deadweight

When she heard Mahlon, Denver laughed, but there was no humor to it. "Thanks," she said. "For catching me. And for not being a mutt, I suppose." She watched as Mahlon looked around. Trying to find the dog, she assumed, although for what purpose she had no idea. But what purpose was there to any of this right now? "You mean, aside from scaring pink poodles and making handsome men catch me?" she asked. "I just...couldn't sleep, I guess. You?"

Mahlon chuckled, charmed by the compliment and the carelessness with which it was bestowed. "Didn't think those were thing y'set out t'do, but t'each their own, I s'pose." Denver felt half-real, like something out of his arena: corporeal but planted, crafted with intention. He'd been navigating the world in a sort of semi-sleep, the world around him only partially conceptualized, but she was recurring. Mahlon couldn't seem to shake Denver, for whatever that was worth. "Jus'-- Tryna make sense of things." It was the truth, though it sounded pathetic coming out. Mahlon wasn't much of a liar these days. He didn't have reasons to hide shit anymore. "Figured retracin' my steps might trigger somethin'."

"From before," she confirmed, her voice barely above a whisper as she entangled herself in him again. It was the kind of answer that only enlightened more questions— breadcrumbs in a trail to whatever existed in the mysterious past. It was enough to know that their before was not what she'd made it out to be, and yet, not enough to have any indication of what it actually was. It was just another tug in the slow unraveling of knowing that they'd been here before, but the depth of their history was still so murky.

But if you got hurt, I'd go to Four.

Denver couldn't sleep. She just kept staring at the Games broadcast as the clock ticked onward, later and later into the night. Most of the tributes, even, were asleep in some perceived safety, to be awoken by either mutts, other tributes, or morning light, the latter a gift only few would get. Anacondas she recognized from the 113th Games slithered through a tunnel, before the feed switched to the District Twelve kids, one keeping watch while the other took his rest. They were in the south corridor, hidden behind some boulders. Those boulders were a popular photo opportunity. Denver could almost feel herself asking, "would you like for me to take your picture?" She always had to ask, if she saw a camera. And be sure to take multiple photos from a few different angles, so they have a selection, she could hear her manager saying.

"Easy--" Mahlon's hands came up, careful and considerate, bolstering Denver by the shoulders, then lingering as he tried to make sense of her through the darkness, searching for distinguishing features in her face and form. "Ain't an arena mutt or anythin'," he assured her, referring to both himself and the dog, which he'd followed into this room in the first place, though he hadn't been sure where it had come from. "I was jus'..." He released, turning to look for the poodle, though it had disappeared down another corridor. "Well, shit, I--" Mahlon hadn't been sleeping well, but that had been real, hadn't it? Present? Not a mirage or a memory peaking through? "What're you still doin' up?"

"You remember this? The pre-games nerves?" Maverick asked Mahlon, who was sitting nearby in one of the viewing rooms. The pre-games show this time around was a bit strange, with an odd tone -- simultaneously celebratory and somber -- and he was trying to tune it out and not think of the impending Bloodbath.

Linden didn't think the boomerang was that sharp.

Mahlon picked the boomerang up, inspecting the weapon, trying to figure out how she'd thrown it that poorly. "Y'nearly gave me a close fuckin' shave," he muttered, holding it back out to her. "Maybe don't fuck around w'shit y'don't know how to handle. At least if it has a blade. Shit's not as sharp as it'd be in the arena, but it'll still slice an' dice all the same."

Denver nodded. "It's a newspaper, but it started in Twelve," she explained. She wasn't entirely sure what the tommyknockers were, just that they were from Twelve, so she didn't elaborate. "Then it was a rebel news source with radio broadcasts too, and when the Vox won, it became a national publication. But they don't do the radio anymore." She had her suspicions as to why - a certain missing tech wiz from District Three - but she hadn't brought herself to ask Slate or Cat about Nano. She had tried not to think about him, to be honest. She missed him. Abel too. Her friends who didn't come out of the snow.

"Seems like radio would be helpful, 'specially now that they're national," Mahlon pointed out, frowning. "Most people in the districts can barely read. Myself included." He was functional, enough to get by, but if he'd stumbled upon a newspaper, he'd have been pulling out one or two words, mainly relying on pictures. "So you write?"

No.

She worked more swiftly than he did, her movements quick and deft. Door closed, lock turned -- each action felt definitive, and his heart raced out of his chest. Yes, he wanted to know a secret. I've missed you. I love you. Mahlon was too afraid to offer his. "From before?" he asked, focusing on hers instead. There was something there, something he could trace back between them, deep into the nothingness.

"No, probably not." A laugh vibrated low in Greer's throat. Maybe in a moment with greater clarity she would've caught Mahlon's humming— the spark of memory tied to it— but she was focused now solely on the movement of his hands, his lips as they spoke against her skin and the question they posed. They couldn't stay here, carrying on like they were. Although, there was a joke somewhere in the periphery of her mind, half-formed, and not relevant to a man who couldn't remember, "Bein' out in the open ain't ever seemed to bother you before." But she cleared it from her mind like swiping wafting smoke. "You real worried 'bout bein' displeasin'?" She asked instead, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

"An' if I am?" Mahlon pushed back, taking the excuse to run his fingers across her collarbone, to draw the fabric overtop an inch farther down. "Don't give a fuck about anythin' or anyone in the world, 'cept you." And maybe that was the truth he'd been afraid of voicing: the depth of his apathy (or worse, the depth of his want). How much would he really be confessing if he looked her in the eye and said yes, I worry about pleasing you?

It was like breaking through some invisible barrier— crossing the threshold of an open door that locked again behind her. There was no going back from this, not this time. Perhaps, not really ever before. She'd learned once, on a rooftop in the heat of summer, that any feelings she had for Mahlon couldn't be easily locked away. For one reason or another she'd tried, and always, she'd failed. And now, when she'd clung to the notion that she was doing the right thing by disguising their past, her feelings were still ripped from her chest with such ferocity it could've been the sinew from her ribs.

What game were they playing anymore? Mahlon wasn't sure. He couldn't recall if the promise had included discretion, if either of them wake up tomorrow morning and pray he'd also forget this, but tonight, everything felt vibrant and real. Her skin like velvet, her hair like silk. Mahlon traced the silhouette of her form the way he used to shade his drawings, smearing the thicker lines of charcoal. She melted too. His mouth worked a faithful line off her mouth and to her throat, catching at her jaw and lower -- beneath her ear. There, he hummed the melody of the song that was playing. He'd heard it before, last time they were here.

Greer's eyes flitted down, watching Mahlon's hand pause to rest against the taut curve of her middle— a momentary connection between them and their child. It made her heart ache, stirring with both a sharp pang of regret and a wave of unearned relief. There would be a tomorrow— one without this imagined circumstance— and in that tomorrow, Greer would tell him the truth. But in this present, what gripped her beyond anything else was longing. She needed him, unbearably. She couldn't push it away for one more night, and what good would it do when they always ended up back in each other's arms anyway? Always.

The lines began to blur: between him and her, between now and then, between Panem and whatever had existed prior. Mahlon let them. The melding eased his muscles, pulled them down from sharp angles into easy slopes. Yes, this was more than alright. The overlap didn't scare him, not like it had. They were pretending. The world didn't have to make perfect sense.