the nightingale and the lark. one bird of night, one of dawn. after the lovers’ night together, romeo urges juliet that he must leave before he is found out by her parents, as he heard a songbird chirping a melody outside her window. she claims it was the nightingale, so that he’s convinced they are still hours away from sunrise, and romeo corrects her; it was the lark, who only sings to signal a new day.

setting the obvious nightin(gale) and mel(lark) aside, it has been theorized that peeta is represented by the canary, a bird that coal miners used to alert them of danger, as it would stop singing when the carbon monoxide levels rose to lethal. but when has peeta ever stopped chirping?

in mockingjay, when peeta is held captive by the capitol and made to film his own interviews with caesar, he momentarily breaks character to alert district 13 of the incoming bombings, “no one is safe. not in the capitol. not in the district. and you … in thirteen … dead by morning!” (p.156)

morning. how fitting for the lark to be the herald of the morn. similar to the bird outside the lovers’ window saving romeo’s life by letting him know it was a new day so he would leave just in time.

now, in john keats’ ode to a nightingale, the speaker hears the song of the nightingale in the forest and is enamored by it, but cannot help the jealousy they feel towards the nightingale, as it has never seen human suffering, pain, and sadness up close. they wish to “fade away into the forest dim” and follow the nightingale into darkness, surrounded by hawthorns and a selection of other flora. there is no doubt about it, the speaker is prepared to die at midnight while listening to the songbird, whose song will continue either way. they realize, however, that they would much rather reach the nightingale’s state of content through fine arts and poetry, rather than wine and bacchus-like madness. by the end, the speaker bids the nightingale goodbye as they cannot join it, and it flies away.

gale and katniss’s first introduction is in the woods, sharing a knack for hunting and a fire that burns within them. after katniss is sent to the hunger games, she is met face to face with capitol induced killing, and survives.

gale’s sentiment towards the revolution is simple; strike them the same way they’ve tormented the districts for 75 years. killing isn’t personal, and collateral is necessary. something katniss, from firsthand experience, knows is wrong. throughout mockingjay, she is swept up in anger, loss, and grief, and plans to die after eliminating snow. however, following coin’s assassination, what stops her from following the nightingale is the lark that covers the nightlock pill with his hand. katniss realizes she needs art, hope, a new day, and formally adieus gale.

the love that traveled from sejanus plinth’s chest to burst through his fingertips was pure. it was genuine. it suffocated him due to the sheer hold it had on his actions, his thoughts. if coriolanus snow’s fatal flaw was hubris, then sejanus’s is loyalty. pride is going to be the death of coriolanus, and love would ultimately kill sejanus.

his breath heavy and lips swollen as he dove in for kiss after kiss, the brunet’s fingers weaved through your hair with tender conviction; softly scratching at your scalp then tightening around the locks and pulling when you bite his bottom lip.

when you break the kiss, he just stares. half lidded. pupils blown. dazed yet focused, as if peering into your sole essence. so in the moment, he forgets to close his mouth. you bring your hand to the now cherry-hued apple of his cheek and he immediately leans into it, lips reaching out to just taste your skin again.

you slowly trail the same hand down to his chest to push him back onto the mattress, his head momentarily, desperately, following it at the loss of heat. you were sejanus’s center of gravity after all. his eyes roll back at the assertiveness of the action, a short groan leaving the confines of his throat.

“please. please just take me. whatever you want. whatever you need.”

you bite his thigh at that and he hisses, fingers gripping the sheets below. his staring continued. incessant. piercing. you’d feel hot all over just from his staring. however, he refused to touch you. sejanus was interesting in this regard. it was evident he absolutely craved it: his knuckles were turning white and his forearms giving the odd quiver here and there. a fool for restriction. for guilt. shame. he juiced it and gulped it all down every morning then made love to it each night. every time you crossed the border between his belt and the flesh underneath, he dared not indulge in his desire to hold you. subconsciously, he felt he did not deserve it. you. the overwhelming pleasure. the complete euphoria that washes over him as tears well in his eyes and the only thing he can say is your name.

“you can touch me, sejanus. it’s okay.” you reassure.

sejanus watches you bob your head back down to continue your toing and froing, and he instead brings his hands to the headboard, callouses ravenously wrapping around the walnut top rail. he wants to bite into the apple. to feel the crunch and the sweet, sweet juice drip from his lips to his chin. unravel it and get to the core. he just cannot bring himself to. he has deemed himself undeserving of it.

instead, he begs. for what? you don’t know, and neither does he. and still, he begs. his voice is gruff and strained as he rambles on, eyebrows pinched together yet not deterring him from shutting his eyes and fully wallowing in the warmth that emitted from you and knotted itself in the pit of his stomach,

“fuck… please- why do you insist on being so good to me, i don’t deserve-!” with a particularly long lick of your tongue, sejanus’s words get jumbled and raise in pitch until they’re cut off with a whine. it’s too much for him. it’s always too much. anytime you find yourselves entwined in moments of heat and pleasure, sejanus undergoes an inner mortal combat against his instincts. but you strip him of reason, and what is a district boy to do but revert to his instincts in battle?

hesitant and shaky, he withdraws a hand gripping the headboard and snakes it down the linen sheets, leaving it there, still not quite relinquishing his right to repentance. offering you the freedom to do as you please with it, and his skin itches just from the thought. you take his hand and guide it to the back of your head, and his palm immediately grounds itself. this contact alone seems to have him teeter on the edge. his ramblings amplify.

“i can’t- ’m so close, thank you, thank you, you’re too kind to me, please…”

his head is thrown to the side now, teeth sinking into his other forearm to prevent it from escaping the prison sentence he put forth on himself. one hand was enough, he thought. one hand was pushing it. the other must remain untouched so he doesn’t lose himself entirely, doesn’t pamper himself too much.

the brunet is salivating on himself, drool dribbling from his open mouth, over his arm, and dampening the pillow underneath his cheek, bead by bead. and yet, he’s still rambling. muffled, gurgled rambles of thanks and the repetitive ‘mmfh!’s.

your winds gale, akin to the melancholy you carry.

a distinct smell of cedar-wood and fir fights to mask the notes of vomit and white liquor wafting through the home of the ash black haired man who rests disheveled on the couch, bottle tightly clutched in hand.

it’s more charcoal under this light, you think as you take your coat off and notice how the dim lighting darkens his hair a shade or two. you hang your coat and make your way to the fireplace, long accustomed to the gag inducing stench of the place. you've also grown accustomed, no, fond of haymitch abernathy. ever since you lost an impromptu bet to him at the hob upon meeting which declared you personal housecleaner for a week, he decided he liked the few times his home did not look like a rat feast. and so, he started paying you for it, and you began to visit more often.

this was a personal record, though. you came by the victor's village just two days ago to continue this routine, yet the smell you so diligently scrubbed and disinfected layers of had returned. haymitch wouldn't notice the difference in odour, though. the alcohol he associates with cleanliness smells the same as the alcohol he seeks to dirty himself.

throwing two more logs into the dying fire, you turn to the noiret. if there's one thing you've learned through your visits, it is that haymitch looks more peaceful awake. maybe peaceful is not the word. relaxed. there is a certain scowl that pulls on his features when he's asleep, as if he's living an entirely different life in his dreams. haunting, torturous dreams. his breathing is deep, his snores heavy.

you mindlessly retrieve the bottle he's got a vice grip on to set on the table, but the loss of it jolts haymitch awake, bringing his other hand concealed under the pillow out, slashing the air with a kitchen knife. this has you jumping back with a scream, falling to the floor. luckily, the knife did not claim you.

"fuck!" you breathe out between pants. "what the fuck was that?!"

haymitch is also panting, his grey eyes wide. a tinge of a desperation you can't place behind them. appearing dangerous for the first time in a while. upon registering your face, the knife drops to his side, and his features slightly soften, but the feeling this has instilled in him, or rather the memories evoked, are still there. you can tell by the inhuman dilation of his pupils, his hands shaking.

"shit, are you... are you okay?" he asks, caught between reaching out for you or letting you gather yourself. letting you piece together what he is. letting you finally understand why this big estate houses only him.

"who the hell sleeps with a knife under their pillow? that was so fucking close, haymitch! and why does your house stink already, i just cleaned it two days ago!" you know you shouldn't be yelling at him like this, piling it all on, but your heart is still trying to re-enter your chest. the adrenaline has gotten to both of you. haymitch slumps back on the couch, head in his hands, not able to look at you or the knife. his body is still trembling, and it is clearly not from the cold that november has brought over. as you pick yourself up, you hear haymitch's voice, hoarse, small,

"two days... for two days." he says. his mouth is partially covered by his palms, so the words come out muffled.

"what?"

"you didn't come for two days." haymitch repeats, putting his hands down to look up at you with an expression that throws all of your anger out the window. pure woe. his curly hair looked utterly frazzled, gaze begging to look away in shame but needing to drink you up. oh, how that is the only thing he knows to do. you weren't sure if the glossy reflection threatened tears, or was simply an adverse affect of his nighttime drinking routine, and you did not want to know. both answers you could not bear. both answers highlighted the deprivation that follows haymitch like a shadow.

you didn't dare touch the knife. instead, you again try to set the bottle on the table, most of its contents now spilled. raw and distilled. something else you'll have to clean up. "i've got other jobs, you know. can't just live off of this." you finally look back at him. a little playful at first, then solemn. "that made you drink more?"

"no, just... i got used to having you around. my voice doesn't echo in the room as much when you're here." the noiret smooths his hair out. rubs his eyes. fixes his sleeves. anything to look collected. he wordlessly slides the knife back under the pillow when you go to bring a mop, and pretends to fluff it when you come back.

"i'll always be around, haymitch. you need to take care of yourself more though, okay? i still worry for you like all-fire." this stiffens every limb, joint, and muscle in haymitch's control as though a blizzard has teared down the roof. his hands clench into fists before flexing instinctively to reach for the bottle once again, the tremor in them not abandoned. has not been abandoned in a long time. you finish cleaning up the spill and turn on your heel to put the mop back, and haymitch's last-second decision is to instead grab your wrist. his latest liquor of choice.

"no. stay." he pleads. two words. so much said. the pauses, the breathing, the tone. his voice hitches at the end, and his entire body is leaning forward, engulfed by yearning, but kept at a distance as to not cross any invisible lines he has drawn between you. lines that his hand has already overstepped.

“i’ve got the rest of the house to clean, i can’t—“

“the mess will still be here tomorrow. please.”

how can a boy so familiar with poison and punishment allow history to repeat itself? allow this feeling to overtake him again, and subjecting you to it? because he is a selfish rascal. haymitch knew that. it has been so long since he reached his hands out for something other than a drink or a knife. so roughly he has wrestled to keep this submerged within, barely floating; the warmth that radiates off another human being, and not just the fireplace in his house that on most days, he could not even look at.

haymitch doesn't say another word, but his grip does not falter. he awaits. and awaits and awaits. seemingly all he does. all he is good at. all he can do. people have so hastily come in and out of his life, he no longer can fathom object permanence. if he is not touching you, you will leave. disappear. another mourning dove cooing in his night terrors.

you perch the mop's stick against the table and settle next to haymitch. "of course. always." you whisper. and you sound so sure of this declaration that his head dizzies and his chest tightens with an ache that will never part from him.

and thank you for sharing your goregous works.

you take your eyes off the water, only to be met with the same blue, crashing and pulling in his eyes. the tanned skin around the corners of the distinct aquamarine hue crinkles as a result of his toothy grin, and he holds up a porcelain white conch to your ear, beckoning you to listen to the idle chatters of the sea. you laugh and comply, leaning into it to immerse yourself in the sound.

you could only describe finnick as whimsical in moments like these.

after an afternoon of surfing (or ‘taming the waters’ as he likes to call it), he prefers to end your day at the beach in a way he knows would get a laugh out of you in order to end it perfectly. because that’s what his perfect day consists of; you, and the sea.

you try to focus on the conch pressed up to your ear, but the way the setting sun shines on him is so magnificent, it’s almost cinematic. his hair is messy and coarse from the saltwater, and so prettily hangs along his forehead. a piercing dangles from his right ear, the gold pleated material complimenting the matching skin it’s against so well, differentiated only by the meticulously arranged freckles adorning him.

you continue to stare into his eyes as your body currently believed that sight is more important than sound, and each inch of him you admire leads you to believe he must’ve been a merman in a past life. maybe this one, too. he’s full of surprises.

finnick pulls the conch back and slightly raises an eyebrow, smile never faltering, taking you in just as much as you’ve been very obviously doing to him.

“so? amazing, right?” he asks, bringing his other hand out to tuck a sandy strand behind your ear, letting it linger.

you take a second to respond, still so entranced and too in love, completely blanking on the fact that his question was directed towards the songs of the water that he wanted to share, and not himself.

“beautiful… so, so beautiful.”

finnick chortles at your answer and proceeds to do what he does best, diving in to plant an energetic, yet soft kiss on your lips.