POISON & WINE.

He can’t help but let out a little sigh, almost of relief when Slat takes his face in his hands, brings their foreheads together. That’s enough to make a few tears slip past his lashes unbidden, because this closeness is something that he’s missed so much, something he wants to hold onto. His hand moves to Slate’s arm, holding on, silently telling him to stay in place for just a second longer, despite how dangerous it might be. They need this moment, just as much as he needs to be near Slate after this to make sure they both make it to the meeting point. And he hears Slate’s pleas, how desperate he is, too, that they both can make it out of here together. It’s more than enough to make Dawn determined to make that happen.

“Fair is fair, then. Neither of us are allowed to play the hero on this one. We’re going to walk out of here together, and I will be using my sight to my advantage,” he mutters, teasing just slightly along with Slate’s joke. But he means it wholly. He’s going to make sure Slate makes it, and he’s going to make sure he’s there with him. He’ll do it as carefully as possible, wait until the last minute to break the illusion Slate’s created, but he’s going to make it happen. He can’t imagine leaving all of this, potentially finding safety at last, without Slate. “I’ve already thought I lost you once, I’m not going to let it happen again. We’ll make it there, together…I love you, Slate.”

HC END:

THE SKEPTICISM ISN’T lost on her. She knows how easy it is to doubt a story like this with absolutely zero details. She certainly knows how much of a lunatic she must sound too. No matter. “I told you Slate, I don’t have the details. But I was told by… by someone I didn’t at all expect would be helpful… that I had to make sure my friends were ready. We’re getting out, Slate. Out of here.” Wondering where else they would go is a question she’s been asking herself over and over since that sudden moment with Heron, and it’s only fair that he’d ask it of her too, but Slate’s going to have to accept that she won’t have any satisfying answers for him. “I don’t know where or how, but I assume the details will come in time,” she says, voice still hushed, hurried. “Once I’ve met up with Silver, maybe we can figure it out together. I don’t doubt they’ll come to you too once things clear up.”

--

It was a lot to wrap his head around. He heard whispers of the rebel activity. They certainly hadn’t been quite since all of this began with the trains and the wedding and everything. But they’re actually getting out? Now wasn’t that a shocking twist. Still, he had a role to play and he was trying to decide what to give Aven. He was beyond thankful for this. It touched him that even after everything, she still wanted him to know. But can he give himself away, even though this is the then. “I have no doubt they’ll find me.” He confirms, nodding his head. His hands rube together nervously, and he blinks over his clouded faux eyes. He then adds. “I still have things to do. I have a responsibility I must follow through on.” Hopefully it was enough to reassure her. That he wasn’t abandoning her but that he couldn’t walk out yet. Besides, he has to see Dawn first, make sure he knows.

The relief that Slate isn’t willing to do anything that might risk this opportunity doesn’t fully outweigh the panic and worry that something could go wrong so easily, even if they do everything they can to play it safe. But he knows that it’s the right choice to be careful until the very last second. He wants to offer to talk to anyone that Slate needs, to be a second pair of hands, but he knows that Slate’s right in the end, it’s too risky even if he’s not helping him at his side to do anything that could be interpreted as being in this together, that might raise suspicion and give away the truth behind Slate’s charade. It doesn’t make it any easier to accept, though. At least Slate understands how necessary it feels to be close, though, that even if they can’t be side by side, just being near will make them both feel better about making it out together in the end. He squeezes his hand back, savors this momentary closeness. 

“Okay, I know you’re right…I’ll stay close, but I won’t help. We’ll be careful, but you have to work fast, we can’t risk not making it. As soon as you’re finished, we’re leaving together, even if that means just keeping you in my sight until you make it through that door, and I can follow,” he says, keeping his voice quiet. He can’t help but move a hand to Slate’s cheek, let his fingers brush over his skin, savor that warmth, even if he shouldn’t, but it feels like the moment to take it, before distance is theirs again, for fear of something going wrong. “I’m not letting you out of my sight, Slate Hardcreek.”

--

It was just so so good to be around him again. It had only been a few days that they were absent and Slate used to go so much longer without being around Dawn but this was different. Since he lost his sight, it was so different. Now they were one. Now they were married. And how was Slate supposed to thrive without him present?

When Dawn mentions not getting on the air craft himself, Slate slips his hands free, and dares to take hold of Dawn’s face in both of his hands, bringing their foreheads to touch. Damn the consequences, his body was vibrating with the thought of them being pulled apart. “You will not get the chance to sacrifice yourself for me. I wont let that happen, you hear? Because that’s incredibly unfair if I can’t do it either.” He tries to make something of a light joke, and then follows it with another. “I’d say I wont let you out of my sight either but I supposed you have that advantage.” And was probably incredibly crucial, having someone nearby to make sure he got there. Slate probably wouldn’t be able to figure it out on his own without his sight.

There’s no stopping the tears that fall the moment that Slate redoubles his grip, when his other hand comes up to hold on tight, squeezing, saying so much without the risk of words put into the air. It feels like the hope for escape is only now truly becoming something real, now that he’s allowed to touch Slate again, to hold onto his hand, to be close enough to smell that familiar scent, to be able to look at him without having to look away. And it’s an enormous relief unlike anything he could imagine to hear that Slate isn’t thinking that way, that he doesn’t plan to play the martyr and risk being left behind. That gives him true hope, to know that, for all he’s been put through, he still wants something better for himself.

All he wants to do is to lean forward and kiss him, but he worries about who’s watching, how much that might put Slate’s safe escape is jeopardy, when coming to see him in Seven is risk enough. So instead he joins his other hand with his, covering his hand, fingers moving to trace over the ring Slate’s wearing, the ring to quietly symbolize their private vows to each other. “I understand, I know you have to do all you can…but let me help you. We don’t have to stay side by side, but let me stay close. Let me make sure we both make it in time,” he says quietly, and he hates how desperate it sounds, but he is. It reminds him too much of all of the other goodbyes he hadn’t realized were goodbyes. If he keeps Slate in sight, at least they won’t have to have that moment, even if something goes wrong. “Fight for them as long as you can, and then we go together. Please.” 

--

There were many friends Slate had abandoned in this choice, but nothing hit quite as hard as having to pretend that he and Dawn had parted ways. Even if the two of them had made their secret vows. Even if he was now a secretly married man, he ached and he grieved for what he might have ruined forever. But this news of leaving, it felt like his chance for something. Slate had lost so much, been put through so much, maybe he wasn’t perfect but he felt he deserved to see his marriage through with Dawn. To be the husbands he dreamed of. He wasn’t going to let this slip from their fingertips.

“Help how?” He squeezes again, feeling Dawn trace the ring on his hand. “I would never turn down your help but how would that not raise suspicion?” He’s taken a step closer and his voice gets lower, but it’s oh-so comforting being this close again. “I would rather you be close, and not help me, and guarantee we walk out of this place together. Can we agree to that? We play it safe until the last moment, I don’t want to risk it.” Not if it means losing Dawn. He’ll avoid every risk possible if it means Dawn’s safety is guaranteed.

SHE CAN’T HELP but feel so ill-prepared right now, but this is exactly how she’d felt with Emory too, and if Emory could take it, then she has to believe that Slate will too, even without the details that could make this more acceptable than she knows it’s going to sound. “I don’t have the details right now, but…” She pauses, swallows, briefly considers taking his hand but of course decides against it at the last minute, knowing they’ve never been like that. She’s never been like that. “We’re leaving very soon.” Her voice is low, hurried, hushed. “I — I can’t explain how I know, I couldn’t begin to tell you how it’ll work, but… I was told to make sure my friends were ready.” She lowers her voice even more. “Because we’re about to leave this place.”

It’s so hard to tell with those new eyes of Slate’s just how he’s taking this information, but she adds another name in, to maybe help the news a long, like water for a pill that’s taking quite a bit of effort to be swallowed. “I’ll try to find Silver, see if they know anything about this too, but I just want you to be prepared in case… whatever this is just starts happening.”

--

Leaving. What in the world does that mean? Slate wishes he could see the expression on Aven’s face to understand more. What kind of “leaving” was this? By the sounds of it, with the urgency and the grief, it sounded like it wasn’t just leaving the room, or leaving the building. “You’ll have to give me more, Aven.” He says carefully, with a bit of skepticism. “Where on earth would we be going?” Where was there to go? Surely not to their districts, right? It would be far too unsafe. But she mentions Silver and he knows they would probably also have answers, but Aven was the one to bring this up. Aven had told him. It hits his chest that she cared enough, even after recent developments, to make sure he knows.

There’s no possible way to stop the feeling of warm tears looking at Slate, a small part of the fear gone briefly before new fears set in. “It sounds like we are…it’s okay, we’re alone,” he says quietly, although he doesn’t mention his fear that they might still be being listened to, the caution that he hates they have to have even in moments like this. But Twig is off looking for last minute sponsorships, and Ivory is likely coming up with a recklessly brave plan, and he’s terrified that Slate might be planning to do something that won’t give him the chance to make it to the meeting point on time, too, to try to keep his cover as long as possible. It’s dangerous, but he can’t help it, can’t help the pull he feels towards Slate. He hopes that if anyone’s watching, his actions can be put down to his over-emotionality, nothing more. 

Dawn steps closer, and reaches out, taking Slate’s free hand, unable to stop himself, giving a squeeze, even as he keeps his voice low. “I was worried it wouldn’t get to you fast enough, I couldn’t imagine you not…” he trails off, not wanting to indulge that thought, wanting Slate to know he wouldn’t allow it. “I’m going to go talk to Emerald, and then I’m done. Let me help you, and then we can…find our way.”

--

The touch of his hand is familiar. Skin he missed so terribly. But he knew it instantly when it reached to take hold of him. On instinct, almost frantic, his second hand reaches up to take hold of the hand, both of his hands now gripping Dawn intensely. He squeezes, hoping that it can say more than he can out loud.

“I’m not thinking that way.” And neither should Dawn. He doesn’t plan to be left behind. He has hurt far too long for them not to reach the better life together. Whatever it looks like, he can’t give up. “But I can’t go there yet. I still have things to do. I have to---... I have to show them that I’ll fight to get these kids out.”

HEADCANON: Slate & Silver, before talking to Auburn ( @hcrdcreeks. )

Despite knowing that Aven has likely already talked to Slate by the time they make it down to Two, Silver finds it impossible not to seek out their old friend themself, too, before they continue on their work. It’s an indulgence, but a necessary one. They want to make sure that he knows that he has people who are still looking out for him, trying to make it clear that they want to make sure he makes it, too. It’s a relatively simple conversation between two old friends, but it’s chalk full of meaning and understanding. Silver understands that there’s still work Slate needs to do, just as they have as well, to find even an ounce of penance for all they’ve been apart of since their own respective victories. As Griffin requested, they make mention of now being the time to do that and get to work for those in the Arena, despite knowing that Slate has no one of his own left to aid. They trust him, though, and they know that he’s intelligent and strategic enough to have a plan to find a way to help without arousing suspicion. They attempt to find some optimism as they leave, despite how worried they are that Slate will actually make it to the escape himself, telling him to send someone to find them again if he needs anything before they see each other next.

--

FT. SLATE HARDCREEK ( @hcrdcreeks ) | QUARTER QUELL, DAY 4, AFTER THE HERON INCIDENT, AND AFTER TELLING EMORY ABOUT IT. two’s floor, the tower

SILVER, UNFORTUNATELY ISN’T where she’d thought they would be, and not necessarily having the time to hunt them down, she decides to go straight for Two in the meantime, mind still reeling after the vague information she’d learned from Heron ( things she’d then promptly passed down to Emory, but without specific information, she would have to stay put in the meantime anyway ). He’s thankfully still there, almost as if he hasn’t moved at all in the last times she’d been here to try and get him to say something to her beyond the usual pleasantries. As soon as she arrives, Aven doesn’t wait. “Slate, we need to talk,” she says, hushed a little frantic, as she sits down beside him. “I… things are happening, Slate, and we need to be ready.” This is a gamble, and she knows it; she hasn’t heard from anyone about exactly what is going on with Slate, but he’s still her friend, one of her longest, and if Heron is telling her to let her friends know, then he has to be included in that.

“Honestly, I don’t know what the hell is happening with you right now, but I need you to know about this.”

--

He was just preparing himself to go back out onto the Games floor and jump back into it all with everyone. Then the door opens and Aven’s voice is ringing out. Not only that but she’s rushing beside him and his body jolts by the quickness of it all, head turning in the direction of her voice.

“Things?” His hands play with the folded cane in his lap, twisting it with nervousness. He hoped it wasn’t another mess. That there weren’t more people dying. “Tell me then, Aven.” His eyebrows knit together with seriousness, hoping to get it out of her sooner rather than later.

He’s been at a little bit of a loss after running around for an hour or so, making sure it seemed like everyone who needed to knew, encouraging them, in his own quiet way, to leave now. Back in Seven for a moment to change, and figure out if it’s possible for him to take anything––possessions feel so trivial, but he likes his things, his paints and sketchbooks, his embroidered handkerchiefs, his sewing kit––it’s impossible not to think of what he’ll be leaving behind if he makes it that far. His parents, will they be punished for raising a traitor? If Emerald stays behind, he can’t imagine they wouldn’t be. And Slate, all he wants to do is go to him, make sure he knows, make him go, because he can’t imagine it being worth it if he doesn’t have him.

Stepping into the Common Area, a small pile of handkerchiefs to give out in hand, he hears a commotion, followed by a familiar voice, and immediately he can feel the tears coming to his eyes. Dawn wants nothing more than to run to him and embrace him, kiss him, his husband, but he doesn’t want to risk anything more than he already is by being here. So he crosses the room cautiously, instead. “Slate,” he says softly, no way to help how full of love his voice is. He wants to reach out and take his hand, but he’s not sure if they’re being watched. “I’m…I wanted to come find you, but I didn’t know if I should.” He hopes that’s a careful enough way to put it. 

--

There’s a sigh of relief when he hears Dawn’s voice. If he were more certain, he would rush to be held in the other’s arms, but as it stands right now, Dawn gives no indication to whether they’re truly alone or not, so he holds his ground. “I appreciate the caution.” He nods, sticking his cane under his arm and turning to face closer to Dawn’s voice.

“Seems we are both up to date on the state of things?” He asks carefully, turning his head to ‘look around’ as if to silently inquire if they were the only ones in the room. He needs to gage just how safe this conversation should be. If he should remain a safe distance away from the man he secretly married, which is proving to be rather difficult.

As soon as he caught wind, everything went out the window. Well, maybe not everything. But he had a lapse in judgement enough to go up to Seven’s floor. He had to know that Dawn knew. That he wasn’t going to be left behind. If it got him caught and killed, then so be it.

HIS EXPRESSION REMAINS unchanged for the most part, and Aven wonders if she should be more obvious about how she feels, put it a bit more in her tone so he can tell that she does appreciate him being here. But she doesn’t quite know how to do it when she feels so numb, doesn’t quite know when he seems so formal himself. He continues, though, and when he speaks again, Aven this time can’t resist the twinge of pain in her chest. He’s trying, as hard as he can. Whatever it is that’s keeping this distance between them, whatever it is that he has to do, whatever it is that’s forced this sudden coldness in their relationship, he’s trying so, so hard to push past it somehow. If only Aven knew the full picture.

“Thank you,” Aven says again, allowing a bit of warmth to settle into her tone now. Warmth isn’t common territory for either of them, which is another thing that’s making this conversation so difficult to have, and it’s clear there’s so much more preventing Slate from really showing that other than just ineptitude, but Aven is willing to try more for the both of them. “Do you… Would you like to sit?” She looks around, then, and sees mugs of now-cold coffee on the table, things to help keep her and the others here in Five awake and alert the whole day. “If you want something to drink, I can… I can have it prepared too.”

--

He could use a break from trying to be his old self. Not that Slate can fully let himself be open with Aven, unfortunately, but he doesn’t have to put it on so thick in front of her. He’s tried, he’s beat down, he’s not even sure if there will be an opportunity for him to make all of this worth it. So he takes the offered seat. He unfolds his cane to navigate closer to the direction of her voice. He feels for a place to sit, and lowers himself. It still doesn’t feel right. He still feels weak, having it search for a seat. But at least Aven wouldn’t be one to judge.

“Thank you, but I’ll pass on the drink. Not looking to have anything clouding judgement right now.” An inebriated man in this state would likely do something stupid, and then he’d be good as dead. 

He clears his throat uncomfortably, then folds his cane back up to put beside him. “I could ask you what your plan is now... or if you’d prefer we can sit in silence.” He still doesn't really know what the way to navigate this is.

SHE SHOULD’VE EXPECTED him, having just come to him earlier today to do the same thing, but it’s a surprise anyway when she sees Slate standing by the doorway, here in Five for a visit after her last Tribute’s onscreen death — her cousin’s onscreen death, rather. For a few moments, she’s unable to speak, and when Slate does it first, Aven keeps her silence for a little longer. He sounds extremely stiff, as though pushed to say these condolences by forces outside of himself, and everything is painfully formal, tortuously awkward. But at least he’s here, she tries to tell herself. At least he’s here.

“Thank you, Slate,” is what she manages after almost a minute of silence. Her mouth mimics his, lips also pressed together in a line, and her tone is curt, clipped. Formal and awkward, just like him. The way he speaks is making her want to push the overwhelming emotion back, making her want to just keep a mask over her grief. Slate looks so much like he’s here to extend his sympathies on assignment, and it hurts a little, compounding with the pain of loss, but it’s better than nothing. “It means a lot to me that you’d be here.”

--

He wants to do better for Aven. He wants to be the friend that she needs but regardless of all of this, Slate’s not really been the man to come to someone at their time of aid. He’s not properly equip for tenderness and warmth. That was so much more fitting for Dawn. Something he always respected about the other man. And now something he truly wished he had for himself.

He takes a few steps closer, following the direction of his voice. It’s harder, too, when he can’t see someone’s face. Having to rely on their emotions purely by how they sound. He’s have a hard time judging the emotion in the room. Does she even want him here, or not?

“People shouldn’t have to feel their grief alone in they don’t want to.” He says, and he’s trying, he’s trying so hard. This is not his territory, though. “I don’t want you to feel alone right now, Aven.”

FT. SLATE HARDCREEK ( @hcrdcreeks ) | QUARTER QUELL, DAY 1. late evening, a while after nilla’s death onscreen, five’s floor

TALKING TO SILVER has had a significant impact in Aven’s mood, she’ll say that much, but it’s one thing to be talking to them face to face and hearing their advice and their calming, sensible words in real time, and another to be alone once again, left to face the gravity of the situation on her own. Despite the lightness she’d received from their company, it’s easy for Aven to sink back into even just a bit of that despair from earlier on, knowing so many people in Five are disappointed, knowing her own family is disappointed — likely even angry at her for letting this happen in the first place. Aven knows, too, how ridiculous a thought that is when she’d had no control on who the Capitol would choose to torture her with, but what is logic in the face of this much grief and pain? Nothing changes the fact that Nilla had deserved absolutely none of it. She was a good, kind person, better than Aven herself, and she didn’t deserve any of what had happened to her at all.

So she sits there again, silent now after Silver has left, eyes trained at the screen but not necessarily looking or seeing, hands fidgeting on their own, nails picking it a tear in her pants. Unlike the first time, though, with Silver, she notices this instance when someone comes in, and she sits up immediately, turning to face whoever it is.

--

Slate couldn’t be so heartless as to fully ignore Aven in this time of great grief. She had taken the moment to come to him, and extend her condolences, even when he’s pushed her away and shrunken himself away back to the life he used to be living. The one that so many of his friends are rejecting.

He finds himself alone, on Five’s floor, entering the room. He has no idea is Aven is by herself or if others are in the room. But he stands there, folding his cane and tucking it under his arm as he lets out a long-held breath. “My deepest sympathies, Aven.” His lips press together in a thin line. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” Well, they had both suffered loss, but Slate wasn’t quite sure he had any right to his grief in a way that Aven did. 

“I’m lucky,” they agree. “To have my team in Twelve. To have—all of my friends outside of Twelve.” Which, maybe against all odds, Slate is among. Something Hudson never could have expected, when they only saw Slate on television once a year, only knew him as a Career Tribute turned fearsome mentor.

But who does Slate have? Slate’s co-Mentor is Teal Pittsmith, someone Hudson can’t think of without feeling a chill down their spine, the strength in her small frame as her fists tangled in their shirt. Slate sent Terra into the Games, and she’s not coming out. Hudson has Slate, and that probably means more to them than it does the other way around, that Slate has Hudson—but he does. Hudson wants to help.

But that doesn’t mean they know how.

“I’m sorry about Terra,” they say. “She seemed very kind. Maybe it doesn’t mean much but I wish—I wish it could have been different. That so much of this could have been different.”

SLATE’S JAW TIGHTENS, and it’s as if a switch has just been flicked somewhere in the man’s brain. Griffin watches his expression change, noting that very subtle face journey of his as it happens right before his very eyes, in the moments prefacing his response. Slate’s talking now, that much is apparent, no longer wallowing so much in his despair, but the frustration doesn’t leave Griffin, and it doesn’t dissipate even after the Mentor from Two comes to a finish. Vague one-liners. Catchy soundbites. Hardcreek’s got the nerve to be talking like this after, well, after everything, really. His one remaining chance at redemption has gone and allied herself with those trained killers from One, and he has the gall to talk to him about rules and optics.

“Fuckin’ optics…” Griffin murmurs mostly to himself, but with how close the two of them are, Slate would have obviously heard. He sighs, screws his eyes shut for a moment and brings his thumb and forefinger up to pinch the bridge of his nose. One more sigh, heavier this time, from deep within his chest, before he looks Slate straight in his blank eyes. “Forgive me if I’m not well-versed in highbrow Career Mentor tactics and jargon, then, Hardcreek. Maybe tell it straight for the small-minded people of the lower districts.” The sarcasm is plain on his face, but it’s clear in his voice too, just as much as the frustration still is. No doubt that if Ostro knew about this development with Slate, then the two of them would be speaking in lofty code like this every time they’re together, but that’s not how Griffin works.

In as low a whisper as he can muster, he tells Slate, “Whatever it is you think I can do to help this situation along, tell me. Whatever it is you think you can do, just do it. If you’ve got plans, then I sure hope we see some results soon.”

It’s moments like these that they wish they were better at reading other people naturally. They had spent the great majority of their life trying to teach themself that skill that they don’t naturally possess out of survival, impossible not to make a misstep when working so closely with the Capitol if they didn’t have that skill, but that doesn’t mean that it comes easy to them now. They watch Slate closely, looking for any hint as to what he must be thinking, but he’s skilled at the art of masking after so many years, and the eyes make it all the more impossible to read any hint of other emotion. 

They have a feeling he’s not banking on a change of heart from Osa. If that’s the case, they have to wonder what it is he plans to do to help anyone else, though, with his sole tribute firmly with One. Alliances are made quietly every year, of course, but with everyone else so spread out, they’re not sure how convincing those lies to sponsors will be this year. As it is, of course, they have no way of saying any of that to him safely, for both of their sakes. “Yes, I suppose so. I know your expertise will do her well, as it always does. I can only imagine you’ll have people lining up to sponsor her, given her position, and her sister,” they hum. “I can only hope I’ll manage the same for Zero. We both know sponsorships have never been my strong suit.”

--

Slate hates having to this of Teal. It sends shivers down his spine, which is extremely concerning as a grown man. But it was what he did. The bed he made and now he must lie in it. He has to suck it up and deal with it, regardless.

But regardless of Teal, they have to make it through this, and while he’s stressed about his own situation, he is holding tight to the confidence for his friends, especially Silver. They’re right, sponsorships are not their strong suit, and likely would be more of a struggle since they lost their fingers. He hopes that all that’s been said about Zero is true and he can hold his own.

Slate reaches out, squeezing the other’s arm tightly then unfurls their cane from under his arm. “I hope the same as well. And you know where to find me if the stress becomes too great. I believe I should probably go back to shaking hands and making nice.” He gives a crooked smile, a crack in the façade of it all. He’s much rather this be over.