m o l l i t i a m

feel free to combine multiple prompts or add  “ + reverse ”  to switch roles !   for reference, the one sending in the prompt is the one committing the action.

Dressed in one of the outfits that she had picked out with Xio, she felt a little bit more like herself than when she had been dressed by Domi. Calista knew that Domi would probably insist on dressing her for the next party she was invited to, but she was trying to find the balance between dressing as herself or dressing for the Capitol. It was still overwhelming, living in the Capitol, amongst people that she didn't know and felt unfamiliar with. She may have been in the Capitol for several weeks at that point, but there was still so much to learn.

Living in District Two, things were simpler. But was that because a rebellion hadn't been hanging over them? Calista felt like she had to watch every single word that she said out of fear that she would be dragged back to that interrogation room. The pictures of her brother's mutilated body were seared into her mind. She didn't want to end up like her brother. She didn't want to end up like Domi's avoxes, who she had tried to be as kind to as she could.

Calista had been glad when the Gamemaker she had been talking to got called away. He had been talking about Cato and had been completely oblivious to her discomfort. She grabbed a glass of champagne and found her way outside, glad that the balcony was empty. She took a sip of her drink and looked out over the Capitol. It was beautiful, all of the lights, but she was starting to miss her home. She heard the door open behind her, and she turned, hoping it wasn't the Gamemaker from before. Instead, it was Zelus Saint Laurent. She smiled.

"Hello," She greeted. "Beautiful night, isn't it?"

Still, it'd be uncouth to leave now when he'd just come outside. And perhaps it didn't have to be the worst thing ever, wasting some time outside and getting the fresh air he'd needed, before he ducked back inside to the mouths of the lions awaiting. "I find it quite boring, actually." He gestured vaguely towards the sky, the view, the city around them. Uninspired was how he'd found the scenario, after living here and there for so many years. The Capitol had lost its charms after the first few years of his apartment, with its rounded corners and bright lights and empty rooms.

"Forgive me," he said, angling his body slightly towards the girl, accepting that he were to make proper conversation now, no longer set to his own devices in the empty nightfall, "what is your name, again? I'm Zelus." He had half a mind to call her Cata, Catoa, any variation of her brother's name in a feminine version -- he was positive they were similar enough, he was just abysmal with names. A hand stretched out to her. "Bad memory, I swear. Don't think we've been properly introduced before."

She wants to ask him about what's happened — how many are alive, how Gale managed to grab his siblings and get them out of Twelve before it was blown to bits when he was supposed to be in the Capitol. How he'd even known it was going to happen in the first place. Hazelle knows she won't like the answer, it's likely dripping in dangerous admissions of rebellion that she's rather not hear come from her own son's lips. But she reminds herself that they are safe in Thirteen now, a place where revolting against the Capitol seems to be encouraged, and since he hasn't gone and let himself get killed she'll allow herself to feel the small semblance of pride that's been bubbling up under the surface of her worry. Calloused hands find Gale's face so she can swipe away his tears once he finally pulls himself away from her, matching his smile as if it might further his sense of relief. "M'really here. A little banged up, but here."

A little is an understatement, but Hazelle quick to shift in her bed in an attempt to hide just how banged up she really is — though she's mindful of the little bodies that surround her. Her fingers brush through Gale's hair and over Posy's back, squeezing Vick and Rory to her before nudging them to return their brother's embrace. "We love you too, baby." It's quiet, muffled by limbs and hair but it's full of the pent up love for her children that she'd managed to hold onto. Being able to express it to them now is a gift she never thought she'd get again.

After the tearful display of reunion, Gale's questions remind her that of all people, she has Ezra Klair to thank for that gift. "I'm okay, really. They got us out before it could get too bad," she begins to explain, her mind looping back to the end of her time in the arena. It's hazy, certainly, and confusing — but she's been given enough pieces of the puzzle to know at least most of what happened. "They had the arena blown up somehow. The man from Two, Ezra — he cut our trackers out so they wouldn't scoop us up to the Capitol, I guess. Next thing I know I woke up here." She leaves out the fact that she'd nearly been on the brink of death thanks to the claws of a few deranged mutts, because if his tears and the state of him are anything to go by, Gale's been through enough in the past few days without reliving that — if he'd even witnessed it happen at all. "I'm lucky. Don't know if everyone else in the arena made it to Thirteen with me."

And now they're here. The weight is off his shoulders, he's light enough that he could float a few feet above the ground, he's sure. Sitting on his mother's hospital bed, holding her alive and well, might be as close to it as he can get. "Ezra," he repeats, nodding along, drinking in every word Hazelle says with attention. He remembers that one, remembers Chandler's death, he couldn't guess in a million years that a career would be a rebel. He'll wrestle with his own stubborn thoughts about it much later, when he finds the man to properly thank him, at some point.

He'd known about the arena explosion, of course, though he hadn't gotten any details yet. He'll make sure to ask around and hear about it from the people who executed it, and from the people who could watch on with clearer eyes; people who didn't have that much skin on the game. It's almost exciting that, now that his family is safe, he gets to be a better soldier for the rebellion, too. Not that his mother needs to even dream about him having these thoughts yet. "I don't know who else came out, either. I ain't seen shit," he breathes, hearing his siblings giggle at the curse word that slips out on accident. He allows himself the ugly snorted sound that comes out of his mouth, a choked out laughter-like thing, and he rubs at his eyes, collecting the lasting water from them and spreading a mess of soot all over his cheekbones when he drags it out. "We're all lucky. Lucky doesn't begin to cover it, ma." His voice chokes again, catches on something in his throat, and he's not one to talk about his father in vain -- not one to mention Baron much at all because it hurts something deeper in his chest, even on a good day, and he's so unsure if he believes any of the afterlife crap he's heard --, but this time it comes out easily. "Dad must'a been watching over us." 

She offered him a small smile when he reached out to help her get around the glass. Delly was going to have to clean it up when this was all done and hide the evidence too. She hoped that she didn't get into trouble for breaking the glass even though it had been an accident. "Thanks," she murmured softly.

It's not broken. Delly raised an eyebrow. "Did one of the doctors tell you that?" She questioned. Although Delly wasn't a doctor or even a nurse, she wouldn't deny that his nose looked sort of broken to her. Although maybe it wasn't. "Even if it's not broken you need to get it looked at," she insisted. "How did it happen?" A million different ideas rushed through her head to explain Gale and his bleeding nose, but each one seemed as unlikely as the last.

Did ya see it? He didn't have to clarify what he was talking about. Peeta came rushing back and she closed her eyes and nodded. Don't cry, she admonished herself. She didn't want to cry. Why was she going to cry? "He's alive," she whispered, finally opening her eyes and looking up at Gale. "We have to get him back, Gale. We have to. We... we can't leave him there. He's not right. They're--they're doing something to him. What are they doing to him?" A few tears fell down her cheeks. Saying the words out loud, admitting her fears to someone made them real. Gale couldn't possibly know what they were doing to Peeta. "When are they going to save him?"

"No. I've had it broken before, this ain't it," he assured, dabbing at his upper lip with a sleeve again, making sure it was properly dried out now. He had half a mind to pretend otherwise, to say he went to the medical wing and had been dismissed, but while he was well-practiced in the art of white lies that kept his loved ones from worrying, it didn't feel right to lie to Delly. "It was an accident." Not entirely a lie, he doubted that Boggs had really meant to smash his nose in -- though, upon second thought, he wouldn't hold a grudge if the man had wanted to let some anger out. "Things got... heated in the other room, 's fine."

Gale could sense it even before she opened her eyes to reveal the glittering water in them, he could feel the emotion radiating off her frame. He didn't let go of her hand, from when he'd helped her step over the glass, and now he gave it a squeeze in hopes to be comforting. The truth was that he didn't have much honest comfort to offer, just as he hadn't to Katniss -- Peeta was undoubtedly being beaten, tortured, everything worse under the sun, there was no way the Capitol was just letting him be. "I don't know," he admitted, painfully. "We'll get him back. We will." It's an optimism he wouldn't dare use anywhere else, one he wasn't sure he even believed in, one he was sure Katniss would've scoffed at, at best. But to Delly, he could make empty promises all day, if it got her to stop crying. He'd cost her her parents, the least he could do was make sure they were finding a way to rescue someone she loved now. "I'll make sure they got a plan. That we got a plan for it. Alright?"

Are they going to shoot her dead, leave her body on the floor for her friend to find and then shoot him too? Thea knows they aren't above it — she hadn't been able to look away the day they'd put bullets into the backs of her fellow victors' heads. Are the two of them next? And if so, why do it in the Tribute Center? Why not broadcast it for the entirety of Panem like they'd done before, why not paint them as the traitors the Capitol clearly thinks they are? Thea doesn't dare ask any questions, though — she simply does as she's told and cleans herself up, fear plaguing her to the core as she imagines what's to come.

She's whisked out of the room again when she's finished, except this time they've brought her to Two's apartment in the Tribute Center, and Thea nearly weeps at the familiarity of it all when the elevator door opens. The guards all but push her inside but Thea doesn't need much goading, she's quick to glide right over to Zelus and wrap her arms tightly around his neck. "Hey," she breathes the word out, almost not daring to say anything more in fear of rocking the boat further. He'll know — the two of them may be friends, but they rarely speak, and they certainly don't hug. Her abnormal greeting will hopefully be enough to alert him that something is off, even if she can't outwardly say what it is. "I've got bodyguards now. For my safety," she clarifies, suddenly looking wide eyed over at the guards as if to say 'I didn't mean it as a bad thing, please don't hurt me!' They remain stoic. Carefully, she looks back at Zelus. "The rebels are getting more aggressive. We need to be cautious."

And then, if all of the details registering in his mind weren't enough to topple over the dominos, Thea makes a decided line and throws herself at him. It's disorienting, to say the least. Zelus will pride himself in reacting quickly and effortlessly to things, keeping his icy façade at all costs, but he finds his hands hovering mid-air for a touch too long in confusion. He doesn't think he has ever stood this close to Thea before, their friendship a well-balanced act of two ghosts standing an arms' length away from each other, even if they enjoyed each other's company. The guards over her shoulder are still staring, watching, their eyes almost unblinking and the reminder of their gaze has him patting her back in what might be the most awkward movement he's ever performed.

He suspected things could be off before, but not hugging each other upon greeting off. His brain does a quick rearrangement -- he tries to look for more signals, tries to read between lines that he hadn't even noticed before. Thea is making something very obvious, he just can't figure out what it is. His fingers twitch uneasily by his sides when they part. "Right. The rebels. I'm sure you must've become... quite the target, after your interview," he nods, brows furrowed. "Are you..." a flicker of his eyes to the guards, "well?" 

This was always the most awkward phase of the process. You'd think it would be the death of a tribute, but it actually was the moment after their reaping. When you were in the train with the escort and you had to congratulate them on their probable death.

Juneau was happy the escort left at one point. Something fairly important, he assumed. And Vesper - well, he didn't know where she was. Perhaps throwing up or shooting some numbness. He'd understand either options. Or she was simply tending to the male tribute who was, understandably so, freaking out.

Lips pressed into a.. well, could you even call it a smile. Not really. He cleared his throat like that would put some strength behind his voice. Push some courage into his shyness. He never got used to this and probably never would.

She felt Yazmin by her side like a phantom, a reminder of her wife being ripped away from her, stuck back in their District. Amara had never considered how lonely it was, to be reaped for the Games; she'd never had to consider much of this process at all. Even as a kid within reaping age, she would push the thoughts from her mind, remembering her father's promising words that they would never get their name called -- that others were less fortunate, much to their luck. Now she was here, all alone, being talked to by an escort and mentors she only knew from afar, people she had only heard of, as if they were characters on an old wives' tale.

Delly didn't know whether she wanted to cry, scream, or smile because Peeta was alive. He was alive when everybody tried to tell her that he was dead. But a voice in the back of her head kept asking if maybe Katniss had been right after all. Maybe Peeta would be better off dead. The thought made her sick to her stomach. It felt like a bitter betrayal to her best friend. One of the things that had kept her going was the hope that Peeta was going to be okay. Now she had that confirmation. Peeta was alive, but what were they doing to him? What were they doing to him right now?

Did it mean that they were going to go in and rescue him now that they confirmed that Peeta was okay? Did it mean that a plan would be made to save him? Delly desperately hoped that they could go in and get him and bring him to Thirteen.

"Delly." Gale's familiar voice brought her out of her thoughts. It was undeniable, the immediate relief that she felt when she heard his voice. Delly desperately wanted to talk to someone about what she had seen. Did Gale watch the interview? She needed someone to tell her that it was going to be okay. Peeta was going to be okay.

"Gale!" She exclaimed, turning around, She stepped over the broken glass that surrounded her. She was about to throw herself into his arms when she noticed his nose. Delly stopped short. "What happened?" She gasped.

Or at least, he thought he knew. It was uncertain, all of it, he'd seen the uproar that his answers had caused around the room of officials, he'd seen the way only Katniss seemed to react towards the other end of the scale. The traitor vs. victim scale. He didn't know where to land himself, either.

He sniffed, tasting the copper on the back of his tongue, and called Delly's name when he was close enough to catch her attention. His eyes flickered over to the glass by her feet, the glistening pieces painting a pretty clear image of what had happened, and his hand instinctively reached out to help her bypass it on her way to him. "Hey, did ya--?" he started, interrupted by her question.

Oh. He felt the trickling warmth over his upper lip again and reached out a wrist to wipe the blood off, tipping his head back for a moment. "Ah, nothing. It ain't broken," he assured, as if already predicting what she might be concerned about. He'd had his nose broken before, and it'd surely hurt a lot more than this, despite what the swollen reddened skin might've looked like now. He looked back down, something sheepish in his eyes as he sniffed again and checked his hands for any signs of more red pouring out of his nostrils. Embarrassing, really, but it seemed under control once more. He made an effort to take the attention back to what mattered, to gage how she was feeling -- besides the apparent horror at his disfigured nose. "Did'ya see it?"

When she looked back over the years it was easy to see that her views of Reaping days were varied and conflicting. As a child they had almost been something to look forward to - a chance for the family to put on their best clothes and take pride in the Panem that her parents lauded. Innocence had shielded her eyes from the truth of what the day she loved so much really was and so for years her only memories of it were fond. All that stuck in her mind was how proud her father had looked, the excitement of getting to put on her best dress, giggles shared with her siblings, the way her mother had smoothed an affectionate hand over her hair as she'd told her how she looked perfect. But the days when she was old enough to be reaped had been ones met with nerves and anxiety that couldn't be soothed even by her parents reassurance that her name would be lost in the sea of others. As her heart had felt like it was going to beat of her chest she'd been forced to realise that Reapings were not as benign as she'd once thought.

By the time she was old enough to no longer be at risk, the naivety that had been so indulged in her had all but faded away. Doe eyes might have still chosen to look upon the world with optimism but even she couldn't see any silver linings to the Games that she was supposed to love. The only way she'd been able to look upon Reapings in recent years was with sorrow and horror but none of them had been more horrifying than her own sister's name being pulled. Their family had been so untouched by the Games she had almost thought she'd misheard. But as Amara had walked onto the stage she thought that somehow it must have been a nightmare. There was no way that this could be her reality when she couldn't imagine having to watch Amara go through a Games, let alone a life without her sister in it.

Tears had flown freely since the Reaping, thoughts racing too much to think to calm herself as her mother's chiding words about causing a scene fell on deaf ears. The crying had only stopped as she waited outside the room where her sister was for her allotted time, using the wait to pull herself together. She knew well enough that if she went in with tears running down her face Amara would focus on her when she really needed to be focusing on herself. For once Esme wanted to be the solid one, the sister that could be leant on. Finally, it was her turn and she entered the room hesitantly, a nervous glance sent towards the guard that let her in before she focused on her sister. "I'm so sorry, Amara, I don't -" She stops herself before she begins to draw focus to her own disbelief, small shake of her head is given before she takes a few steps forward and extends a hand towards her sister. "How are you? Can I do anything for you?"

And then they did. Everything goes by in a blur. She thrashes against the peacekeeper that pulls her from the parting crowd, if only because he doesn't let her kiss Yazmin one last time before she's forced onto the stage. She stands there, a trembling thing, catching the countless pitiful eyes directed towards her. Words are muffled to her ears, some celebration goes by, she's numb; and then she's in a bizarrely impersonal little room where she's supposed to say her hasted goodbyes.

Esme's face breaks through the fog of her panic. Esme, the sweetest thing, looking at her with those round, worried eyes and swallowing back her emotions -- always with a habit of caring more about others than herself. "Esme," she croaks, her voice cracking around the sound, suddenly feeling like she hasn't spoken in months. She takes the hand reached to her, squeezes Esme's fingers, before pulling on her sister's wrist and crumbling into her arms for a desperate hug. She's the older sister, she knows; she's not supposed to break in front of the younger one, but today, she can't help it. The way her entire frame is shaking is obvious against her sister's much more solid one, and she bites back a sob as she speaks again. "I'm sorry," she says, for no reason. Sorry for everything, sorry for anything, she just feels sorrow like a heavy lump in her chest. Sorry that she's going to die. "Take care of Yazmin for me, please." The plea comes quickly, and she gasps in a breath for air, thoughts racing as it all dawns on her. She parts from Esme, holding her sister's shoulders now, speaking with determination despite the tears steadily tracking down her cheeks. "Take care of her-- don't let them take anything away from her, okay? She has our name, she owns everything I leave behind, don't-- don't let dad take it from her. Okay? Promise me, at least."

his body is tense and her mind suffers a similar affliction. drawing her in and out of sleep with little remorse as it races at the anarchy the day beginning to break just beyond the threshold will bring. coupled with the immense magnitude of it all, such mounting pressure doesn’t help signs of withdrawal starting to creep in either. symptoms gnawing away at her as usual, so achingly familiar but this, vesper doesn’t mind particularly. not when she’s with him. the singular instance in which she’s come to prefer the clarity it provides. how it allows her the ability to cherish these fleeting moments they share and commit each one to memory — shading them in with the colour lacking from an existence as illicit as theirs, gilding them. now more so than ever before. taking particular care in how she peels herself away from zelus’ still sleeping form. marvelling as she often does at how hands prized for the havoc they’ve wrought always seem to reach for her with such resounding tenderness.

the morphling’s communication device has been buzzing intermittently for a while now. she’s unsure if it’s that that wakes him or the slight commotion she causes trying to slip back into the dress lying discarded on the floor from the night before. the sort of silvery, skintight number they’ve not stopped dressing her in for seventeen years. the sort she doubts she’ll ever have to wear again after today. with it on ( at last ), she has half a tired mind to up and leave at once. having reasoned a hundred times over that perhaps knowing nothing might just be the safer alternative here… but vesper can’t bring herself to do so. his survival not something she’s willing to chance. humming a pouty, playfully offended ❛ hey… ❜ as the joke he utters takes her by surprise and the conviction she had to leave along with it. the uncharacteristic nature of the thing appearing almost like an omen of what’s to come. the day promising to be a most uncharacteristic one.

it never is, vesper assures, and he feels pretty stupid for putting the joke out there, for sounding like he was doubting this thing between them. he never does. he doubts a lot of things -- if his bloodied hands are worthy of clutching onto her so desperately, if he deserves to have a spec of her attention at all, sure --, but never if whatever this thing is between them, is real. that they both want it. his hand finds her back easily, splays out against the span of it before his fingertips toy over the closed zipper of her dress, mourning the offensive guard it keeps over her skin. he'd be a nuisance and unzip it back down, if he could pretend he didn't see the look in her eyes. that brief flash of something he can't name, something that tells him she doesn't have the time, today. 

again, not something they are strangers to, but the sudden sobriety in her voice has the idle movements of his hand stuttering against her back. concern darkens in his eyes, brows furrowing minutely, more of an open expression of his sentiments than he's willing to giving anyone else. "get out?" he echoes, feeling quite dense, an unusual feeling that he does not welcome. his eyes search her face, but there is no answer written on the bow of her lips, the freckles over her nose. his hand slides up, fingers sinking into the mess of hair by the nape of her neck for their home. a comfort more to himself than to her, if he could ever admit it, as the vague image of president's snow merciless cruelty sparks in his mind. has he been threatening her again? there's always the looming presence of his metaphorical whip cracking against their backs, making them move the cogwheels of his machinery, but that hasn't stopped them from finding each other before. it hasn't put that look into vesper's pretty round eyes, not in a long time. "what's going on?" his voice is strained now, guarded, despite their physical entanglement. "tell me." a softer plea, though he'd like to call it a demand.

effie trinket is pretty torn up about the boy too it seems. ( they all are ; abernathy failed him the most after all. ) the lady's sorrow runs deep like the mines that were in the soon to be fallen district twelve. she talks. he listens. she stumbles. his lips stay zipped. haymitch isn't the comforting type. his father was warm. maybe he could have been too if it wasn't for the games. what if's cause nothing more than empty hopes though. so it doesn't matter ... none of that shoulda, woulda, coulda shit. the last time they comforted one another, they ended up in bed together. what's the man suppose to do now, give effie a half hug ? the victor is relieved that both chaff and effie made it out alive, and he wouldn't do some trade. ( katniss would probably. ) he cannot bury the thought of whether peeta's heart is pumping or not. he's not entirely sure which would be worse for the boy at the moment, not when breathing means leverage against his wife. the anger snow feels towards the mockingjay will be felt by the golden boy who once said he had a crush on an unsuspecting girl.

" i wonder if they took the stylist too then, and anyone else on set associated with the boy, " haymitch comments finally after a long pause once effie took a break for air. " ya couldn't really do anythin' for 'im at that point, eff. nothin' could 'ave really been done when it came to the delay. nobody accounted for somethin' like that. "

the air feels stale between them. it often feels that way down in thirteen, an effect that effie is unsure is realistic or if it only happens because she feels suffocated by the lack of windows to open. she stands, fingers clutching at her own arms, while haymitch is sat back on the cot like it's his. betrayal is still simmering on the back of her throat, stings the corner of her eyes when she really looks at him; she feels foolish, that she thought they were getting closer through these years, while in reality he's been hiding more and more things from her. it should be like looking at a stranger, and yet, he continues to be a familiar presence, someone she's grateful to have around after what felt like three days in solitary. she feels even more foolish, then.

"you could've accounted for it!" you as in the rebellion, thirteen, whoever the fuck planned it all, not haymitch himself, of course. her guilt rises as anger, uncharacteristic for the escort but pretty common for the past few days. she's been exhausting herself, floating between sadness and grief and anger and betrayal and she feels like she's been stuck underwater for years. "we could've stayed behind, we didn't have to leave so quickly," she argues, uselessly, knowing well she already yelled this piece to the guards, too. her eyes well up and her voice is choked but she keeps talking, for once. it feels useless to try to hide her tears now. "could've let me stay behind with him! i could've-- i would've been with him, at least!" it wouldn't help, everyone had told her this already, and she didn't want to hear it again. "i promised him! i promised him i'd always be there for him, and i left him, haymitch. i'd-- i'd trade places with him in a fucking heartbeat now, and i know there are a dozen people who might say the same, but none of them fucking mean it as much as i do. and we could-- we should've just waited! we could've waited! we shouldn't have left without him! there has to be something we-- i could've done. and i didn't! i'm the one who always looks out for him, and i didn't!"

Hazelle's panic is quickly replaced by confusion, but she's taken under by the morphine before she can question it, and the next time she wakes her kids really are right by her side. The reunion is by all means tearful, and Posy's got no interest in leaving her Momma's side for a good, long bit — but there's a noticeable absence of one of her kids that Hazelle is quick to question. Again, she's reassured that Gale will be on his way, that he's apparently helping refuges from Twelve get to them as they speak (and Hazelle almost curses at this, because damn her son always putting himself in the line of fire — although her irritation is somewhat outweighed by the sense of pride that fills her). The information does little to placate her, but there's not much she can do anyway, so Hazelle waits.

She sits for days, gnawing on fingernails that have since been rid of the dirt and grime from the arena, clutching the children she can see close to her while they wait for her eldest to show up. It'd be easier if she could pace around, if they'd let her get up and move and maybe even linger around the hangar, waiting for the hovercraft that'll bring Gale to her. But she's on strict orders to remain bedridden — the deep wounds on her back from the mutts will take some time to heal enough for her to properly move around, she's told, and while the deep gash in her forearm isn't exactly hindering her in any way, it isn't helping her case either. Hazelle simply does what she's told, hoping and praying her cooperation will somehow get Gale back to her more quickly.

When she finally sees him, just a few days after waking up, it's like all the air in her lungs is forced out of her at once. She barely has time to process what's going on before Gale — her son! — finally crashes into her, and she's quick to pull him tight, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as his siblings pile on top. In that moment, Hazelle thinks she's never felt more solace in her entire life, the comfort and relief of having all of her babies back in her arms is nothing short of overwhelming.

His mom's voice breaks past the sound of blood rushing in his ears and he gasps out a pitiful sob again, squeezing closer to her, as if she could disappear if he let go. I'm here, she reassures him, and it's like she's reaching into his chest and plucking out several days worth of stress and horror built up. She is here, it's as much a miracle as it's ever been, and he doesn't think he can ever take this for granted. He's been a corpse for over a week now, a sack of bones and meat dragging himself around, living on ridiculous hope and the duty he had towards his siblings. Now he could breathe again, he could come back to life. He could have normal thoughts and take normal steps without thinking at every passing second that his mother was caught up in a death trap, sentenced to the slaughterhouse.

He pulls back to look at her, really look at her, and his lips twitch between a smile and the painful grimace that partners with the tears that keep falling, but either way, he's so happy. "You're okay," he echoes, nodding, reaching out his hands to hold onto her arms before they move to hold her face, too. He hopes he'll get an earful about staining her skin with soot, just like he'd do it when he was coming back from the mines, jokingly grabbing her chin in passing to hear her squeal in protest and run after him with an open hand ready to smack. He loves her so much it hurts.

"i ain't care for chaff." when he kissed her on her wedding day, she had been assured it was just a friendly thing, a jest to the newlyweds, but katniss — perhaps as expected — was never able to move past that to properly enjoy haymitch's friend around the penthouse. haymitch, however, she loathes even more than his friend, and is the last person she wants to see here (she also ignores that effie has done as much as confirm to her that haymitch is here, returned from god knows where, and that this district is just big enough for them to avoid each other until one of them becomes a corpse).

what effie says is news, though. when she asked, they refused to show her any footage, speak of any details, like that would set her off, like she didn't already know that they regretted their failure only because the boy would be more compliant than she is right now (she agrees, but that's not the wounding part). swallowing, she stands up, going around the table to wrap a hand around effie's. "get up." the younger demands, low, but still enough to earn some stares. if someone is willing to rescue a cap from the mockingjay, they seem to refuse to jump into action, and their meals are soon forgotten.

effie doesn't have her heels anymore is an alarming thought to hold now, but there is none of the familiar clicking against the floor as they move, and katniss damns her train of thought as she finds herself surprised that effie is not much taller than herself. maybe it's that fragility, maybe it's the lack of an audience, maybe it's the way that everything only makes her heart hurt more, but she lets go of the capitolite with more gentleness than she intended, though she assures to add enough distance between them so effie doesn't think she's going soft for someone who doesn't deserve it. "how was he? what did you see last? did they hurt him? i just can't understand why they would —" forget him. again. "it is not me they need, they should have gotten him out first."

she follows when she's demanded to, because there's no use in fighting and people are already staring. they always stare, even on a good day -- and on a good day, she can handle it. today, it would feel a little more humiliating, to have the audience to be yelled at, so she's grateful to go somewhere else. tears burn the bridge of her nose on the way there, and she wipes them before the other can see them. she feels small, not only for the lack of her clacking high heels, and it wouldn't surprise her if she got scolded for crying like her parents had done to her toddler self. katniss adds distance between them, even though effie doesn't need to be told she's not softening up, everything about this is pretty obvious. the once-escort holds herself, arms crossed and fingernails digging into the flesh of her arms as if focusing on the sting could make any of this better.

the questions are quickly shot at her, and she tries to take them all into consideration to offer answers. "he was--" fine? he had been, before the interview. no more or less nervous than usual to go on stage, which isn't saying much. "i couldn't see him. not after the commotion, i stepped out, he was already on stage. the second i did, they wouldn't let me back in." her voice cracks, eyes filling up again, and fingertips carry off more tears before they fall. she dries the hand off on her stupid grey clothes. "i don't know anything." if they hurt him, if they killed him, what they've done. a part of her has had nightmares about them executing peeta right then and there, on live television, in front of caesar, and that all of thirteen has just been hiding this from her.

hair. he has a tendency to move stray hairs out of effie's face. it's not often that she has one out of place. somehow the wigs seem to stand still. it starts as a means of picking on trinket. he'd smirk about it in the earlier years of her escorting district twelve. it feels surprisingly real. he wondered often what color was the real thing underneath. ( it's red, he finds in thirteen. )

arm. she will hold onto his arm for balance or may attach when chirping about game matters while walking beside the mentor. abernathy has different tendencies. instead, he usually grasps her arm to lead her away from others. sometimes it's because effie has a way with having endless speech ; sometimes it's a matter that it seems she desperately wants to leave the conversation. ( caesar has witnessed it multiple times. )

hands. effie has soft hands ; haymitch has rougher, calloused ones. he notices it when they dance at the star-crossed lovers' wedding. she asked. he indulged. the victor justified that it would be good for the cameras. he doesn't dance much after minerva. he used to enjoy it. ( he also notices how his hands are decently larger than effie's. )

lips. effie speaks more than she doesn't, so he looks at her lips often. he likes feeling them against his more. there's a confidence there ; effie knows she's a good kisser. the few times they've locked lips, he can feel the anger that spurred it radiating off her. it only means he enjoys pissing her off more. hands explore her body as his mouth explores hers, craving to keep effie close. ( lips remain on hers until he can't help but want to put them elsewhere. )