#deathprcud

He's here. He's alive. Blight is alive.

But she saw him die. She was standing there in the capitol watching the screens and she heard the cannon and she thought she saw him die. She saw his body lifted out of the arena. Her face went numb and she found her way to the nearest bathroom and stared at the wall for five minutes. And she fucking cried. In the middle of all the chaos going on she's mourned because she saw him fucking die. Or, they at least made her think that she did.

But here he is.

It's lucky, when they can find a quiet room in some corner of a capitol party. One of the few rooms that hadn't been set up, where there aren't groups of people chattering and always watching. They might not be supposed to be in here, actually. But that's a problem that can wait until after she's calmed down.

"No, yeah, of course. Take a moment." Rian takes a step back, giving her space, trying not to crowd but to still be there, be here, make sure she knows that he can help if she wants him to. So far, it hasn't really seemed like she wants him to, but the offer is there. It's always there. "We've got a few minutes before anyone comes looking for us," he points out, keeping an eye on the door. In the event that someone does come in, he'll be ready to take the focus on himself.

abilene hummed , looking up towards the voice . instinctively a smile was painted across her face . she a l w a y s smiled in the capitol , playing her part dutifully . she was glad for the distraction , truthfully , as she found all of this celebration surrounding the games nauseating .

❛ busy ? never . ❜ her smile fell slightly , and the district ten mentor leaned forward with a far more serious look across her face . ❛ you must be pretty desperate to come to me . ❜ abilene held her serious look for a moment longer before she chuckled . she reached over to pat the other side of the bench she sat on .

Having a house of her own is still strange. Having a house that's so big is still strange. Having her own space, away from her parents, she would have thought it would put her more at ease. That it would be a new sense of freedom, one tiny little plus in the midst of all of this. The halls sound too quiet. There's so much empty space. It's claustrophobia and whatever its opposite is all at once. Six weeks, and she's still adjusting. And the nightmares haven't let up. Will they ever? Is this another thing she's just going to have to get used to, now? Another awful condition of this life she's been involuntarily swept into, trapped with no escape?

The last few nights, she'd tried to stay at her own house, in her own room, instead of curling on her mentor's couch like a scared child. And she had done it. Not easily, but she had done it. It feels like such a stupid, juvenile accomplishment. Wow, you slept all by yourself like a big kid! Good job! There's almost a sense of humiliation lacing it.

A clearly forced smile appears on the younger victor's face. She had hoped, had hoped so fucking bad that they would let her spend her birthday at home this year, let her do what she wants, let her have one fucking day free of all this bullshit. That would be the best possible present anyone could give her. But of course not. The Capitol needs their show, and the job that has been forced upon her is to give that to them.

Head snaps to meet the source of the voice - she had thought no one was around, tapped at a few of the keys. Wasn't sure if she was even allowed to touch it, but wanted to anyways. Seven is where most of the instruments are made, but it's rare to see one so high-end.

Usually, Katrina wouldn't let anyone call her honey. It would feel too patronizing, too condescending, set off alarm bells in her head. But there's something disarming, something welcoming about the elder victor - a quality she's been discovering not all of their colleagues share. A sort of maternal energy (a bit offputting to her, honestly, her own mother's presence was never this warm). Of course, she's not about to trust anyone completely, but in this overwhelmed state, being allowed a moment with someone more pleasant is like a sigh of relief.

Katrina's eyes dart around the room for a moment as she takes a breath and considers an answer. "I'm... doing." Not doing well, certainly not, but on top of her woefully bad emotional conversation skills, it's difficult to feel that they're actually able to talk about the hardships of victory here, among these people. Watching, prying, listening. She's getting along. She's here. It's the best any of them can say, isn't it?