He was learning to not think about it. All of it. The way that another one of his tributes was deadâ againâ at the hands of Twoâ againâ and at the hands of someone he fucking knewâ again. He felt like he was prying apart space in his own mind to stay present, sane, even, just long enough to focus on Bellona. It would all collapse back in, eventually, it always did. He just needed that to be when someone else wasnât depending on him to stay alive.Â
He hadnât slept more than a couple of hours now over the past two nights, but it wasnât stopping him from trying to convince the sponsors gathering in and around the Tower to see and be seen that Bellona was their winner, Bellona deserved their support. Heâd even put on something other than his hoodie, attempted to comb his hair (though it didnât seem like it any longer), but the words kept coming out wrong and awkward, his hands shook with nerves and pressure.
After nearly three hours of this straight this morning and a particularly painful conversation where heâd stumbled to remember the names of the Capitol tributes, he needed a break. He collapsed into a seat at the corner of the lobby, head in his hands and fingers twisting into his hair. Squeezing his eyes shut, he desperately wished he was better at this, that he could charm people with a warm personality like Maverick could, use his intelligence and wit like a whip the way heâd seen Dahlia do, even fucking seduce people into getting his way like Abel. But he was none of those things, he wasnât good at anything. Stone and Olive and Ash had left him now to do it all alone, all by himself, and he wasnât measuring up. How had he ever thought he could manage to get someone out?
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