i love you as icarus loved the sun

she was here for a good time. she had said as much. good times were the easiest things in the world. to see her all flushed with excitement, dancing with her hair a mess around that too pretty face. he wondered how she would feel in his arms, alive and real. radiating warmth, radiating something he could get his hands on for the moment. he lived moment to moment, too fast, that's what his dad had said with a disappointed shake of his head. but how do you apologize to the people who love you for doing everything to let them down? how do you apologize for something that you don't intend on stopping?

things had been different since he got back. since the hospital. he had seen all the hate in this ugly world. up close, personal. the pretty thing before him is a relief from those sights. something to distract. and he likes distractions. he considers not telling her his name. mystery was always a little fun. she beamed with that, questions unasked, things he'll never know about. but he has the funny thought that he would like to know what it sounded like to hear her say his name.

"i'll show you mine if you show me your's." he says with a small laugh. just a joke really as he slips the lighter back in his pocket. "the name's mat." he says with his hand held out to her then. and his heart kicks up in speed at the thought of her taking it. he's on the edge of a thrill ride, after a few drinks, he's like live wire. ready to burn until there's nothing left.

      𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐄  𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒  𝐎𝐍  𝐇𝐄𝐑  𝐀  𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄  𝐓𝐎𝐎  𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆,  and  Marin  can’t  help  but  wonder  what  he’s  thinking  when  he  looks  at  her  like  that  —  eyes  a  little  too  intense,  too  knowing.  She  shivers  a  little  for  it  —  draws  her  arms  around  herself  for  the  warmth  of  obscurity.  The  not  knowing  is  better  than  the  knowing,  I  promise,  sweetheart.  I’ll  be  whoever  you  want  me  to  be.  If  he  were  to  ask  her  who  she  is,  she  wouldn’t  have  an  answer.  The  world  is  too  big  for  all  of  that  —  and  for  the  better  part  of  things,  it’s  been  a  grand  enough  adventure  to  discover  charity  shoppes.  Her  little  flat  is  mismatched  and  a  little  broken  —  but  it  suits  her,  and  it’s  hers.  Sometimes,  she  looks  at  the  items  that  she’s  chosen,  and  wishes  they  could  tell  her  why  she’d  chosen  them  —  what  secrets  such  small  and  insignificant  choices  say  about  her  as  a  whole.

       She’s  doing  the  same  thing  —  eyes  sparkling  up  at  him,  lingering  for  a  little  too  long  with  a  little  too  much  curiosity.  She  smiles  and  ducks  her  head  as  though  trying  to  hide  it.  And  he  teases  her  before  acquiescing  to  her  request.  His  name  suits  him  —  though  why,  she  couldn’t  really  say.  She  doesn’t  have  much  time  to  think  about  it  either,  as  he’s  extending  his  hand  to  her.  It’s  painfully  sweet.  Some  people,  she  supposes,  just  look  like  their  names.  She’ll  never  know.  It  will  be  one  night,  and  when  she  thinks  of  him  after,  he  will  be  little  more  than  a  stranger  who  was  once  a  what-if?  

        Fairytales  don’t  happen  to  girls  like  her,  she  thinks,  reaching  her  hand  forward,  “Mat,”  she  repeats.  Her  hand  is  so  much  smaller  than  his,  and  he’s  warm.  She  may  as  well  be  a  moth,  the  way  she  gravitates  toward  that  warm  light.  “I  like  it  —  it  suits  you.  I’m  Marin.”

        Fingers  slip  between  his  in  a  gesture  that’s  far  more  intimate  than  a  first  meeting  would  usually  allow.  She  isn’t  the  kind  of  girl  people  settle  down  with  —  so  she  steals  little  forevers  where  she  can  and  doesn’t  dare  to  ask  for  more.  This  is  enough,  this  is  good,  she  thinks,  bringing  her  other  hand  to  rest  against  his  chest,  looking  up  at  him  with  the  streetlights  reflected  in  her  eyes.  “Well  then,  Mat,  I’m  all  yours.”  She  settles  against  the  solid  weight  of  his  body,  leaning  on  an  arm  as  she  makes  to  walk  with  him, “Steal  me  away.”

'I’m  afraid  you’ve  let  trouble  in  through  the  door' he tries to make sense of these words, what she could mean by them. the door would have been carefully guarded at such an hour and surely the guards on duty would not have let anything even verging on trouble get through. his head shakes gently, an attempt to soothe whatever worry she was voicing, "the guards would have taken care of that." it was clear she'd been through quite the ordeal, perhaps she knew not what she was saying. an understandable affliction. 

eric is stricken by a chill that courses through his entire body as she leans into him. he can only imagine how much worse it was for her, and in that moment he wishes he had something, a blanket or robe, to offer her for warmth. but she had accepted his offer to find a place to rest and in doing so he could get her to a place where he'd have such things to offer. "apologies are not necessary," a soft smile appearing on his lips, "as a sailor myself, i know how disorienting that can feel." his arm them moves around her, offering more stability and comfort. she was safe here, he wanted convey that. "after you've gotten some rest and recovered a bit, i would love to hear about it— if you're willing, of course. hearing a tale of such adventure, especially one with such a harrowing conclusion could not be passed up. but right now, taking care of this mystery guest, making her comfortable were much more important. 

       She  wonders  why  he’d  stopped  speaking,  tilts  her  head  in  curiosity  but  presses  him  no  further  for  now.  “I’m  quite  fond  of  the  stars,”  she  tells  him  something  true.  There  are  places  where  the  sea  is  nearly  still  and  there  are  about  a  million  stars  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see.  When  they  reflect  upon  the  still  water,  it  almost  seems  as  though  no  matter  where  you  are,  you’re  falling  into  the  sky.  That  maybe,  somewhere,  someone  is  making  a  wish  upon  you.  She’s  had  many  wishes  in  her  time  —  but  her  messengers  have  not  deigned  to  deliver  them  for  her  as  they  shoot  across  the  sky  at  night  —  probably  much  more  important  places  to  be.  Marin  doesn’t  know  the  business  of  stars.   

        “The  best  place  to  see  them  is  out  at  sea.  I’m  afraid  my  indulgence  cost  my  ship  dearly,”  she  frowns.  One  foot  in  front  of  the  next,  she  wills  her  legs  to  move,  bare  feet  wobbling  as  she  makes  her  way  with  him  to  his  bedroom.  “What  is  it  that  you  sail  for?  Adventure,  treasure?  Fishing?  Trade?  To  catch  pirates?  Or  is  it  to  have  stories  to  tell?”  Her  mother  used  to  tell  her  stories  of  the  sea,  and  of  land  —  she  used  to  sing  them  though  she  was  no  siren.  Marin  sings  them  now  at  Ursula's  bidding.  Her  mother  would  be  so  disappointed  at  what  she's  become. 

Ged  a  sheòl  mi  air  m'  aineol, Cha  laigh  smalan  air  mi'  inntinn, Ged  a  sheòl  mi  air  m'  aineol.

𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐒 & 𝐅𝐈𝐒𝐇 @lovepurposed

"Surviving is all we can do," she exhaled, desperately leaning into his touch like a fish out of water.

He did not understand. How could he? He had not been in the arena. He did not know the nightmares that plagued her sleep. She had stopped living the day of the reaping. Here, she only survived, yes. But survival was better than death.

Yes, the President's protection was like a snake, slowly but surely suffocating her until all the air would finally leave her lungs. Yes, the smell of roses was haunting her, sticking to her skin like a wet shirt.

But his gifts had saved her in the arena, and his attention was saving her now. She was rich, she was famous, she was popular. She used to be happy, once. She used to be alive. She used to smell like the ocean.

"I'd rather be alive and sad than be six feet under like the 23 tributes who died. What would you prefer?"

Would President Snow kill his own grandson? She doubted it. But he could send Francis to the districts, force him to become a nameless peacekeeper. The thought of losing him was terrifying, just as terrifying as the thought of loving him.

There was no happy ending for them.

      𝐇𝐄  𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒  𝐇𝐄𝐑  𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇  𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒  that  are  cold  as  first  frost,  spreading  over  grass  and  tree  and  field,  seeking  warmth  but  finding  only  winter.  Like  the  first  fallen  snow  —  beautiful  and  cold  in  a  way  that  do  not  reflect  the  warmth  that  resides  ever-present  in  his  heart,  trapped  just  beneath  the  icy  surface,  waiting  for  spring  to  come  —  summer.  A  girl  with  sand  underfoot,  a  girl  who  reminds  him  that  there  is  beauty  to  be  found  in  the  most  hostile  places.  A  wildflower,  rather  than  a  rose  —  an  ocean,  and  not  a  lake.   

       He  is  desperate  as  he  searches  her  eyes  —  recalls  the  tributes  fallen  so  that  she  could  live.  He  never  watches  the  games  because  he  doesn’t  want  to  remember  them.  But  now,  he  can’t  forget.  Can’t  forget  what  it  was  like  to  hold  his  breath  for  so  long  his  chest  had  been  heaving  when  he’d  remembered  to  inhale.  “You  don’t  believe  that,”  he  says,  his  voice  calm  and  even.  He  isn’t  certain  which  of  them  he’s  trying  to  convince.  “You  can’t.”  

        Even  he  can  see  how  she  changes  day  after  day  like  summer  faded  into  autumn,  casting  each  beautiful  leaf  to  the  ground  to  rot  in  winter.  Try  as  he  might,  he  cannot  catch  each  of  her  fallen  leaves  and  cradle  them  for  safekeeping.  He  simply  has  to  hope  for  the  promise  of  spring.  Just  a  little  longer...  just  a  little  longer...

        Before  what?

His curls bounce around when he shakes his head. "No this is my first glass I'm not drunk I'm just… Events like these are not for me. I never go to them and I was thinking of sneaking out until I bumped into you and now everyone is staring and…" He stops himself and takes in a deep breath. You got this Elio. You could still turn this entire conversation around. Not that it would matter someone like him would undoubtedly forget a conversation with someone as mundane as him in an hour. "Again my sincere apologies your hi-… I mean Francis." He says after he composed himself. Seeing the prince up close made him realize he was handsome even more than on the television. It was the kind of beauty that took his breath away but he was so out of his league, that it was laughable to even think about such a thing. Besides wasn't he dating someone? He hadn't kept up with the gossip. In fact, he never did since it only interested him a little.

      𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐒  𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒  𝐀𝐒  𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐍'𝐒  𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐒  𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐅𝐓,  and  almost  immediately,  he  wishes  that  they  were  perfect  strangers  again.  There  is  promise  within  the  pages  of  a  story  that  belongs  to  two  perfect  strangers.  Some  of  the  stories  are  small  —  a  chance  meeting  that  becomes  nothing.  Others  can  change  your  life,  or  so  he’s  read.  He  prefers  to  lurk  as  a  bookmark  might  —  constantly  trapped  between  the  pages  of  someone  else’s  adventure,  rather  than  set  out  on  his  own,  he  thinks.  After  all,  the  prince  is  usually  meant  to  slay  dragons  and  rescue  damsels.  Francis  is  a  little…  well,  broken.  For  starters,  he  thinks  that  he’d  rather  like  to  befriend  the  dragon.  And  then,  there’s  the  other  little  problem  —  how  very  little  interest  he  has  in  rescuing  damsels.  Most  of  them  can  rescue  themselves,  and  if  the  case  should  arise  in  which  they  did  want  to  be  swept  away  —  it  should  be  by  someone  who  would  love  them  fiercely.  A  knight,  rather  than  a  prince.  Or  perhaps  a  prince  who  doesn't  want  a  knight  of  his  own.

        Nevertheless,  Elio’s  features  contort  in  recognition,  and  Francis  has  learned  to  expect  it  now  —  the  wide  eyes,  the  fumbling  over  words,  the  conversations  that  stay  at  surface  level.  How  is  the  weather  today?  It’s  fine,  thanks...  but  I  think  we’re  expecting  rain  later.

       This  is  unkind  of  him,  and  unfair  of  him  to  expect.  It’s  just  that  the  story  doesn’t  usually  start  with  the  prince,  really.  How  is  he  supposed  to  forge  his  own  way?  Especially  with  his  father  trying  so  desperately  to  ensure  that  he,  well...  that  he  doesn’t.  It’s  a  sad  twist  of  fate,  really.  He’s  not  even  meant  to  be  a  prince.  He’s  more  of  a  bastard  —  he  just...  happens  to  be  Henri  Devereaux’s  only  heir.  His  beginnings  hadn’t  been  gilded  and  golden  —  but  simple  and  full  of  love  and  kindness.  And  music.  He  misses  it  —  the  sound  of  song  filling  his  head  with  melodic  threads,  weaving  together  a  world  that  lives  and  breathes  rather  than  one  that  simply  exists.