r e s i l i e n t

Sleeping is difficult. It helps when she sneaks into Slate's room, but sometimes that's not quite the antidote. Dawn finds herself more at ease when he's by her side, but in some nights, like tonight, she still finds herself battling insomnia for far too long to excuse staring at the ceiling any longer. 

Seven's kitchen area doesn't have any teas available to make, she finds out. Maybe the Avoxes could fetch her a cup of the herbal tea of choice if she asked them, but she thinks the act of actually making your own is calming in its own way. Besides, it's much too late to be asking anything of them; let them have their rest. The days feel so endless, this week. Training usually goes by slowly, her days filled with not much other than scribbling uninspired designs and comforting the kids who will go into the arena -- but this year it's different, of course. It goes by even slower. Everything's so much heavier. She hasn't felt stakes this high since Blythe's games.

Her steps are quiet as she goes to the common cafeteria area, her movements careful as she sets the kettle to boil. She only realizes she's been staring vacantly at a spot on the wall when she hears approaching footsteps that pull her out of it. "Perri," she greets, as soon as she recognizes her friend as the person coming in. She feels relieved to have company, but her smile is stained with sadness, imagining what Perri is going through. "You're in luck, I'm boiling just enough water for two cups of tea."

Her words bring comfort to him but it doesn’t last very long. He knows that she means it. And the fact that Slate could have such a positive impact on her life does in fact fill him with a sense of relief. He doesn’t understand it, but it feels good that she does in fact feel that way about him. That he is capable of good, and bringing good into people’s life.

How? He’s not sure. 

She insists he’s not like them and he’d like to believe her. But he’s created Teal. Who knows how many more Teals there could be in the world if he brought home more victories. The way he’s spent decades churning out more harmful children, sending out more coldness and brutality than warmth. 

“I don’t know if it matters much if I’m not like them or not.” He presses his lips together, watching over her face as she caresses him. “But I’ve participated in their ideas of life and I think to most people, it doesn’t really matter.” 

And he sighs, a finger tracing the slope from her neck to her shoulder. “And I don’t think I have the courage to do anything different than indifference.”

Dawn has always known this about Slate -- he seems to see himself as some of the worst things people have said about him. She doesn't think it's a side he shows many people, because he has his way of looking stoic. Unaffected. But she can notice how he hurts, sometimes. She can see how there's often some kind of demon on his shoulder, whispering to him things she can't hear herself, but she imagines are not kind.

It's in the way he's always talking about this vision of himself through other people's eyes. It's in the way he said into the telecom that day, I'm sure there are other calls you'd like to make, when they'd barely gotten to talk, like he's ready to assume himself some kind of burden or wasted time in her day. When all she'd wanted, then, was to hear his voice some more.

"Well, what matters is what you think," she protests, hand still on his face, the touch too warm to pull away from. "You always think too much about what others think," she hums. It's not a judgement, just an observation. She was raised in the Capitol, of all places, she knows well enough what it's like to care about what other people think. That's all she does, too.

He isn’t sure if he believes her. He isn’t sure if he would believe anyone saying that right now, how could anyone be okay? This year is so much worse, and it makes him think, why doesn’t everyone feel this way every year? Have they become that numb to death? 

The answer, of course, is yes, yes they have. And selfishly, it’s easier to be horrified when it’s someone you love. Easy to be horrified when you know that in just a few weeks, the people you love most will be going into the Arena and, more likely than not, will not return. He wonders how it feels to be in a Career district now, without all that strength and training and confidence to hide behind. He wants to feel smug about it, but he can’t. It’s just as unfair to them as it is to him. Maybe even more so.

He wants to ask Dawn if she’s sure, but it feels like a stupid question. “I - I don’t think any of us are okay.” Does he mean that in response to her answer or her question? He’s not sure. “But I’m managing.”

x

Yeah, he's right. Dawn actually feels a little bit embarrassed to be called out like that, but only because she knows he's completely right. None of them are okay, and maybe it's useless to say so -- maybe it's useless to even ask. She still cares about the answer, though, because she worries about him, like she does all her friends.

"You got me there," she clears her throat, offering somewhat of a timid smile. She certainly isn't doing too well, and even managing feels like a stretch these days. And it doesn't help that she knows Pista sees through the niceties. Every time someone can see past the polite and caring outer layer, it only makes her think of what's making her nervous in the first place. Those images, the Capitol's threat, the thought of her loved ones in a pile of bodies if she steps out of line. "Managing seems to be the new good."

She shakes off her own thoughts the best she can. "Um, how is training going?"

“You’re right, but once we grow up, we can do something about the beliefs that have beliefs were were raised to accept.“ Easier said that one, if they’re using herself as an example. Diose didn’t really have a a lot ot good influences. With her parents being so controlling of her life so she could achieve greatness, they did a great job driving away people that they believed wouldn’t benefit their family. It did wonders for her career, but her personal life was left in shambles. “I don’t know what good it will do now.” She feels guilty, swears that had her change of heart had happened earlier this somehow could have been avoided.

“It’s a nice dream, though. Thinking of the possibility of actually being able to run away and live far away from all of this.“ But Dawn is right, it’s not happening. They’re all trapped now. The Capitol isn’t going to make things any easier for them, especially after seeing how even people like Diose and Robyn are starting to realize how harmful their indoctrination is. And it’s very possible they’re not the only ones. “If you say so.“ A sigh. “I don’t know how useful that will be now.“

x

"Yeah. That takes some time, though," Dawn agrees. It's not easy growing up a certain way and changing that overnight. Dawn has had an advantage because she's always been the sore thumb sticking out. She's adopted, she's never been the best stylist around, she's always focused on other things more -- the Capitol has never loved her as one of their own. But she still spent many, many years struggling to fit in. Only after Aeron that things definitely changed for her. "It can always do some good. We'll figure it out in time." She's not sure she believes that. Does it help, to be quiet resistance, or does it just make her feel morally superior, to say she's against the thing that created her? She's not sure.

She hums, picking her drink back up again, taking a sip and sitting down on the edge of Diose's bed, just for the sake of resting her feet. "Thank you for taking care of him," she says, offering a muted, sad smile. This was mostly the reason she came here, after all. Not just for more answers. "Slate, that is. I know he's a grown man who can take care of himself, but I imagine he needed the support. And I don't know how often he says it or not, but you're really important to him. I know the reason he's still in one piece after all of this is a lot because of you." She knows Diose knows this, but it's good that she hears it, too. "Even if you don't feel like it right now, I know you did a lot. And that means a lot. So be kinder to yourself."

Breathing, sleeping, eating—mentoring.  Some are surely more innate than others, but you’d think these instincts aren’t so easily unlearned.  Not with all these years, lives worth of practice.  It’s only natural, then, that it feels like a proper betrayal when Aven proves herself wrong; since arriving at the Capitol it’s as if her body has forgotten all the motions.  She has half the sense to maintain her mild countenance, nod vaguely at anyone who bothers to say hello, but beneath the docility and the amber, fear fossilizes.  It’s Kin and Darby that are being sent into the arena yet somehow the terror seems so… first hand?

She twists her ring, eyes unfocused and set on some point in the distance.  At least she was still able to autopilot down the hall, ghost through one of the break rooms, make it to the racks of cups and mugs.  Honestly, if she hadn’t seen Dawn, she probably would have continued the day in yet another daze.  Aven focuses now as she sits across her friend.  Not quite catching what Dawn said, she just mumbles a good morning.

It takes a few beats before Aven fully registers who exactly she’s sitting with.  Suddenly she’s bracing for the typical Dawn concern, her usual kindhearted enquiries.  She doesn’t quite have the energy to talk about Feelings at this very moment, so instead she takes a page from the Hardin playbook.  “I see you’re up early today too.”  She makes an awkward show of glancing down at their cups, one more emptied than the other.  “Taking a break, I hope?”

Aven doesn't seem well, and the sight shouldn't be a shock, but it still is. Of course she'll be affected by everything that's going on, there's no reason why she'd be her usual self, but for some reason, seeing her like this is still a sad surprise. Dawn feels the pinch between her brows, concern written all over her eyes as she regards her friend, before she schools her features into something less open. She's learned, over the years, that people can get antsy about being stared at like that. She's gotten tired of explaining it's not pity that she feels, and eventually she just learned to hide it better.

The way her question goes unanswered is not missed, but she won't comment on it. Perhaps it's foolish, anyway, to ask how anyone is doing when none of them are okay. Old habits die hard. She's still a Capitol girl, a stylist, always eager to appease and appear polite before anything else.

"Sleep hasn't exactly been coming easily, these days. I barely slept at all, so," she offers, nodding and gesturing towards her cup of coffee vaguely. "Getting up sounded better than staring at the ceiling some more." She hopes that offering honesty will prompt Aven to feel comfortable enough to do the same, but she won't hold it against her if it's not the case. "How's..." there's a moment of hesitance, before she clears her throat and tries again. "How's training going?"

It felt a little different this time. 

Falling into bed together with their routine embrace. But it wasn’t of their typical undeniable lust. This was tender touches and pleading gasps and long looks. This was refuge. It was solace. It was beyond just pleasure and bliss. 

And now, laying on his silken bed with their legs tied and his side twisted to face her, he can’t help but examine over every part of her body. She’s delicate. Stunning. It’s his own projection of her being beautifully soft and maternal but it’s in every part of her. He sees no part of her with roughness. 

When she inquires about leaving, Slate just reaches for her wrist, holding it up to rub the inside. Tracing the protruding vein of life that lies on her skin. So fragile. Right in the palm of his hand.

“No.” He says simply. He doesn’t want to be alone.

Well, he does, if it’s from anyone else. But being alone with Dawn is entirely different than someone else sitting in his room. For weeks, all he’s wanted is to soak into her arms and let her tell him everything was going to be okay, even if it wasn’t. Obviously it isn’t. But hearing it from her, then he might just believe it.

Or perhaps the fact that he’s had so many thoughts swimming in his mind, the only person he’s even considered bringing up to is her. The person he spent years disagreeing. Bickering back and forth with their polarizing opinions.

“I think I’ve been wrong for a very long time.” He confesses. Out loud. For the first time. His admittance is terrifying. Being wrong isn’t exactly part of his brand but he knows it’s true. But the following part seems to be all the more daunting. “And I think I’ve only made Panem a worse place.”

She's relieved when he says he doesn't want to be alone. She hasn't basked in his presence enough, hasn't soaked up enough of his strength that she would feel okay to leave just yet. And maybe, even once she inevitably has to leave, she'll come back. Maybe her own bed will be left useless for the next two weeks as she finds herself knocking on his door whenever she wants to rest.

Her need to be with him is overpowering. She feels inadequate about it, like some sort of overreacting clingy girlfriend type, which has never been her personality. But it was looking away that cost her Aeron. A misstep of hers, and threats that she thought were empty and meaningless, and then. She wasn't there one day, and he was gone. Every time she's knocked on Slate's door, either here or at his home or anywhere else, a part of her always feared finding that same eery silence again.

He takes her wrist, and she pushes her fears off to the back of her mind. His touch is always so gentle, calloused skin against her own smooth one, and she feels herself shiver.

Dawn is not naive or foolish, she doesn't pretend to not know about everything he's done, everything she doesn't agree with. They've bickered for years for a reason. But she can't ignore the man he is with her, the care she sees in his eyes and the kindness in his hands. He's done so much, and he carries all of it with him. And still, he's nothing but loving to her. He still has it in him to be tender.

The first part of his confession sends her brow furrowing minutely, intrigued. The second part sends her heart racing into a muffled panic in her chest.

He can't think that. He can't possibly think that. "That's not true," she protests, hand freeing from his so she can touch his face instead, palm cradling his cheek, warmth shared to the tips of her trembling fingers. "You make it better for me."

“Well, I don’t feel like a good friend right now.“ Her need to involve her friends and strangers in her plans will have horrible consequences, she is sure. Even if the Capitol hasn’t made it known yet, Diose is no fool. All of them must be on some list already. They’ve always been watches, but now the Capitol will be even more interested in keeping tabs on them knowing how many traitors they have in their midst. “I talked people into helping me and because of that we’re all screwed. We saw the same things, Dawn. Those pictures… They didn’t bother me, at least not in the way they bothered the others. I’ve seen carnage and I’ve seen blood, but I’ve only been able to deal with it because those who bled and die were not related to me. Things are different now.”

“Is anyone cut out for this? I thought I was. I let myself be foolish enough to believe that I could use my gifts for something better but they did nothing except provide the Capitol with more targets.“ Now she can only wonder if they will punish only them or their loved ones as well. Virgo hasn’t done anything, they’re innocent. They need to leave them alone. “Maybe running away is what all of us should be doing. Running away would at least give us a chance to live longer.“ But what what cost? Would life really be worth living after knowing what they were complicit in? “But you’re not a coward, don’t say that. I’ve always thought your one of the bravest people I know. You don’t need to lead a coup to be brave, Dawn. Courage comes in different forms.“

x

Dawn can't relate to the images not affecting her, that much is true. She's been raised in the Capitol, one of theirs as she grew up, but she still never got used to all the gore. It's just always been something within her, something that makes her squint away from the screens, and avoid looking more than necessary. She can't stand it. She can barely stand to see anyone cry in front of her, she's too prone to carrying the entire world's pain on her shoulders, she'll never not know that. But it doesn't make her a better person, or Diose a worse one for not feeling it. "We can't help the way we were brought up." She shakes her head. "What matters is that you care now. We're all fucked up, Diose. It's no use fighting against it. We change and we move on."

"There's no running away, it's just... not possible," Dawn sighs. She wouldn't consider it a viable option even if it were, probably. But clearly, running has not helped anyone. There's no place to escape to, nowhere without Capitol eyes on them. And if even someone like Slate, who's done all they ever asked of him, his whole life, can be punished? Then there's nothing they can really do to please the Capitol. They can't win. It's only a matter of time before they turn against their own citizens, too, she knows she's not safe, either. She smiles at Diose's kind words, even though it never reaches her eyes. Hard to believe she's anything close to courageous, these days, but she appreciates that. "See? You're a good friend."

who :@dawnhardn​​

when : day two 

He’s exhausted. It’s exhausting, even more so than usual - he’s just praying that Cabil and his mother are doing well in training. He hasn’t asked, he’s barely been able to make eye contact with either of them. Despite this, he tries his best over breakfast to impart any advice he can on them. Camouflage, he tells his mother. Find a weapon you think you could make yourself if you had to, he tells Cabil. Try to find allies, he tells them both. He knows he can only save one of them, but he’s trying as much as he can to give them a fighting chance. He’s just not sure how well it’s working. 

He takes them down to the training center, and as with the day before, leaves them at the doors - he feels so helpless, but it’s all he can do. 

He’s practically sleepwalking as he makes his way back to the elevators, and this is the reason he gives himself for walking directly into another figure. As he steps back, he realizes who it is - Dawn. 

“I’m.. I’m sorry Dawn, I -” He shuts his mouth, shoving back excuses. “Are you alright?” The question is double sided. Is she alright now, in this moment, on one hand, and on the other, there’s the general side. He still isn’t entirely sure what happened on the other train, and he only hopes it was better than how things went for first.

x

Everyone is walking around like the dead. It's sickening, the weight of the numerous lifeless eyes and shuffling feet around the cafeteria, the muffled crying you can hear in most bathrooms, the heavy atmosphere that settles upon all of them.

Dawn is no different. She doesn't have a loved one in training, and she's selfishly grateful for it, but she has to watch her friends suffer just the same. It's taking a toll on all of them. Most of the time so far, she just finds herself sucking it up, hiding behind her usually colorful dresses and warm smiles, hoping to be of comfort to the ones who are really suffering here. She can't exactly go cry on anyone's shoulder about the horrible things she's seen when everyone here has a mother, a child, a loved one going into slaughter. She feels ridiculous to even acknowledge her fears half of the time.

So when Pista bumps into her, it's no different. Her hands are shaky, and her head is pounding with an incoming migraine, but she still manages to muster up all of her energy to be kind. "Pista, dear," she greets, taking in his tired complexion. "Of course. I'm okay." A lie, but he doesn't need to know that. A hand rests on his elbow reassuringly. "How are you?"

“Sorry.“ Maybe it’s because she is not used to people genuinely wanting to be nice to her that she instantly feel odd whenever someone tries. No one taught her how to deal with this. Nelly wasn’t around long enough to combat her mother’s teachings, and unlike Slate, Diose never had anyone that was able to teach her there is more to life than the brainwashing they were subjected to, to use tenderness to make their atrocities slip from their memory for a night. “I don’t think I’m very good at friendships.”

“And my change of heart did nothing. The games are still happening, the people I swore I would protect are being taught how to use whatever they get their hands on to kill each other, and as if that wasn’t enough, now there is a group of people on the outside that I put on risk by convincing to join my fruitless and misguided mission.“ She doesn’t think she could ever face Pista again. “Who will know? The people sending all of us to the gallows once the games are over so they can replace us? I’m not like you, Dawn. I tried. I gave myself a headache attempting to, but all I got were empty gestures and words that did nothing.“

x

The apology actually catches Dawn by surprise. There's nothing to apologize for, and she shakes her head at it minutely, brushing it off. They're all stressed, they're all working under the overwhelming weight of being watched by the Capitol. And after the little show they got as soon as they arrived, it feels different. Worse. She knows now that the Capitol is targeting them, keeping a close watch on stylists and escorts, trusting them to keep the peace as everything goes down. "That's not true," she replies, and actually musters up a tug of her lips that reaches her eyes. "You're a good friend. A really good one." Dawn has seen Diose offer support for Slate, for her, for others, time and time again, it wouldn't be fair to let her think she somehow isn't good at this.

The Games are still happening. Yeah. She was so terrified while she was in the train, the whole time, she hadn't even let herself believe for long in the possibility of the games being called off, but she knows they were working for that. "You don't have to be like me, you have to be like you." She sighs, putting her drink down in favor of crossing her arms in front of her chest. Her gaze falls down to her own feet, head shaking. "I'm scared shitless, Diose. I can't-- I'm not... cut out for this." She looks back up at her friend. That's her fear. Being dead weight in the rebellion, being too scared to ever do anything, watching her loved ones be taken. "You were brave. You did something. Empty gestures or not, you're doing things and that counts for something. That counts for a lot. I just keep running away like a scared kid, I'm-- I'm a coward. So don't. Just... just be like you. It won't be all worthless in the end. It can't be."

But he is scared. In fact, he’s now certain that he’s been scared his entire life. Regardless of Dawn of not, fear has been plated in his chest since birth and sure, he’s been given the strength to make sure he outlives that fear, but it never goes away. And now that fear lives in other people, not just his own life. He’s fearful for Dawn, too. 

If it’s not his love that gets her killed, it might be Blythe’s, or Twig’s, or anyone else in the goddamn country because Dawn’s a beacon of love and trust and support and he knows it could get her killed.

Because good things don’t last here. They either get removed, or they don’t stay good forever.

The country has tried before to steal her joy, to steal her warmth. It failed. It failed because even after being ripped from everything, she still gave him everything. 

Maybe she’s the most dangerous person in Panem. To love against all odds.

And her kisses feel like small gifts placed upon his face and he can’t help the shiver that sends down his spine from her touches. His grip loosens on her and his fingers traces gently down her arm. 

Her lips are gentle and they put him back together like they’ve always done. At least this time he’s more aware of it. 

So he picks her up again. Legs around his waist and his arms grasping her tightly. He wont let her fall through now, or ever. In all the flowery metaphors and images from books, he wont let her fall to be some fluffy fiction, or some romantic tragedy. Even as he carried her to his bedroom, he’s going to do everything in his power to make sure between the two of them, she’ll never have to face being broken again.

[one spicy timeskip later]

The otherwise lifeless room feels less empty now, filled by the sounds of their slowing breaths. These living quarters are always beautiful, but it lacks any form of warmth, like most things made by the Capitol. Boring walls and boring tiles and boring furniture. Now it feels different, floors painted by clothes strewn around, sheets wrinkled around them. 

Dawn won't pretend this fixes anything, but she can't exactly complain about the bliss still buzzing in her veins, melting her limbs into weightless laziness.

She rests her head on the pillow by his, but she stays on her side to look at him, their legs still somewhat tangled up between the sheets. The thought of moving away sounds downright painful, but she still asks, tentative, "do you want to be alone?"

They're no strangers to pillow talk and they're way past the point of kicking each other out of bed as soon as they're done, but still. She knows she has barged in here with no warning, and she knows these are difficult times. She tells herself she won't hold it against him if he wants to be alone, even if it kills her to go.

The thought of being back in her own room is daunting; everything that is to come from the next couple of weeks is. She's terrified of the Capitol now, scared to death that they're watching her every move, waiting to pin the smallest of reaction as rebellion, looking for an excuse to kill some more. And still, she needs so much more strength, knowing she'll have to support her friends as they watch their loved ones train for battle. For murder.

It's overwhelming. It's selfish, but it's easier to stay here, fingertips tracing over a familiar scar on Slate's skin, gaze flickering warmly over his features. She only feels safe here. There's a confession of her fears on the tip of her tongue, and a request that should follow, words that threaten to spill out and that sound a lot like let me stay, for the rest of the day, for the week, for however long we're in this shithole let me at least crawl into bed with you for some rest after the day is done. 

Slate never understood companionship in the context of this life. Certainly, he’d read stories of love and in that context, is made sense. It was fiction. Devoted love is for stories and wishful thinking. He’s convinced his parents didn’t truly love one another but took their union as a strategic one. Two people who had like minded ideas and saw benefits in their joining. Even Terra didn’t have a companion that displayed warm love. She never talked of it either.

And love in his peers was at best, destructive and volatile, and at worst, resulted in death. Track record not so good. Slate gathered that love wasn’t on the docket for things to care about.

Even with Dawn between his bedsheets, watching her face in the different organic lights, he knew that their companionship was at it’s best form when it was two peers with radical disagreements, finding lust in one another. 

But then he noticed her laughter, and the way she liked to linger when leaving. He took note of the pain she’d find herself in and he didn’t even register when he wanted to help ease her discomfort, stepping in and finding the things that made her comfortable. 

Slate never counted these things are bleeding into the category that he deemed dangerous, and useless. Not until he was faced with the fact that she might suffer repercussions for all he took on. He stared in the face the man he was when he was with Dawn and he had to face the brutal truth that unfortunately, sometimes fiction is reality. Only in this fiction, it might wind up with his lover dead.

He holds her tighter at the thought of this, grips her closer and balls his hand into a fist in her shirt. He wants to tell her everything. Wants to say that he’s the monster who never regretted a single death in his life. Never regretted sending children to their slaughter. He wants to tell her that even the idea of Terra dying doesn’t fill him with much dread.

But it’s her. Under her skin he sees something too good and too pure to tarnish and he could never live with himself if she died in due part because she chose this. Because her lips chose him, and she matched his hunger and desire. 

Because he’s not an idiot. He knows she loves him just as much as he does her. And he knows that in this love, neither will walk away whole.

She wants to know what he's thinking. Or feeling, even. She knows asking in any way might push him away, and to be fair, it's not like she could explain any of it, either. 

There's a turmoil of emotion in her chest, a buildup of something suffocating. It's relief, and sadness, and grief, and joy. And so much love. It's everything and nothing battling for dominance and her brain doesn't know if it wants to be present or completely dissociate herself from everything.

Still, his presence is grounding. His hand on her shirt and his grip tightening, Dawn knows at least that she isn't alone in dealing with whatever this is. All of it. Whatever is happening outside, whatever is happening between them, anything else in between -- there's selfish satisfaction in knowing she had him with her.

She has to pull back for air, her gasp loud in the otherwise quiet room, but it doesn't mean she pulls any further away. Lips press distracted kisses to the corner of his mouth, his cheekbones, his eyelashes. 

For all that she feared -- and there was admittedly a lot, specially now --, the love between them wasn't one of those things. Whether he holds on tight or not, she's still always going to be here, and she trusts him enough, blindly, to do the same. They've found their way to each other time and time again over all of these years, it's only fair they keep doing it all of their lives.

These weeks of training will be harder to navigate than ever, she knows now. The mood is never exactly good or uplifting during these days, in any sort of Games, but this year? This year it's suffocating. She's thankful she's not a mentor, imagines how awful that part of the work is now, but being a stylist isn't exactly a walk in the park, not after what they've shown her. Her designs have always been lackluster at best, uninspired on a number of occasions. Now, after knowing the Capitol will be scrutinizing her work and looking for reason to punish her, or her loved ones? It's been hard to be able to think outside the box.

Still, she tries to look for inspiration, tries to walk the line between letting them know she won't simply roll over and die, but not being seen as a threat. She's not even sure it's possible to walk such a line at all. She carries a stack of unfinished drafts in her bag, drawings with angry lines and pathetic scribbles, and she often finds herself staring for hours on end at nothing, at everything, lost in her own thoughts.

It's early in the morning when she finds herself in one of these moments again, and a figure approaching nearly startles her. She'd rolled out of bed much too early, barely gotten any sleep the night before, too tense with everything going on. The caffeine is still kicking in, not fully incorporated into her brain, and she can keep herself from jumping, but there's still surprise in her eyes when she looks over at Aven. "Oh, hi!" The tone is too cheery, doesn't feel quite right given what she knows Aven is going through -- and it's a reminder of how Capitol-raised Dawn is, instinct telling her to always put on an act. She clears her throat and adjusts. "Sorry, hi. How've you been? Would you like to join me? Please."

Her legs wrap around him and he’s stuck in a cage just like that. 

Funny how he’s never thought of himself in any sort of confines in his life. Not by his parents, not by the Capitol. Confines that he’s starting to see now were there before. But the confines of emotional intimacy, companionship, never came anywhere close to him before.

Just like everything else, he’s been guarded in silver bars of Dawn for a long time and maybe he’s just been comfortable never leaving her confines. Never did he feel dragged down, or trapped. Never had he felt suffocated. Her cage was a home and he had everything he needed inside.

It was clear with Dawn was he lacked before. What one lacks from another person’s companionship. Beyond just lust. And it took over a decade but regardless, he’d never leave.

His hands travel into her hair and he pulls her closer to him, kissing deeper and with more urgency. Not like the moments of urgent lust but of urgent understanding. Lips and tongue and teeth that beg to say, you mean more than I’ve ever said before, do you understand me?

But he’s far too weak to say those things out loud.

Another sigh leaves her as hands find her hair, her back arching to push herself closer to him, always wanting to be closer, closer, closer.

It's not about forgetting everything, it's not about pretending the outside world doesn't exist, but when he's holding and kissing her like this, hardly anything matters anymore. In here, it feels safe. It always does when she can feel him close, and maybe that's why the last few days on separate trains have been absolute hell.

Maybe she has, before, used him as a tool to forget everything else. Years and years ago, when they still bickered back and forth like stubborn idiots, when she'd get tipsy at Capitol parties and crawl into his bed late at night in a mess of insistent hands and feverish heat. But as time went by, it wasn't about leaving the world behind anymore. It's about seeing everything, seeing all of that, and all of him, and still choosing to keep him right here.

She feels the urgency in his kiss, knows how much they've both needed this, and matches his intensity with her own. They're not good at talking, but she knows this feels different. His lips taste like devotion, his hands on her like a silent prayer, and maybe she knows what he's trying to say. Maybe she wants to say the same back to him.

“Maybe I think differently due to what has happened.“ She is growing paranoid. Diose wishes she would just not be forced to leave her room. It’s easier to be surrounded by four walls than being outside and feeling like someone is watching her every move. She thinks of Harbor, of how she could be the next person the Capitol chooses to use as an example. And while she is terrified, a tiny part of her has been trying to work overtime in order to convince her that she would deserve it. “I am, Dawn. I can assure you that there is no need to coddle me the way you do with the rest. I’d prefer if you didn’t do it. There are other people that are more deserving of that. Save your energy for them.” She’s made her bed and now has to lie on it.

With a wave of her hand, she dismisses her apologies. Not that she doesn’t appreciate the sentiment. It’s just that again, she doesn’t feel like she deserves them. “I put a lot of people in danger due to my stupidity and my selfishness. Even if I’ve now had a change of heart, that doesn’t negate the reason why I did all of that.” With her hand balled up in a fist, she sighs as she rests her head on her knuckles. “I don’t know if they share your opinion now.”

x

Dawn sighs as Diose insists she is alone. That's a lie, but Dawn knows insisting against it will only make her sound like an annoying broken record. "I'm not coddling, Di," she offers, genuine again. If she was coddling, she'd be fussing, running up and down this room to check for details, making sure she was fed and drinking enough water and feeling perfectly alright. She's not coddling. "I'm checking in on a friend. That's all."

Truth be told, she doesn't know how to deal with Diose's self-deprecation, doesn't know how to offer any more support, but it's not like Dawn doesn't have a history with people who insist on not being taken care of. "Well, we can't dwell on the past too much," she murmurs, shrugging. "What matters is that you did have a change of heart. That's all." She reaches over, takes a step closer so she can put a hand over Diose's shoulder and offer a careful squeeze. "In time, once everything settles, they'll know you..." helped, is the word she wants to use, but she thinks of the avid ears of the Capitol, listening everywhere, and she tries to make it sound less criminal. "You were there for them. That'll always count for something."

Apologies always felt strange to him. Though Slate was never really taught remorse so hearing it on the tongues of others still sounds wildly foreign to him. But Dawn says everything and he knows it’s supposed to make him feel better. It does, maybe a little bit. Makes him feel better and comforted. Though that might have nothing to do with the words and everything to do with just Dawn being in front of him again.

He doesn’t have the words to respond to her. He really doesn’t want to. There’s nothing they could talk about right now, after the few weeks they’ve had, being torn apart, wanting nothing more than to be together. Or at least, he thinks that she’s wanted that. She must have if she came straight here after the arrival of everyone in the Capitol.

But he still wonders what on earth she wants to do with him. He far from deserves her. Especially now.

Rather than reply, though, he picks her up, gathers her in his arms and leads her to his nearby table, to take the pressure off his feet. Sitting her down, he leans over, taking her face in her hands, and joining their lips together, for what feels like the first time in years. She’s warm, and soft. Tender and careful and inviting.

Slate always thought they had good chemistry and it’s why they always came back to each other, but truth was that she felt like bliss and he never really wanted to give that up.

And if his words couldn’t tell her how glad he was to see her, then his lips certainly would.

They've always been good at this -- always better at anything but talking. 

There's familiarity in being carried by him, arms that she knows lifting her up with ease, and she lets herself be guided blindly. She'd go wherever he wanted, she thinks. And isn't that such a terrifying thought, to know you trust someone that much? Still, there's no space for fear in heart. Just something else, something she doesn't dare name, in case he can read into her thoughts.

She's thankful to be sat on the table and her hands never leave him, doe eyes blinking up at him before their lips are meeting, and it feels an awful lot like the closest thing she got to a home. 

He's warmth and safety and it feels like they haven't been this close in years, decades, centuries. It's all she can do, to melt against his touch, his hands always so careful to hold her.

A blissfully content sigh escapes her, legs hooking around him to lock him close. 

“Maybe you should go hide. I think that right now is the best thing all of us could do, especially if you have the chance to not be alone.“ Diose can’t help but mention that because she is surprised Dawn is not spending the entire day with Slate. She knows if she was in a similar situation, that’s what she’d do. But again, Dawn wants to talk so it’s obvious Slate probably didn’t tell her everything and she is looking for answers. “Dealing with this bullshit alone is not fun.” Cue her downing her drink.

“Is it odd that it feels like we were on that train months ago?“ Maybe she feels that way because she’s hardly slept. “We tried fixing everything. We all committed treason. Did he tell you that?“ Diose chuckles. All of that for nothing. “Well, not him. He kept to himself, thankfully. If something were to happen I am glad to say he would be safe.“ Helping Griffin just didn’t seem like much compared to her own actions or Griffin and Swann’s mission. “And then we just drank for days when it was clear we had failed.“

x

Dawn can't help but feel a bit guilty at Diose's words, like the woman blames her, perhaps, for not spending all of her time now with Slate. No one knows better than Dawn the urge to be with him; she's lost one lover already, taken from her when she wasn't looking, if she could, she'd probably be dragging Slate around by the wrist everywhere she went now. "I don't think hiding is of much use after a while. I already spent most of the day with him," she murmurs. They'd all hidden, and here they were. Still in this mess. "And you're not alone." She knows it's not the same, of course, but she wants the other to know she has her support, if she needs it.

She takes another sip of her drink as she listens. "Treason?" Her eyebrows raise in surprise. No, he hadn't told, but she hadn't asked. "Diose, I'm sorry." She wants to reach out and offer a hug, but she doubts the other stylist would appreciate as much. "You're...?" The question trails off, because it'd be dumb to make it out loud. She wants to ask if Diose is really siding with the rebels now, if she's in this fight for good, how she feels about all of this. But it's not safe to talk. Not even that. "You... you really held down the fort, you know?" She offers, instead. Genuine. "You didn't entirely fail. Coming out of that shithole alive is enough of an accomplishment, and I'm glad you were there for them. I know it's no consolation, but. I mean that. They're lucky they had you around."

…

“Okay.“ So she will need another drink. Got it. Diose walks up to the mini bar, pouring herself another glass before she turns towards Dawn. “Want one?” She doesn’t mind drinking alone, but having Dawn join her might be better, especially if it makes it easier for her to talk about the hijack.

“I’ve been existing.“ Even snarky answers like I’ve been doing better wouldn’t sound good. Because, has she really been better? Maybe before when she still bought into the bullshit she was fed she was better. But she is awake now and can’t see how being blind to the atrocities happening around her was helping anyone but herself. “If it were up to me I’d hide in this room forever.“

Dawn is not one to drink much, often wary about how the alcohol can worsen the symptoms of her chronic pains, but. She'll make an exception for tonight. Chances are she'll end up crawling into Slate's bed later anyway, so at least she'll have help dealing with the migraine that follows. "Yeah, sure. Thank you." Being a little buzzed doesn't seem like too bad of an idea.

The neutral answer from Diose is pretty telling. It's almost somber in tone, coming from someone who's often snarky and just so much more energetic. That's what it is, it seems. They all look so goddamn exhausted -- the kind that can't be fixed by a good night of sleep. "Honestly, I agree. Hiding doesn't sound so bad right now," she takes the drink for a sip, and leans against one of the dressers.

Every pretty piece of furniture in these rooms just feels like a reminder of how they're being watched all the time. "How was it? On your train?" She asks anyway.