Your Friendly Fanperson

But even in all his wisdom and with all your pleading he had, somehow, agreed with your mother on this marriage. Which had felt like the biggest betrayal of your life. Because you had always made it clear you had never wanted that life. You had no interest in marrying, much less marrying someone from the powerful houses of Panem.

Despite all of this the marriage had gone forward and in less than a week you were at the altar, meeting your betrothed for the first time: Plutarch Heavesbee. His family seemed to have been pleased with the match and they had been very nice to you from the moment you met, which you supposed was as good a relief you'd get from the entire situation.

The dinner had been at the Heavesbee mansion and it had basically been your parents and his, a very private marriage. You two barely spoke a word the entire ceremony and after, in his defense he had tried to talk, but you had not responded enough for him to continue trying. He had expressed his intent to speak with you before the marriage and his wish to get to know you. But you could not care in the least and you did not exactly believe his words.

How could you believe the words of such a man?

Your mother had told you of him, you supposed to intimidate you and make you worried of what awaited you after the marriage. He was currently working in the games, traveling to districts to film the reapings. It was said he hoped to have much of an impact in the games in the future, that he wanted to work alongside President Snow. The idea of being married to a man who not only showed interest in the games but was a vivid participant in them, was utterly disgusting to say it plainly.

And after learning of his work and hopes, your mother had partially succeeded, because you were in fact scared. Perhaps not directly of him, he had been decent enough, but of his beliefs, his morals, of spending the rest of your life stuck with a man like that. It terrified you the most, the loss of your freedom and your beliefs.

The wedding night you had thankfully slept alone in your own room, and your husband had shown no intent on further talking to you, which you were thankful for.

It had been a month since the marriage now.

You had become familiar with the Heavensbee house, which you were thankful for. Mr. and Mrs. Heavensbee were incredibly kind to you, asking much about you and your interests and they thankfully never mentioned politics or the games.

You could not say the same for your husband, you had barely seen him in the month you had been there, he always seemed to be away, kept by work or other matters. You had never asked exactly what he did, you wanted to say it was because you didn't care, but you didn't want your fears to be proven true.

You two had barely spoken, nothing much besides the usual 'good morning' or 'good night', which had proven that he was lying when he said he had hoped to talk to you before the wedding, because if he truly meant to know you, he would have made some efforts by now.

You had spent much of your time around the garden, your room, the leisure room, and the library, which you had been surprised to find one day looking around the house. Most books had been burned years ago during the dark ages and people in the capital had never shown interest in recovering those lost books. Your father was one of the few men that kept a library, one which you had spent much time in from the moment you could read, much to your mother's disapproval. So to find a library in the Heavensbee house had been something you had not expected.

Life seemed like it would remain this way forever. With you and Plutarch never talking, most of your time being spent by yourself, solitude would become your best friend it seemed, until that night.

You had not been able to sleep, the months counting down to the reaping were less, and the idea of having to watch the games, maybe even attend the interviews with your husband, haunted you more and more.

Which had led you to wander through the house at later hours of the night.

Your feet dragged through the floor lazily, a robe over your nightgown, your hands over your chest in a manner that had become so familiar from closing yourself to everyone in this house. When you finally reached the door to the library, you opened it, not taking a second to notice the faint light that appeared from under the door.

As soon as the door opened, you are startled to find him inside the library, sitting near the fireplace, a book in hand. You gasp quietly when his eyes lift away from the page he was reading to meet yours.

"I'm sorry, I didn't think anyone would be here," you admit quietly, your hand reaching for the doorknob again.

"You don't have to leave just because I'm here," Plutarch countered when he noticed you begin to pull the door back. "You can read here if you want, I won't bother you."

Your eyes observed the room for a moment, how he didn’t seem as cold and ruthless against the yellow tones of the fireplace, how his eyes almost seemed softer with sleepiness weighing them down. You hesitated for a moment before closing the door and moving inside the room.

You find the book you left earlier in the day by the table in front of Plutarch, reaching for it quietly before turning towards another seat on the opposite side of the room.

"You've been spending a lot of time in the library, I didn't know you liked reading that much," he pointed out, sounding somewhat genuine.

"There's not much to do. The room is quiet and you have a surprisingly nice collection," you answered, muttering the response like it pained you to try and converse with him.

"You don't like me, do you?"

That surprised you.

You turned around to face him again, your grip on the book tightening as you noticed he was already staring at you, as if waiting for you to finally look his way again.

"I don't know you."

"But that's not it, isn't it? I've wanted to get to know you, which you showed no interest in. If you had been shy you might've at least tried to talk at your pace, but you constantly avoid me like a disease and your face is covered in disdain whenever you see me," he highlighted, turning his body to face you better now; the book he was reading out of his mind in an instant.

"You said you wouldn't bother me if I stayed," you countered.

He nodded, almost apologetic. "That I did, I'm sorry, I assumed if I didn't bring this up right now, I'd never get an answer from you. And I'd like one."

The way his tone was so bland, like he is dealing with work matters instead of speaking with his wife irritated you in a way you did not think possible. He seemed so relaxed, to talk of the possibility of you hating him, like it is a minor inconvenience for him instead of the thing that defined your relationship.

You set your book down angrily, letting out a quiet scoff. "You're right, I don't like you, I cannot even bring myself to tolerate you. How can I? You work within the hunger games, you get paid while kids are taken from their families and forced to kill to survive! You hope to one day work with the man responsible for all of this suffering as if it was an honor! I can't have any sort of respect for you, the idea of being married to a man who enjoys this is horrible."

The silence that followed your confession was heavy, at least you feel it so. Plutarch didn’t even look away from you and the fact there was not a hint of anger in his face scared you more than if there was. You thought this was it. He’d call peacekeepers on you, you’d be on your way to be killed in the morning for being a traitor to the capital and the president. You couldn’t even breathe, it was like the air wouldn’t stay in your lungs, your heart could stop at any moment, but perhaps falling dead this instant was better than being hanged or killed or tortured.

"I didn't know you hated the games so much," he finally spoke, not a hint of any emotion in his voice, not anger or surprise or disgust, nothing.

You wanted to look away so badly, run away while you could, leave the house even if it meant hiding as long as it allowed you to keep your life. But your legs were frozen and you couldn’t look away from your husband.

Your body shook uncontrollably as your mouth opened and closed in an attempt to answer. "People don't usually speak of it, I-it's not safe to."

Plutarch nodded calmly, then he stood up from the sofa, never looking away from you.

"No wonder you don't like me, I wouldn't like me either of I was you. You have to be quite heartless to show interest in the games, especially to the extent of wanting to work with President Snow," he agreed, taking slow steps towards you.

You wanted to step back, but instead all your body could bring itself to do was hold its breath as he got closer.

"Have you ever stopped to think why someone might want to work within the games?" He tilted his head, genuine interest in his eyes as he waited for your answer.

You shook your head. "I assume they enjoy watching children die."

He smiled at that. "An understandable assumption. But I do it because I think it's important to understand the thing you're going up against. You can't hope to take something down from outside, you need to be inside to assure you break the problem from its roots."

He finally stopped in front of you, barely inches away. You had not been this close since your wedding day, not since he leaned down after you had been declared husband and wife to ask if he could kiss you. But his words stopped you from even thinking of the distance implying anything of the sorts. Because his answer was not at all what you expect.

"I don't-" you stuttered, before trying to find your words again. "You want to stop the games?"

"You really think a man who enjoys the games and likes the president keeps these many books in his house and reads them?" He almost chuckled, almost.

You shook your head once more. "I didn't think of it that way, I guess."

"It was smart of you to distrust me, it let me know what kind of person you are. I am sorry I wasn't honest with you from the beginning about my opinions and choices, but I'm sure you understand, it is not easy to trust people in Panem."

Your body relaxed at his explanation and you finally let out the air you were holding. Plutarch still seemed intimidating, without a doubt, but now he didn’t seem cruel but calculating and smart, which was something you could admire.

"It's not. My mother wanted me gone because of my strong opinions, I didn't think she'd marry me to someone who shared them," you admitted, feeling comfortable around him for the first time since you met.

"She didn't willingly, but your father knew to an extent I suppose, or at least that is what my father implied," he added. Plutarch lifted his hands and they hovered near your shoulders for a second before he regretted his movement and dropped his hands awkwardly. "I want you to feel safe here, especially now. You can talk to me freely, about anything you'd like. I would like us to at least be civil with each other, I want this marriage to be as successful as an arranged one can be."

"I'd like that, I don't enjoy my solitude as much as I make it seem. I'd enjoy hearing of your plans for the games, if you can share that with me. It would be nice to take part and help in any way I can," you sent a smile his way as you spoke, your first honest smile.

Suddenly you noticed things you had not before when blinded by your hatred. Like the way his hair almost seemed a light red in certain lights, the faint freckles above his nose which became clear to the eye standing this close and how his voice, though somewhat deep, was gentle and careful, welcoming in an unexpected way.

"I'm sure the rebellion could use someone with your wits, I'm in dire need of womanly wisdom," he joked, though his tone fell flat and an awkward silence followed.

You still chuckled, mostly out of pity, but the air between you turned welcoming.

The two of you spent the night sharing opinions about Panem's history, the games, problems and controversies, conspiracy theories. You never thought you'd be able to speak with someone of this so freely and much less that they'd speak back so passionately and sounding even madder than you.

Quickly the distance and tension that had once enveloped the house faded within a night and the next morning you two had breakfast together.

You began to learn more about him in the next couple of days; the things he liked, how he has a great liking for the colour purple, his favourite books, what he really did within the games. You started seeing the man behind the mask and hints of the young man who apparently feared nothing, not even death.

"So you're hoping to find a face for the rebellion?" You questioned, watching as he poured the tea for the two of you in the conservatory.

"Something of sorts, I need a tribute who will help from the inside, during the games, light the fire amongst the districts, one of us won't be able to do that," he noted, placing down the teapot.

"And how will you know when you've found the person?"

"There'll need to be a fire in them, someone who won't bend to our rules, a rebel on their own. Which is why I work closely with the tributes," he took a sip of his tea. "You could work with me, the female tributes would feel safer around you and you could help districts who don't have winners."

You stared down at your tea after his suggestion, watching the small bubbles that formed as the water moved. "I don't know. I'm not sure if I can handle meeting children every year just to watch them die."

He nodded, understanding the complexity of it. "It's not easy, you have to keep a wall between you and them, which not everyone can do. But you could help these kids have a better time in their final days, even give them hope of winning the games."

His hand moved to find yours under the table, wrapping over it in reassurance. You tried to hide the way your eyes widened at the sudden contact, but you welcomed it. It was not awkward, even though neither one of you was sure what followed.

"I suppose I can think about it."

A maid rushed inside, a laundry basket in hand. "Mr. Plutarch, there is a projection in the higher up channel," she announced, worry in her eyes.

Plutarch nodded and she left without another word. His hand let go of yours as he stood up, his shoulders slightly tense as he began to walk away. "I'll be back in a second, wait here."

You stayed there seated for a moment, taking in the pressure that suddenly appeared in the room. You looked over at his empty seat and despite his instructions, stood up and followed him. You walked quietly, following far behind him. You watched him move towards the living room and you followed quickly, hearing talking coming from the room.

"The president does not take kindly to traitors and rebels, much less within his home. He doesn't understand what a Capitol person could be ungrateful about. He expects these kinds of actions from district people, not his own."

When you stepped inside, you saw the television on, a projection showed off peacekeepers surrounding someone in a chair, their face covered by a black bag. You rested your back against the wall, watching as Plutarch stood in front of the projection, arms crossed over his chest.

"We need the honesty of capitol people like the one who informed us of this traitor. Rebellion within the capitol people, especially the higher ups will not be tolerated. An enemy of the president is an enemy to all, and President Snow will not allow any harm to come to his people."

Suddenly one of the peacemakers raised a gun against the person’s face. You covered your mouth, your hands shaking against it as goosebumps covered your body while the soldier loaded the gun.

"There is no space for traitors in Panem, much less the capitol. Anyone who turns their back to President Snow, will pay the price."

You screamed as the person was shot, their head going limp, you caught a glimpse of blood as the peacemakers moved the body away right before the broadcast cut off.

Plutarch sighed loudly before turning around to look your way. "I told you to stay in the conservatory."

"They killed that person, we don't even know what they did, merely that they went against the president and now they're dead!" You cried out, your lip quivering as you bit your nails anxiously.

"You didn't need to see that," he added, moving towards you.

"I didn't know the president did these kinds of things."

"Not until recently," he explained, his hands moving to rest on your shoulders. "We'll be fine."

"Someone could say something," you suggested in a panic.

"They won't," he insisted, his hands now rising to cup your cheeks, as he tilted your head so it remained in line with his. "Nothing will happen."

Despite his reassurance and further explanation of why such a thing would not happen in his house, the anxiety didn’t leave your body for the rest of the day, and no matter what you did, you couldn’t forget the image of the person being killed.

When night fell your bedroom suddenly felt too big for one person, the curtains that covered your balcony didn’t shield you enough and the silence of the house only made your worries grow more, every sound a double edge knife.

Eventually your body fell asleep, getting lost in the sea of panic that had taken over your mind. Which caused a nightmare to appear instead of a dream. Death in every corner, blood around the house, a familiar face dead in the ground.

Your own scream woke you up. You found yourself panting, tears over your cheeks, your heart beating far too quickly. You gasped for air as you looked around the room. Everything seemed fine, no blood, no body, nothing. You stood up, stumbling over your slippers as you moved quickly towards your door, not even bothering to put on your robe. You needed to walk around the house, make sure everything was okay, probably get some water.

Your hand found the doorknob and you turned it, opening the door. You jumped back startled, finding Plutarch right outside.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I heard you scream, I just wanted to make sure you are okay."

"I'm fine, I just had a nightmare, it's okay."

"Because of the broadcast?"

You nodded.

"I'll get you some tea, it'll help you," he took a step back.

"You don't have to," your hand reached out for his arm, stopping him.

"I want to. Stay here, I'll be back."

Without letting you argue he walked down the hall quickly, you took a deep breath and stepped back inside your bedroom, leaving the door open for when he came back. You lit the fireplace and turned on the lamp on your bedside table. You walked barefooted around your room, opening the curtains an inch to sneak a peak into the balcony and towards the garden, everything asleep outside of the walls of your bedroom.

You looked back inside your room, noticing things out of place and trying to tidy up everything before Plutarch came back. You weren’t sure if you were doing it to distract yourself from the nightmare or because you wanted the room to look presentable when Plutarch returned.

"It's chamomile tea, my mother would always give it to me after a bad night, said it would help calm me down and it always did so it should help you," Plutarch explained, carefully carrying the tea cup, trying not to spill anything as he placed it on your bedside table.

You moved to sit by the edge of your bed, leaning down to smell the tea. "Thank you, Plutarch."

He closed the door and moved to stand in front of you. "Can you remember much from the nightmare?"

"Not really, but I remember how I felt, you know."

He nodded, leaning against the poster of the bed. "I know words aren't the best reassurance at times, but I wouldn't be doing this if I thought I'd put myself or my wife at risk. The staff can be trusted and no one will suspect anything, I promise. We're not risking anything directly, so they won't be able to trace things back to us."

"You've really planned all of this," you muttered, somewhat more relieved. You moved to sit against the bed headboard and reached out for the tea cup, bringing it closer to blow on it.

"More than my life hangs on the line for this, I need to."

Plutarch moved to slowly sit on the bed, on the other side of where you are. You took notice of how messy his hair was, usually styled to the side, the firelight highlighting the hidden red strands within the dark blonde. The first two buttons of his pyjama were undone, exposing more of his chest than you’d seen before. You suddenly became self aware of how little your pyjama gown covered you.

You took a sip of the tea, looking away from him.

"I'm sorry I woke you up."

"You don't need to apologise for that, I really don't mind," the softer he spoke, the grogier his voice sounded. You wondered if it was because he had been sleeping just minutes ago or if it was something that happened whenever he was not so serious.

"I never asked you what you thought of the marriage. Did you have any say on it?" You inquired, drinking more of your tea.

"In a way, I thought about marrying for a while now and I never expected it to be for love. When my father told me a friend of his was hoping to marry off his daughter I figured there was no point in waiting."

"You didn't want to marry for love?"

"Love is a luxury. I consider myself more led by my mind than my heart, it wasn't something I desperately needed. What about you?"

"I don't know, I never thought much of it." You put the tea cup back on your bedside table, the cup now empty. Plutarch took notice of it and though he could probably continue to speak with you of other things he decided against it, noticing how tired you look.

"I'll let you get some sleep now, it wouldn't be good to keep you up all night," he smiled, standing up. "My bedroom is just across the hall, if you need me."

You nodded, watching as he slowly walked towards the door. You fiddled with your fingers anxiously, worried that once he left and you tried to sleep, another nightmare would bother you once more. You wanted to ask him to stay but how could you even do that? He might be your husband but you were not that close.

You argued mentally, watching as his hand turned the handle, trying to find the courage to ask him to accompany you, only for tonight, in the most polite way possible.

"Would it be strange if I asked you to accompany me?" You finally blurted out. "Only while I fall asleep."

Plutarch looked back at you, letting go of the door handle.

"No, I understand, it's not everyday you see someone getting killed," he responded, moving quickly across the room towards the other side of your bed.

"Thank you," you whispered.

You moved your blankets away so he could sit down, he pushed the blankets over himself and adjusted the pillow slightly as he let his head rest against it. You turned to your bedside table and turned off your lamp, the faint light of the fireplace keeping the bedroom from falling into darkness.

You turned to the side, your back towards Plutarch as you laid down on the bed, one of your hands moving under your pillow. You could feel the warmth of his body by your back, how whenever he moved slightly it could be felt around the entire bed. You wondered if this could be your normality in the future, going to bed with him, like a regular couple.

"Goodnight," you whispered, before finally closing your eyes.

"Goodnight."

The night went by without a single nightmare and in truth you dare say you have not slept that well since arriving at the Heavensbee house. You couldn’t help but wonder if it was the tea or Plutarch’s company.

The morning finally came and the sun woke you up, you groaned loudly and moved around your bed, turning around. You opened your eyes slowly, almost expecting to find Plutarch still beside you, but you only found messy blankets and bed sheets, but no man at your side. The strange emptiness that grew in your heart did not go unnoticed, but you tried not to think too much of it.

You showered, changed and had breakfast by yourself, since Plutarch seemed to have been busy with work. You took a walk by the gardens and took a look in the kitchen to see what would be made for lunch.

You did not see Plutarch until almost midday, when you heard the front door opening and closing as you walked down the halls. You moved towards the main door, wanting to welcome him, ask him of what he was doing, but the smile that adorned your face faded quickly when you noticed a woman beside him.

She was tall, lean, skinny to an extreme, long cherry hair that's clearly dyed, her clothes extravagant yet still exposing enough skin to worry any woman with a husband. Her hand rested on his shoulder and she laughed at something he said. You couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable with how close she stood to him and it took you little to notice the jealousy that formed in your chest. The ring on Plutarch's left hand was clear. Anyone would notice it, which made you more infuriated at how obviously she was flirting with him.

"Y/n," Plutarch called out when he saw you He stepped away from the woman and moved towards you. His hand reached out to hold yours tightly in his. You are confused at the contact but before you can even think of it, his lips pressed against yours in a quick kiss before he leaned back. "This is my wife."

You stood, dumbfounded for a couple of seconds, trying to process the sudden kiss.

"It's a pleasure to meet you Mrs. Heavensbee. I'm Clio Moss, I work with your husband," she explained, though she made no attempt to greet you in any way, not even a handshake. Her eyes trailed up and down your body, as if inspecting you.

Plutarch nodded at that, though the smile on his face seemed forced.

"It's nice to meet you," you responded, stepping closer to Plutarch.

"I had been dying to meet his wife ever since I found out he finally married. I had to get a look at the lucky lady," she continued, her words so obviously double edged. "I didn't expect he'd marry someone with such simple looks, though I've always said I applaud women who wear old-styled clothes."

You forced a smile at that, trying not to glare at her. "Well I've always admired people who can make such wild styles work," you responded, making no attempt to hide the backhanded compliment.

She chuckled back, almost irritated.

"It's not for everyone. You must be enjoying this time, soon there will be children running around when you least expect it," she suggested. The sudden mention of kids echoed in your mind, realising you hadn’t had such a talk with Plutarch, so you made no comment of that.

"Are you married?"

"Heavens no. Work keeps me too busy. Maybe someday, I'm still too young, I have my twenties ahead of me"

"Really? I couldn't tell—"

"We'd invite you to stay Clio, but we're about to leave to have lunch with Y/n's family," Plutarch interrupted, squeezing your hand before he let go, his arm moving to wrap around your back as he pulled you closer.

"Of course, I don't wanna bother you two anymore. I'll see you at work, Plutarch," she said, with a tone so sweet you almost wanted to jump at her and give her a piece of your mind. But Plutarch kept you pressed against him as she walked away and finally out of the house.

"You didn't tell me you had friends at work," you argued, turning to look at him, slightly annoyed.

He merely chuckled and turned his face to face you. "You really didn't like her."

"Don't tell me you cannot tell how clearly she's throwing herself at you, I mean it's pathetic," you complained, feeling as his hand traced down your back before falling back to his side.

"She's like this with all the men at work, I'm not special," he insisted.

"Right," you scoffed. "Well you should still be careful, you are technically married."

His smile only grew at the comment. "If I didn't know better I'd say you were jealous."

"Me? Jealous of that? She can barely move her face, let alone speak, there must be nothing going on inside the poor brain of hers, why would I be jealous. If someone was jealous it was clearly her." You walked away towards the dining room and Plutarch followed, hearing as you continued to complain about the interaction.

The day continued much the same as usual and yet you could not stop thinking of that interaction. Not even because of Clio, more because of the kiss and the mention of children, two things which you had never thought you'd even linger on in this marriage, yet now they haunt you.

"Why did you kiss me today?" You finally asked as the two of you sat together in the library. You closed the book you were reading, turning to your husband.

"For appearance sake, you know, I wanted to make things clear," he responded, not looking up from his own book.

"But you never kiss me," you added, the response apparently not enough.

"Was it uncomfortable for you? I apologise, I should have asked—"

"No, it's not because of that, I didn't mind."

Plutarch finally closed his book, turning your way. "Then would you like me to do it more often?"

Your jaw dropped at that and you tried to ignore how your chest tightened. "I— no that's not what I mean, I simply..." you sighed loudly. "We've not spoken of the things we want for this marriage now that we like each other, what is okay, what we'd like. I don't even know if you'd like kids."

He nodded hearing your point. He placed his book away on a table and moved closer to you on the sofa, his body facing yours. "That's a good point. I suppose I have no specific feeling on kids. Though it would be nice to have them, the decision doesn't rest upon me but on my wife. On top of this, I don't feel comfortable with bringing children into this world, at least not unless I can assure Panem will have fallen and the games gone. But if you want children, then we can have them."

"What of things like, physical touch, kissing, sharing a bed, having sex? I know you've made it clear this isn't about love but still."

"Well kissing and physical touch might be good in public, I don't mind them in private if you want to do that. Sharing a bed is not a bad idea, but I don't think we should do anything more, like you said, this marriage isn't for love."

You simply nodded at that. For a second you almost thought perhaps he would speak with his heart instead of his mind, but to expect so was clearly foolish. "Yeah, that's fine with me. I'm going to take a bath."

You left the library without another word but Plutarch noticed the quick change in your tone and movements, turning colder and more distant in a second.

Two months passed, with kisses shared in public, the left side of your bed being occupied by him and touches in front of people. At first you also welcomed them in private, but slowly they felt too fake and forced, like you were asking someone to love you instead of them simply doing it, and it hurt more when feelings started growing inside of you for Plutarch, despite your better judgement.

How could you not feel something for him though? Plutarch was kind and understanding outside and inside the house, he listened to everything you said, even if it was simply talk of the latest book you read. His touches were gentle yet spoke louder than any words could. He spoke of you so highly in front of other people, preached his love like Shakespeare himself, it even fooled you a number of times. His company had become familiar as well as the warmth of him beside you in bed.

But now you hated everything, every soft touch you shared outside the house, every time he tried to reach for you inside your room. How long he stared at you at times while you read, how he spoke of you to others, the sound of his breathing behind you on the bed. It was torture, you felt like you were being taunted, like an utter idiot, desperately wanting something from a man who would never see you as more than a partner.

It got to the point where you'd begun to avoid his touches, whether in public or in private, trying to keep your distance from him again, reading inside of your bedroom instead of in the library, leaving in the middle of the night to sleep somewhere else, avoiding public appearances. You couldn't handle it anymore.

Even Plutarch noticed the sudden change, and it began to drive him crazy. Waking up in the middle of the night to find your side of the bed empty, having to attend galas alone, feeling the way your hand pulled away from his. He couldn't understand what had changed, what he had done wrong to have you turn into how it was before. And though he thought of simply keeping quiet and hoping things would fix themselves they never did, which forced him to finally ask about it.

He heard as you moved to lay down beside him on the bed, feeling as you pulled the blanket over yourself, getting comfortable for bed. He let out a breath before finally speaking.

"Are we going to speak of what's wrong or will we continue to pretend everything is well when you have not talked to me for days now?" He questioned, his voice soft and calm against the silence of the night.

He waited a number of seconds for you to respond but you never did, so he continued speaking. "I've had to attend galas alone, with everyone asking where you are, you flinch away whenever I touch you like I've burned you, you keep your distance and avoid me to the point I wake up in the middle of the night to find you gone. If I've done something wrong, then tell me, because I don't understand any of this, I can't pretend I don't notice how much you've changed."

"It's all about pretending! That is my problem— I can't keep pretending." You sat up annoyed, turning to face Plutarch after days of not talking. "I can't act like we used to, like I don't care when you touch me or kiss me in public, when you tell everyone about your wonderful wife, how we sleep together like every couple would. I know you're not a man of romance or love, that you don't care for it... but I have started to love you in the last month. Do you know how painful it is to love someone who will never feel the same way, yet acts like he does? It drives me crazy and I can't stand it. I'd rather you be distant and cold like before, perhaps then it might make loving you less painful," you argued, voice breaking, eyes watering.

It was embarrassing You felt ridiculous and looked away, not wanting to feel his eyes on you.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know. It's not fair to you, so I think you're right, it's better if things go back to how they were," he agreed, pushing away the blankets as he stood up. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

You did not say anything else and he didn’t push for more. He simply grabbed his robe and walked away from the room, leaving you alone once he closed the door.

A month passed where you two tried to act like things were before, sharing breakfast, lunch and dinner whenever Plutarch could, reading together in the library, continuing with his plan with the games coming closer. But it was not the same as it was, though he tried to act the same it felt very awkward for you, because you loved him and you knew he knew. You could never go back to being friends and frankly being around Plutarch was as painful as being away from him.

You tried to force your feelings away but nothing worked, no matter how little you talked to him, no matter how many faults you found in him, it did not change the love you’d grown for him. He continued being kind and nice but at times it felt like he did it for your sake, not because he meant it.

You weren't as close and you probably would never be. You had returned to your initial solitude, for his sake more than yours.

Plutarch had tried to remain much the same, listening to you, speaking with you, doing things friends might do. He did begin to notice the distance though. Whenever you were both in the library, you’d sit on the opposite side of him and he'd have to watch you from the side of his eyes. When you ate, you didn’t ramble as often as you used to and he had to bring up topics just to hear your voice. He hadn’t even seen you in nights, wandering through the house. It was like you had become a ghost of sorts.

He didn't sleep as well as he used to, apparently having grown accustomed to your company, though he never told you. At work even people began noticing he didn’t seem his usual self, more quiet and reserved, almost sad in a way. The maids whispered amongst themselves about how strange he’d been acting, even his parents asked if he's well, growing worried of his change in attitude, but he always insisted he was fine.

Slowly Plutarch himself began to realise that something is, in fact, wrong. He began to miss your presence, spoke of the most random topics just to hear your voice, even going so far as to hide the book you were reading just so you’d be forced to look for him.

But he continued to deny to himself the obvious truth that everyone in the household— aside from yourself— had figured out: He had also fallen in love with you.

"You should talk to her," his mother advised as they shared tea in the conservatory.

"Of what?"

"About how you love her too," Plutarch scoffed at that, looking down at the newspaper in his hands instead.

"You want me to lie?" He muttered.

"Just because you won't accept it, doesn't mean it's a lie. Everyone can tell the way you look at that girl and the way she looks at you. You have a sharp mind for politics but apparently not for love, keeping the truth from her won't do either of you good," she pointed out, pushing down the newspaper so he'd look at her.

"My work is too dangerous, loving her will only place her in danger," he argued.

"And a life of quiet and loneliness will be better? That girl was strong enough to tell you how she felt despite the fact she knew it would change things. You can't tell her you love her because it won't be easy? Love is not a weakness."

"I never said it was. But it is a weight and complex, how can I plan a rebellion when all I'll worry about will be her well being? She deserves better than this."

"And you don't? To love someone is to hand your heart to them, it's not painless nor easy, but it is worth the trouble. You two are lucky enough to have grown to love each other, don't let that go to waste," she advised, standing up from her seat. She stopped in front of her son, cupping his cheek as she tilted his head up. "Think about it, Plu."

He spent the rest of the day thinking of it. He could barely work in reports or preparation for the filming of the games. All he could think about was his mother's words and how right she always seemed to be. That night he heard you walking towards your chambers, your feet light with every step as you opened the door. But the quietness was interrupted by the sound of broken glass.

"Shit!" You hissed from outside.

Plutarch immediately stood up from his seat and rushed towards his door, pulling it open quickly. He finds you knelt on the ground, a plate and mug broken into pieces in front of you, while you try to pick up the pieces.

"Are you okay?" He moved to kneel beside you, his hand. moving to grab your wrists without much though, pulling them away from the shattered glass.

"I'm fine, I'm sorry it just slipped."

"That doesn't matter, I'll get someone to clean it up," he spoke softly, his right hand moving to push the glass away, his palm cutting his in the process. He hissed quietly, pulling his hand back.

Your hands instinctly moved to hold his, pulling it closer as you check the cut. "It doesn't seem deep, let me help you with it."

"It's fine, really," he muttered, his eyes stuck on you as your fingers traced around the cut, trying to see if any glass pieces stuck there. His eyes trace dover the bump of your nose, the way your eyelashes fall over your cheeks, how you bite your lip as you think.

"Doesn't matter. Go wait in your room, I'll get some things to clean the glass and clean the wound."

He does as instructed, even if he wanted to argue that it's okay. Moving back towards his room, glancing back as you walked away, taking notice of how your skirt moved in unison with your steps. He pushed his door back with his left hand, stepping inside and sitting on his bed, waiting for you to return.

After a minute or so he heard footsteps nearing his bedroom. Then he heard someone sweeping the glass onto a bin. Then you finally walked inside his bedroom, carrying some things. You placed them beside him on the table and walked to his bathroom, washing your hands before taking a sit beside him.

You grabbed his hand again, moving closer as you began to carefully wipe away the blood with a wet towel, being careful not to touch the actual wound but simply around it. "Let me know it it hurts."

He humed in agreement, tilting his head slightly to the side as he glances at you, his eyes moving back and forth between his hand and your face, mostly trying to hide how long he stares at you for.

Then you grabbed a sterile dressing, placing it over the cut, you stick some skin tape around the corners so it doesn't move and then finish it off by bandaging the wound.

"Don't move your hand and check the cut tomorrow, you'll probably have to keep it covered for two days, try not to write, for your sake, or it will take longer to heal," you instructed, tying the bandage before looking up at Plutarch, already finding him staring at you.

"Okay," he whispered back. You lock eyes for a couple of seconds before you looked away, grabbing the things and leaving them in his table.

"Well, goodnight," you muttered standing up, moving to grab the door handle.

He stood up quickly when your hand touched the door handle. "Would it be hypocritical of me now, to stand here and force myself to tell you that despite trying to ignore and push away my feelings, I have grown to love you as well?" He confessed, raising his voice so you won't miss a single word he says.

You stopped your movement, frozen in place as you process his words.

"I've never been good with words when it comes to love, but I'm willing to make a fool of myself it it means I won't have to go another day away from you. You had every right to be angry at me, I didn't take your feelings into account and I should have. But I suppose I was trying to understand my own, as well."

He took a couple of temptative steps towards you, testing his luck. You turned your head back, but still did not meet his gaze.

"You stole my books," you mentioned, realising why they had suddenly started going missing.

"A desperate attempt to see you, yes. But you would barely steal a glance my way, much less direct your voice at me," he accepted, taking another step closer.

You finally turned around fully, raising your head to meet his gaze.

"For your sake I hope you're not lying."

"I wouldn't dare," he promised, lifting his hands in search of yours, holding them in his once he finds them. "I'm not one to pretend."

You scoffed at that, though almost chucked, feeling as his thumbs brushed your knuckles gently. "Is that so?"

"Maybe with the rest of the world, but not with you, not again," he whispered, leaning down closer to you, his nose brushing against yours. "Unless you want me to?"

"I don't," you murmur before closing the space between the two of you, pushing your lips against his as you closed your eyes.

He wasted no time to kiss you back, his left hand moving to wrap around your waist as he pulled your chest against his, moving his lips against yours. You let yourself melt into the kiss, trying to memorise the feelings of his lips against yours.

When he pulled back he rested his forehead against yours, his right hand still carefully holding yours. "Will you stay with me tonight, Mrs. Heavensbee?"

"Okay..."