Summary: Of course heād be back now for the holidays. Exodus, I guess they call it. In basic training, they let even the lowest grunts go home for Christmas.
A/N: Modern AU Everlark.Ā Rated E for explicit language, graphic sex, and passing references to drug and alcohol use.Ā A Christmas one shot.Ā
Can be found on AO3 as part of the ā101 Ways To Say I Love Youā collection, a collaboration with @peeta-pit. Contains direct and revised quotes from The Hunger Games books and films, none of which I own (bummer), and song lyrics by Norah Jones. Ā
With many thanks to @dandelion-sunset,Ā @jennagill, @everlylark, and @eala-musings for pre-reading, betaing, and general hand-holding. I love you guys!
For @kellywithayy. Happy extremelyĀ belated birthday, chica. ;) Ā
If youāve enjoyed this story, please drop me a line. Iāll consider it a Christmas present. ;) And happy holidays, wherever this finds you, especially to all members of the Armed Forces and their families. <3c
Itās his mother I see first, in the reflection of my water-spotted spoon, as I hold it up to inspect it for dirt. The curve of the metal shows her how she really is, how I see her, emphasizing her deformitiesāa cold and shallow woman, whoād always thought, with that over-sized head of hers, that I was never good enough for him, not even as his friend.
What kind of monster thinks that about a kid?
Our booth is in the back corner of the dinerāwhere they seat all the ugly peopleāand because my back is to the rest of the restaurant, I donāt immediately notice them when they come in and are seated half a dozen tables behind us. By the time I see the bitch, sheās sipping tea out of a chipped porcelain mug, one of her haughty eyebrows raised and her puckered, prematurely wrinkled lips pursed in disapproval as she listens to a man with a buzz cut say something to her.
Subtly, so Prim doesnāt notice me looking, notice her, and then open her big mouth, I rotate the spoon to see who else is with her. Her husband sits next to her and looks none too happy about it, keeping enough distance between them for the Holy Ghost and an entire host of angels. No love lost between those two. And next to him, wedged into the corner, one of his broad shoulders pressed to the wall from lack of space, is their oldest. Across from them, with their backs to mine, is Rye, with his trademark douchebag man bun Iād recognize from outer space, and next to him, on the aisle side of the bench, is the man with the buzz cut.
It doesnāt occur to me right away that itās Peetaāmy Peeta (except he isnāt mine at all)ābecause Peeta has wavy blond hair that curls at the very ends, feathery wisps that hang over his collar and ears, begging to be clutched and grasped and twirled by curious fingers. (Not that Iād ever had the courage to do any of those things.) Heās had hair like that his entire lifeāat least for as long as Iāve known him, which amounts to pretty much the same thingāthe sign of a boy who has always been careless about his good looks.
His hands give him away, gesturing as he talks. Theyāre recognizable even in the convex surface of my spoon, and I swallow with effort, dropping it into my coffee. Emptying a plastic cup of creamer into my mug, I swirl, swirl, swirl, trying to erase the memory of the way his hands looked holding mine. I stare down at the cream dispersing, transforming something straightforward and pure into a muddied, adulterated mess.
Of course heād be back now for the holidays. Exodus, I guess they call it. In basic training, they let even the lowest grunts go home for Christmas.
