Books Comma Elle

Volivia isn't as calm and content as the two of you. Her face is fallen in the same firm look she's held since day one of your arrival. She directs her attention squarely on you, tossing a scratchy, burlap sack at you to catch.

You only glance at it in your hands, looking at her with a raised brow. “C’mon,” she commands, walking away before she even waits for you to respond.

You turn back to Gylan with a sigh, setting the carrot you'd been holding down, water dripping off your fingers as you dry them on a towel.

As you stand to your feet, you adjust your shirt to a more comfortable position—your belly has grown slightly, not enough to show but enough for any tight shirts to be too tight.

“Wish me luck,” you whisper to Gylan, shooting him a wink as he giggles at your humor. “If I'm not back soon, she probably killed me and tossed my body in the river.”

He guffaws, throwing his head back and patting his leg. Your smile grows into something jubilant as you pat his shoulder and leave.

The joy dies down before you pass the threshold of the barn house doors, shifting into something more passive as you eventually catch up to Volivia.

“Where are we going?” She doesn't answer you.

She leads you into the orchard, to the small section where bushels of strawberries lay, ripe and ready for picking.

You grip your sack, staring at the berries with eyes slightly widened in wonder. There must be hundreds of them—a vibrant red decorated with pebbled seeds, their leaves just as bright and green. They taunt you with a sheen only highlighted by the sun that makes them look like they're growing. Your mouth nearly waters at the sight.

Volivia glances up at you, already knelt in front of a bushel as she picks a few off by the stems and pops them in the bag—careful not to burst the skin and spills its juice into a spoiled mess.

She rolls her eyes at you. “Never seen a strawberry before?”

You snap yourself out of your haze—you find yourself in them a lot these days, surrounded by all this greenery, all of these fruits and vegetables. It's so bizarre seeing all of them in one place, waiting to be picked and eaten in lavish amounts.

“I have,” you say, trying not to sound so defensive. You kneel down, sitting back on your legs as you lift a hand to take one off its stem. You stare a little too long, feeling the pores in your fingers, before setting it in the bag.

“Capitol’s rich, but strawberries are hard to get a hold of. Coryo–lanus…” You silently reprimand yourself. You'd gotten far too comfortable with that man, he’s in your skin. You sigh dejectedly. “Snow only ever got them for special occasions because of it.”

You shrug, picking the fruits with more tenderness than Volivia, who picks them like it's an everyday chore, a common occurrence that has numbed her to the simple allure of the berries.

“Before that…” you continue, “Well, Seven isn't known for decadent fruits.”

Volivia slows her efforts, glancing over at you and then at the bushels of strawberries surrounding her. She'd been around things like this frequently, due to the duty she and her brother had taken on alongside Josephine, Gylan, and so many others.

She hops district to district, going through perhaps half of them all in the span of a year. She earns her keep doing chores wherever she goes, and as many times as she's been to District Eleven, the wonder of fruit has faded on her.

She still remembers the first time she laid eyes on an apple tree—they were this bright yellow-y orange, glowing in the sun like halos. She climbed the whole thing, picked one from its branch, and sunk her teeth into it, relishing in the succulent juices that ran down her arm and her chin.

These days, eating an apple, though still a noticed luxury, was a little treat awarded to her with little more than a glance. It was normal. Nothing to adore.

She briefly wonders if this is how you felt living in the Capitol for so long, dressed in lavish attire and dining on expensive cuisine every night, especially after experiencing the difficult life of a District member. She'd almost forgotten you'd grown up in the Districts.

She quickly pushes the thought away.

It's quiet for a moment. She clears her throat, wincing at the cringe it provides her. “Well…” she trails off, “you'll wanna wash that off first but… I'm sure they won't miss a single strawberry.”

You glance at her out of the corner of your eye, your fingers pausing around a berry before you pull it from its stem. You place it in your bag with little more than a breath of a chuckle and the smallest of smirks.

“You know,” you don't look at her, busying yourself with your chore, “sometimes you're secretly nice.”

She raises a brow, though she still doesn't look at you. “Sometimes?”

You shrug, tilting your head slightly as you start to match her rhythm. “I mean, past the bitch, yeah.”

“You're funny.”

“I know. It keeps me young.”

She snorts—actually, legitimately snorts—as in the, “Okay, that was a little funny, I suppose,” kind of snorts.

Her voice is full of sarcasm when she speaks, but it doesn't ruin the smirk growing on your face at the small achievement.

There's more silence, and it feels a bit more comfortable now with the oh-so-delicately lifted tension in the air. You take advantage of it, reveling in the couple moments of relative peace before speaking, afraid to ruin it just as quickly as it was created.

“I swear I'm not as horrible as you think I am. Even when I question it myself, I do have a heart.” You glance at her once more, looking her briefly up and down before shrugging a shoulder. “I think you might actually have one, too. Maybe.”

She hums. “Might have to dig a bit for it.”

You make a sound like you've just heard inconveniencing news, a forceful sigh of sorts. “Sorry.” You purse your lips, actually turning to her this time. “I'm a climber.”

You can see her trying not to crack a smile. “Right.” She deadpans. “Trees.”

“Trees,” you echo in confirmation.

“Trees and no fruit?”

You examine a strawberry between two fingers and your thumb, staring at a small dent that has made the rest of the strawberry soft and mushy.

“We have nuts,” you nod, dropping the mushy berry to the ground. “So many nuts.”

There's another snort from her, but it doesn't sound so rogue this time. “We should pick some if we ever travel through Seven.”

You fall silent, the humor fading slowly from your chest and turning into something sour, something melancholy. A tiny sigh releases from your lungs that you do your best to hide. You distract yourself with your task.

“Maybe we…shouldn't get too ahead of ourselves.”

She turns her head to you, tilting it slightly as her brows pinch together in question. “You don't want to go home?”

A look flashes across your face that you don't even realize. It's this sort of remembrance—remembrance of a time that was once cherished with love and hope but that twisted into this forlorn and sorrowful thought that no longer brings joy.

She thinks for a moment that you look sad. And tired. There's no other hidden emotion—no anger, no deceit. It's just a sad exhaustion brought on by years of trauma, a need for some peace…

“I'd love to go home, but…” Your voice is quiet, almost too quiet as you stay trapped in your thoughts a moment longer. You sound almost choked up, like you're holding back tears you don't want anyone to know exist. “It doesn't really exist for me there anymore.”

A moment passes, and you remember yourself. You straighten your spine—you hadn't even realized you'd been slouching—and plaster on a more neutral face, trying to reinstate the fragile light-heartedness that had finally been established between the two of you after nearly three months of unrelenting tension.

“Which is fine,” you say it like it's nothing, putting on a façade that had taken years to craft and perfect “I can manage without it.” You shrug. The shoulder stays up longer than you mean for it to.

There's another silence. The silences offer reprieve, a moment to breathe and recuperate, a moment to pretend that there's a peace in your heart that you can actually obtain for a second or two. You're grateful for it.

When Volivia speaks, she's quiet. Her voice is gentler than you've ever heard it, and you don't sense any malice or disdain. For a second, you'd think that you never had a problem to begin with.

“Vince and I are from Ten. We ate…” she breathes a laugh, “...a lot of chicken growing up. I don't really…like chicken that much anymore.”

You actually laugh. It's not a loud thing of a sound, not by a longshot, but it takes you by surprise and triggers her own in return. It's easy. It sounds natural, even. Gylan, and sometimes Vincent, are the only ones who have been able to achieve such a thing since you left Tigris. She—and, in the regards that count, Charlotta—had been your only friend for years.

Neither of you realize your chore has been forgotten, distracted by the other, by the ease.

You clear your throat. “When Mom could afford it, she'd get chicken from the markets and make this…amazing recipe. I still don't know what it was. Some kind of pie.”

You shrug, reminiscing of simpler times—just you and your mother in your tiny home, sharing dinner at the table with a plate laid out for Dad. “We'd have it maybe twice a year if we were lucky.”

“That was our dad, but with beef stew.” Her features smooth a bit with the hint of a smile on her face, a brief moment taken over by a thin and tightly restrained veil of grief. “He died a couple years ago, that's when we joined Josie. Mom died when we were young.”

What you wouldn't give to have had a couple more years with your mother…a couple more years with your father. Once upon a time, you were just a relatively happy kid—burdened only by poverty and the normality of District hardships, ones so normal that, as a kid, they don't seem as terrible as they actually are.

“Dad was killed by a Peacemaker. Mom had a heart attack when my name was drawn.”

You still remember it, looking back at her in panic when they announced your name, and watching her clutch her chest before she fell to the ground. She struggled to breathe, caught so deeply in her immense grief that it took her longer to die than any usual heart attack was meant to.

The worst part was that you hadn't even been able to hold her, to touch her hand. As you cried for your mother, the Peacekeepers dragged you away, kicking and screaming. Your view was blocked by people crowding around her body in an attempt to help.

You swallow the thought down, looking back at Volivia with a strained smile. She seemed to wear the same look, brought on by similar memories.

She let out a heavy sigh, nipping a strawberry from a bush and holding it up. “Here's to dead parents.”

Your chuckle is a breath through your nose, following her movements and tapping your strawberry against hers. “Dead parents.”

You both drop your berries into your sacks, sharing a glance before going back to your task.

There's a shift, this thing that isn't physical but feels that way as you pick. The suffocating air that you usually share with her feels a little more breathable. The tying of your wrists behind your back doesn't feel so tight.

There's a beat.

“This doesn't make us friends.”

It's said like a reminder, this short clarification meant to punctuate your little breakthrough.

You try to stifle your grin, nodding but choosing not to look at her. “Of course not.”

~

Vincent's hand is gentle.

The stars are bright out here in the fields. You're not supposed to be out, but you had trouble sleeping and Vincent wanted to help. His hand is clasped with yours, strong but so kind as his thumb rubs circles into the meat of your palm.

It's an easy kind of peace. You close your eyes and smell the sweet air, listening to crickets chirp and the sound of your shoes falling gently onto soft grass beneath your feet.

Despite the calm, you know better as you speak into the otherwise still air.

“We shouldn't be out here.”

Vincent laughs lightly, a smooth baritone of a sound as he swings your joined hands. “You know,” he beams at you, “I thought you'd be more fun than this.”

You tilt your head at him, stifling a smile as you huff gently. “We're gonna get in trouble.”

He scoffs happily, jogging forward to bring you farther from the farm with him. You jog to keep up with him, still protesting as you do. “We can't be out here late. We could get caught, Vee.”

Your argument was ruined by a chuckle, an excited lilt brought on by the contagious wonder around you of the night buzzing with all its nocturnal creatures.

He turns to face you, grabbing your other hand and squeezing them gently. He keeps taking little steps backward, and you have to redirect him before he trips over a large rock embedded in the ground.

“I'm not letting anything happen to you,” he promises. It warms your chest, and you've been practicing not shying away from the feeling.

You smile gently. “I'm not talking about grunts. I'm talking about Josie.” You pull a face, muttering under your breath like you're telling him a secret. “She's scary sometimes.”

Vincent shrugs, still laughing. “Yeah, but she likes me.” He stops, moving his hands to your waist to hold you gently. His touch is soft, considerate. His thumbs trace patterns into the worn material of your shirt. “Just calm down. Everything's fine.”

You nod gently, looking into the dark chocolate of his eyes and sighing. He's got nice eyes. They're warm and inviting, like a soothing fire in the midst of a freezing winter night.

“Sorry,” you grin, a soft thing. You bring your hands to his shoulders, though he easily towers over you (and most others) like the redwoods back in Seven. You let the solid feeling of his being ground you. He's here. He's not going to let anything happen to you. You're safe.

“S’okay,” he murmurs, shaking his head lightly. He ducks his gaze just enough to catch yours again. His bright smile grows in an attempt to see yours do the same. “Are you okay?”

You nod. “I'm okay.”

“Good.”

Your smile does, in fact, grow. Just a bit—enough to have his eyes lighting up at the sight. You'll never understand how something as simple as a smile can make him so happy—especially one from you.

Unable to take the way he's looking at you much longer, you press your hands to his chest and push him back gently. He's very strong and much taller than you, so there is no reason why your little push should have made him move, but he does. He rocks back on his heels, and he's sent falling to the ground, rolling on his back less than slamming on it.

You exclaim something incoherent, mixed up by a sudden giddy laugh. You watch him lay on his back, one hand on his chest and the other laid flat out. He's staring at you like one stares at the stars.

You move to your knees, getting down to lay beside him. You lean over him for a moment, staring at his face and letting the warmth of his gaze affect you as much as you can take.

When you can't take any more, you lay on your back and stare at the stars. You pretend you can't see him staring at the side of your face.

This all is still so new to you. Strolls through the night, smiling eyes, giddy laughter, warm hands in hands, stargazing. All of it, down to the finite details of him glancing at you out of the corner of his eyes when you're walking together.

You busy yourself with the stars, hoping the constellations give you enough focus to ponder all the things going on in your head.

Your hand falls gently to your belly. You don't necessarily mean for it to. It's this absent-minded thing that you catch yourself doing throughout the day. You'll wake up sometimes with your arm thrown over your belly and have no memory of falling asleep with it there.

You forget, sometimes, that you're carrying a baby. It's the whole reason you're here and not there, but it's a surprise to remember sometimes. You're still processing. Sometimes all of this seems like a really weird dream that you can't decide between being really, really good or really, really bad.

Then you decide that his face is too sparse for you not to be dreaming.

The thought of him makes your fingertips cold. It's not a consuming feeling. It's more of this strange numbing that taunts you, tells you that you've made a choice and you won't know if it's a bad one until it's too late.

It's like walking outside while the air is chilly and deciding that it's warm enough not to bring gloves, only to find your fingers freezing in the air when the wind blows a certain way.

The stars wink at you from above, and you're trying to decide if they're comforting or taunting. Are they smiling down on you and whispering good things to come? Or are they sharing secrets that you don't know about?

“Vee?”

“Yeah?” He turns his head to you. You don't remember him turning away.

“Do you…” You chew on your bottom lip, thinking. You don't think you actually had a question prepared, but now you feel obligated to ask something. So you say the first thing that comes to mind. “Do you care about me?”

He sits up on his elbow, turning over to look at you. “Yes, I do,” he says with complete certainty.

It's a lot of certainty, and it takes you by surprise.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

You scan his face, finding yourself examining him to see if he's telling the truth. You can't sense a falter in his eyes, a biting of his lip, quickened breath, anything. He's unyielding.

And for a second you think, he really means it.

But then you remember that he was always a really good liar. No matter how many times you figured him out, he always found a way to fool you.

You push the thought away, pressing your fingertips into your palm to warm the chill you find there. The ice in the blue eyes of your mind will crawl into your soul if you let it.

“I care about you, too.” Your voice is so soft, hardly a whisper. It's as though you're scared he will actually hear you and use it to hold over your head.

You turn your head to look away from his eyes. They're intense in a different way—consuming but not conquering, deep but not devouring.

You let out a little breath to steady yourself. “I haven't done this in a long time.”

His fingertips brush your shoulder, so soft and so delicate. You shiver beneath him. “Done what?” he hums. He gives you all the time you need to respond.

“Intimacy… Real intimacy.” You swallow thickly, gathering the courage to look at him again. “The whole notion flies over my head. I'm so used to…”

He hums again, but this time his brows lift in an unamused way. “Being treated like shit?” he guesses.

Your laughter is a surprise to you. It's sudden, but it spreads a warmth in your bones. You don't remember the last time you have laughed as much as you have tonight, as gentle as they've been. It makes Vincent laugh in return.

“In a manner of speaking,” you murmur.

You wonder, for a very, very brief moment, if this is what true adoration feels like. A mutual and deep adoration that makes you feel safe and…happy. The thought doesn't last very long because happiness is also an obscure topic to you that has only diminished more and more by the day (though it has had a slight growth within the past month).

“If I ever hurt you,” he says quietly, his knuckles brushing your cheek, “I want you to hit me.”

Your next laugh is also a surprise, but you're learning to let it ease you a little more. The reward of seeing such a happy smile looking back at you with each lilt of your voice is making laughter more tolerable.

That's another thing you're not used to—seeing so much joy directed at you. He smiles and laughs so much. Outside of Tigris, you never saw much of that in any capacity. Any smile you'd received in the past years have been of professionalism, mocking, or the unfulfilling curve of winter.

“I'll keep that in mind.”

You stare at him a little longer, slowly raising a hand to touch his shoulder. He doesn't move, doesn't flinch. He just keeps watching you, with eyes that shine like the stars above.

His hand sets at your waist, and it's a warmth that you nearly melt under. Your hand slides up to cup the side of his neck, your thumb timidly stroking the underside of his jaw.

He moves so slowly, like he's scared to spook you. It takes forever before he's even halfway—and you're glad for it. If he'd been any quicker, you probably would have hit him or run away or both.

You have to talk yourself down from it in your mind, this voice yelling orders at you telling you to calm down, that nothing bad will happen if you just…let it happen.

Your head lifts off the ground so slowly, barely at all. It's enough to have the muscles in your chest and neck tightening.

When your lips meet, it's not what you were expecting. There's no burst of affection or pleasure, there's no rush of passion, there's no soaring feeling in your bones.

It's soft and warm. You kiss him back, and relish in the lack of feeling. Your body isn't buzzing, your mind isn't reeling, your skin isn't warm. You just feel…calm. You feel a breath of air in your lungs, and you're happy to take it.

When your lips inevitably pull away, your eyes are still closed. The smallest smile curls at the corner of your mouth. “Via’s not gonna be happy.”

Vincent chuckles lightly, nudging your nose with his. “She'll get over it.”

He dips down to kiss you again. It's much the same, if not more accepting as you take a deeper breath. His head tilts up, and yours follows. The soft smack of your lips is a welcome sound that makes you grin.

Your hand flexes so slightly against his neck, and it sets something off in your brain. It's a familiar signal that has you moving into autopilot.

Your lips part so slightly, and when he does the same and you feel his tongue licking lightly at your bottom lip, you sigh. Your other hand grasps at his side, tightening around his shirt before moving up to hold the other side of his neck.

The smallest sound catches in his chest at the contact of your hands, and it's another switch. You push softly against his chest, turning him over so he lays on his back.

He looks up at you, watches with shallow breath as you move your leg over his body to straddle him. You kiss him again, one hand on his chest and the other at his neck once more. His hands take a moment to find your waist, to hold you in a warm and soothing embrace.

The rush begins suddenly until the familiar roaring in your ears and rushing in your veins has your breath becoming heavier. Your kisses are insistent, and his hands tightening on your waist have your body shifting up and down.

Your lips trail to his jawline. His breaths puff in your ear. This is something you can do. This is something that you know. As you kiss at his jaw and at his neck, you don't have to think about what to say or what to do. You just want him to know you care about him, and this is how you can do it.

As you pull away from him, you're both panting as you stare at each other with darkened eyes. You smile, taking the hem of your shirt in your hands as you begin to lift it.

Vincent seems to come back to his body then. His hand comes out, grabbing your wrist gently to guide your own back down.

“Hey, hey, hey. Slow down,” he says quickly. You pause, confusion etching into the layout of your face. He sits up, moving you so you sit more comfortably on his lap. One hand rests on your waist, far from your thigh where you expected it to fall.

You look between his hand and his lips and his eyes and then over at the grass behind him. You're blinking quickly, your lips trying to form words but having no clue where to start or what to say.

His hand moves from your waist to your cheek, holding you gently. “What's going on?” he asks, finding your gaze. The warmth is still there. You expect to find some sort of anger, some frustration to tell you that he's upset. But you don't. He's just concerned. He's warm.

“Isn't…” You scoff, completely and utterly confused. What have you done wrong that he doesn't want your affection? And if you've done something wrong, why isn't he upset? “Isn't this what you want?”

He glances down at your hand where you're still holding onto your shirt. The look is so short, he's gazing back up at you in no time with a heavy shrug. “Well…” he murmurs, sort of awkwardly. “Sure, but I feel like it's kind of fast, you know?”

You blink, suddenly feeling very embarrassed. You're feeling all too warm, and not in a good way, at all. You move off of him quickly, wiping your face and shaking your head and thinking about how stupid you have to be to misinterpret something like this.

“I…” So stupid. “I'm sorry. I didn't realize–”

“Hey, wait. Listen…” He reaches out to grab your hand, sitting up on his knees where you're already perched. His thumb strokes the top of your hand gently, and it's highly unnerving. You can't find it in yourself to pull away.

How are his eyes so warm? How does he manage to keep a fire going, even as he rejects you, and keep it from raging into the sky?

As you stare at him, he offers you the kindest of looks, and your head is reeling from trying to understand him. This game is much harder to play than anything else you've done.

“I do. Trust me, I've thought about it before,” he says quickly, like he's afraid you'll run off if he doesn't explain fast enough, “but it doesn't feel right yet. I really do care about you. I want to be with you, sweetheart. But I want more than just your body.”

It's a lot to process. You find yourself turning into a broken record just trying to attempt it.

“I'm sorry. I–” You blink hard to keep the stinging in your eyes from winning, cursing yourself when your breath decides to shudder instead.

You don't know how to explain. There's so much going on in your mind, you don't know where to start. You struggle to get the words out without sounding pathetic. You feel like you sound so pathetic—like a dumb girl whose whole personality is “traumatized whore”.

“I'm just not used to this…” You stutter, speaking too quickly as you struggle to gather your thoughts. “I just.. He always wanted…”

Vincent takes you in with a look that you can't decipher. He's not disgusted, you know that look well. He's far too concerned for frustration, and his kindness bleeds in even now. You don't know what it is as he mumbles, “He really did a number on you…”

You swallow thickly, staring down at his hand holding yours. It's so bizarre—the fact that he's been holding onto your hand for so long and not once has he tried to tighten his grip, to crush your fingers, to pull you close. He just holds it, occasionally strokes your knuckles.

You startle when he leans in, surprised to find that a little shush like you're a frightened animal soothes some of your frayed nerves as he kisses your cheek.

You shudder, his gentleness sinking into your skin. Usually when a feeling reaches so deep, it's with the intent on reaching in and ripping out the bone to gnaw on. But this settles into your flesh and protects you from the cold. It eases the buzzing and soothes the sting. You're not sure how to respond.

His words are whispered breaths in your ear.

“You are not an animal.”

A sigh forces itself from your chest. As you let his words sink into your mind, they're met with a force that has stood tall for years. They throw spears and axes, a brutal strength that echoes in his dulcet but cruel tones. You are an animal.

But Vincent's army seems a worthy opponent. “You deserve love.”

You're nothing. His voice is a seething under your scalp, a burning in your face.

Your cry is stuck in your throat. The tears stream down your cheeks in quick succession. You shake your head in tiny jerks, your word a croak. “Stop.”

“You're a human being,” he affirms. His fingertips stroke your cheek.

You're my pet. His fingers wrap around your neck.

“Vince–” you choke.

He presses his lips gently to your temple. “You are a beautiful woman.”

You're my whore. You can't breathe through his grip. It tightens and tightens until you've forgotten how.

“And he doesn't own you anymore.”

You belong to me.

You gasp desperately for air, bringing a hand to your throat. You choke and cry, aching for a reprieve. Vincent holds you close to him, rubbing your back and kissing your hairline as you hold onto his arms for dear life. He shushes you, letting you do whatever you need to in order to breathe again after the suffocating battle in your mind.

You don't know who's won. The aftermath has kicked up smoke and dust, stained the ground in blood and sweat. You can't see whose flag is waving, you can't see if snow is falling.

“It's okay.” A gentle hum helps to clear the air. You can still hardly see, the tears are so blurry. “Hey,” Vincent coos, “everything is going to be okay. Okay?”

Speak.

“Yes, C–” You choke. It's such a deeply embedded response, but it blows away the smoke and dust far better than any hum ever could. And the blood no longer covers grass anymore—it covers petals of white.

“Course,” you force the word out of you, staring at Vincent's chest with wide eyes that cannot see him. “Yes. I'm okay.”

The tears are forced the stop. Your heaving breaths completely halt in your chest until you're forced to breathe again in a semi-regular pattern.

Smile.

Your lips spread all too quickly into a wide smile, your eyes still welling with tears too afraid to fall. You reach tentatively to his face, holding him and stroking your fingertips over his cheeks. Anything you want to say dies on your tongue, hardly makes it past your throat without the permission it requires.

It was a hopeful thought, albeit a foolish one, to think that Vincent's army could overcome the one that has known your mind and your body for so long. It's home territory, it's power and strength and skill he had yet to gain—that he may never gain.

You swallow thickly, looking into the warmth of his eyes and wishing you saw the same fire in your mind that you saw in him. Whatever flames lick at the petals on the ground is extinguished by snow.

Don't forget what you are.

You push forward, quelling the chill of your lips with the warmth of his. He embraces you, holds you close with a gentle hand on your waist and the other on your cheek.

You breathe him in, letting him distract you from the echoes in your mind. His hand wraps around you, pulling you in close but still so, so kind.

He eases you onto your back, laying you out on the grass and kissing you with the aim to heal. You let him.

You let the world melt away, you let everything else disappear. If you have to listen to his words in your head, you can at least feel this kind heat on your lips while you do it. If you have to freeze in the cold, you can at least warm your hands by the fire.

He may not have won the battle, but you'd be happy to lick his wounds and thank him for trying to protect you. No words are spoken, no thoughts laid bare. There is simply the silence of the night as you let yourself be implored by a fantasy.

~

PART TWO: Celebration

The fact that you're going to get bigger than this is bizarre to you. You thought you were showing before, but here you are three months later, struggling to bend down to grab a shirt off the floor. You have to crouch in the strangest position—your knees could not have been farther apart as you strain to breathe around the absolute behemoth of a belly you've grown.

“Are you sure you don't need my help?” Gylan asks gently, his face a cross of deep concern and a hint of utter amusement. “It's really okay if you can reach it.”

“No, I got it,” you insist, changing tactics as you turn toward a chair, using it to support yourself as you kneel on the floor. You smile triumphantly, taking the shirt in your hand with a hefty “a-ha!”. Your pride is short-lived however when you quickly realize that you can no longer stand. “Damn it.”

Gylan’s pursing his lips, trying not to be cruel as he holds in the loudest laugh of his life. “Do you need help now?”

“No,” you clear your throat. “I've actually decided I'd like to stay down here a little while longer.”

“Yeah?” His brow is quirked, his smile larger than his face.

“Yes. As a matter of fact, it's nice down here.” You nod as if to punctuate your claim, adjusting your position to sit a little more comfortably. With your legs out in front of you, there's no way you're getting up now without a hand. “You should join me. We don't need chairs. Did our ancestors have chairs?”

Gylan can't argue with that logic. With a happy grin, he moves to the floor next to you. He grabs the basket of laundry, putting it between you as you get back to folding all of the clothes. “It is nice. You're right.”

“I'm always right, Gyl,” you say with a smile, folding the shirt nearly and adding it to Vincent's pile. “You should trust me more often.”

“I do trust you. You're, like, the best,” he smiles. He grabs a shirt of his own, folding it with far less nuance than you.

You stifle a laugh, grabbing another shirt. “Here, let me show you.”

He takes his poor fold in his hands, letting it unravel as he follows your instructions to a ‘T’. His soft brown eyes are so focused on the task, his tongue poking out past his lips in concentration. You watch the curly strands of bushy brown hair fall over his forehead as he dips his head. You reach forward, carding your fingers through his hair to push it out of his face so you can see the freckles littered all over his face.

“Okay. I think…” he does the last fold, “I got it—Ta-da!”

You take in his handiwork with a large grin. “Yes! Beautiful. You're a quick study.”

He's smiling like he's never been more proud of himself. He sweeps hair over his shoulder, raising a brow with a smirk. “I know. I'm pretty amazing.”

You laugh with him, absent-mindedly placing your hand over your belly. There's a joy in your bones that makes you giddy. This kind of feeling always takes you by surprise, but you get more and more accustomed to it by the day.

Vincent wanders in a moment later, leaning against the wall and smiling at the sight of you both. “Hey, you.”

You turn, your smile still intact as you take him in. He's been gone for a couple of hours, taking care of errands in town. You start to wave him over to join you, and he walks over happily, but pauses in front of you.

Vincent holds both hands out, palms up as he offers you support to stand. “I wanna take you somewhere,” he smiles, lifting you to your feet and keeping a hand at your waist to steady you.

You hold his hand warmly, the other instinctively resting at your belly. “Is it safe?”

He makes a face like he's going to avoid the question. “It's fine,” he smiles. “I'm not leaving your side.”

You shrug a shoulder. You trust him to keep you safe. He hasn't let you down yet. “Okay.” You pat his chest gently and turn to Gylan. “You're all good here?”

“Psh, I can handle laundry. I'm a big boy.” He pulls up his sleeve and shows off his muscles to emphasize his point. “You kids better not be gone too long now.” He wags a finger at you, and you roll your eyes as you swat it away.

Honestly, you're more nervous about going into town than you let on. There are probably eyes all over the place, spies hiding in plain sight, watching and waiting for you to make any wrong movement so they can catch you.

That said, Vincent has spent a lot of time reassuring you that it really isn't that dangerous.

The trip there is peaceful. His hand is in yours the whole time—and even when it isn't, he's still holding on to you. He won't tell you where you're going. “It's a surprise. You'll see.”

Except he doesn't let you see. He's covering your eyes part of the way through, positioning you to face a certain way once you've arrived and humming his way through it.

When he gives back your vision, he's showing off a large, sweeping gesture with a nervous but excited look on his face.

You stare. It's all you can really do at first.

It's smaller than you remember. A lot of things are missing—dishes from open cabinets, a couple chairs from the dining table, some things you can hardly even remember but know are missing. This place has been ransacked: windows busted, the furniture left behind broken, picture frames cracked. A photo of little you and your parents hangs crooked on the wall, the glass smashed but image intact.

Vincent is nervous. You haven't said a word, and you don't give anything away with any kind of expression.

Your shoes crunch against broken glass and splintered wood. “How'd you find out about this place?” You're so quiet, voice small and—if he pays close attention—a little shaky.

“Well,” he says, watching you take in your childhood home as he stands by the door, “since it was found out that you were missing from the Capitol, you've been a hot topic around here—well, everywhere. It wasn't hard to find out where you grew up.”

You turn to him, urgency twinging in your tone. “Did you ask anyone?”

He shakes his head, a small smile on his lips. “No, I'm not stupid.”

You watch him for a moment and visibly soften, remembering yourself and your lover. You allow yourself your own smile, calming your ever-frayed nerves as you walk toward him and take his hands. He steps closer, rubbing his thumbs into the skin of your knuckles. “No, you're not stupid,” you agree.

He grins and guides you by your hand farther into the broken, battered place you used to call home.

You take the broken frame from where it's tilted on the wall. You shake the glass from where it was loosened from the broken frame, slipping the paper out when it was relatively safe enough.

Your hands are a bit unsteady but nothing bad as the paper trembles slightly so slightly in your fingers. There's a familiar aching in your throat that you push away, breathe through gently so you can say, “God, I miss them.”

Vincent comes up behind you, a soft hand just grazing your arm as the other lands on the opposite shoulder. He's a comforting presence, a warmth at your back that makes you feel a little more at ease. The paper steadies.

“Your old place was still standing,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a feather-light humming, “but I figured you wouldn't wanna go there.”

You breathe a soft laugh through your nose, nodding to yourself. The thought of being back in the chill of that unfeeling house almost makes you shudder. “You figured right.”

You stare at the image of your father with his arms around you, your mother's head on your back, their smiles. You let yourself smile some, folding the paper into perfect, careful creases until it can slide into the inside of your vest.

You turn in Vincent's arms, and he brings them to wrap around your waist, his large hands splayed warmly at your back like a strong support.

“Thanks for bringing me here,” you whisper, your hands on his chest. Affection has become a little easier in the months you've been together. You used to shy away any time his arms would wrap around you, and now you almost crave it. It's a comfort. He's steady, more likely to sway than to hold still when you stumble.

You'd grown used to the steadiness of a cord, rather than a thread. One that holds still even when you stumble. One that stands upright, one that doesn't let you get away.

Your pinkies trace the tiniest circles into his chest. “It really means a lot.”

He smiles. “I wanted to do something nice for you. You haven't been here in, like…”

“Seven years.” And four months.

He nods. “Yeah…”

You close your eyes and breathe a sigh, laying your head on his chest. And he lets you. Not by standing still or pulling you in, but by molding himself to you until you were a perfect fit.

“Thank you, Vincent,” you hum. “I…” You lick your lips, opening your eyes as you think about what you want to say, what it means, what it does. Then you look up at him, decision made, and say in a quieter whisper. “I love you.”

His face lights up, but it's so soft that it's more like a sunrise than the shining of midday. He grows warmer and warmer in the face, his body already a steady furnace. “Yeah?” he asks, voice small as yours.

What to say, what it means, what it does…

“Yeah.” A little stronger. “It was hard to figure it out, I've only ever been used to Snow.” His name comes as a whisper, like it's dangerous to say out loud. “But…you've been so good to me and–”

His lips are warm. It fills you up from the inside out, and you relax into his sudden kiss with much less alarm than you had the first few times he surprised you like this. It gets easier, day by day. You're learning, he's teaching you. And it's nice.

You let yourself cradle his neck in your hands, gentle on each side. You feel him smiling against you, and it makes you happy.

“I love you, too.”

You never thought those words would make you so…confused? So gratefully comforted…yet so strangely frightened. You push it away and lean into the comfort, his comfort.

He pulls you back to the presence with his large thumb on your cheek, brushing a line from the top and down to the corner of your lips. “We should leave before someone comes by,” he says with all the care in the world coming to find a home in his eyes. “It's kind of a landmark.”

“Okay.”

He drags his hand down your arm until your fingers are intertwined in an intricate pattern all of your own. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

He kisses your forehead, lingers there to breathe like he needs you to be able to do it. You lean into him. “Thank you.”

~

When you get back, there's a party. You're still holding onto Vincent's hand, looking on confusedly at the bonfire and the people and the music. It's not disruptive, there's nothing rowdy about it. But…

“Is this not…dangerous?” you glance up at Vincent, a brow raised.

“Uh,” he shrugs, looking amused but a bit wary as well. “Mildly, but it's really not that bad… It's for you.”

You look up at him, then at the evening party, then back at him. He makes a face, “Gylan really wanted to celebrate and Josephine decided it wouldn't be too bad since we're leaving in a couple of days anyway.”

You nod a little. “Okay.”

Your name is exclaimed, and you look to see the boy in question rushing toward you with an excitement that spreads. “Happy birthday!” He nearly trips over his own feet, catching up to you with a huff and a lopsided grin. “We got a band, they're letting us use some of the leftover lumber for the fire, we've got food. Come join, it's all for you!”

He takes your hand and pulls you away from Vincent, though not in any way that's insistent or rough. He's a gentle boy. “Gyl, honey, you're the best…but is this not a bit much?”

He gives you a half-concerned look, but keeps his smile. “Is it? Trying to keep it discreet is kinda hard when people learn there's food.” He pauses. “Should we end it?”

You sigh gently, a smile on your lips. “No. It's great, thank you.” You cup his cheek. “Are we gonna dance or what?”

He beams, taking your other hand and leading you to the small crowd around the bonfire, hands linked as you dance with the others as carefully as you can in your state. Vincent follows after, squeezing in the spot between you and Volivia.

The dance around the fire ignites something nostalgic in you. The only problem is, you don’t remember a time that ever felt as…intimate as this. You feel like you might actually almost belong somewhere for once—here with all these people who are smiling and laughing and dancing and looking like this world isn’t a cold, dark, awful place that makes you feel like happiness isn’t something that belongs to you, something you deserve.

Vincent’s hand squeezes yours. Looking at him, he gives you a smile as bright as the sun. It warms your chest, makes the pit of your stomach churn in a way that you don’t find terribly uncomfortable. A surprised laugh bubbles out of you, gathers somewhere warm in your throat until you’re swallowing it back and stifling tears that you never welcomed in the first place.

You look up at the sky, glittering with stars and swimming with the flames drifting up into the air. Under the light of the moon, you feel something akin to freedom. You forgot how nice it could be to…live. You can see the stars, you can smell the beginnings of autumn blowing in, you can feel the ground beneath your feet, you can hear the playing of the little band mixing with the crickets in the underbrush.

You think, This. This is what I’ve always wanted.

And as you see Josephine joining in with Gylan, and Vincent and Volivia to your other side, their hands holding tight, their smiles wide and carefree, you feel at home. You feel like this could truly be your family. You feel like you would do everything to keep this precious, fragile little thing in your hands forever, safe from everything that would hurt them, from everything that would hurt them—from him who would take them away.

You sit with Gylan and Via, the both of them focused on a game you never really got the rules of. You think Gylan is winning, which is just making the crease between her brows deeper and deeper as she tries to figure out an angle. The gentle frustration is amusing, seeing her upset over something as trivial as this game is a cheerful thing that has you laughing every time she grumbles something about foul play.

A hand on your shoulder has you turning quickly to see who's just appeared. You let out a brief breath when you see it's just Josephine, a comforting smile on her face telling you she didn't mean to startle you.

“How goes it?” she asks, watching with you as Gylan happily watches the board and Via sneers when she continues to see no more moves.

You shrug, moving to speak before stopping yourself. You take a moment to really think about what you're going to say, because the truth is that the feeling in your bones right now is not normal to you, and it needs more than just “good”.

You look at her, smiling softly. “I'm really good.”

She smiles back, your answer not lost on her. “That’s good.”

You nod, turning away again. You glance down at your hands, picking at your nails and rolling your thumb between your fingers.

“Josie, I…” You pause, letting out a deep sigh. “I never really…properly thanked you for…giving me a chance.” You glance up, but then ultimately look away again, not used to the sentiment.

“If it weren't for you and Tigris, I'd still be in the Capitol, and… and the circumstances would have been really grim.”

She just hums, smiles to herself. Neither of you make any kind of eye contact. You keep watching the game, even when she says, “I'm glad it trusted you not to screw us—well, most of us.”

She laughs, and you bring a hand to your face at her joke, shaking your head with a quiet groan.

“You've been good for us, and this alone creates more change and opportunity for our people than we've ever had.” She turns to you, and you look back. “You've given us a gift, it's only fair we gave you one back.”

Your throat gets tight at that. You've been good for us.

You nod, turning away again as you focus your energy in forcing away the bubbling emotion. You've been good. You smile gently. “Thank you.”

She nods again. Before the silence lasts too long, a familiar hand is hooking around your elbow and pulling you gently into his side. “You hungry?” Vincent asks you, his lips at your forehead.

You smile, nodding to avoid giving away the tightness in your throat. He smiles back, pulls you away to get food.

He wraps his arms around you, bends down to catch a quick kiss as you let yourself laugh into the warm embrace of him. You feel good. Better than you have in a very long time. You want to stay here forever, with your family and all the people in District Seven who actually seem to care about you, dancing and laughing and being free for one night that never ends.

And then you hear a blood curdling scream. One of those screams that throws your voice out. One of those screams you feel for days after. One of those screams you haven't heard since your days in the arena, the ones you wake up to in the middle of the night, sweating and clinging to Vincent for some kind of peace that is mostly foreign to you.

You don't even have time to look behind you to the source of the scream, Vincent is that fast in protecting you as he starts pulling you away. There's no hesitation when he pushes you away from him. There's no hesitation as he corrals Josephine and his sister in the same direction, reaching for Gylan where he's suddenly shot up next in the direction of the trees.

“Go, now!” Vincent shouts, hearts hammering in chests and voices caught in throats.

People are already running and screaming. The fire’s raging and crackling is a mockery now as people start dropping and Peacekeepers flood the party with their heavy boots and firearms.

It kicks in like second nature.

You run, ignoring the pain of exerting yourself with all this extra weight, ignoring the heaving it takes to breathe, ignoring the fear that every step could trip you and ruin everything you worked so hard to do.

You hear screams and shouts all over. Pinpointing Vincent's is the only thing keeping you from completely losing touch, from doing something vain. His voice is a strength behind you that reassures he's okay. You just have to get to the treeline with Gylan where it'll be safer. Josephine will get the supplies hidden there as backup, the twins will hold off the rest until they no longer see you out in the open.

You're almost there, too. Josephine in the front, Gylan behind you. The twins follow.

What makes you stop is the sound of Vincent's shouting coming to an abrupt end.

You turn, eyes wide when you see him grasping his arm, knelt on the ground with a vicious scowl. You shout his name, and he looks up at you with eyes that shine in horror.

His words are silent in your ears as he shouts, but you're not watching him anymore. You're watching a Peacekeeper come behind him, locking his arm around his neck and hoisting him up to his feet as Vincent grabs it, trying to keep himself from being choked.

You don't think about it—you don't have time to. You lurch forward, your pace staggering as you finally rush toward him.

His teeth are bared, he's grunting, his voice strained as he shakes his head and keeps shouting at you.

“Stop! Stop, let him go! Please!”

The grunt pauses, his hold still strong as he looks at you.

You can't hear yourself in your own ears. It's this distant mumbling of, “I'm the one you want. Let him go. Just take me.”

The horror you feel when he pulls a handgun from its holster, pressing it directly into Vincent's skull without even thinking.

You can't even hear the cry you let out, tearing from your throat like the one you'd hear at the beginning of this disaster.

Volivia crashes into the Peacekeeper’s back, legs wrapped tightly around him as she kicks the gun from his grip with a startling force. Vincent gets free just enough to twist in the grunt’s arms, shoving his helmet off with a strength that easily could have snapped his neck. But Volivia does it instead, scrambling off before he falls and grasping his gun and shooting him right through his skull. Just like that. Just to be sure.

The second shot is for her rage.

Vincent grabs you, doesn't waste any time trying to console you or make sure you're not hurt because it's not time for that yet. If he hesitates, you'll die, and he's not letting that happen as he scoops you into his arms and runs like you weigh nothing as the adrenaline pumps through his veins and roars through his ears.

You make it safely into the cover of the trees, disappearing through the denser growth towards the familiar path you all practiced a million times.

Vincent slows after a while, kissing your forehead before he's setting you on your feet. “Are you okay?”

You nod quickly. “I'm good. I'm not hurt.”

Despite the relieved breath that shudders his chest, he pins you with a hard glare. “Why would you do that? You should have kept running, and you know–”

“I'm not going to apologize for coming back for you, and you should have known I was never going to leave you behind, so leave it.”

He stops, chewing on his lip as he looks away from you and sighs once more. He nods gently, knowing you're right and that reprimanding you was never going to have any effect. His hand cradles the side of your head, and he presses a long kiss to the side of it before checking with Voliva and continuing on down the path.

You stay close to them, every snap of twigs and rustle of leaves and shuffle of birds in trees making you jump out of your skin.

You see the truck first, still not running despite one door being wide open. The two Peacekeepers dead on the ground are the second thing you see.

The third is Gylan on the ground, shoulders slumped and head bowed with Josephine’s head in his lap. His hands are shaking, covered in blood that has pooled over her ruined shirt.

He looks up slowly, his eyes haunted, brimming with tears he can't see past that stain his cheeks. “I was too late.”

~

PART THREE: The Beginning

Your screams shake the room, one that's already rickety with aging wood and old foundations. The pain is so terrible, you can hardly see past it. Not when you sob, not when you squeeze Vincent's hand, not when every muscle in your bone tenses with the strength of your push.

You can hardly breathe, can hardly hear, can hardly feel anything other than the pain throbbing in your bones and rushing through your system. Although Vincent murmurs fervently in your ear, holds your hand and lets you crush it, presses his lips to your temple in what he hopes to be a soothing embrace, you can hardly focus on anything but the fact that you feel like you're going to die.

You're going to die. This is going to kill you. After everything you've been through, he will still be the one to kill you.

But then you hear the sound of a shrill cry breaking through the air, cutting right through the tension like a blade and soothes the overwhelming heat all over. You were expecting a lot of feelings in all the time you spent thinking about this moment, relief was not one of them.

Volivia holds the baby in her arms, taking the towel Gylan had clumsily passed and wrapping it around the little body quickly. You watch her gaze linger, cradling this tiny creature in her arms like it's something precious.

She looks at you, something indistinguishable in her face. “It's a boy.”

Everything feels numb to you. Your ears are full of cotton, your mouth dry with it. You can feel your body shaking but nothing else among your gaze locked on the lump in her arms.

You don't move for a long time. You don't speak for longer. It's only when she's standing and coming around to you that you startle back into the moment, your body moving without your consent as she slowly kneels back to your level. She deposits the lump in your arms, and you freeze entirely at the sight of him.

He's small, smaller than you were expecting. He feels almost weightless, like he's barely real. His screaming has slowly begun to wane here in your arms, like he knows it's you. Like he knows he's yours.

Your baby. Your son.

His tiny nose is scrunched, his fists clenched tightly. His hair is so thin and…light. With shaky fingers, you smooth it against his fragile head in spite of the blood and the waxy coating he's covered in.

His little breaths are deep and heavy, he twitches with every little movement. And when he opens his eyes…

Those eyes.

He's got large, glassy eyes. The kind of eyes that make you feel small, that impose upon you. The kind that tells you he means more than you'll ever be. Fresh and cold and blue.

And here, right in this moment, as your baby, as his mother… he's right. And you smile because you know he's right, and you're okay with that because you spent months on the run for him, for his safety, for his life, and you're sure you'd spend the rest of it doing the same. Your baby. Your boy. Your–

“Kristofen.”

Vincent's lips at your temple bring you back. He's smiling, running his hands over your shoulders where he tries to soothe you. “You're amazing,” he says, his eyes wet with un shed tears.

You look up at him, throat sore, cheeks wet. “Look at him,” your voice shakes. “S’beautiful.”

Gylan peeks over at the baby in question, a furrow between his brows that says he might think otherwise. He shrugs, and before he can open his mouth to comment, Volivia is elbowing him.

Vincent just holds you, looking down at the baby with the same affection shining in his eyes. What a sight—a big, strong man like him brought to tears by something so, so small.

He cradles the baby's head in his giant palm, smiles like he's holding the world as he pulls you closer to him. “He's perfect.”

And that makes you feel like you'll sob all over again, bury your face in his chest and cry like you mean to fill a river. You lean your head against his shoulder, sniffling. “He's ours.”

Vincent's hands shake. He looks up at the ceiling and tries not to break apart.

~

Gylan comes in when you're holding the baby over your shoulder, your palm holding a steady rhythm at his back as he coos into your ear. Gylan’s holding a tray of food, some bread and a cut up apple, a cup of water in the corner.

“You hungry?” he asks, a soft smile on his face that nudges a dimple in his cheek. His hair is getting long—he'll ask you to cut it soon.

You nod, welcoming him in with one hand. “Yeah. Please.”

He comes in happily, setting the tray down where you can reach as he sits on the bed.

The past week has been busy, sleepless. Between all the feedings and the crying and the constant surveillance (especially since you've lost a good handful of connections when Josephine was killed), you've all been strung up pretty tight trying to stay alive.

Either way, here is Gylan: a calmer radiance, sure, but a radiance all the same. Vincent has had to take the head of the group of you, Volivia’s restlessness, her overwhelming need to protect her family has increased tenfold. You've been locked in this tiny house for the better half of the past two months, weary of your date and now weary of your baby.

Gylan has become a little slower since the incident. He doesn't speak as much, his laughter is a lot softer. You see his crow’s feet less and less (though you're glad his dimples are as permanent as they are to still squint even when he doesn't smile).

He gets comfortable, taking up space against the wall with his legs crossed, his eyes peering over in a less than sneaky manner.

You smile, “You wanna burp him?”

He purses his lips to hide his grin, shrugging a shoulder. He shakes his head gently. “Don't wanna do anything wrong.”

You watch him, your smile growing at his words. You move the Kristofen from your shoulder slowly. “You never could, Gyl.”

You hand him over, his little body against his chest with the baby's head over Gylan’s shoulder. He moves so slowly, so softly, like he's afraid he'll somehow break him. You take the cloth from your shoulder to put over his. “Just rub his back.”

“Like…like soft? How gentle do I do it?” He looks terrified, though he tries it anyway.

You smile at your Gylan. “You're doing good to me.”

He grins, dimples deepening. He's stiff as a board, his back uncomfortably straight and his breath shallow, like if he breathes any deeper, this baby will shatter.

“He's gonna be okay,” you encourage. “They're made of tough stuff.”

He nods quickly, trying to calm and managing to relax a fraction. When Kristofen lets out a sudden belch, louder than he was expecting, Gylan laughs with a start. “Woah.” You laugh with him.

“You're lucky. It got all over me before.”

He makes a face, scrunched and small as he imagines it. He moves the baby slowly from his shoulder, shifting him in his arms and constantly looking at you to make sure he's doing it right. The way he cradles Kristofen is something you want to remember forever.

“He's so tiny. Never actually seen a newborn before.” His eyes are large, his brows furrowed like he's trying to figure out what he's looking at.

You chuckle. “When I was little, my mom would sometimes watch over other people's babies when they had to take up jobs for the extra pay. Everyone trusted her with their kids, she loved to do it.” You shrug a shoulder, your eyes falling down to your own child, your boy. “I helped her, before…”

You feel a lump in your throat, the memory of your mother, your father, too present in your mind. You imagine what they would think, how much they would love your boy because they would. You take a steadying breath before you can be swept away in it.

Gylan’s lips scrunch to one side, still staring at Kristofen with apt attention. You peek at him, chewing the inside of your lip.

“Gyl?”

He looks up at you quickly, then away once again as he shakes his head. “Sorry, just…” He takes a deep breath, takes his time in filling his lungs. “I wish…Josie was here.”

You frown.

Don't wanna do anything wrong.

That night is a thing in your head that won't go away. Sure, you're better at dealing with this than all the others, so used to losing, to turning it off, to pushing it away. But what happened was never supposed to happen. Or maybe it was. You don't know, and you don't want to think yourself crazy about what should have happened.

You shift closer to him, not without wincing, as your shoulders touch. You lay your chin there, squeezing the other side gently. Your voice is quiet.

“That night wasn't your fault. You didn't do anything wrong. What happened, happened, and it's not your job to blame yourself.”

He shakes his head. “If I'd been faster…”

He'd been running behind you, stopped when you turned back but noticed Volivia long before you did. The twins always have it handled, he knew that, he still does.

But when he kept running after Josephine, deeper into the trees where the truck lay in wait for the next move, he never thought that he'd get there alone, see her struggling to breathe around the blood bubbling in her throat while two grunts lay dead and her shotgun thrown to the ground. He never thought he'd see the bullet wound pouring, have to get to his knees to try to stop the bleeding that was too impossible to handle on his own.

Josephine had grabbed his arm, stared at him with all the fear of death and all the fondness of seeing him. She couldn't say anything to him. She wanted to, but there wasn't enough—wasn't enough time, enough energy, enough air in her lungs.

She died without being able to tell him. You see it on him every day, every moment he thinks no one is watching, where you catch the devastation, the loathing in his eyes. He'd been there, and he could do nothing but watch her die.

And you hate the thought of him feeling that, because it's a thing that clings and clings until you know nothing but the look of their eyes behind your own every time you blink.

You rub his arm, holding him even as he begins to tremble and his mouth scrunches up tight and pushes into a frown. “Not your fault. Please believe me, Gyl. You did nothing wrong.”

He shakes his head, turns away from you so you don't want to watch him try not to cry (especially because he fails in that).

Your hand cradles the side of his face, turning him back to you as you watch the tears fall. You wipe them away gently, and you offer him nothing but a look that tells him he's okay. You don't smile, you don't speak, you just look.

Still holding the baby so close in his arms, he leans into you and lets you hold him in return. Your hand is steady at his back.

“Can I tell you what she was thinking?” you murmur.

His breath shakes, but after a long moment, he nods.

You breathe in deeper, swallowing thickly at your words. “I'm glad it's you.” He pauses, pulls away to look at you. You brush his hair away from his face. “You don't know how much we love you, Gyl. I've watched enough people die, I've heard enough people waste their last words on people like me. Gyl, the best thing you could have done was be there. You. Not Vee, not Via. It's a nasty job you have, hon, but it's an important one.”

You kiss his temple. “Don't let it eat you. If I'd been in that position with Josie, I'd want it to be you, too. You're one of the gentlest people I've known, and I need you to promise me not to change.”

You hold out your pinky. His eyes fall to Kristofen, cooing in his arms and looking around the room like everything is a wonder. He smiles, looks at you, loops his pinky with yours and squeezes tight. “Promise,” his voice breaks.

You smile, nodding back to him. “Great. Now go get Via, I have to pee.”

He scrunches his face again, despite his laughter. “That’s gross.”

You scoff. “No, it's not. Everybody pees.” You point a finger at the baby in his arms. “That boy pees a lot.” Gylan hands him over like he's diseased, though not with a lack of care.

~

You'd feel more like a normal family if it weren't for the fact that this baby is the biological son of Coriolanus Snow and you're his escaped plaything.

You and Vincent have been taking turns sleeping while the other takes care of the baby. In times where it gets a little too much, Volivia is more than happy to take him so the two of you can relax for a little while.

Via has been increasingly kind. You think she's got a soft spot for Kristofen—which is a surprising thing to you, especially after her repulsion to him when she met you on the basic principle of his parentage. Now she can be found curled up on the couch with him while you rest, cooing gently every time he makes a sound (he's much less vocal when he's not crying).

You think it has something to do with Vincent. Volivia loves her brother, and the moment she'd heard him call that boy his, she took his word for it and started treating him like a true nephew, her comradery with you upgraded to sisterhood. It's a quiet companionship, an unspoken alliance. Knowing her, it's an honor you'll cherish forever.

Vincent takes really good care of you. When Kristofen wakes in the middle of the night, he kisses you back to sleep to handle it himself. And though he's not as quiet as he is when he's with you, he seems just as enamored by the man you hope he'll see as his father.

You've got a lot of aches and pains, that he is very diligent in easing. At a moment's notice, he's surrendering patrol to Volivia to rub your shoulders, work the knots out of your back, and when you need it, ease the pain that rises when your breasts are too sore from all the feeding and the buildup of milk you've got that makes it hard to sleep.

He's a devoted force, unyielding in a way that makes it easier to sleep at night.

Even now, sometime in the night after you'd woken to nothing in particular, as you sit with Kristofen in your arms as he dozes easily, Vincent stirs at the loss of warmth by his side.

He yawns, sitting up to rub his face. He looks at you with eyes a little sunken in from his exhaustion. He stands slowly, dragging his feet over to you before he's bending down and lifting you like you're nothing, taking you back to bed, baby and all.

Once you're by his side once more, he lays his head on your shoulder and tries to keep his eyes open.

“How're you feeling?” he wonders, his deep voice deeper and raspier with the weight of his tiredness.

You hum, dragging your finger slowly along your baby's chubby cheek, pretty and rosey. “Strange,” you murmur. “He's just…he's so sweet and little.” You chew on your bottom lip. “Innocent.”

His eyes are bright in your mind—shiny and blue and something like home. Then that flicker in the back of your head has your voice quieting. “And his father…”

You shake your head gently, letting out a tiny breath and resolving to just keep looking at your boy. Even when Vincent shuffles beside you, his arms wrapping around you and his lips pressing to your temple, you stay locked on him.

“I don't know how I got here.” Your voice is hardly above a whisper. You'd like to say it's to avoid waking Kristofen, but it's more out of a fear of breaking something you don't know the strength of. “I was never supposed to get here.”

You watch Kristofen’s fists ball tight, his face scrunching up like he's sneezed. You mirror the movement, this involuntary thing you don't even notice, even when Vincent does.

Kristofen’s features smooth out again, so do yours. You sigh gently, still smiling with a softness that's different from the one you'd come to him with. Then you say, in the quietest, fondest voice you could ever have said these words:

“I don't know if I'll ever be good enough for him.”

Vincent places a hand beneath your jaw, a touch as light as the smallest feather. He turns you to face him just enough to lend you his grin. “You're going to be amazing,” he whispers, sure.

Your lips twitch wider, but your eyes get sadder. “But what if it's not enough? What if…”

You sink your teeth into the inside of your cheeks. He tilts his head, prompting, “What?”

You turn away from him, gravitating right back to the sleeping baby in your arms. In the softest voice, you murmur, “I don't want my son to be like his father.”

He shakes his head a bit. There's irritation at the thought of him, but not a single ounce of warmth is lost in favor of it. “He won't.” He nudges your cheek with his nose. “He'll be like you.”

A startled breath huffs out of you, and you smile. “God, I hope not.” There's a rot you feel at the thought. “I'm self-preservative, I'm selfish, and I became more and more like Coriolanus with every moment I spent with him.”

His arms pull you tighter. “You didn't,” he disagrees.

“I did.” He doesn't know what you were like before all of this—you don't remember what you were like. It's a fog in your brain that you can never completely confirm without the interference of what you'd assumed, what you'd been told, what you'd learned.

You swallow thickly, the rot growing in size. “I can feel it. I can feel him. Inside of me, writhing. Like this…infection. Like a chronic disease.” The burning feeling in your chest is dulled by the weight or Kristofen in your arms. It twists into something painfully sad. You swallow back the heat in your throat.

“I don't want Kris to be like me…” you grimace at the thought, pursing your lips sourly, “...susceptible.”

You imagine it, and something in you shrivels. Because if you let him become like him, if you let him become like you? Then you'd have failed. At least as a Snow, he wouldn't inherit your weakness—the amenability, the morality (or lack thereof), the simple fact of unbelonging.

“I want him to be like you.” You turn to Vincent then, leaning into him just a bit.

He smiles, this lopsided grin that makes you feel just a little bit better. “Me?” He says it like he's teasing.

You nod gently. “You're better. You're good.” Your eyes shift. “Unspoiled by the things we've done.”

He knows he can't convince you—that you're better than you believe, that you're not spoiled by the cards you were dealt or the ones you chose to draw, that you're not rotten.

So instead, he rubs your side and kisses your neck. He takes Kristofen gently from your arms, stands from the bed when the movement has him stirring, kisses you again when you look at him like you've lost something.

“You should get some rest. I bet you're exhausted.” One of his hands cradles the side of your head, strokes his thumb over your cheek like you're made of something precious, and not just a mix of jagged and rusted parts and pieces that no longer fit. “I'll take him,” he hums.

You nod, eventually finding a smile to give him as you try to reassure yourself that he's not going anywhere, and neither is Kris.

“Thanks,” you murmur, tugging his arm when he starts to pull away. He turns back, and you bring him down for another, longer, needier kiss. And when you feel less horrible, you let him go.

Continue reading... (Due tomorrow)

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