#griffin003

There are things they should be doing. Talking to Gage most of all, probably. Sitting with Wren, even if it’s just to hold her hand. They’re not doing them, though, and they couldn’t say why.

It feels like the hijacking’s changed everything, though they can’t say exactly how, what they think is going to happen next. Maybe Wren or even Gage—their older brother, seven years older than Hudson—would look at them like they know things, like they should have answers, because they’ve been to the Capitol, they’ve seen the Districts, they’ve lived through the Games. And all they want to do, instead, is be a child. Look to someone, themself, for the answers they don’t have.

They’ve always looked to Griffin for that, even when he’s told them, over and over again, that he doesn’t have the answers Hudson seeks. They can’t help but look to him still.

“The Rebellion,” they say. They don’t think they’ve said those words out loud before, even though they’ve thought them. During their Victory Tour. Looking into Teal Pitsmith’s cold gaze in Snow’s mansion. Griffin must have felt it, too. “It’s real.”

He fucking knew better. Sat in his father's office, his hands still soaked in the blood of his now dead classmate and chest burning with the brand freshly emblazoned upon it, he waits. This is, perhaps, the dumbest stunt he has fucking pulled to date. Where others had taken every aspect of their lifestyle far more seriously, Lev took it all for granted. Worse, he railed against it. And now, he is staring at his grim father with a stupid grin on his face, waiting for the tongue lashing to begin. He'd never raise a hand, never bring harm upon him. Fuck, this is the most time he's spent with the old man in ages, so clearly he did something right. 

Lev had heard the whispers as it was all carried out. Embarrassment. Mockery. Treachery. He didn't give a fuck. They got their show, and he got his laugh. Now, there is nothing but dead air between himself and the man who makes their entire world turn. Until the door opens. He wouldn't tear his sights away from Dimitri until a hulking form comes into his peripheries. A boyevik, and a damn good one. Goddamn, did he fuck up this time. It's just a scare tactic, he tells himself, vibrant blues settling steadily upon one of the many who had witnessed his crime-- someone he trusted with his life, respected more than himself, and valued more than his own family. "Griff," he'd mumble out as he pushes himself to stand, tired body protesting every step of the way. "Let's get this over with.. make his highness fucking happy." One resentful glance is passed toward his father before he would move toward the door. Any second now, they'd tell him to drop the theatrics and sit the fuck down. Right?