Poppy

06:39.

THE TRAINING CENTER.

She misses you—more than anything, Ellie misses you.

Last night only made the visceral desire to be near you even deeper. You understand her better than anyone, you hold her tighter than anyone, and you love her more than anyone. She doesn’t know how she’s managed to stay away from you for so long. Or how she still is.

More than an hour was spent upon that roof, entwined in one another’s company. Yet neither of you had the gall to close the aching distance between you. Ellie was too stubborn, and you were too afraid. The space weighed heavy between you and stunted the conversations. Still, neither of you wished to leave. Not until the cigarettes ran out and Ellie finally called it quits. You agreed with the decision, staring up at the sky and deeming it to likely be nearing midnight. Then you turned back to her with such a fond expression that, for a moment, she thought you would kiss her. She wanted you to.

But you didn’t.

She went to sleep that night with a finger to her lips, missing the warmth of yours pressed against them. She turned over and over in her bed, wishing for the dip of your weight on her mattress. But it never came. You were no longer with her; and it was all her fault. She never should have asked that of you. Not while knowing, deep down, that it was futile.

For some reason, she could not imagine entering the arena without you at her side. Even though she wished you would stay safe at home, she could not so much as picture it. Perhaps the sliver of her soul knew you deeper than she knew herself had the sense to know you’d never be able to stay tucked away while your brother and lover fought for their lives. Or perhaps it’s all nonsense and she just needed to go the hell to sleep.

And, upon waking this morning, she wishes she’d come to that conclusion sooner. Her eyes each have dark purple shadows beneath them and her muscles are tightened with the fatigue of having only gotten four hours of sleep. Her own fault, of course, after having dwelled upon your encounter for so goddamn long.

“You’re not looking too hot, this morning.” Cat comments as she presses the elevator button that will take them down to the tribute training rooms. 

Ellie rolls her eyes, “fuck off.”

Joel says nothing, but his chuckle can be heard as he swallows another gulp of his coffee. The scent of it fills the entire elevator, so warm and so familiar that Ellie wants to kill him and hug him all at once.

When the doors slide open, they reveal all the other tributes that have amassed into the hallway thus far. They hadn’t arrived as early as they had last year, when their group was one of the first ones to enter the rooms. This time, they’re one of the last. Mentors and escorts swarm the hall, offering their final pieces of advice to the veteran tributes. Most of them are just chatting, as close of friends as anyone in this situation could possibly be.

She sees Jesse and Dina across the hall, speaking warily between one another while they eye the entrance to the rooms. Ellie doesn’t waste any time in approaching them, wanting nothing more than to get away from Joel’s comforting coffee scent. 

“Ah,” Jesse forces a cheery smile, “there you are!”

“We were beginning to think you weren’t coming.” Dina says.

“Why wouldn’t I come?”

“Because you’re scared I’d whoop your ass in archery.” Jesse grins, leaning his back into the cool metal wall. When Ellie shoots him a glare, his hands fly up in defense. “Kidding! I’ve actually never touched a bow in my life.”

Dina chuckles at him fondly, shaking her head. “Don’t listen to him, Ellie. We thought you weren’t coming because lots of the tributes this year are said to be skipping the festivities. They’ve already trained for the arena, and they have access to all they could possibly need to know. The tapes from all of our past Games are accessible to everyone. There’s no viable reason to even show up this year.”

“Hm,” Ellie muses. She gazes across the hallway, noting how most people have yet to even enter the training rooms in favor of socializing. Last year, the mentors beckoned their tributes through the doors with haste, knowing how important it is to get an eye on their enemies prior to the arena. But there’s no need for that, now.

“Your girlfriend is here, though.” Jesse teases, nudging the toe of Ellie’s shoe with his own. 

“Yeah,” Dina nods, “she spoke to us for a few minutes, but her father insisted that she and Ruben get in the room as soon as possible. The more training the better, I suppose.”

“That family, man.” Jesse rubs a hand down his face, exhausted without even having grown up in it. “I don’t think I’d survive a day under their roof. Kudos to you, though, El. I’m sure marrying into that will be tougher than anything in the arena.”

Jesse laughs and Ellie shoots him a glare—albeit a weakened one. Without meaning to, a small smile slips onto her face, and Jesse’s expression turns triumphant. 

Her mind wanders, however, when Abigail Anderson passes them by on her way into the training rooms. The woman is terrifying in her own right, comprised by almost pure muscle and bulk. And her sharpened facial features don’t do well to contend with that, for the harsh lighting in the hallway causes her nose and cheekbones to appear even more daunting. Ellie fights the urge to cower beneath the proximity.

But Abigail doesn’t even glance in her direction—thank god. She shoves one of the metal doors open with one hand before sweeping into the training rooms as though she owns the place. No. That’s not quite the right description. Abigail doesn’t seem conceited nor snobbish; she knows they’re all on the same level. She simply doesn’t care. Her name was drawn from the Reaping bowl and she thereby will train until her name is announced once more as the victor. For that, she has Ellie’s—begrudging—respect.

“If looks could kill,” Jesse shivers, but Ellie hasn’t yet looked away from the closed door that Abigail passed through.

“Tell me about it.” Dina mutters in accord. “I heard she’s after Joel this year. Wants to make him pay for what he did to her father.”

That gets her attention. 

Ellie’s head whips to the side, scowling. “She won’t get close to him.”

“Woah,” Dina holds her hands up in defense, “save that anger for the training.”

Ellie exhales a breath, apologizing lamely for having snapped at her. She knows Dina isn’t the person to blame for this—for any of this—but all of the emotions in Ellie’s chest are so large that she’s unsure where else to put them. Normally, she’d offer a portion of her pain and sorrow to you, allowing the two of you to process the enormity together.

But now, even after last night’s conversation, she’s not sure that’s plausible. Whenever she thinks of the footage from your Reaping, her chest caves with something akin to dread. But whenever she thinks of your face under the moonlight, her heart flutters with something much more familiar to her. Love.

On that note, Ellie thinks it’s time to bite the damn bullet and enter the training rooms. She ushers Dina and Jesse along with her, both of whom follow willingly and chat amongst themselves the entire way.

Ellie doesn’t know how the two of them have evaded attention for so long. Their adoration for one another is so evident that she can barely look past it. When she sees Jesse, she sees pieces of Dina: a bruised collarbone, a smudged kissmark, a crinkled shirt. When she sees Dina, she sees pieces of Jesse: a mussed scalp, an awestruck gaze, a glowy face. They’re so full of love that they can hardly be called separate people.

“Did not miss this place.” Jesse whistles as they enter the vast training rooms. Ellie and Dina both hastily nod in agreement.

The room is wide, the ceiling high. Yet it’s too full of weapons and violence to echo. The floor is almost wholly covered in padding and the space has been divided into different sections. Some of which are for combat training, others which are for survival tactics. 

As Ellie’s gaze falls onto the plant section, she recalls Dahlia’s small voice and eager eyes. A sharp ache shoots through her chest at the memory, causing her gaze to be dragged away from the sight. She refocuses on the other things—the more current things. Like the repetitive pulse of Abigail’s fists mauling a mannequin. Or like the low buzz of conversation between an inebriated Stephen and a concerned trainer. Or like the whizz of a spear piercing through the air as Penelope L/n watches her weapon score a perfect bullseye, the target falling backward onto the floor from the impact. Or like the melodic laughter falling from your lips as you tackle Ruben to the floor, victorious for only a moment before he steals your thunder.

Ellie watches in a daze as you and Ruben brawl. The two of you have both been trained for this since birth, the clash of your differing fighting styles catching the eye of anyone who takes the time to watch. Ruben is brutal, almost cruel, as he snaps and whips and jabs. You’re much more fluid, moving like a dancer underwater. Even while punching and tackling each other enough to bleed and bruise, the fight somehow still remains friendly to elicit smiles and laughter from you both. It’s deafening.

“God, El,” Jesse nudges her with his elbow, “you’re drooling.”

She feels her face flush as she turns toward her so-called friend. “Wha– No I’m not! I was just– they’re fighting and it’s– I wasn’t– oh, fuck off.”

He lets out a barking laugh, patting her on the shoulder blade. “I was just joking. You’re allowed to drool over your girlfriend, I drool over mine all the time.”

“Ew, Jesse!” Dina grimaces when he stalks over to her, shimmying his shoulders like some type of animalistic predator. When she pushes him away, he only comes closer and faster. Then he leaps, encircling her body in his arms. Dina shrieks, laughing against his shoulder. “You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?”

“I know,” he grins into her hair, disgustingly fond. “You tell me every day.”

Ellie stays by their sides for a while, floating around the room from one station to the next without gaining much in terms of new skills. They go to the knot-tying station, where Jesse manages to tie his own hand into a knot and gets bound to a metal pillar. Then they go to the fire-starting station, where Dina manages to make a spark within fifteen seconds. Then they go to the insects station, where Ellie points out to them which ones will kill them and which ones are completely edible.

This continues for almost twenty minutes, Ellie’s eyes always drifting back to you. Your hair is tangled and stuck to your sweaty forehead. Your eyes are crazed yet beguiled as you fight your brother relentlessly. Your knuckles are bruised and bloody from both punching him and not—thus punching the floor when he rolls out of your range. From here, you’re beautiful. She can only imagine how much more stunning you are up close.

But she doesn’t allow herself to ponder on it. She won’t talk to you unless she has to, because even looking in your general direction causes her heart to sink. As gorgeous as you are, she doesn’t like seeing you like this. Like the weapon you were raised into being. She prefers when you’re lying in bed with her, reading some shitty old mythological book. She prefers when your life isn’t in danger. She prefers when you keep your promises.

Ellie turns her attention back to Jesse and Dina, who have just vacated the fishing station and begun to walk toward the plant station. Ellie stops in her tracks, refusing to get any closer. Jesse turns to her, concerned, but his words fall onto deaf ears. They’re ringing.

She blinks and Dahlia is there, standing in front of that old man as she watches him explain to her how terribly dangerous nightlock is. She blinks and she’s gone, replaced by Remy—who ties fishing line easier than breathing. Ellie squeezes her eyes shut, shaking her head profusely. Her breathing has grown erratic.

There’s a hand on her shoulder. Jesse’s, she thinks. She allows him to guide her somewhere, trusting him enough to keep her eyes sealed shut. For fear of seeing those dead children again.

She hears a latch click, a door being pushed open, and a slam as it’s shut once more. Ellie opens her eyes, face downcast as she stares at her blurry shoes. She blinks repeatedly, trying to catch her breath. Trying, trying, trying. 

She blinks. Dahlia. She blinks. Remy. She blinks. Cooper. She shuts her eyes again, resigning to the fate of blindness as Jesse continues to tell her something. But his voice is too muffled to make any sense of. He keeps a hand on her shoulder, though, which is comforting enough to keep her grounded. Enough to restrict her mind from wandering too far from reality.

She focuses on his hand, feeling the heat of his palm through her shirt. But then it starts to stray. He slides his hand down her arm before wrapping his fingers around her wrist. He lifts her hand, placing it firmly against his own heaving chest and thrumming heart and–

She knows that heart.

Her eyes snap open, whipping her head up fast enough to make her dizzy. You’re standing a few inches away from her, noses almost touching. The panic on your face is so thick that one would assume you’re the person who’s panicking. Perhaps you are.

Your mouth is moving. She focuses on it, staring at your lips after so long of having not seen them in warm lighting. Slowly, her fright dwindles, which allows her to process the words.

“–for that, El?” You’re asking, fretting over her with that familiar vehemence that makes her ribcage twist and crack. “You’re fine. Nothing happened, there’s no danger, you’re fine. You’re fine.”

“It was Dahlia,” she breathes, “and Remy and Cooper and– I can’t stop seeing them.”

You slide your hand up her arm, cupping her face between your hands. Your palms are warm, your fingertips cold. Your pupils dilate when you look at her, lips parted as you struggle to find something of consolation to say. But she doesn’t need any words. Your presence is enough for her to feel perfectly well. 

“They’re in a better place,” is all you come up with.

And Ellie supposes you’re right. You have to be—anywhere is better than here. She exhales a deep, shaky breath and nods, willing herself to believe it. How can she not, when you’re so close and so stunning? How can she not, when you’re trying so desperately hard to make her feel better? In this moment, nothing matters but you. Nothing has ever mattered but you. Nothing ever will.

When her breathing regulates, you slide your hands away from her face. Ellie wants to beg you to touch her again, for the simple sake of knowing you’re here. But she keeps her mouth sealed shut, knowing better than to shatter whatever fragility has become of your guys’ relationship. 

But when you shift to the side, glancing down the emptied hallway, she catches sight of a bruise on your jaw. It couldn’t have been inflicted by Ruben, for it’s clearly days old and already beginning to fade. Before she can stop herself, Ellie’s hand is reaching for your chin, turning your head toward the light. You shudder, but don’t stop her. You would allow her to tilt your face enough to snap your neck, if she so pleased. 

“This wasn’t Ruben.” 

You release a breath, warm air grazing her knuckles. “No.”

“Then who?” She asks, struggling to keep her voice steady. She does not release your chin but slackens her hold on it so as to allow your gaze to fall back onto her. Your eyes meet and your expression is sorrowful; almost ashamed. 

“Before the Reaping, my parents hosted a dinner party. A celebration, of sorts.”

That’s all you say. That’s all you need to say.

She knows you well enough to piece the rest of the image together. A ferocious group of people, when all packed into a singular dining room. An enraged family, when their newest little victor speaks against the Quell. A violent affair, when everything comes crashing down around them. 

Ellie’s hand begins to shake, causing her to remove her hold on your face. She bites her tongue to keep silent, wanting nothing more than to rip up the ancient roots of your family tree.

“You could have told me,” she whispers.

You let out a breathy laugh. “I don’t think so.”

Oh, that hurts. And not because you’re wrong; because you’re right. She says these things—assures you that she’s still someone to confide in—yet goes back on her own word in her endeavor of avoidance. For some reason, this entire situation between the two of you reminds her, sickeningly, of when her friendship with Riley was in its final stages. When their kinsmanship began to shrivel and die right before her eyes. And she only cared to water it once they were in the arena; she only cared to mourn it after Riley’s throat was slit.

She can’t let that happen with you. She won’t allow herself to argue and argue until there’s no breath in your lungs. She won’t–

“Y/n?” The doors have swung open, allowing the bright industrial lighting to pour across the hallway. Both of your heads turn toward the voice, spotting Ruben’s apologetic expression as he slips into the hall. “There was an argument between Elina and Yasmin. They were betting on which of us would win in a fight to the death. Elina bet on you, but Yasmin claimed she could, and I quote, break you like a twig. Penelope overheard and– and she demanded the two of you fight.”

Ellie’s jaw slackens. “To the death?”

“No,” Ruben assures her, “just until one of them taps out.”

“So to the death.” She decides. “Neither of them will give in and we all know it.”

“It’s against the law to injure or kill another tribute prior to the Games.” You tell her with a sigh, already having resigned to the fight. “Remember what happened when Nolan nicked you with his spear?”

“This isn’t a mistakenly thrown spear, though.” She insists. “This is a death wish. If she wins, you’ll likely be lethally wounded. If you win, she’ll murder you in the arena for her pride. Hell, she’d kill you just for the fuck of it.”

“And if I decline, I’ll be disowned.”

Ellie blinks. “Really?”

“Probably.” Ruben shrugs. “Our family takes the Hunger Games very seriously, you know that. And the training center is seen as a part of the Games. Resisting a challenge like this is seen as the equivalent to suicide in the arena. It’d be like allowing your enemy to kill you without even trying to put up a fight against them. It’s dishonorable.”

“That’s the single most stupidest shit I’ve heard in my life.” 

08:09.

THE TRAINING CENTER.

Yasmin was never your favorite.

Even as a child, you dreaded her company. When holidays or Reapings rolled around, she was the relative which you were most fearful of visiting. 

She encouraged your father’s drinking habits, always making sure his glass was full. She got away with being a complete bitch, considering her place within Elina’s heart. And she always, always would nag you about the most insignificant things—your opinions on the most recent Games, your perspective on the president’s executive orders, and when you planned on marrying a rich Capitolite. Things that she knew you would speak ill of, thus causing a wildfire to engulf your family tree.

Yasmin has had more than a few plastic surgeries done, though she does not yet appear to be deformed. They’ve yet all been small alterations: a slimmer nose or higher cheekbones. She’s admittedly stunning, hence her diamondcy within the Capitol, but you cannot refrain from upturning your lip in disgust as you approach her.

She was easy to spot while entering the training rooms, for she is already surrounded by the other tributes—everyone is curious to see which L/n will arise on top of this battle. She is currently speaking with her mother, accentuating her pleonastic words with the movement of her hands and the expression of her features. Elina listens carefully to her words, appearing both concerned and prideful.

Ellie remains glued to your side all the way to the ring, her stride in unison with your own. You can smell the pine and sweat on her skin, you can feel the solidity of her body. And, every now and again, she allows her knuckles to bush across your own. The contact stings the opened wounds there, but you do not dare reveal that for fear of her pulling away.

It’s nice to be in Ellie’s company without drowning underneath the guilt and grief that have followed the Reapings, and you permit yourself a moment to enjoy her proximity, turning to her with an amused glint in your eye.

“Don’t look so worried, El.” You tell her with a small quirk of your mouth. “You’ll make people believe I’m going to lose.”

She frowns, seeing no humor in your words. “This is dumb.”

“Perhaps,” you shrug, “but it was inevitable from the start. I knew one of them would do something like this, though I had assumed it would be Penelope. She can hardly contain her excitement for the arena, you know.”

You watch as Ellie’s mossy eyes flick toward your great grandmother, attempting to spot the aforementioned excitement in her demeanor. But you don’t need to look in her direction to know that Penelope appears apathetic to everything around her. She’s good at wearing a mask, at covering her emotions, but she’s not perfect. Amid the stark eyes and the clenched jaw, there are small hints to her genuine sentiments: the twitch of her pinky finger, the tightness of her chest, the shift of her shoulders. 

“I don’t see any excitement there,” Ellie confesses.

“Then you’re not looking closely enough.” Is your whispered response before turning away from her to begin preparing yourself for this god forsaken fight.

The ring which you currently approach is the same one that you’d first fought Ellie in, only last year, to make a point to her: she’s your ally, your teammate. That, and because she was indescribably annoying at the time and you quite enjoyed penalizing her for it. You think of that—of her sweaty face only inches away from your own—as you step past the barrier.

Yasmin is already waiting for you inside of it, bouncing back and forth on the balls of her feet. She wrapped her knuckles to prevent injury, clearly expecting to be hitting you hard enough to wound herself. 

But that’s not what catches your eye the most. No. What causes your heart to sink is not her incessant bouncing nor her perfectly bandaged hands. It’s that look in her eye—one that you’d only ever seen on a blood-thirsty L/n. Your father while he’s drinking, your brother while he was in the arena, your mother before lifting her cane to your face, yourself when your fury grows overhearing. 

And it never ends well.

Before you’re able to regain your thoughts, Yasmin comes charging toward you. She’s fast, indescribably so. With a quick pivot, you’ve moved out of her range. She’s forced to slow down so as to not run clean out of the ring. She whips around, fists lifted, with an infuriated expression in her gaze. 

You lower yourself in anticipation for her next attack. Bend your knees, square your shoulders, and prepare for the worst. She does not remain immobile for very long, for it is only a second later when Yasmin is lurching forward once more. There is no pattern to her movements, no possible way to predict her. She lifts her right fist, reeling her arm back. You duck. 

But she wasn’t aiming to punch; she was aiming to fool. And she succeeded. 

Her hand comes down on your shoulder, holding you firmly in place, before her left knee jams itself between your ribs. You buckle over, coughing hard enough for tears to prick your eyes. She knees you again. And again. You reach up for her wrist, wrapping your entire hand around her arm. Then, using the momentum of her most recent strike, you yank her forward and side-step. She staggers into the rope that surrounds the ring, nearly clotheslined in the throat from impact.

You release her arm, jogging backward to get out of range. You expect her to pause and catch her breath, for even just a moment, but she does not. Yasmin barely even coughs before she’s spinning around and pouncing. There’s a bright red line across her neck from the rope, but she ignores the evident pain it inflicts. 

She swings for your face again. You duck, making sure to back away as you do so. You stand back up before she has the chance to improvise on your crouched position. Her entire body lurches forward as she swings again, with her left fist this time. Of fucking course she’s ambidextrous. You don’t expect the switch-up, leading to her advantage. Your head snaps to the side as she lands the punch. You stagger along with it, getting away hastily. She trips you. Like a schoolgirl, Yasmin pushes out her ankle and trips you.

You land flat on your chest, grunting from the contact against the padded floor. Before you can even turn over, she’s on you. Yasmin sits on the small of your back, shockingly heavy for her size. You thrash beneath her, squirming and jolting. She remains unmoved. Then she shifts forward, one hand braced against the floor beside your shoulder. The other hand grabs you by the hair, yanking your head up. You wince.

“Know your place, little victor, before you get squashed.” She threatens. “I’ve noticed you’ve taken a liking to insects, have you not?”

While she’s busy musing intimidations into your ear, you slowly shift your body until you’ve gotten enough stability to turn over. It’s sudden and viscous, causing Yasmin to have not expected it. She’s still on top of you, as before, but you’re now able to face her. You’re now able to reach forward and wrap your hands around her burned throat. She gags easily, meaning her neck has been damaged by the rope. A thin smile tugs at your lips in knowing your plan to have been victorious. At the pain in her throat, Yasmin’s composure wavers. Her face turns a purple shade, her muscles twitching in refusal to succumb. Her body is weak enough for you to sit up, flip her around, and pin her to the floor without much of a fight in opposition.

Her head slams against the padding, bouncing back up as she swallows enough air to choke on it. You allow her to catch her breath, using this time to press your knee into her stomach and manacle her wrists beneath your palms. She’s caged; trapped.

“You prey on fear, Yasmin, and that’s your weakness.” You inform her, teeth bared like a predatory animal. She flails beneath you, trying to free her wrists and move her head. You hold her down harder, making her jaw tighten in pain. “Your technique is like a cobra’s. Fast and hard and unrelenting. But I’ll have you know, even a cobra can be killed by an insect.”

Yasmin suddenly smashes her forehead into your nose, pain immediately overwhelming your senses. No doubt it’s broken. You release Yasmin’s wrists in favor of pressing a hand to your nose, feeling the warm blood pool in your palm. You know she plans on using this to her advantage, though, so you’re quick to wipe your face and stand up before she has the chance to pin you down again.

Your head throbs with pain as your shirt slowly becomes stained with blood. Yasmin jumps to her feet as well, rubbing lazily at her reddened throat. If you thought her eyes were deadly before, they’re absolutely damning now. Menacing in a way that cannot be human.

You’re vaguely aware of the crowd around the ring, all the past victors memorizing your fighting style and your weak points, but you cannot bring yourself to care. Not when Yasmin very clearly taunted your relationship with Ellie, referencing to her moth symbolism and your love for her being a frailty. Anger surges through your stomach, overturning your innards into something malicious—something resembling a cobra, a L/n.

Yasmin slithers toward you, prepared to strike. Just as she is about to, you lurch forward and grab hold of her elbow. She staggers. You twist her arm back until there’s a deafening crack, causing her to scream. You spin her around, jab your foot into the back of her legs, and send her plummeting to her knees. Her arm hangs limp. Yours encircles her throat, holding her in a chokehold and facing her to the crowd. It’s a humiliation tactic, making her look them in the eye as you lower yourself and whisper, “you’ve lost your spark, have you?”

She tries to say something and fails, her words faltering within her own mouth. Not from pain or lack of strength, but because you’re choking her to nigh insanity. Her vision wavers and her body slackens. Only when she’s passed out fully do you drop her to the mat and kick her once in the side for good measure. When she doesn’t fight you in response, you know she’s unconscious.

The crowd does not cheer as you exit the barrier, for this is nothing to commend. 

They watch as you pass by with differing expressions, some more notable than others as they vary in vehemence. Respect—from Thea, Abigail, and Tess. Fear—from Melanie, Stephen, and Emanuel. Anger—from Elina, Nora, and Penelope. But above all else, more important than anything contradicting it, there's concern—from Ellie, Ruben, and Joel. 

Your nose throbs with the pain of a fractured slope, your stomach clenches with the ache of a forming bruise, and your heart surges with the touch of Ellie’s hand on your shoulder. She’s so gentle with you despite having broken your promise to her; you do not deserve such treatment from her, especially in hindsight to what you’d just done. 

You pull your shoulder away from her touch, eliciting a pained expression from her. You look away, unable to face the repercussion of what you’d done. Still, Ellie does not dare to leave your side. She holds your hair when you drink from the water fountain; she offers assistance when you wipe your face clean; she does not reprimand when you walk to the spear section without taking time to rest. And neither of you speak through it all.

“Are you sure this is smart?” Ruben’s voice is closer than you’d expected, causing your spear to waver through the air and miss its target. When you turn to him, glaring with unconcealed rage, he holds his hands up in defense. “It’s not an attack, it’s a question. You’re wounded and still in the mindset of life-or-death. Perhaps it’s time to take a break, or…?”

Ruben doesn’t have the chance to finish his question before Ellie is stepping forward, shaking her head, and advising him against his statement. She places a hand on his arm, guiding him somewhere out of our hearing range. Part of you wishes to eavesdrop on their conversation, but another part of you yearns too deeply to hurt. So you pick up another spear and resume practice.

The two of them are still absent when another person approaches you, someone who has perhaps been waiting for you to be rendered alone before making her first official appearance in your life. A tight braid sticks to the back of her neck, a black tank-top clinging to her torso.

“Not bad, Clicker.” Abigail tells you, crossing her arms over her chest in a mixture of assertion and approval. Her expression is caged behind a mask of apprehension, attempting to get a better read on you before exposing herself. She’s observant, that much is obvious. But so are you—hopefully, more so.

You turn to your spear, leveling it with the next target. “Don’t call me that.”

“Didn’t mean much by it. Just figured it would get your attention more than just calling you by your name,” she says before pausing. “And it worked.”

Your spear flies and you don’t wait to watch it make its mark, turning to Abigail with a furrowed brow and tight mouth. “If you have something to say, just say it. Crypticity is a joke.”

“Fine.” Abigail bends over, picking a spear from a nearby pile. She shifts it in her hand, analyzing its weight and shape, before putting it back and choosing another one that’s more to her standards. Then she returns to your side, holds the spear to the target you just hit, and throws. It lands only a few centimeters away from your own, nearly on top of it. She turns, meeting your gaze. “I wanted to request an alliance. When we’re in the arena, I’m certain we won’t be in agreement at all times, so I wanted–”

“You’re planning to kill Joel.” You take a step toward her, almost standing chest to chest. Unwanted proximity is an intimidation tactic, albeit used primarily by animals. “You’ve been plotting his death for years, Anderson. As aware of that as I am, you’re equally aware that he and I are friends. So tell me—why the fuck would I ever be your ally?”

Abigail offers a lopsided shrug, her bottom lip pursing. “Just a suggestion.”

“A foolish one.”

“Well, you should expect this.” She states. “After that show you put on, plenty of people you dislike will be requesting an alliance. You’re an asset, Clicker. A lethal weapon when used correctly, or a dire mistake when mishandled.”

You cross your arms, unamused by the metaphors. “What inanimate object are you planning to compare me to next? Because this certainly isn’t changing my mind.”

“I’m not trying to change your mind.”

“Right.” You roll your eyes, jaw tightening. “Well if there’s nothing else you want to ask me, I’d like to get back to training.”

Abigail appears begrudging, hesitating to acquiesce to your request. But upon glancing over your shoulder at another presence, she decides to take her leave. Only when her back is wholly turned do you finally look in the direction of the individual. Ruben and Ellie are standing a yard away, wearing very opposing expressions. 

Ellie appears uncomfortable, as though she’s unsure what to feel. Guilt, for having left you alone long enough to be targeted by another tribute; resentment toward Abigail, for having amassed such a reputation for seeking Joel’s death; solemnity, for having recognized the look on your face that suggests your vexation has only multiplied in Abigail’s company. Ruben, on the other hand, is very much decisive in his emotions. He stares at the back of  Abigail’s head the entire time she walks away, making sure she does not dare to try anything.

With a huff, you turn your attention away from them both and refocus on the task of training. If Ruben distrusts Abigail so deeply, you will do everything in your power to rid her from the arena—which requires extensive training and practice. They’ll understand if you return to your preparations, won’t they?

“Oh, come on,” Ruben groans, “don’t pick up another spear.”

Apparently not. You glare at him over your shoulder in response, only tightening your grip on the wooden shaft. Your lips remain tightly sealed closed, which earns an eye-roll from your brother and a pair of fidgeting fingers from your lover.

“God, I hate when you do this shit.” He grumbles while approaching you. Ruben walks forward with a certain type of gait—one where his hips sway and his shoulders shift in a way which suggests familiarity. An innate motion which an animal would use whilst approaching its scarred kin. Without meaning to, your muscles relax. “You get in these moods, you know. It’s not common and–sometimes you refuse to talk about it afterwards, but they’re annoying as fuck. I have to deal with you while you’re on autopilot. A defense mechanism, if I were to guess, to shield yourself and protect your mind.”

The more Ruben talks, the more familiar he becomes to you. The more the blurriness of your thoughts subside and his features sharpen in your mind. 

Like he said, this isn’t common whatsoever. If your memory is reliable, you’d suppose it has only happened once or twice before this—when your thoughts go into ‘autopilot’ as he’d said—and it only began happening after last year’s arena. It’s like your body believes you to be a turtle, trying to hide you under a nonexistent shell for protection. But, like Ruben said, it’s more located in your mind than in your physical body. Like perhaps a thick blanket is being tossed over your brain in an attempt to hide it from predators. It’s futile, but it’s a nice try.

And, right now, that’s where you are. Your thoughts are distanced from yourself, like you’re wading through water just to conjure something intelligible. The blanket fell when you embodied that metaphorical cobra of Yasmin’s, contorting yourself into something else in order to face the situation with a higher chance at survival. Completely animalistic, for this Quell will certainly be a game of predator and prey.

“I’m fine.” 

You sidestep Ruben’s hand as he surreptitiously reaches for your spear. In a series of swift motions, you launch the spear toward the mangled mannequin. Your arm arcs high and fluid as the blade pierces through the air, landing directly between the figure’s eyes. Only then do you turn to Ruben, signalling that you’ll adhere to him only after you’ve adhered to yourself.

He scoffs, evidently agitated by your stubbornness. His entire body appears annoyed and ground-down. “Half the tributes didn’t even show up to training today, the other half left after your fight with Yasmin. Can we please leave? You need medical attention in multiple places and ignoring that is nothing aside from idiotic.”

“Don’t fucking lecture me.” You snap. Because, even though Ruben has pulled the blanket from your mind, the fibres remain lodged between your gyri. Its effect still tinges at your nerves. “You have no right to reprimand me for–”

“Alright, alright.” He acquiesces roughly. “Just be quiet, will you?”

Once again, you begin to open your mouth to argue, your expression contorted into unadulterated rage. You manage only to utter a single syllable before Ellie is stepping forward and offering to escort you to a physician. Ruben agrees easily, already having been plucked to his final straw before even leaving the training rooms. He pats your shoulder twice before walking past you, glad to be out of your company.

Ellie, though, walks forward with a small smile. Like she’s out of her depth and completely clueless on what to do in this situation. Your anger spikes at her ignorance, but you swallow it down and blame the damned blanket fibres. Ellie has done nothing wrong, you’re just unreasonable and angry at everything.

She holds the metal door open for you, revealing an empty hallway leading to an emptier elevator. When the doors fall shut behind you, they slam against their latch and cause you to flinch and immediately whip around in anticipation for an attack. Only when you realize it’d been the door do you deflate. That was pathetic and really fucking embarrassing. Still, Ellie doesn’t judge you. She only offers you a concerned glance and the gentle touch of her hand to your tensed shoulder. You shrug her away, undeserving of it.

“I don’t want a physician.” You say while her finger hovers over the elevator button that would have taken you directly to a medical wing. Her hand twitches before she glances at you, unsure. You frown, irritated by the look in her eye. “Don’t worry, I’m not neglecting myself. I just don’t want to be given Morphling. Because I know that’s what they’ll prescribe.”

The uncertainty in Ellie’s expression vanishes, the corners of her mouth lifting. “I can take you to my suite, if you’d prefer? I’m not the best at healing, but I’m sure there’s a first-aid kit lying around somewhere.”

You consider denying the offer for fear of not deserving it, but your temples are throbbing and your nose is aching, so you agree. You nod in concurrence, not trusting yourself to speak civilly—to anybody.

Ellie appears pleased by this, pressing the seven button with the pad of her index finger. Her moth ring catches the light as the button snaps into action and the elevator begins to rise. You stare at it, pupils tracing the details of the dainty wings and the fat body. Ellie notices where your gaze is placed, opens her mouth to speak, but ends up closing it without uttering anything. The silence between you is deafening, especially as your senses slowly return to something akin to normalcy.

“Ruben is pissed at me.” You mutter, sounding both ashamed and angered. 

“He– it’s not that simple, I don’t think.” Ellie says quietly. “I’m not entirely sure what’s going on, but he said–he told me that this has happened before. Twice. He said that, after the arena, violence sometimes puts you into a state of disarray. Like your mind has vanished while your body is still in fight-or-flight. He said that, last time, you made some hurtful comments. So– I don’t think he’s pissed at you necessarily, he’s just preparing himself for the worst. For you to lash out like that again.”

The elevator dings before you’re able to offer a response. The doors slide open soundlessly, revealing a long hallway that’s almost perfectly identical to the hallway on the fourth floor. You remember the last time you were here, when you’d pinned Ellie against the wall for having mentioned you during the interviews. You can see the empty nail where a painting had once been, though it fell and shattered due to the rattle of the wall last year.

Ellie opens the door to her suite for you, holding it awkwardly as you enter the darkened space. It’s much less blue than Four’s suite, and much more brown. The space smells of coffee, though, and you immediately know what Joel had for breakfast this morning. When Ellie flicks the light on, a pair of Avoxes rush forward with mirrored expressions of obedience, but neither of you ask anything of them.

Ellie guides you to the bathroom, wordless in her actions as she pushes the door open and flicks the light on. She then crouches down in front of the sink, opening the cabinet in search of medical supplies. She doesn’t allow you the chance to do anything yourself, too hasty in her need to tend to you. Perhaps due to the distance, or perhaps something else. 

While she’s on her knees, you glance over her head at the mirror, analyzing your own horrid appearance. Your face, neck, and chest have all been stained in blood which has dried into a brown-tinted crust. Your nose is swollen and purple. Your shoulders and hands are trembling, shaking too hard for you to still. You hardly notice when Ellie stands up, holding numerous supplies between her hands. You’re too busy watching yourself—the way your eyes blink just like your brother, the way your lips purse just like your mother, the way your nose flares just like your father, the way your hands twitch just like Yasmin, the way your neck cranes just like Elina, the way your breaths fall heavy just like Penelope, and the way your anger swells just like them all.

“—at me.” Ellie’s voice is distant, but it manages to tug you back into the present. Your temples throb as your eyes focus on her face. Her hands are on your face, on your neck as she begs you to just look at her. When she sees your gaze shift, she exhales relief. “There you are.”

“Sorry– I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

She shakes her head vehemently, sliding her hands down to your wrists and guiding you toward the closed toilet seat. You lower yourself onto it, relishing in the loss of weight on your fatigued legs and ankles. She kneels in front of you like a devotee would kneel before a temple. Her pupils are full and her lips are parted, gaze darting across your face as though she’s insatiably hungry for the taste of you.

“Don’t apologize,” she breathes—which carries more messages than only one. She places her hand on your knee, tracing her thumb forward and back across the bone. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

“El–” You swallow harshly, not having prepared yourself for having this conversation so soon and sudden. “El, if you’re referring to the Reaping–”

“Don’t apologize for it,” she says. “Please don’t. I shouldn’t have been angry with you when I knew I’d have done the exact same thing if I were in your place. Also, you– you don’t know all the things I’ve done that you have reason to be angry with. You don’t know what I–”

“You’ve done nothing.” You assure her, leaning forward to take her face between your red-stained hands. She leans into your touch, pressing a reverent kiss to the heel of your palm. Her eyes slide shut, as though she’s just returned home after a long, long time of being away

notes ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ oh BOY this was a roller coaster i'll be completely honest, the fight between yn & yasmin was absolutely NOWHERE in my plans. she was completely improvised but i love her, and i've already created an entire butterfly effect from that scene (just wait 😼) also pls pls pls tell me someone sees the vision for the 3 pics this chapter 🙏🙏 the insect and the cobra being on the opposite sides of the family tree

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08:44.

THE REMAKE CENTER.

The Greek term for honesty is ‘aletheia’. Ellie is perhaps not the smartest when it comes to etymology, but she knows the general translation for the word. The prefix “a-” means “not”, and the root word “lethe” refers to the river of forgetfulness that resides in the Underworld. Thus, the word can be directly interpreted as meaning “not forgotten” or “unconcealed”. Thereby: truth.

You promised Ellie two days ago that you would not volunteer during the Reaping for this year’s Quarter Quell. You promised. And she’d been foolish enough to put faith in your honesty, your aletheia. 

And, the thing is, she’s unsure whether there is anger in her heart. A fraction of her soul wishes only to see your face again, even if that means doing so whilst taking her final breath. Another portion, however, wishes to never see your face again. She is torn completely in half, teetering between a seething rage and a reverent yearning.

The only thing she knows for certain is that Cat had better speed this damn process up. She cannot bear to remain motionless in this robe while knowing you’re located somewhere in this very building. Somewhere, not far from here, Birdie is preparing you for the Chariot Parade, likely dressing you in the same level of symbolism that Cat is currently dressing Ellie in. But the two of you, for once, will not be matching. The goal is to represent one’s district rather than oneself.

“Relax,” Cat murmurs while pulling a sheet of something frayed and dusty over Ellie’s shoulders. When Ellie glances at her, though, Cat’s eyes are not on Ellie’s face. She’s staring only at her clothes—at the spectacle she has created for the Capitol to ogle at. Cat takes a deep, steadying breath before she begins to tie a pair of strings near Ellie’s sternum. “I’ll warn you, Ellie. This outfit isn’t the most conventionally attractive thing that a tribute can wear. But the message it carries will certainly outweigh the insipidity.”

At that, Ellie looks down at herself.

Since the broadcast last night, she hadn’t been able to focus on anything aside from her thoughts. She excused herself from the living room shortly after Four’s replay, then she proceeded to lie in bed until dusk shadowed the sky. Even then, she hardly slept because each time her eyes would shut, an image of your face—high in the sky after the deafening boom of a cannon—would pierce through her mind. It would take an hour before she could so much as regulate her breaths.

All morning, she’s been battling the fatigue of a sleepless night. That, and the intrusion of her thoughts that knock ceaselessly against the marrow of her skull. So, all things considered, she has not been the most attentive of late.

But when her gaze falls onto the clothes draped over her body, Ellie cannot stop herself from sucking in a sharp gasp of shock. Cat didn’t dress her in something vulgar, as she did last year; nor did she dress her in something political, as she has done since becoming a victor. 

Instead, Ellie is wearing a dirt-stained tunic, a thick winter coat, and a pair of shabby boots. She looks like a lower class lumber worker from District Seven. She looks like the average man or woman that she’d pass on the street, feeling too guilty to wave. She looks like home. 

Dressed like this, Cat has made a far more permanent statement than anything she could ever have imagined. The suggestive clothing she’d once worn served the purpose of obtaining as many sponsors as possible. The political clothing she’s worn ever since served the purpose of flipping off the president. This, however, reaches another goal. This is not a tool nor a middle-finger. It’s a representation of all the people whose story will never be told. The people who hold this country together, yet will never even dream of being acknowledged for having endured that endeavour.

By the time Ellie realizes she hasn’t offered Cat a response, she’s being led out of the pure-white room and back into the hallway. There, she finds Joel standing beside another stylist—who has dressed him into almost the exact same thing. They look like a pair of ordinary citizens from Seven: people who can hardly feed their family, who can hardly keep a roof over their head, and who can never step foot into the Capitol like this. It’s perfect.

Joel opens his mouth to speak, but seems to think better of it. He, instead, remains wholly silent. Ellie feels a cold dread wash over her body, rendering her in a sinking sense of despair as she watches Joel walk ahead. Or perhaps he’s just leaving because he cannot stand to be near her. Not that she would blame him, of course. But it still hurts.

Together, the group ventures to the bottom level of the center where all of the chariots are kept. As soon as the doors are pushed open, an overwhelming amount of noise floods Ellie’s senses: endless chatter, urgent demands, restless whinnying. The only reason she manages to keep her footing is by reminding herself that you reside somewhere among this calamity, shining brighter than the sun.

Joel pauses by her side for only a moment before departing. She watches him walk over to where Tess, Maria, and Bill are speaking among themselves. While Maria offers Joel the same distrustful scowl that she offers to everybody she encounters, Tess welcomes him warmly. She hugs him around the shoulders despite the stiffness of her gown, turning him subtly. That’s when Ellie notices the movement of her lips: speaking something hastily into his ear.

She turns her attention away from them, hoping to not draw anyone else’s eye toward their rebellious little group. After two milliseconds of having moved her gaze, Jesse pops out of nowhere with a grin on his face. She jolts in surprise, nearly knocking Cat off her feet with the suddenness of it all. Jesse promptly bursts into laughter, though Ellie sees no humor in it.

“Oh, come on!” He jibes, nudging her lightly in the arm. “We all need to loosen up a bit, don’t you think? The air has been so tense around here lately. I wonder why.”

She rolls her eyes, albeit fondly. “You’re such an ass.”

Jesse steps closer to her while chuckling lightly. The movement is minimal, but it causes her gaze to fall across the room—where you’re speaking with Dina. The conversation looks more tense than anything else Jesse could possibly have mentioned. Your expression is contorted into one of pure horror, lip upturned and eyes narrowed. Dina’s expression is sorrowful, as though she’s on the verge of tears. Perhaps that’s why Jesse is so joyous: he’s falsifying cheer in order to evade whatever conversation has overcome the two of you.

When she turns back toward him, however, his entire demeanor has changed. He looks identically as troubled as Dina, his grin having vanished and been replaced with a heavy frown. He inhales a deep breath, seeking to prepare himself before beginning this talk. Ellie rushes to stop him before he can utter a word. 

“No, no, no, no.” She shakes her head furtively. “Don’t– I don’t want to hear whatever you’re planning to say. I can’t handle any more bad news. Not right now.”

“Ellie, it’s–”

“I can’t, Jesse.” She snaps.

His lips tighten, but he offers a nod in response. “I understand.”

“I’m not trying to be rude, you know.” She feels the need to assure him. “It’s just, after everything that’s happened these past few days, I don’t think I could take another blow. I might actually have a fucking stroke.”

Jesse huffs a weak laugh, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t need to explain, Ellie. I get it. We’re all in the same boat here.”

She nods, trying to ignore the swell of guilt between her ribs. And, before she can stop herself, Ellie’s gaze has already landed back onto you. You’re reassuring Dina so aggressively that you almost appear to be scolding the poor girl. Ellie allows her eyes to trail down the length of your body, analyzing the outfit the Birdie dressed you and your brother in. It’s–

Well, it’s certainly a statement.

You’re not wearing something suggestive, nor something blue, nor something cultural. You’re dressed complete, sterile white. And it takes Ellie an embarrassingly long time before she realizes with a sudden jolt: you’re dressed as an Avox. 

“Their stylist must have some pretty humongous balls, huh?” Jesse whispers in her ear.

Ellie doesn’t dare to look away s from you when she responds. “Oh, she does.”

Between one heartbeat and the next, you’ve shifted your line of sight until it’s colliding with Ellie’s. All the anger in your irises is suddenly replaced with guilt, apologetic in having broken your promise yet not regretful in your decision to volunteer. Ellie tries to keep her expression clean—she tries harder than she could ever convey—but she ultimately fails. Her jaw trembles and her composure cracks. Unable to stand it any longer, she snaps her eyes away and focuses back onto Jesse.

He blinks at her, trying to figure out what exactly just happened. He flicks his gaze between you and her, endeavouring to puzzle it out. And, while he perhaps might not come to the correct conclusion, he offers Ellie a dismal smile. 

“Come one, come on,” Clay’s hand is suddenly placed on Ellie’s shoulder as he gently directs her away from Jesse and toward Seven’s chariot. Joel is already standing within it, fiddling dully with the cracked watch on his wrist. Over her shoulder, Ellie casts one final glance in your direction. You’ve yet to look away from her, eyes sharp and steady.

Clay holds Ellie’s hand as she clambers into the chariot, offering his assistance in the endeavour. When she’s fully inside of the chariot, she’s close enough to Joel that their shoulders brush. She feels like she’s suffocating on the air they share.

She watches as the rest of the tributes slowly fill their own chariots. 

Directly in front of her, Leah and Jordan stand like statues as they await the parade’s commencement. In front of them, she can just barely see Maria shifting to stand as far away from Yasmin L/n as humanly possible.

You and Ruben are in front of them, three entire chariots away, but Ellie manages even still to observe your every movement. The way your trousers shift around your calves, the way you brace a hand on Ruben’s forearm for support, the way you huff a laugh when he says something teasing in your ear. She misses you like the sea would miss the salt if it were stripped from it. But she cannot bring herself to stifle the sharp pain in her heart at the memory of your broken promise.

When the doors slide open, allowing a blinding light to pool through the space, Thea Thatcher and Penelope L/n are the first tributes to be applauded. The excited screams of the Capitolites are nigh deafening as they watch their beloved victors return to them.

When you and Ruben pass through the doors, the crowd goes wild, just as they had for you last year. But it only takes a moment before their elation dwindles. Because neither of you are smiling. You’re standing perfectly still—shoulders squared, chin raised, hands behind your back—standing like an Avox. The technicians are quick to rid you both from the screens, replacing your faces with those of the following chariot. 

When Ellie and Joel are tugged forward, she wastes no time in grabbing his hand and thrusting it high into the air. Just as she’d done with Riley, at both the Parade and the Reaping. It’s not just a message of unison, but a message that she hasn’t learned her lesson. 

The majority of the parade passes Ellie by in a blur of color and cheers, which only dies down when the chariots come to a halt in front of the president’s mansion. He gazes down at the tributes, eyes unreadable, before turning away as he does each year—careless and discarding. Ellie watches as his back disappears behind a tall, golden door and wishes to stab a blade into its flesh.

20:18.

TRAINING CENTER, FLOOR FOUR.

You enter the suite with a grimace on your lips, though Alice gazes at it with all the awe in the world. The walls are tinted blue and the floorboards are the color of sand. It’s stunning, to an extent, though much of its beauty is watered down by the fact of where it resides—the center of the Capitol among many other precious skyscrapers.

As you enter the living room, Ruben remains only a few steps behind you in stride. His composure has been tainted by the horrid news that Dina and Jesse shared with you both prior to the Parade: news of Dina’s pregnancy.

She confessed it with tears in her eyes and a tremble on her lips. She cannot share this news with the Capitol, for fear of them finding out that she and Jesse have been in a secret relationship. But, if she cannot tell anyone, she cannot be offered the needed medical care to keep the fetus healthy. She’s at a loss on what to do, and you had no ideas to offer her.

The news made you think of Kayce, how terrible her pregnancy must have been with the lack of hospitals in Seven. And it made you think of Melanie, how treated her pregnancy will be with the abundance of hospitals here in the Capitol. Part of you wishes Dina would confess, wanting no harm to come to her. But another part of you understands where her fear is coming from: the desire to keep her relationship with Jesse private. For, if you were offered the chance to have a quieter relationship with Ellie, you’d give anything to have it.

You imagine stolen kisses in a shadowed corridor; you imagine wandering hands with hushed confessions. You imagine falling in love with her without the Capitol urging your heads together. You imagine another life in which everything is perfect. Suddenly, Dina is wise to not wish to disclose her life with Jesse. Keeping it private means keeping it safe from harm.

“What would you do?” You ask, turning to Ruben while he trails behind you into the pristine kitchen. He raises an eyebrow, confused. “If your wife were pregnant, what would you do? Tell the Capitol or keep it hidden?”

The question is very evidently pointed to Birdie, rather than a nameless future spouse—but you cannot voice that in front of the cameras here. 

This would be a difficult inquiry for anybody within a relationship. Telling the Capitol would mean holding them accountable for her wellbeing. But keeping it hidden would mean remaining out of their sights. 

You watch as Ruben turns the question over in his head, pondering on what his decision would be and what it would mean. Especially now, with a silver band around his left ring finger, he considers the question with great detail. He even sits down atop the nearest stool, eyes darting across the floorboards in great thought.

Shaking his head, he confesses, “I’m not sure. I don’t think it would be right for me to make the final decision, though. It would be up to her, what we do. It’s her body, after all.”

A fond smile tugs at your mouth, your palm resting on his shoulder in support of his declaration of selflessness. Ruben, being a L/n, has an innate instinct to attack and to protect. If his lover were placed in danger, it would take a great amount of control not to burn the Capitol to the ground in favor of protecting her. So for him to place the decision in her hands, he’s trusting her with the most precious thing in the world: her life.

“What about you?” Ruben asks, eyes glinting. “If you were the one carrying the child in your womb, which option would you choose?”

For some reason, your mind finds Remy first. Before Ellie, or even Oakley, you think of Remy.

It’s been a long time since the boy’s face has crossed your mind, but it’s quite fitting for it to do so right now. You think of his ashy curls and his rosy cheeks, the majority of his face having blurred with time. You cannot remember the exact hue of his eyes—had there been flecks of green within them, or were they wholly brown? You cannot remember the shape of his hands—were his fingers still chubby with youth, or were they thin from lack of food?

You wish you could see him, even for just a moment.

And the answer comes to you very suddenly, almost without your own thoughts being completely made up.

“I would place the child’s life above my own.” You say.  And you don’t understand why. 

The child would have been unborn, naught but a fetus within your gut. You would have never seen its eyes nor its face before, completely foreign to you. And still, you would place your life on the line in order to imagine it alive and well. Living with Ellie and Joel and Ruben, the child would know all the love in the world—even in your absence.

A year ago, your decision would likely have been the opposite. For you were raised to preserve yourself before anybody else. But that was before Remy became akin to a son in your eyes. That was before you’d watched him exhale his final breath. That was before you mourned him greater than the loss of anybody else. That was before you took Oakley under your wing. That was before you watched Ellie clean diapers in the middle of the night, laughing as she threatened to put it under your pillow. That was before you would fall asleep to the sound of a baby’s laughter in the arms of your lover. 

You would likely have chosen the opposite, yes, but that was before you’d grown into the person you are today. A sister, a lover, and a mother.

“I had a feeling you’d say that.” Whispers Ruben, almost regretfully. He watches your expression with such a fondness that your chest hurts. Because he would have a feeling, wouldn’t he? Being your brother and everything, he knows you on a deeper level than anyone could understand—save for, perhaps, Ellie. 

“Of course you did,” you laugh lightly. You nudge him in the arm, but the heavy weight in the air does not falter with your feigned gaiety. 

Before too long, your father will be entering the suite. Being this year’s mentor for you and Ruben, he is required to be near you both at all times. However, he hasn’t been obliging by that rule very well. He abandoned the train in favor of an expensive limousine, and he only attended the Chariot Parade so as to not fuel any fiery rumors of his paternal negligence. 

When he does return, you’re certain that he will be drunk beyond comprehension. Capitolites have a way with addictions, you’ve noticed. They have special serums and salves that enable them to drink longer and pass out later. Your father will no doubt have accepted an abundance of these offers. He will have drank himself past death, yet remain uneffected—thanks to those Capitolistic inventions.

“Come on,” Ruben pushes up from his stool and braces a hand on your shoulder. “We should probably change before dinner. Birdie would strangle us both if we were to stain such a sterile fabric. She was telling me how impossible it is for such a pure white to even exist. She’s certain that it is synthetically made.”

Ruben’s benign laughter fills your ears with such warmth that it spreads right to your chest, hugging your heart in a fond embrace. He turns on his heel and walks toward his bedroom, already working to unbutton his shirt with a languid roll of his shoulders, kicking the door shut with his heel as he enters the room. 

You shake your head fondly before walking toward your own place of residence. It’s empty without Ellie, and you feel her absence like a pit within yourself. It turns your formerly warmed heart frigid and you let out a quiet shiver.

During the Victory Tour, she would almost always be sprawled across the bed with mussed hair and a sock that’s barely hanging on to her left foot. While in Seven, she would be not far behind you in stride, quick to remove your clothes without allowing you the opportunity to do it yourself. You think of her now, as you struggle to unbutton the collar of your shirt, and miss her more than you could ever possibly convey: the warmth of her breath along your jawline, the brush of her lips across your cheekbone, the sultriness of her words against ear. 

By the time you’ve finally managed to swap the Avox uniform for a pair of silk pajamas, you’re hardly able to stand being away from Ellie any longer. However, just as you come to the decision that you’ll take the elevator to her suite and pay her a visit, the front door of your own suite can be heard slamming open. The knob must have hit the wall hard enough to stick, because you do not hear anybody close it.

“Avoxes!?” Your father’s shout sounds as though it’s right beside you despite being separated by multiple walls. “You decided to impersonate Avoxes?”

A chill goes down your spine at the thought of Birdie and Alice—both of whom have never experienced a rage so fierce as that of a drunken L/n. You suddenly feel the urge to save them the pain, exiting your bedroom with the resignation to fill the role of pacifying your father. Someone ought to do it, or else his anger will continue to burn until it finds a worthy enough outlet to scorch itself into. Whether that be a person or an object, you pity it.

When you enter the foyer, however, Ruben is already at his side. Neither Birdie nor Alice are anywhere to be found, though both of their doors are cracked open just enough to listen.

“I cannot believe you!” Your father seethes through clenched teeth, glaring at his only son without a hint of fondness. “Have you any clue how– how you’ve stained the reputation of your entire lineage? Your aunt, your grandmother, your great grandmother. They’re all tributes within these Games and you’ve just damned them all!”

Ruben shakes his head, gently leading your father toward the living room. Likely to coax him into lying down in hopes that he’ll not harbor the strength enough to stand again. “We do not choose our clothes, Father, you know this. Now lie down, will you? There’s a–”

“Bring me to the soul who does choose, then.” He demands, yanking his arm from Ruben’s grasp before staggering slightly. 

“Lie down, Father.” Ruben repeats with more fervor this time. “You’re being irrational.”

The mention of Birdie, albeit indirect, has clearly gotten to Ruben’s mind. He grabs your father’s arm and, once more, begins to tug him toward the living area. The moment you see Ruben’s hand wrap around his bicep, you know how terrible of an idea it had been. 

You only manage a singular step forward before the back of your father’s hand collides with his son’s temple. Ruben stumbles to the side, clutching his head as he regains balance.

“Get off me, boy!” Your father behests. “I am no dog nor Avox to be dragged around by the likes of you. Now, bring me to your stylist or I will seek them out myself.”

“Do not fucking–”

“Father,” you interrupt Ruben’s words with a much calmer one of your own. You approach the two of them with a benign expression. “I believe her to have just recently left the suite in search of a cleaned robe. My bathroom appears to have been neglected the presence of a bathrobe, and I requested that she bring me one.”

“And when will she return?”

You twist your mouth in feigned thought. “A half hour, I would assume. This building is quite large and many of the workers have already gone to sleep. It will prove a difficult endeavour for her to find the correct robe and size without much assistance.”

“What a lucky bastard she is.” Your father massages the back of his knuckles while shaking his head in disbelief. Had he been sober, perhaps he would have seen through your lie. But, alas, he is not.

“Allow me to escort you to bed?” You offer while holding out your hand to him. 

Without response, he does little more than collapse into your side, using you as a crutch as you walk with him to the bedroom assigned to the District mentor. His feet drag behind him heavily and you strain under his weight as you push the door open with your elbow. Upon entry, you make haste in dropping your father onto the bed. He falls against the mattress like a corpse, hardly mobile.

He mutters something incoherent as you haul his legs onto the bed. And, with a huff, you begin to remove his shoes for him and toss aside his socks. The action feels disgustingly domestic for a man who deserves nothing less than torment. But, deep down, you still view him as your father; your family and your blood. 

You proceed to remove his jacket from his shoulders, but do not remove his shirt nor pants. The Avoxes can have fun with that part, for you’re rather certain that he will be highly aggressive in this combined state of fatigue and intoxication. Then, just as you’ve begun to leave the room, his voice snags your ear.

“You… you’re not half bad, you know.” His speech is slurred and his words are hardly rational, but you manage to piece the message together. The sentence causes your spine to stiffen and you glance at him over your shoulder, meeting his lidded eyes. “Piece of shit sometimes… a lot of times. But– you remind me of Theo.”

You open your mouth to respond, only for your father’s eyes to slide shut and his body to relax, slumber enveloping him in its arms. With a shaky exhale, you exit the bedroom and shut the door softly behind yourself.

Theodore L/n was your uncle, your father’s older brother and the eldest of Elina’s children. Despite this, he was the last of them to have been Reaped for the Hunger Games. His name was drawn two years after Ruben’s Reaping, for the 64th annual Games. He stood out to the Capitol for his kind heart and gentle nature. He reeked of compassion, causing many people to believe his kindness was a trick—a way for him to win the Games without being suspected as a threat. 

But you knew better. You knew Theo was your only relative aside from Ruben that was a genuinely good person. He bought you gifts on your birthday and slipped you extra dessert when your parents reprimanded you too viciously. He was too good for this world and, for a long time, you thought that was why he died so horribly. You believed his death was necessary because this country was not the right place for his golden soul.

He was a mentor for only two years before he drank himself to death, leaving your family tree stained with tar and horridity.

You never thought anyone aside from Ruben and yourself mourned him. His funeral was a Capitolistic affair with Peacekeepers and monotonous speeches. Nobody shed a single tear, aside from you—who sobbed so violently that your mother had to remove you from the funeral site and demand that you silence yourself.

After hearing your father’s words tonight, however, you see that was untrue. Even if they hadn’t gotten along and even if they quarreled, Theo was his big brother. Their childhoods were too deeply entwined to ever be swept under a rug of callousness. And he sees Theo in you; he sees his big brother nestled within the soul of his sun-lit daughter. 

For a moment, you allow yourself to believe that your father cares. That he loves you.

22:16.

TRAINING CENTER, ROOFTOP.

Ellie watches the constellations overhead, tracing their stars with her eyes as she tries to remember which is which. She has always loved astronomy, having studied the heavens since she was old enough to recognize them. It wasn’t until recently that you started adding stories to their names. Orion, Pleiades, and any other Greek figure you could get your hands on.

A few weeks ago, you guys spent an entire night under the stars. Ellie pointed at each one and uttered its title. You would tell her whether you recognized the name and, if you did, you’d recount the tale to her in clear detail.

Tipping her head back, Ellie’s gaze lands on the brightest star within the abyss. It’s one of Orion’s dogs, Sirius, who stares back at her with a taunting brilliance. When she uttered his name, it took you a long moment before you were able to relate it back to a myth—the one where Homer had compared Achilles to Sirius, referring to the complexity of his stardom. Both stunning yet violent.

And, in this moment, Ellie cannot imagine anybody more worthy of such a comparison than you. Despite having been raised into a killer from infancy, you’ve found a way to love her with indescribable gentility, you’ve sat by her side with Oakley and taught him how to crawl, you’ve willingly signed your own death warrant to preserve your brother’s life. Despite everything you were bred to become, you’ve grown into nothing short of Sirius. Bright and blinding, yet destined for pain.

“Orion’s dog?” Ellie does not jolt when your voice caresses the shell of her ear. She had expected you to meet her here, in spite of everything. She was looking forward to your presence; waiting for it. “Homer deemed it to be a bad omen, you know. The sign of a significant event, such as Achilles’s return to battle following the loss of Patroclus.”

She doesn’t turn to you as she speaks, keeping her eyes on the winking Sirius. “Patroclus was his lover, right? The one who wore his armor into battle?”

“Mm,” you hum. “He was originally deemed as Achilles’s loved one, which has been interpreted to be many different forms of such ardor. Both familial and romantic. I’ve read tales which depict them as both and neither all at once, a range of love that no historian could ever compact into a definitive box.”

“I think you told me about them,” Ellie muses, “Achilles returned to battle for the sole sake of revenge, didn’t he? To kill Hector for having killed his love?”

In her peripheral, Ellie sees you lean your elbows against the wall of the roof. Your head is tipped back, nose to the sky. She yearns to turn her head, to admire your beauty in full, but she remains unmoved. 

“I believe Achilles to have been acting more on grief than on vengeance.” You tell her, voice softened by the hum of night. “Many think there is no difference, but there is. Vengeance mars the soul into something unrecognizable; grief is naught but a sign of having loved. One disfigures, the other heals.”

Ellie considers this. When the Quarter Quell has commenced, only one person will reign as victor. And, if Ellie has any sort of power within the arena, she will ensure that person will either be Dina, Jesse, Joel, Ruben, or you. Whoever it is will thus experience the same lament in which Achilles had been plagued by, for they will have lost everybody dear to them. For the first time, Ellie finds a reason to be content with her decision. She perhaps will die in the Quell, but at least she will never know what it is like to live in a world without you.

Finally, Ellie lowers her chin away from the sight of the sky. Her movements are slowed and calculated, as though the very notion of looking at you might condemn her. And maybe it will. But she is a weak woman and thereby cannot keep away from you for too long. Like a moth to a flame, she will always return; she will always flock to your light. No matter what.

She turns her head to the side, gazing at your profile as you continue to admire the stars overhead. Your eyes are flicking from side to side as you memorize them all. Your jaw is slackened, mouth dried from a lack of kisses. She allows her pupils to trace your features—the slope of your nose and the plush of your lips. 

For a long while, the two of you remain just like this: you admire the stars whilst Ellie admires you. She’s quite certain that you’re aware of her eyes on you, for she’s not attempted to conceal it. And yet you do not address it.

Then, in a nigh inaudible whisper, “you promised.”

The pain that washes over your face is so palpable that Ellie can almost taste the weight of it on her tongue. You lower your head, allowing it to hang between your shoulders. You squeeze your eyes shut and twist your lips into a grimace. You’d been expecting to have this conversation, she knows, but you were hoping to avoid it—if only for a moment longer.

“I know,” you breathe into the space between your arms. “I know I did, and– I am so sorry, El. I’m sorry for doing that to you, and I’m sorry for promising something that I knew would be impossible to keep. I just– I didn’t know what else to do.” You lift your head, meeting her gaze with a pair of watery eyes. “He’d have died. My brother would have died in that arena and I’d have done nothing to stop it. I– I couldn’t do that. Not while knowing you wouldn’t return either. I couldn’t.”

Ellie inhales a deep breath, clenching her jaw against all the words that threaten to spill from her mouth. Curses, pleas, forgiveness, and hatred all at once. She swallows the words down, pushes her worries aside, and focuses on what’s in front of her. She cannot allow herself to ponder on the future, for it is certain to drive her mad. All she can do is appreciate what she has while she still has it. And, right now, she has you.

“I– don’t know how to forgive something like this,” she confesses quietly. A sound, something akin to a sob, comes from you. She swallows again, turning away from you and staring back up at the stars. At the hope they provide and the promise they cannot break. “I don’t know how to forgive you, but I do know this: I don’t want to waste the time we still have together. I don’t want to waste anything.”

Silence falls over the rooftop.

When Ellie lowers her gaze from the sky and finds your face again, there are tears tracing down your cheeks. And a sorrow so visceral that she can hardly see past it. 

Ellie does not intend on returning home and she has come to terms with that. But, in this moment, she finally realizes that you don’t intend to either. She knew, deep down, that you were willing to give your life for Ruben and herself. But staring that willingness in the eye is a completely new endeavor to becoming aware of it. 

Her throat closes up, her voice cracking. “Oakley–”

“I know.”

That’s all either of you manage to say before it becomes too much to bear. Ellie curls forward on herself, elbows digging into the sidewall as she sobs into her hands. Her chest heaves and her lungs contract. She cries for you, for Oakley, for Joel, and for herself. She mourns everybody at once, hardly capable of processing it all. Regardless of who wins, nothing good will remain in this world. The country will have lost all of what matters most; all of what symbolizes its strength and resilience.

At some point amid all of Ellie’s anguish, you step forward. She barely notices when you wrap your arms around her, pull her away from the wall, and tuck her against your chest. But when the warmth of your body eases into her realization, she only breaks down harder. She clings to you, digging her fingers deep enough into your skin to bite. But you don’t complain. She soaks your silk shirt with tears and stains your skin with woe. 

Sirius watches it all, twinkling high above with that same persistent certainty that has carried him through all of these years. He watches, uncaring and undeterred, just as he watched all of which has come before. 

Ellie then wonders how Achilles felt, right before sending Patroclus into battle.

Did he know? Did he know all of which was to come? Did he even consider the calamity? Did he help to put the armor on his love, hoping it would be enough? Did he know it would end in his death? Did he know?

Does she know?

notes ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ oh boy this one has HEAVY greek mythology notes, i fear how do we feel about dina's pregnancy reveal? and the fact that ellie didn't allow jesse to tell her because she couldn't handle it. and the way ellie was staring at reader from across the room (yearner alert tf) and patrochilles mention !!!!!!!! my babies !!!!!! fuck achilles tho sometimes

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