeps count, even though he doesn’t have to. arrows that essentially regenerate because of a… what is this process they go through? is there a name to the madness? but he’s thankful for once and that’s a feeling he never thought he’d feel because of the collective, because of this game, but it’s the way they altered his body ( and hers ) that enables him to target each mercenary without fear of running out. 

( there’s no need to count bullets the way deadpool did in one of his favorite movies, one of the last he saw before he was taken — one he meant to see with his brother but didn’t get to, now he can’t ) 

but it’s a matter of time before someone thinks to disarm him. a knife flies by his head, grazing his cheek and before he can look at who did it, they’re already on him. a punch to his jaw, a jab to his abdomen, he’s spared no break to think of the pain when the risk is blaring loudly. another statue’s been touched and, in that second, he’s distracted, captured by the assurance that iris is still alive. it’s too late when he’s captured by the man, a headlock that steals his breath away and he’s still disorientated enough to feel weak, to grow lightheaded faster, so he does what’s expected of him. 

he falls ,  

the mercenary falls with him and discord wedges his leg between the other’s, ensuring he loses his balance more and, most importantly, first. he groans at the impact, an elbow jabbed in his back and the iron grip around his neck when he tries to struggle free. his vision is hazy at best and he’s scrambling around to find it, an arrow lodged in the eye of his last victim. with a forceful tug, he’s freeing it, the palm of his hand scraped by the head when he tries to grab it, using it to stab the mercenary’s arm. another pull and he’s stabbing him over and over. 

red spills, pools, stains his hands and it’s all he sees. he thinks again of how his brother must’ve died like this— without consequence, without remorse, and maybe if he’d been without hesitation, he wouldn’t have. it’s not true. none of it is but discord can’t think of anything else, of how maybe if he’d gone alone on the mission, if the third person they needed was him, his brother would be here now. 

BANG — 

the words echo in his mind: your anger will get you killed, and he clutches his shoulder, hand stained with his own blood now. he’s out of time. 

the sound triggers a range of memories, from before she was taken, to her initiation, to games she’s been forced to play, and games she wishes she hadn’t. it triggers fireworks on lunar new year, the face of the first person she had to kill, the loss of comrades. it all happens in a split second, a jumble of visions that throws her off balance, just enough to suffer the consequences---a swift punch to her gut that steals the air out of her lungs and nearly sends her to her knees, but even as she struggles for air, it’s not as strong as the sudden dread that sweeps over her.

neither she nor sehun wield weapons of that caliber, to create that kind of sound.

in a frenzy, she drops to the floor, sweeping her leg out and knocking the assailant onto his back. she pulls on her rope, bringing the dart to her hands in one swift movement and pierces her attacker’s throat. the angle is deliberate and the effects immediate; she would be swimming in a pool of a stranger’s blood if she weren’t already up on her feet, taking off into the exact opposite direction she should be going.

it’s not the first gunshot she’s heard since they started their attempt at the extra mission, but it’s the first she’s heard that pumps her heart faster than the dozens of mercenaries attempting to take their lives.

her feet are moving faster than she remembers them ever going since the missions has started, and the scenery around her blurs as she runs---whether it’s because of the speed at which she runs or the tears that have begun to form, she’ll never know (and she’ll never tell)---and she doesn’t stop until she sees him, until she sees sehun, hand gripping his shoulder, the all too familiar sight of deep red across his palms. she knows it could be any one of the others that surround him, but she knows, and it stops her blood cold.

usually, she’s strategic, having to be in order to overpower stronger opponents, but she has no time to do that; he doesn’t have time. she charges in with no other thought than to get to him, to stop the finger that’s threatening to pull the trigger a second time. she throws her dart with the and it pierces through the leg of the mercenary, practiced precision tearing the femoral artery as she unleashes the grapple. one quick tug and he’s on the floor and will be left to die.

her legs can’t run fast enough as she dashes to his side, tearing off a piece of the shirt underneath her hooded sweater to press it against his wound, hard, vengefully. how dare he endanger himself like that?

admin algaea actually had this drafted for the longest time and is releasing them right now as she comes back in a few days. remember the rule that if you reblog it from someone else, send them one back! 

“we need help.”

“you’re gonna be okay.”

“be careful.”

“i am the romantic type.”

“don’t leave me to turn.”

“it’s called luck—and it’s gonna run out.”

“are you still breathing?”

“we’re shitty people.”

“are you flirting with me?”

“what’s holding you back?”

“i’m not comfortable with this conversation.”

“will you /ever/ be comfortable with this conversation?”

“it’s not that easy, you know.”

“our luck had to run out sooner or later.”

“don’t touch me.”

“just fucking go.”

“does it sound like i know how to whistle?”

“i’m a pretty good shot with that thing.”

“let’s get the hell outta here.”

“goddammit—i’m clean!”

if they had met under different circumstances, if his brother wasn’t mars but seungho, and he wasn’t discord but sehun, he’d be bringing her there to show her his brother’s favorite: penguins. he teased his brother when they were younger, penguins and seals, weren’t they what mostly girls liked? but he didn’t mind and it’s his brother’s footsteps that he followed in when he took that summer job. filling in a position his brother couldn’t take any longer because of other obligations, internships at law firms and summer classes, a new life he began that sehun couldn’t touch as a mere second year student. 

if they had met under different circumstances, sehun knows there’s no way he would hate her. 

                                           [ he doesn’t hate her now — it’s all denial ]

instead, he looks at her and sees the lost opportunities, the lost chances when he should see all the possibilities, the potential his brother saw in the both of them. but he can’t think of any of it, not when their lives are on the line, risks with a fatal price. for a while, he’d convinced himself that her presence was toxic, her touch was bound to be, and instead of poison spreading through his veins he can’t deny the warmth of her hand around his wrist. as tight as the grip is, he’s more put-off by the fact that she’s warm than ice-cold, another truth he made up all of his own accord. 

he does his best not to merely grunt a reply. it’s not that he’s reckless enough to endanger citizens. hell, there’s a chance he knows them even if their memories of him no longer exist thanks to the collective. how sweet of them as always. thorough through and through and he hates that they don’t wipe their own memories. they’re clearly toys to the collective so why allow them their past? 

                      the answer, so that if the game doesn’t kill them, the bitterness does. 

“and if there’s only one but another is trailing him, then what? you know how far they’ll go just to get at least one of us,” his eyes are dim as he stares at her, his gaze harsh but the reality is that if it’s one of them, he’d rather it be him. they could easily run but the fact is it’s easiest for her. but the way she turns back reminds him of something he somehow overlooked— he brought her in here, he’s the only one able to guide her out. leading puts him at unease. he’s the stronger of the two, he should be at the back but he has no choice and so he wordlessly moves forward. the reason he chose this entry point is that it’s dark but he remembers everything effortlessly. they’re at an disadvantage if found among the large pipework but it’s the best way to weave through unseen as long as they’re perfectly quiet. this time, it’s his fingers that curl around her wrist and he’s pulling her closer to him, ignoring any tugs in protest, his other hand holding his cylinder at the ready. 

his shoulders tense at the low murmur that’s heard not too far away. he was right. there’s not one but two. 

“of course i know that,” she snaps back in a harsh whisper, brows furrowed as she frowns. if time were a true tell of one’s experience, then she knows that better than he does, but time doesn’t exist in a place like this, living as play things for people who seek thrills because they’ve already exhausted the thrills of the things only they could afford.

so she keeps her mouth shut, lips pressed tightly together so that she’ll say no more because the longer they stand there talking and arguing, thinly veiling the root of their animosity by discussing their current situation, the more danger they put themselves in. 

she used to pride herself on being able to keep her emotions at bay when it came to the games they were forced to play, but she realizes now when she’s weighed down by them that it was simply because trust had been the emotion and the backbone of her every move whenever mars was with her, and now, she wonders if the trust she’d had for sehun before is enough to break through the dark clouds of resentment that hangs over them now.

but as he takes the lead, takes hold of her, she realizes that it isn’t clouds that hang over them, but smoke and mirrors, an illusion. his touch is still familiar, and the initial tug is because it feels too familiar, as if it’s three or four months back and she speak to him and look at him and smile at him and enjoy his company without being reminded of how much the both of them have lost, without having to wonder if she only tolerates him because she’d promised to look after him, or if she tolerates him because she actually cares.

it’s a difficult situation to try and determine if you’re a good person in the middle of trying to stay alive.

so she allows him to drag her along, her footsteps following willingly, her free hand still tightly clasped over her cylinder. she can hear every small sound those who are pursuing them, and as she follows closely behind, she wonders if he can feel her breath on the nape of his neck. the next sound she hears sounds like their hunters are on top of them, and she grabs his wrist in return. “are we almost out?”

she frowns at the sight of him and discord could almost it’s mutual. he would if it wasn’t for the nagging memory of when it used to bring a smile to his face, of when he used to look forward to meeting up with both iris and his brother before moving onto training. when he had something to be happy about despite being thrown into this new environment, life and death being forced upon him when he’s so young that death shouldn’t loom over his head the way it does now. 

“didn’t say you did,” he scoffs under his breath, rolling his eyes at how cold she seems. was this really the iris his brother sang endless praises about? the person who brought such happiness to his brother that even discord questioned why they weren’t dating. when he thinks about it now, maybe it’s better they didn’t and he pushes the train of thought away, he can’t believe he’s relieved iris didn’t date his brother and was spared that type of pain. 

the inner workings of the aquarium is familiar to him and he’s bitter that it’s more familiar to him than his brother was when he was first taken by the collective. every corner, each left and right he takes, he takes it as if the course is written on the back of his hand but a brother in the near mirror image of him? he was oddly foolish enough to believe they were merely similar by chance, a reality such as having doppelgangers in this world one he considered true. “you have your cylinder, right?” because it’s a matter of time before they’re found again, before a mercenary somehow made their past the locked door. 

a distant clink he recognizes as different from that of the regular background noise confirms his theory and he’s instinctively moving towards it, placing himself between iris and the sound. “they’re here.”

she hates this. she hates it more than she hates this game they’re forced into playing. she hates that all that seems to remain between them now is animosity, she hates that it seems like mars was the only thing that kept them cordial. back then, it had seemed so obvious how similar they were, that they were related by blood, but now she can’t even recognize him anymore, not as sehun, not as discord. and she hates it even more that that might actually be the problem, that they’re too similar, that she can’t even look at him without being reminded of what she lost, whatthey lost.

but this is hardly the time or place to dwell on that. both their lives are on the line, and if she let this misdirected anger (at her, at him) distract her, then they were both as good as dead. then they’d lose each other. so she brushes her distaste aside, forces her features into a neutral expression, listens as he asks her if she has her weapon. she’s not even given a chance to answer, however, when a faint click in the distance interrupts her.

rather than answer him with words, she pulls her cylinder from her pocket, grasping it firmly in her hands. to reveal it now would be jumping the gun; for all they knew, it could just be another member of the staff. but to sit and wait for whoever had opened the door to reveal themselves was ludicrous, and so she wraps her fingers around his wrist and pulls him back, perhaps a bit too harshly, but away from the sound. “then why are you going toward them?” she hisses as quietly as her annoyance allows. “if we can avoid a fight, we should do it. there are too many civilians in here.”