⋆｡⋆ ˖ summary: Just weeks until ellie's exchange year ends. Borrowed time running out.
⋆｡⋆ ˖ word count: 5,8k
⋆｡⋆ ˖ content warnings: exchange student ellie x fem reader, friends to ... ?!?!? whatever they are man, angst and fluff, emotional sex, dry humping/thigh riding, minors dni. <3
Ellie had agreed to this, which was still a wonder to her even now.
There she was, lying on your bed at nine-thirty on a Friday night, already dressed and ready to go while you were taking your sweet time.
She had been ready for an hour. A whole hour of sitting on your bed, scrolling through her phone, playing with the hair tie she'd found under your pillow, and most importantly, trying not to fall asleep.
Every few minutes Ellie could see you lean forward toward the mirror, your face scrunched in concentration as you applied glittery eyeshadow to the corner of your eye.
You'd just finished doing your hair about twenty minutes ago, and it looked really good. You'd styled it with waves that framed your face perfectly, and Ellie had watched the whole process from her spot on your bed, unable to look away.
Ellie was getting sleepy.
She was so full she could barely move. It was a combination of both your mom feeding her until she couldn't handle any more food and being up since very early in the morning for class. Your mom had that way of making "no thank you" sound like an insult, so Ellie had kept eating long past the point of comfort.
She was paying the price, of course.
Her stomach was heavy, her body warm and sluggish with the post-meal crash that made her want to curl up and sleep for hours.
The fairy lights strung above your bed that you insisted on keeping on because you said they made the room "cozy" were making the room feel way too cozy. Ellie felt herself sinking further into your navy sheets and comforter, her eyelids getting heavy with each passing second.
"I'm gonna fall asleep," she called out, her voice coming out slightly muffled because her face was half-pressed into your pillow.
"No you're not," you called back, not even looking away from the mirror. "Don't be dramatic."
"I've been ready for an hour."
"And? That's your fault for getting ready so fast."
Ellie turned her head to look at you. You were leaning close to the mirror now, your mouth slightly open in concentration as you carefully applied mascara to your lashes.
She watched you blink a few times, checking your work, before switching to the other eye.
Ellie found herself mesmerized by the process, even though she'd seen you do your makeup many times before.
There was something almost meditative about it, the way you moved through each step with practiced ease. You seemed to lose yourself in the ritual of it.
Pretty, Ellie thought. So, so pretty. Since the very first day she'd seen you Ellie had thought so.
It had been early August, just a few days after the winter break when classes were starting again, and Ellie had been completely lost trying to find her classroom in a building she'd never been to before. The university was just massive and confusing, with buildings that all looked the same and hallway numbers that seemed to follow no logical system whatsoever.
Ellie had been standing near the entrance trying to load a map of the building on her phone. The wifi in the building was terrible, so the image kept freezing, the little loading circle spinning endlessly, and Ellie had been cursing under her breath.
"Excuse me, do you need help?"
Ellie had looked up to find you standing there with a stack of freshly printed papers, looking at her with a friendly expression.
She'd turned her phone toward you, and pointed where she was supposed to go. "Uh, yeah. I need to get... there."
You'd leaned in to look at her phone screen, squinting at the barely-loaded map. "Ah, yeah. I think it's this way. Come on!"
After that, you'd shifted your papers to one hip and started walking without waiting for a response, and Ellie had scrambled to follow you, her backpack bouncing against her shoulders as she tried to keep up with your quick pace.
When you'd finally reached the auditorium you'd practically pushed Ellie toward the door.
"Get in or you're not going to get a seat!" you'd said, giving her a little shove.
Ellie had barely had time to turn around before you were already walking away, waving at her over your shoulder as you walked down the hallway.
She hadn't even had the opportunity to say thank you.
For days she'd asked around about you to some classmates, casually mentioning "a girl who helped me find the way," alongside a brief description of your appearance, but apparently you didn't study there.
No one knew who she was talking about.
Ellie had figured that was it. One random encounter with a beautiful and helpful stranger who happened to be in campus, never to be seen again.
She hadn't expected to see you again.
The city was big, and the chances of running into the same person twice seemed slim.
She'd been wrong. A few days later she'd been sitting in a café near campus between classes—a three-hour gap that she'd decided to fill with coffee and reading instead of going all the way back to her apartment—when she'd looked up from her laptop, and there you were.
Standing besides a nearby table, taking someone's order with that same friendly smile you gave her that day.
That had been months ago now. Months of regular café visits that turned into study sessions, which turned into hanging out and sleepovers, which turned into this. Whatever this was. A thing, definitely. Though, unnamed.
Ellie didn't want to think too hard about that.
You caught her looking in the mirror and smiled, your eyes crinkling at the corners. "What?"
"Nothing," Ellie said quickly, looking away. She focused very intently on the hair tie in her hands, wrapping it around her fingers, unwrapping it, wrapping it again. "Just wondering how much longer you're gonna take."
"I'm almost done, I swear."
Okay then. Almost done meant another ten minutes at least, so maybe she could just rest her eyes for a minute. You were clearly going to take forever getting ready anyway, and Ellie was so comfortable, so warm, so full...
Ellie's breathing slowed. Her hand, still clutching the hair tie she'd been fidgeting with, went slack against the comforter.
She was drifting, somewhere between awake and asleep, when the sound jolted her back to consciousness.
Pchit. Pchit. Pchit.
Ellie's eyes flew open.
Pchit. Pchit. Pchit, pchit, pchit, pchit, pchit.
The spray bottle sound continued, relentless, and she could definitely smell your Sabrina Carpenter perfume taking all over the small room.
Ellie pushed herself up on her elbows, rubbing her eyes with one hand. She felt groggy, her mouth was dry, and her back protested the movement.
"Are you trying to fumigate yourself?" Ellie called out, her voice still rough with sleep. "That's like, fifteen sprays."
"Just five!" you called back, which was definitely a lie based on what Ellie had just heard.
"Definitely not five."
"You don't understand, I need to smell like in showered in coffee."
Ellie let her head fall back against your pillow with a groan. "You smell like that all the time."
She heard you moving around in the small room again, the click of what sounded like a makeup compact snapping shut, and then the rustle of clothing. You were still getting ready, apparently, even though Ellie had no idea what else there was left to do.
"What should I wear? I swear I have like, zero clothes."
Another lie. You had a bunch of clothes. Way too many. Your wardrobe was literally bursting. Ellie was pretty sure you only worked to buy the things you wanted, like perfumes. And clothes. And makeup. And shoes.
She just watched through half-lidded eyes as you pulled out one outfit option from your dresser. Then another. Then another one.
"What about this one?" you asked, holding up a black dress.
Ellie made a mmh sound.
"Okay. So helpful..." you muttered, tossing it onto the growing pile on the chair beside your closet.
You pulled out another option—some kind of skirt and top combination in red. Held it up. Frowned again.
"Too much?" you asked, mostly to yourself.
You didn't wait for Ellie's answer, just tossed it onto the pile and went back to searching.
Ellie watched this happen three more times. A blue outfit that you decided made you look "washed out." A white dress that was "too formal." A black skirt and crop top that was "boring."
You would have looked stunning in any of those.
She was almost asleep again, really truly drifting this time, when she felt the bed dip beside her.
Her eyes opened to find you lying next to her, still in just your bra and lacy underwear. You were on your chest, your face buried in a Hello Kitty plushie you used as a pillow.
When Ellie turned her head to look at you, she could see the exhaustion written all over your features.
The makeup you'd so carefully applied made your eyes look bigger, but underneath it Ellie could see the slight puffiness that spoke about how long your day had been.
Apparently, the weight of the day had finally caught up with you now that you'd stopped moving.
"I'm tired," you said, and your voice had lost all its earlier enthusiasm.
"How'd it go?" Ellie asked quietly.
"Fine. Horrible. I don't know." You sighed. "I try to be Montessori, I really do. Like, 'follow the child's natural curiosity,' and whatever. But then they're all screaming and throwing blocks and I'm like... okay, maybe Skinner had a point."
Ellie huffed a quiet laugh. "That bad?"
"One of them bit another kid over a crayon and another cried for an hour straight," You shifted closer, burying your face in your pillow. "So, yeah. That bad."
Ellie's hand moved without conscious thought, reaching over to rest on your back. Her palm settled against the warm skin between your shoulder blades, and she started rubbing slow circles there, her touch gentle and automatic.
"We don't have to go. We can stay in if you want."
Ellie's hand kept moving, tracing patterns across your back. Her fingers skimmed over the bumps of your spine, the curve of your shoulder blades.
You were quiet for a long moment, and Ellie held her breath for a second. A part of her—a large part of her—was desperately hoping you'd change your mind and suggest staying in instead.
Then you sighed and pushed yourself up. "Nop," you said, stretching your arms above your head. "I want to go. I'm just being lazy."
Ellie watched you stand and you walk back to your closet, finally picking up a top and a short denim skirt that made Ellie's mouth go dry just by looking at it.
Once you were finally dressed, you grabbed your leather jacket from the back of your door and then turned to face Ellie, who was still sprawled on your bed like she'd melted into it.
She was not moving. At all. Didn't even attempted to even put her blue Converse on.
"Ellie." you said, standing at the foot of the bed with your hands on your hips. "Do you actually want to go?"
Ellie blinked at you. "What?"
"Do you want to go?" you repeated, and there was something in your voice now, something uncertain. "Like, seriously. Because if you don't want to, we don't have to."
"I—" Ellie pushed herself up on her elbows. "Do you want to go?"
"I asked you first."
"Well, I asked you second."
You stared at each other for a moment, and then you were moving back toward the bed, dropping your jacket on the floor as you climbed back onto the mattress, once again.
Ellie's bed was a full size back in her apartment. Plenty of room for the two of you when you came over, which was most days. Your bed was definitely smaller than hers, fitting awkwardly in your tiny bedroom that was packed with furniture and textbooks and all the stuff you'd accumulated.
It was barely big enough for you, let alone two people. It meant being pressed together with no space between your bodies, but neither of you cared.
You settled on your side this time, facing her. And Ellie turned to face you, too. She couldn't just lie there staring at the ceiling while you were right there, so close that she could count your eyelashes.
Ellie could see every detail of your face, like the fine line of your eyeliner. The sparkly glitter at the corners of your eyes. The way your lipstick had settled into the natural lines of your lips. The slight flutter of your eyelashes as you blinked...
The room was quiet except for the music still playing softly from your phone and the sound of both of you breathing.
The fairy lights cast everything in that soft golden glow, and Ellie felt herself getting drowsy again too, lulled by the warmth and the comfort of you being next to her.
"C'mere," Ellie said, her voice low and rough with sleep.
Your brows furrowed slightly in confusion. "What?"
"Come here," Ellie clarified, saying it slower this time, enunciating every word. She shifted slightly on the bed, her arm extended in invitation.
"Oh." Your expression cleared, and without hesitance, you moved closer.
Ellie had expected you to just scoot over, maybe rest your head on her shoulder the way you sometimes did during movie nights. Instead, you practically draped yourself over her.
You threw your leg over her hip, your thigh resting across her midriff.
Ellie's hand moved on its own accord. Slow, gentle strokes up and down your thigh, her fingers trailing from just above your knee to where your leg curved over her stomach, then back down again.
She didn't want you to get up. She wanted to stay exactly like this. She wanted to turn her head and kiss your temple. Tighten her arms around you and never let go. She wanted to tell you that you could just stay here together, that nothing else mattered as much as this moment right here.
You made a small sound against her neck, and Ellie felt it vibrate through her whole body. You shifted slightly, and Ellie's hand tightened on your thigh reflexively before she forced herself to relax her grip.
"So?" you whispered. "Do you want to go?"
"I don't know," Ellie whispered back.
There was no reason to whisper. Your family already knew you two were in your room, and the door was closed. But something about the moment felt fragile and hushed, like speaking too loud would shatter whatever this was.
"Me neither," you admitted, and your voice was so soft Ellie felt it more than heard it.
Your hand, the one resting on her chest near her collarbone, started moving. Fingers traced the line of her clavicle through her shirt, a mirror of Ellie's touch.
"Lila's gonna be mad at you," Ellie murmured.
"She won't be," you said, and your hand slid from Ellie's collar down to rest flat against her chest, right over her heart. You had to feel how hard it was beating. There was no way you couldn't feel it. "She's used to us."
To us.
Us.
Us.
Us. It sent a dizzying rush of warmth inside her.
Ellie's leg shifted, sliding forward until her thigh pressed between your legs, and your breath hitched audibly. She froze for a beat, suddenly hyperaware of where her thigh was, of the heat she could feel even through the denim of her jeans.
You didn't say anything. You just settled pressed impossibly closer against Ellie, your bodies touching along every available inch.
Ellie's hand on your ass tightened, her fingers gripping the soft flesh there, and she felt you shiver under her touch.
"Cold?" Ellie asked, even though your room was warm. Whatever you two were generating was enough to light up a small town.
"No," you said, and your voice was quieter. Breathier. "Not cold. I think—" you started, and then stopped, biting your lip.
Ellie watched you and had to actively fight the urge to lean forward and kiss you.
"You think what?"
Her other hand, the one that wasn't currently groping your ass, came up to thread through your hair, scratching lightly against your scalp in the way she'd learned you liked.
Your hand moved up to wrap around her torso, holding her tight. "Let's just stay here." You said, tucking your face into the curve of her neck.
The softest caress of your lips brushing against her sensitive skin made Ellie shiver. "Yeah," she managed. "Yeah, okay.”
Ellie's hand slid fully under your skirt now, cupping your ass properly as she pulled you harder down against her own thigh.
"El…”
Ellie's hand in your hair tightened, tilting your head back slightly so she could see your face. Your eyes were half-lidded and your cheeks flushed.
The fairy lights cast everything in soft golden colors, and you looked unreal under them, like something straight of a dream. Her dreams. Like a fairy. Or an angel.
The prettiest girl she'd ever seen.
"Mmh?" Ellie managed, even though forming words felt impossible when you were moving on her like that. Every roll of your hips against her thigh was making heat pool low in her stomach.
"I wanna kiss you," you whispered.
"Then kiss me," Ellie said, want bleeding through every syllable. She almost didn't recognize her own voice.
You did. But instead of closing the distance between your mouths, you ducked your head and found the curve of Ellie's neck instead.
Ellie's eyes fluttered closed, her head tilting back to give you better access, her hand in your hair holding you there like she was afraid you'd pull away.
You didn't pull away. You kissed her again, firmer this time, your lips pressing against the sensitive skin just below her ear. Then again, trailing down toward her collarbone.
Ellie's whole body shuddered. Her thigh pressed up harder to meet you, giving you more pressure, and she felt you smile against her neck before you bit down.
Then, she leaned down to press an open mouth kiss to your neck.
As soon as her lips met your skin, she tasted perfume. So much perfume. An industrial amount of perfume that coated her tongue and made her pull back with a grimace.
"Jesus. Do you have to spray that much?" Ellie said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Dramatic much?”
"I'm not being dramatic," Ellie insisted. She leaned in and kissed your shoulder instead, where the sweet fragrance hadn't reached. "You sprayed like fifteen times. That shit's expensive, you know."
"It's actually not," you said, and you giggled. It made Ellie's chest go warm. "It's a dupe. You thought I was out here buying fancy perfume? I'm broke, Els. I have a Samsung."
Ellie's fingers found the clasp of your bra under your top, unhooking it with practiced ease even as she continued the conversation. "What does having a Samsung have to do with perfume?”
"It means I'm poor," you said matter-of-factly.
The bra loosened completely under your top. You reached up and slid the straps down your arms, pulling the bra out from under your shirt and tossing it carelessly onto the floor beside the bed.
"Capitalism is beating your ass.”
"Ellie. You had to download WhatsApp because of me.”
Without waiting for her response, you reached down and pulled your crop top down yourself, tugging the fabric beneath your breasts in one smooth motion.
That fully woke her up. Instantly. Any trace of sleepiness vanished. She went from half-asleep to completely, utterly alert in the span of a heartbeat.
Ellie couldn't answer, as she watched completely mesmerized how the fabric bunched under your breasts, pushing them up obscenely. Your nipples were already tight from the cold air in your room or arousal or both, Ellie didn't know and didn't care.
Her mouth actually watered at the sight.
"I didn’t mind," she finished weakly, her eyes fixed on your chest.
Ellie still wasn't used to this. It hadn't been that long since the first time she saw you like this, but Ellie was still just as speechless every single time.
"Liar," you said, but your voice was getting breathless now, and Ellie's hands were already moving, cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples.
You gasped at the contact, your back arching, and Ellie couldn't take her eyes off you. Her eyes were fixed in the way your chest heaved with each breath, the way the crop top bunched under your breasts framed everything perfectly.
"Woah," Ellie breathed, and then she was leaning down, her tongue giving your nipple a teasing lick.
You didn't disappoint. Your hips jerked forward, and a whimper fell from your lips.
"I like WhatsApp," Ellie said against your skin and gave your other nipple the same treatment, building anticipation.
"You complained about it for like three days," you said. The words dissolved into a sigh as Ellie finally sucked your nipple into her mouth properly.
"Well, now I like it," Ellie murmured, switching to your other breast, her tongue circling slowly before she sucked. "And I like your perfume too."
"Then—then stop complaining about it," you gasped, your fingers tightening in Ellie's hair, holding her against your chest.
"I'm not complaining," Ellie said, her teeth grazing gently. Not too hard, just enough pressure to make you gasp. "I'm just saying I dont want to taste it when I kiss your neck."
"So kiss somewhere else," you said, and your hips rolled forward, seeking friction.
"Mmh," Ellie hummed against your skin.
She did exactly that. Her lips grazed the smooth skin of the valley between your breasts, finally tasting skin instead of perfume.
You made a little sound—half-sigh, half-whimper—that went straight through her.
"Can't believe—" you started, then stopped as Ellie thumb brushed over the wet nipple she'd just left. "Can't believe we're having this conversation right now."
"What conversation?"
"Shut up," you said, but you were laughing even as you arched into her mouth, your chest pushing closer to her face. "You're bullying me."
"Dude. I didn’t say anything," Ellie said, grinning against your skin before taking your nipple back in her mouth, sucking the way you'd taught her you liked. "I'm–”
"You're very annoying," you corrected, but your hand was guiding her mouth exactly where you wanted it, your fingers threading through her hair and holding her there.
Your hips hadn't stopped moving the entire time. Still grinding against her slowly even while you bickered about whatever you could think of.
Ellie shifted beneath you and pressed her thigh harder against you.
The conversation died immediately.
You were moving against her with renewed focus, and that was making it hard for Ellie to think straight. The friction wasn't quite enough through the layers of fabric, but you were chasing it anyway, little gasps escaping every time you found the right angle.
She flexed her thigh. She didn't think about it, really. Just tightened the muscle beneath you reflexively, and the effect was immediate.
You jolted forward, your whole body going taut, and the sound that came out of you was a desperate gasp.
"Fuck—" It came out shaky, half-breath.
Ellie did it again. This time deliberately, timing it with the roll of your hips.
Your nails dug into her shoulders hard enough that it would probably leave marks, and Ellie found she didn't care at all.
"That good?" she asked, even though she could tell from the way you were breathing that it was.
You couldn't seem to answer. Just nodded frantically against her shoulder and kept moving.
It took Ellie a minute to notice, too focused on the sounds you were making and the heat of your body pressed against hers, but then she felt it.
The denim under you had gone from dry to damp to actually wet. The fabric was soaked through. You were that turned on. Wet enough to soak through your underwear, through her jeans.
Ellie was so fucking turned on it hurt.
She could feel how wet she was, her boxers already damp just watching from watching you and feeling you grind against her.
"You're gonna ruin my jeans," Ellie said, and her voice came out rougher than she meant it to.
You pulled back just enough to look at her, breathing hard. "Sorry—"
"Don't." Ellie's grip on you tightened, pulling you back down harder. "Don't apologize. It's hot," she added, quieter.
You were staring at her with your pupils blown wide, and Ellie flexed her thigh again just to watch your eyes flutter closed.
"These are my good jeans, though," she said, but there was no real complaint in it.
"Literally your fault," you managed between gasps.
"How is this my fault?"
"We were supposed to be out like twenty minutes ago."
Ellie would've laughed if she wasn't so turned on. "You're bringing that up now?"
Ellie's hand left your hip, sliding between your bodies. Her fingers found the edge of your underwear, and she paused for just a second before hooking into the fabric to pull it aside. Her fingertips grazed your clit as she did, just barely enough to make you gasp.
The brief contact left her fingers slick and her brain completely offline.
Ellie's eyes dropped between your bodies, watching the way your pussy dragged over her thigh. Swollen and slick and so fucking pretty it made her dizzy.
"Fuck," Ellie said, and she couldn't keep the strain out of her voice, unable to look away. "You're so—fuck, look at you."
She didn't finish. Couldn't. Just kept her fingers hooked in your underwear, holding it out of the way while you started moving again.
She leaned in slowly, and you met her halfway.
Your lips were soft and a little sticky, moving against hers with an hesitance that made Ellie's chest ache.
Ellie kissed you back just as carefully with her hand cupping your face and her thumb stroking your cheek slowly. She poured everything she couldn't say into the kiss, all the longing and want and desperate affection she had for you.
You made a small sound against her mouth.
The kiss deepened, your tongue tracing the seam of Ellie's lips, and when Ellie opened for you and felt your tongue slide against hers, she felt it all the way down to her toes.
Ellie's hands were shaking slightly. From restraint or arousal or emotion, she didn't know. Probably all three.
Still, they roamed over your back, your sides, your hips. Everywhere she could, willing to remember the shape of you.
Just in case.
Every touch made you gasp into her mouth, made your hips jerk against her. "I've got you," Ellie murmured against your mouth. "I've got you, babe."
The endearment slipped out without her permission, but you didn't seem to mind. If anything, you kissed her even harder.
Your arms came up to wrap around her shoulders, holding on tight, and Ellie felt the shift in you; the way your whole body seemed to curl inward even as your hips kept moving.
Your breathing was harsh against her skin, hot and uneven, and then Ellie felt it.
Dampness spread on her neck where your face was pressed, and then your whole body shuddered with a silent sob, your hips stopping briefly before you forced them to keep moving.
"Hey—" she started, but you just held on tighter.
Your hips stuttered a little when she spoke, the rhythm faltering, and Ellie's hands moved from your ass to your waist, steadying you, even though she didn't know what to do.
"I don't want you to go."
It came out muffled against her neck. Barely audible. Your voice thick and small in a way that made something crack open inside Ellie's ribcage.
She'd known this was coming. Had felt it building for weeks like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Every time the conversation got close, one of you would veer away. You'd make a joke. She'd kiss you to shut you both up. You'd fuck until you were too tired to think about calendars the fact that Ellie's visa had an expiration date stamped right through the middle of whatever this was between you.
But now you'd said it. The thing you'd both been circling around, too scared to name. And hearing it out loud was enough to make her throat start to burn.
She didn't know what to say. Didn't trust herself to speak without her voice cracking, without everything she'd been holding back spilling out in a way that would make this harder for both of you.
Because she didn't want to go either.
The thought of leaving you had been getting worse with each passing day as the semester wound down—as the calendar pages thinned and her departure loomed closer and closer.
She'd been carrying this weight for weeks now. Watching the days disappear. Making you dinner. Walking you home. Falling into your bed and pretending that if she didn't acknowledge the countdown, it wouldn't be real.
Every morning she woke up next to you was one morning closer to waking up alone.
And she'd been okay with it, really. She'd been fine. She could handle it.
Or so she thought.
"I'm still here," Ellie murmured between kisses. "I'm here right now."
"But you won't be," you said, and you were crying properly now, even as your hips started moving again, seeking something that would make the ache of impending loss feel less overwhelming. "You're gonna leave.”
"Don't think about that," Ellie said, her lips against your temple. "Just—just be here with me. Right now."
You nodded against her neck, your arms tightening around her, and your movements became more focused.
Ellie guided you, helping you find the rhythm again even through the tears. Her hands on your hips kept you moving even when you faltered and the crying made you lose focus.
If this was what you needed right now, if this was how you were choosing to fall apart, then she was going to hold you through it.
"That's it," she murmured. "I'm here.”
You pulled back just enough to kiss her again, and Ellie could taste the salt of your tears mixed with the sweetness of your lip gloss.
The kiss was messy and desperate and perfect.
Ellie's other hand found your breast and cupped it gently, her thumb brushing over your nipple. You gasped into her mouth, your back arching, and Ellie did it again, loving the way you responded to her touch, the way your body moved with hers like you were made to fit together.
Your movements became more urgent and needy, like you were trying to lose yourself in the sensation, trying to forget about the countdown clock hanging over both of you.
"Baby," Ellie said between kisses, but you weren't listening.
You were kissing her like you were drowning and she was air, your hands in her hair, your body pressed so tightly against hers that Ellie couldn't tell where she ended and you began.
"I'm never gonna see you again," you said against her lips, and your voice had Ellie squeezing her eyes shut against the burn of tears.
It felt like her heart was being ripped out of her chest.
"Don't say that," Ellie said firmly, her hand coming up to tilt your face toward hers. "Don't say that."
"But it's true. You're gonna go back to Jackson and I'm gonna be here and you will forget about me."
She pulled you into another kiss, desperate to make you understand. To make you believe.
The pleasure was mixing with the ache in her chest in a way that was almost unbearable. I love you, she wanted to say. I love you so much. I could never forget you.
"I won't," Ellie said, and she leaned down to press a kiss to your neck, right over your pulse point. "I promise you'll see me again." Another kiss, higher this time, just below your ear. "We'll figure it out." Another kiss, on your jaw. "I'm not just gonna disappear."
"But how—" you started, and your voice broke on a sob. "How are we supposed to—"
"We'll figure it out," Ellie repeated, and she started pressing kisses down your neck, open-mouthed and desperate.
"Long distance doesn't work," you said, and you sounded certain. Almost defeated. "Everyone says it doesn't work."
Ellie's lips found that spot in your throat that made you gasp, and she sucked gently. "We're not everyone," she murmured against your skin.
Her mouth found yours again, kissing you deep and slow, her tongue sliding against yours. Your tears had slowed but hadn't stopped completely, and Ellie could still taste the salt on your lips
She pulled back just enough to duck her head down and press her mouth directly over your heart. She felt it hammering against her lips—fast and desperate and so alive it made her own chest ache. She kissed you there once, twice, three times, trying to memorize the rhythm of it. Trying to brand the feeling into her memory so she'd never forget what it felt like to be this close to you.
"Please," you whimpered, and Ellie wasn't sure what you were asking for. Still, she was ready to give you everything she had, anyway. Her touch, her words, her complete and utter devotion.
Ellie shifted slightly, her hand sliding between your bodies. Her fingers found your clit and she pressed down, rubbing in tight circles.
"Ah—Yes—" you gasped against her mouth.
There was sweat beading on your forehead despite the cold room, making your skin glow, and Ellie reached up to brush it away gently.
"You're so beautiful," Ellie whispered. "So fucking beautiful. I—"
The words caught in her throat. She couldn't say it. Not yet. Not like this.
But her fingers kept moving, and that seemed to be what you needed anyway.
Your movements became erratic, your breathing ragged, and then you were there, your whole body going rigid in Ellie's arms as pleasure crashed over you.
You cried out—muffled against Ellie's neck but still audible—and Ellie kept rubbing your clit through it, working you through the orgasm, her other hand steady on your hip as you trembled and shook.
You were still crying softly, little hiccupping breaths against her neck, and Ellie just held you tighter, pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, your hair. Anywhere she could reach.
When you finally went limp against her, your body boneless and sated, Ellie wrapped both arms around you and just held you.
You two still had time. A few more weeks of stolen moments and late nights and falling asleep tangled together in your too-small bed.
It would have to be enough.
It would never be enough.
But it was all she had, so Ellie was going to hold onto every second of it.
⋆｡° ⋆ ˖ a/n:
soft launching my pedagogical views in this like she's right idk... maybe behavioral conditioning isn't THAT bad !! haha jk UNLESS??
i hope you liked it <3 maybe i can make a full one shot of them in the future if you guys are interested. just let me know 🌬
angst + smut reader works as a stripper reader and ellie are both in college reader's boyfriend is a REAL MANCHILD... reader has nipple piercings wlw slowburn lovestruck reader drugs and alcohol mentioned reader's parents are homophobic and HIGHLY RELIGIOUS and do not approve of their daughter, their son is the golden child, and reader is constantly berated at family dinners.
'𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐀'𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓: good evening everyone, welcome to the man's best friend series all curated by me and my fucked up schedule. hope you enjoy. xoxo, 'dess ♥︎
the fluorescent lights of velvet vipers buzz like angry hornets overhead as you count crumpled bills in the cramped, glitter-strewn dressing room.
strawberry bubblegum lip gloss smears on your knuckle. the air tastes like stale perfume, cheap beer, and desperation.
outside this sticky haven, life is a minefield: your parents’ icy disdain at sunday dinners, “such a waste of a pretty face, chasing sin, leliani—leliani cheyenne chamberlain, not that trashy stage name”, your golden boy brother’s smug indifference, and michael—michael the manchild, currently blowing up your phone with whiny demands for pizza money because his game controller broke again.
your reflection stares back—platinum curls, exaggerated lashes, hot pink micro-skirt barely covering your ass, the cool metal of your silver nipple barbells pressing against the flimsy sequined bra. a bimbo costume. sometimes it feels like the only armor you have.
later, drowning the taste of your mother’s passive-aggressive grace: “we pray for your soul, dear", in cheap tequila shots at the rusted hinge, you spot her. ellie williams. a storm cloud in a sea of pastel college bros.
ripped black jeans, band tee, that signature hoodie pulled low over intense eyes scanning the room like she’s assessing threats. she’s in your art history lecture. quiet, sharp, radiating a stillness that cuts through the noise.
you’ve felt her gaze sometimes, not leering like the others, but… noting. noticing the fading bruise on your wrist michael grabbed too hard last week? noticing how your smile wobbles? tonight, drowning, you stumble towards her shadowed booth.
“hey,” your voice sounds too high, too bubbly, even to yourself. “ellie, right? art history? mind if i…?” you gesture vaguely at the empty seat opposite her.
she looks up, eyes narrowing slightly. a flicker of surprise, quickly masked. “free country.” her voice is low, rough honey edged with gravel.
southern, but different from the saccharine drawl you’re used to faking. real. you slide in, the vinyl squeaking under your skirt.
silence hangs thick. you fiddle with a cocktail napkin, tearing damp edges. the tequila burns, mixing with the phantom taste of your mother’s dry pot roast. “shitty night,” you finally murmur, the bimbo persona cracking like cheap lacquer.
ellie takes a slow sip of her dark beer. her gaze lands on your hands, trembling slightly. then, deliberately, travels up to meet your eyes. “looks it.” not unkind. just factual. observant. “michael being an asshole again? or the holy rollers?”
the bluntness punches the air out of you. nobody sees like this. tears prickle, hot and humiliating. you nod, unable to speak, looking down at the sticky table.
“yeah,” she says softly. “saw him yelling at you outside the library yesterday. real prince.” a beat. “parents still comparing you to saint mark the perfect?”
a choked laugh escapes you. “always.” you risk a glance. her expression is unreadable, but there’s no pity. just… recognition? “why are you…?” you gesture vaguely at her, at you.
“noticing?” she finishes, a ghost of something—amusement?—touching her lips.
“because you shine like a fucking supernova in that lecture hall, even when you look like you wanna crawl under the desk. especially then. all that glitter trying to hide the cracks.” her boot nudges yours gently under the table. “it’s kinda mesmerizing. and infuriating.”
your breath hitches. heat floods your cheeks, a different kind this time. not shame. something electric, terrifying. you reach for your drink, hand shaking. ellie’s hand—cool, long fingers adorned with chunky silver rings, closes over yours, stilling it.
the contact is a jolt. her skin is surprisingly soft against yours. she doesn’t let go.
“you deserve better than cheap tequila and cheaper men, princess,” she murmurs, her thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. the pet name, usually annoying from others, sounds like a dark promise from her lips. “way better.”
the next few weeks are a slow, aching burn under your skin. stolen glances in lecture turn into hesitant smiles.
ellie starts appearing places. waiting outside the club sometimes when your shift ends absurdly late, just leaning against her bike, offering a silent nod, a cigarette she knows you don’t smoke but accept anyway just to stand near her smoky warmth.
she doesn’t ask about michael, but her jaw tightens whenever he calls. she witnesses another family dinner fallout via tearful phone call from your car afterwards, listening silently until you’re cried out, then offering simple truths: “they’re wrong. you’re strong. fuck ‘em.”
one rain-lashed tuesday night, michael’s tantrum peaks. he throws your favorite glitter heels against the wall when you refuse to skip your late shift to drive him to a friend’s. “you stupid slut! who’s payin’ for this apartment, huh? me!” he shoves you backwards.
you stumble, catching yourself on the kitchen counter, the edge digging into your lower back.
that’s it. the final thread snaps. you grab your soaked coat and keys, ignoring his sputtering rage, and run out into the downpour.
you don’t think. you just drive. your beaten-up car splashes through flooded streets until it stops outside the familiar weathered door of ellie’s off-campus apartment.
your ring the bell, shivering violently, rain plastering your hair to your face, mascara bleeding down your cheeks like inky tears.
the door opens. ellie stands there in faded sweatpants and a worn black tank top, hair messy.
surprise flashes, then immediate concern as she takes in your drowned-rat state, the faint red mark blooming on your arm where you caught the counter. “jesus, fuck. get in here.” she pulls you inside without hesitation.
the warmth hits you like a physical blow. it smells like old books, leather, and coffee.
she leads you to her small bathroom, wordlessly handing you a huge, soft towel.
you peel off your soaked clothes, standing shivering in just your damp lace panties and bra, the cool metal of your nipple piercings stark against flushed skin. ellie returns with an oversized hoodie.
her gaze sweeps over you—not leering, but assessing, cataloging the tremors, the vulnerability, the defiant spark still burning in your eyes despite everything. her own eyes darken.
“did he touch you?” her voice dangerously low.
“shoved me,” you whisper, wrapping the towel tighter. “not… not badly. just… enough.”
ellie steps closer. the space crackles. she reaches out, not touching you, but hovering near your back where the red mark shows. “bastard.” the word is a vow.
then her eyes lift, meeting yours. the intensity is overwhelming. primal. protective. hungry. “been wanting to do this for weeks,” she rasps.
and then she kisses you.
it’s not tentative. it’s claiming. a collision of need and suppressed fury and something deeper, sweeter.
her lips are firm, insistent, moving against yours with a confidence that steals your breath. her hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing away the remnants of rain and tears.
you melt into her, a desperate whimper escaping your throat as your hands fist in the soft fabric of her tank top. she tastes like coffee and smoke and something uniquely ellie – dark, vital, grounding.
her tongue slips past your lips, exploring, demanding a response you give freely, opening for her with a sigh that’s half-sob.
her hands slide down, one arm wrapping possessively around your waist, pulling your half-naked body flush against hers.
you feel the hard planes of her torso through the thin cotton, the surprising strength in her lean frame.
her other hand tangles in your wet hair, angling your head for deeper access.
the kiss deepens, turning feverish, wet, consuming. every point of contact is electric , her thigh pressing between yours, the scrape of her calloused palm against your bare back under the towel, the heat radiating from her skin.
breaking the kiss only long enough to growl “off,” ellie deftly unhooks your bra. it falls away.
your bare breasts are exposed to the humid air of the small bathroom, your pierced nipples already hardened peaks, achingly sensitive.
ellie’s gaze drops, a low sound rumbling in her chest, pure appreciation, primal desire. “fuckin’ gorgeous,” she breathes, her voice thick. she doesn’t hesitate. her head dips, her mouth closing hot and wet over one tight bud.
you cry out, arching into her as her tongue flicks expertly over the cool metal barbell, sending shockwaves straight to your core.
the sensation is incredible, the contrasting coolness of the metal against the searing heat of her mouth, the skillful pressure of her tongue swirling around it, tugging gently with her lips.
she lavishes attention on one piercing, then the other, sucking, nipping lightly with her teeth, making you writhe against her. your hands claw at her shoulders, desperate for anchor as pleasure, sharp and insistent, coils low in your belly.
her hand slides down your stomach, over the curve of your hip, slipping beneath the waistband of your damp panties. her fingers glide effortlessly through your slickness.
“so wet,” she murmurs against your breast, her breath hot on your wet skin. “all for me?” she doesn’t wait for an answer. two fingers slide deep inside you with no preamble, curling upwards expertly.
“ellie!” your gasp is ragged. you buck against her hand, the sudden fullness exquisite. she sets a relentless pace immediately, her fingers pistoning in and out while her thumb finds your clit, circling it with firm, knowing pressure.
all the while, her mouth continues its devastating assault on your nipple piercing, sucking hard on the metal now, sending jolts of almost painful pleasure radiating through you.
the dual sensations – the deep penetration, the focused attention on your hypersensitive nipple, the rough pad of her thumb grinding against your clit – overwhelm your senses completely.
it’s too much, too fast, too intense after weeks of tension and tonight’s raw emotion. the orgasm crashes over you with shocking force.
you scream her name, body bowing violently against hers, trembling uncontrollably as waves of pure ecstasy rip through you.
ellie holds you tight, her fingers buried deep inside you, her mouth still locked on your nipple as you convulse around her hand.
as the tremors subside into shaky aftershocks, she slowly eases her fingers out and lifts her head. her lips are swollen, glistening.
she looks at you, eyes burning with possessiveness and a fierce tenderness that steals what little breath you have left.
gently, she guides you out of your soaked panties and pulls the huge hoodie over your head, enveloping you in her scent, leather, smoke, safety.
she leads you to her narrow bed piled high with dark blankets.
you collapse onto it, boneless. ellie climbs in beside you, pulling you close so your back is flush against her chest, her arm draped protectively over your waist.
her lips brush the shell of your ear.
“sleep, princess,” she murmurs, that southern drawl thick with satisfaction and unspoken promise. “he ain’t touchin’ you again. you’re mine now.”
outside, the rain drums steadily on the roof.
inside, wrapped in ellie’s darkness and warmth, for the first time in forever, you feel truly seen. truly safe.
truly wanted. and it’s terrifyingly, exhilaratingly perfect.
𓂃' 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐀'𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓 ﹕ hey guys, just wanted to post this just because, you don't have to like it but don't send me hate , okay bye . . .
Within her ear lives a bug which Ellie cannot seem to rid herself of. It crawls under her skin and into her brain, whispering nonsense into her mind. She wants to rip it from its home, but knows Marlene would punish her for it—as it’s the only way for them to communicate once Ellie is deployed.
“Remember: this is a campaign to bring people to our side.” The bug says, its voice sounding as though it’s being filtered through metal can. Ellie hates earpieces, but knows better than to show her annoyance. Marlene is watching her in the mirror. Very closely.
After their altercation which resulted in Ellie being slapped across the face, her relationship with Marlene has been—understandably—rather strained. Well, it hadn’t been particularly stable to begin with, but it’s only gotten worse since then. They can hardly even hold a conversation anymore without one of them exploding on the other. It’s strange, being both Marlene’s subordinate and ward; such conflictions allow for a rather peculiar ebbing of necessary dependence and stubborn independence.
“Understood.” Ellie responds into the insectile earpiece.
This mission was planned from the moment your campaign took hold of all the screens in the country, but Ellie was just informed of it this morning—a week later. And, if that weren’t enough, Marlene has thus refused to tell Ellie what this mission will entail, only that it is going to be filmed and thereafter broadcasted as war propaganda.
Ellie’s knee is bouncing with anticipation and anxiety. Her thumb twitches toward her index finger, only to be reminded that her ring was given to you. After five months, one would assume she’s grown used to its vacancy—and yet, here she is. She wonders if you still are wearing it, or if the Capitol had it confiscated.
The hovercraft can be heard whirring deafeningly overhead, its blades slicing through the air as they fly high above the Districts. Ellie has long since stopped looking down. At first, she had hoped it would give her hints as to what the mission would be, but it only resulted in making her feel sick.
At least there is one good thing about all of this: Ruben is here. After their five-month aversion, they have finally, finally rekindled their relationship. And, if she were to be daring enough to admit it, Ellie would even go so far as to say that it’s even stronger than it had been prior. Now, they need each other. Without Ruben, Ellie would have no one; without Ellie, Ruben would have no one. Sure, they might have their friends and supporters and acquaintances, but nothing so deep and so raw as each other.
They sit side-by-side now, hands touching but not quite clasped together. If you were here in Ellie’s place, she knows Ruben would be holding your hand; and if you were here in his place, she would be holding it too. And yet neither can bring themselves to act as though what happened to you is not rotting them both from the inside.
The mere act of being in close proximity with someone sets Ellie’s nerves ablaze—all except Oakley and Ruben: the two people who most remind her of you. Your absence weighs on her, pressing against her shoulders until all of her bones are broken and as useless as the rest of her.
Neither Ellie nor Ruben speak during the entire flight, too afraid of shattering the fragility of their relationship. To lose what they’ve so precariously built would be the end of everything. There would be nothing worth continuing for. Save for Oakley, though she sometimes wishes he had someone better than herself to care for him. She watches his staggering gait and listens to his unintelligible garbling and can think only one thing: he deserves someone better. If she weren’t here to hold him back, what could he become?
The hovercraft begins its descent and Ellie has to physically hold herself back from lunging toward the window to lay witness to their destination. But Marlene is still watching her and Ellie cannot risk her thinking that she holds any sort of advantage over her. Even one so fickle as acumen.
Once they are low enough to the ground that a ladder can be lowered, Ellie is beckoned to her feet by a sneering Robert. She grudgingly obliges, rising before casting a weary glance back at Ruben, who can not so easily use a ladder as she.
“Mister L/n stays.” Marlene’s tinny voice speaks into all of their ears at once, staying Ruben’s movements. Ellie turns toward the cockpit, meeting Marlene’s narrowed eyes in the mirror. The tenacity in her gaze is undeniable and Ellie knows better than to challenge her, regardless of how her skin itches for a fight.
When she turns back to Ruben, apologetic, he merely waves a dismissive hand, as though to say ‘I wouldn’t be able to go anyway’. She frowns at him, but neither speak.
Robert slaps a hand on her shoulder, sending Ellie’s entire body rigid. She whirls to face him and he glowers at her. “We cannot stay here all day, Williams. Get down there or I’ll push you down myself.” His words are not filtered through the earpieces, as he knows better than to threaten her so outwardly—no matter how strained her relationship with Marlene is, they are still conversant. Instead, Robert speaks plainly, and just barely loud enough for her to hear him over the whirring blades.
She shoots him a scowl before taking her leave. The entire climb down, she keeps her eyes off the ground which resides below. If this place were so tenuous that Marlene could not inform her prior to the mission, Ellie knows she will become too shaken to be of use. And her position as Thirteen’s symbol is the only thing keeping her in Marlene’s coterie.
But the moment Ellie’s boots hit the ground, she is overwashed with such sorrow that she nearly buckles under the heft of it.
She turns around to find herself in the very center of Seven’s town square. The air is thick with a heavy fog that nags at her memory, but its importance is reduced to vanity in the light of seeing her District for the first time in so long. She wants to lay down and bury her face in its soil, to decay in the dirt of her home. But the incessant whirring of the hovercraft keeps her mind from complete insanity.
At the head of the square, the Justice Building is in shambles. The stones of the ceiling caved in, the walls are all clouded with ash, and the rubble lays at her feet like a dog begging for mercy. She knew what happened to Seven—more or less—but to see it for herself, clear as day, is nigh unbearable.
“You will allude to the pathos of this country’s broken heart.” Comes Marlene’s voice. While she speaks, a camera buzzes in front of Ellie’s face. It’s as aerial as the hovercraft up above, tilting and whirring through the air like an insect. A little red light indicates that it’s recording her every move. She resists the urge to cower from its attention. “Fedra’s people are ruined after what the war has done to them; I need you to show that you feel that same ruination. They will see you as a friend, someone who understands them, and that can be used by Thirteen to build alliances.”
Ellie doesn’t respond, Ellie can’t respond.
Her throat is lodged with something she can hardly breathe around, not to mention speak around. She swallows harshly before turning away from the Justice Building. But when she does it, she finds that she’s even more tortured by the ulterior sight. Homes—more homes than she can count—have been burned to the ground, leaving peoples’ belongings strewn across the dirt. The most private aspects of their lives are laid bare for the world to see: their beds, their books, their dinner tables. In how many of these homes were children taught to read, to live, to love? And now it’s all gone.
She begins to walk toward the lower towns, where she and Marlene once lived. The camera buzzes behind her, watching her every move. She knows Robert will edit the entire thing, likely making her appear even more weakened and distraught as she is. But she can’t bring herself to care. She pays no mind to the camera or the orders Marlene is barking in her ear: say something, do something, touch something.
Ash shifts beneath her soles as Ellie ascends the steps to the porch she’d walked so many times before. As she opens the door, the wood frame creaks and cracks at being disrupted. It had likely been content in its lack of human activity, but she likes to imagine that it recognizes her as she recognizes it. She enters the home and imagines that it’s a hug from a childhood long since abandoned.
She peers into the kitchen, though the walls and counters and cabinets are all scorched black. But the skeleton remains the same as it had always done. That same stool upon which she sat while Marlene forced her to divide numbers over and over until she understood the method; the same sink which she stood for hours in front of while she washed dishes and scrubbed pans. She can even see the melted glass of the cup which once held all the flowers Ellie collected on her hunting trips with Riley.
Ellie turns around toward the hallway, but as soon as she sets her sights on the long expanse before her, she gives up the idea of entering her old bedroom. She can hardly stomach the kitchen. The bedroom could very possibly be the final blow pushing her into madness. The camera circles around her, catching a panorama of her profile. She swats it away like a pesky bee, but it remains in proximity.
“Ellie, stop acting like a child and give me something to work with.” Marlene demands, her sharp voice cutting through Ellie’s thoughts. “I did not take you all the way out here to watch you sulk. Say something of worth or you can abandon all hope of seeing your wife again.”
At this, Ellie turns to the camera and opens her mouth. But the only sound which leaves her in a pitiful sob before she descends into tears. She leans against a nearby wall, only for it to groan against her weight.
Once she has managed to regather herself, she resolves to leave the house to avoid causing any additional damage to its remains. Once she is back out under the sun, she turns her attention back toward the hovercraft. But something causes her to dither.
She can’t leave yet—there’s so much more to see.
Ellie lets her legs carry her through the ash-covered streets, over crunchy patches of grass, and, finally, into the Victor’s Village. The gate is swung open, hinges crying against the wind. She passes through it, looking between the identical homes. There are so many, though only two were ever lucky enough to be inhabited. She casts only one glance toward Joel’s old home before hastily turning away. The quickness of the movement is almost enough to strain her neck.
When she enters the home she’d once shared with you, she knows this part of the District hadn’t been nearly as damaged by the fire. Perhaps because the homes were built much sturdier, or perhaps because the Capitol knew nobody lived here anyway.
There are hints of damage done to the house. She can see where fire scorched the window panes, and where Peacekeepers must have sifted through your belongings in hopes of finding something which hinted at rebel correlation. But past that, the home looks almost identical to how it did the day she left. Your shoes and coats reside untouched in the foyer, as though you’ve just left for a quick trip to the Hob and you’ll return home any minute. She almost starts crying again at the thought.
Instead, she walks farther into the house. The camera continues to buzz behind her, spinning to take in the scene of the home. It zooms in on certain aspects, exploring the house like a companion—though she knows it’s Robert who controls it, seeking out something he can exploit.
She enters the living room to find one of your novels laid haphazardly on the coffee table, facedown like you’d expected to pick it up again the next morning. She almost doesn’t want to touch it for fear of disrupting your will, but she cannot help herself. The cover is old, its title worn away from time. She lifts the book, scanning the page before her eyes land on one name: Odysseus. Then another: Calypso.
Ellie runs her fingers over the names, as if they could somehow provide a clue as to how to get you back. Alas, they are fictional and thereby tell her nothing. She never read the novel herself, of course, but she listened to your recollections enough times to have it memorized. It was one of your favorites. And she cannot help but draw similarities between the poem and her own current tribulations.
Here she is, akin to Odysseus: fighting to be reunited with her love. And here you are, akin to Penelope: a million miles away and so very out of reach. She already fought her own Trojan War during the Quarter Quell, yet she has been thrust once more into battle. And Marlene, who she would relate to being Calypso in this particular scenario, has trapped Ellie and offered her opulence—although it means nothing in comparison to seeing you again. But where is Ellie’s Athena? Who will convince the divine to give her just one good thing?
“I understand your sorrow,” it’s Ruben’s voice which comes to her ear this time, “but you must remember that Marlene has all the power. She is the one who decides whether Y/n is returned to us or not. Give her something, Ellie, no matter what it is. Just– please.”
“Okay.” She responds.
Placing the book back onto the table with as much delicacy as she can offer it, Ellie turns toward the camera. It buzzes around the kitchen, focused on the items attached to the fridge: letters from Ruben, recipes from Jo, designs by Cat, and a cacophony of Oakley’s crayon drawings. Ellie clears her throat and the camera spins around toward her, zipping forward until it almost knocks into her. It retreats backward, but she watches as the lenses contract to zoom into her face.
“My wife and I built a home here.” She says, feeling a bit awkward considering she’s all alone. “Not just a place to sleep and work and eat, but a place to live. There were– we made so many friends. Everybody here in Seven was close-knit. We were a family to each other when our own families were lacking. Two of the best people in this world, Kayce and Dakota, were the first friends Y/n made here in Seven. They accepted her when others were still weary. They let us in their home and gave us whatever we needed. When Dakota was– when he passed away, Kayce fell into such terrible sorrow that she could no longer care for herself, not to mention her infant son. That son was named Oakley. In her stead, Y/n and I took on the responsibility of raising him. Not because we were fit for the job—we weren’t, by any means, mothers—but because Kayce and Dakota were more than our friends. They were our family.
You see, District Seven was more than just a lumber supply, it was a home. It was my home and it was Y/n’s home and it was going to become our son’s home. Now, he will have no recollection of this place. He will never know the scent of pine or the crunch of leaf-litter under his boots. And who is to blame for that? The very Capitol which burned this place to the ground. They suffocated its people with virulent spores and then reduced their homes to dust. If you do not want revenge for what has occurred here in District Seven, so be it. But imagine it were your home which suffered this. You would want to fight a war, too.”
18:56.
DISTRICT THIRTEEN.
It’s three days later when your response comes broadcasted from the Capitol.
Ruben, in all honesty, does not know why they still choose to film you live. Anyone who knows you can recognize that it’s foolish to expect you not to lash out. You’ve been separated from your entire family, yet they think you will sit obedient and prim for them. He almost wants to laugh at their optimism.
When the Capitol seal and anthem fade away to reveal you, however, all amusement dies in his throat. He reaches for Ellie without thinking, grabbing her forearm for support despite neither of them being on their feet. They’re in her compartment, sitting side-by-side on her bed while Oakley plays quietly with blocks on the carpeted floor. Even he turns his attention toward the monitor when he hears their gasps.
You’re sitting in the same plush chair as before, though you’ve deteriorated significantly. Your eyes are shadowed with exhaustion, like you’ve been prohibited from sleeping. Your collarbones are prodding against your skin, like you’ve not been fed in days. Your hands are twitching with those familiar spasms you suffer, though they’ve grown much worse since the last time he laid witness to their severity. You look like a corpse.
You’re dressed in the same sterile white as before, the fabric covering as much skin as possible. He does not have to guess why: to hide markings the Capitol’s abuse has adorned you with. Ruben has to bite back bile that collects in the back of his mouth.
Oakley crawls toward the screen, but makes no noise. Ruben considers removing the poor child, but there are screens everywhere and he would lay witness to the broadcast no matter where he is taken. Also, selfishly enough, Ruben does not want to leave—he can hardly bear the thought of letting you out of his sight, though he knows he can do nothing to help you from so far away.
“Good afternoon.” Your voice is hoarse, and it doesn't take much to understand why that is. “I’ve no doubt that we have all bore witness to the rebels’ broadcast earlier this week. It is important to remember, however, how imperative unity is in a time like this. When war is on each of our doorsteps, we must remain integrated if we hope to purge its presence in our lives.”
Ruben knows you like the back of his own hand, but it does not take familiarity to know that you’re reading from a script. Last time, during your interview with Balandin, he could tell that you were fluctuating between reading a script and creating your own responses. You took initiative when you were able, yet relied on Capitol propaganda when it was needed of you. Now, there appears to be no room to fluctuate. You are wholly at the mercy of your captors. None of the words in your mouth belong to you. He only hopes that the rest of the country can realize this, as well.
“El– Ellie Williams came onto all of our screens.” You say. “She claimed to be in District Seven, advocating for a war which none of us can risk eliciting. She spoke of family and of friends, but it is those people who will be lost. If this rebellion act truly takes wind as she wishes it to, it will be the innocents on both sides who perish first. That is what the rebels want; that is what they truly advocate for. Death and misery and–”
Your words are cut short as your head twitches to the side, just slight enough for Ruben to catch sight of the little earpieces wedged against your tragus. You blink a few times, clear your throat, then continue. This time, with more passion than the monotonous tone you’d priorly donned.
“We must end this war. Kill it in its crib before it learns to crawl.” Your brows twitch at the line you’d just read, likely realizing the same thing Ellie and Ruben both seem to: that was no mere metaphor, but a threat to Oakley himself. Your eyes flick between the camera and the script beyond it, seeming to be considering something dire. Then, with a deep inhale, you speak again—and this time, it’s your own words. You blurt them out quicker than you think, knowing it’s only a matter of time before you’re intercepted. “How do you suspect this will end, Ellie? How do you think this war will impact our people? Do you truly think that Fedra will relent—that Marlene will relent? This isn’t– No one is safe. Not in the Capitol, not in the Districts. And not in Thirteen, either.” You lean forward, eyes flicking all across the room. Shouts can be heard in the distance, like people are rushing toward you at this very moment. “They have District Two! They have bombs, and–” The door slams open. “Thirteen– dead by morning!”
Off camera, orders can be heard shouted across the room. They clamber and clang together like swords, each fighting to be heard over the rest. Until one stakes its claim, louder than all else: Fedra. “End it.”
The camera loses focus, but does not turn off completely. Someone knocks it over, and then it is ignored as the broadcast is assumed to be ended. Chaos flashes across the screen, white boots stomping over the tile floor as Peacekeepers and government officials alike attempt to mend the wound you’ve inflicted upon their entire campaign. The floor is white, pure, and clean—until it’s not.
The sound of impact can be heard resounding across the room, a cry of pain pouring from your lips as your hands and knees can be seen collapsing to the floor. Your face is out of view, though the blood dripping from it is not. The purity of the tile—of the Capitol’s entire facade—is marred by your agony.
This carries on for longer than necessary.
Men continue to move around in front of the camera, causing it to shift in and out of focus. But despite all the motion, one thing is kept evident: your pain. Fedra does not speak as he inflicts it. He does not tell you what you did wrong, because you already know. He does not tell you to fix your mistakes, because you already know. It’s unclear what exactly he’s doing, but your screams are enough. Electrocution, mutilation. All the worst options flood Ruben’s mind like a tsunami he cannot stop breaching his skull.
Then someone notices that the camera has fallen over. Their pure shoes stop in front of it, their hands blurring the display as they lift the camera from the floor. Then they see that it’s still on. A curse escapes their lips before the screen goes black.
Silence envelops the room.
Ruben assumes it has enveloped the entire country, too.
In the wake of quietude, he can hear Oakley’s whining. He slides off the bed without daring a glance toward Ellie. He lifts the child into his arms, rubbing his back in hopes of soothing his fretful sounds. He knows not what happened, only that it was bad. Children are odd like that: always aware but never informed.
Ruben sits on the edge of the mattress, exhaling a heavy sigh as Oakley falls quiet. Only then does he risk looking in Ellie’s direction. Instantly, he regrets having not done it sooner.
She has a hand pressed to her sternum, eyes squeezed shut as she tries to keep her panting quiet. She is hunched over herself, clearly out of sorts. He places Oakley gently on the bed, trying not to alert him as to what is happening. Thankfully, he entertains himself with the fray of Ellie’s knitted blanket.
Ruben scoots closer to her, unsure what to do. He grabs one of her hands, clutching it tightly in hopes of grounding her. She seems not to notice, wholly trapped within the confines of her own mind. He curses. If this were caused by anything—anything—else, he would be much more helpful. But he’s struggling to keep his own thoughts organized.
He knew you were enduring something terrible, but to bear witness was more agonizing than anything he’d ever priorly experienced. To hear your screams with no way to console you; to see your blood with no way to staunch it. He’s useless. All of them in Thirteen are completely and utterly useless. Marlene audibly prides herself on being the leader of this revolution, being the good among evil. Yet what does she do aside from watch as you’re reduced to cattle?
Ruben sits beside Ellie for a long time, holding her hand as she collects herself. Oakley crawls around the mattress, babbling but distressed all the same. He eventually comes over and sits with his head laid in his mother’s lap. Poor thing.
Her breathing finally regulates itself and she releases Ruben’s hand in favor of caressing Oakley’s hair. He hums, shutting his eyes with a little smile on his lips. She looks down at him with a pinched expression, clearly concerned for his safety after hearing what the Capitol’s scripts entailed. Then her face takes on a more serious mien and she lifts her gaze to meet Ruben’s. “We will get her out of there.”
“Now that the Capitol has publicly displayed themselves as abusive, it shouldn’t be as hard to convince people onto our side.” He says, trying to take on a more diplomatic mindset. Because if he speaks his mind, he will cause more damage than good. “And Marlene, she–”
The door to the compartment slams open, the handle banging against the stone wall. They both jump at the sudden sound and Ellie reaches over her shoulder for a quiver that isn’t there. Oakley blearily raises his head, turning alongside his counterparts toward where Tommy stands. He’s out of breath and disheveled, one hand braced on the doorway as he struggles for air.
“Quick–” He manages to say between breaths.
Just then, a blaring alarm goes off, lights flashing across the stone marrow of the District. Over Tommy’s shoulder, Ruben can see people rushing down the hallway toward safety. They’re not running or pushing, just walking with haste. It’s oddly impressive how prepared these people are, though it shouldn’t be. Ruben has experienced more than a dozen drills during his short time here, and even he knows exactly where to go and how to get there.
Ruben hops off the bed and Tommy holds the door wide for him and Ellie to pass through. Oakley clings to her, his arms encircling her neck as she plugs his ears with her hands.
Bodies press on every side of them, but everybody is respectful. And those who take the time to recognize him look upon him with such pity that he could choke on it. Ruben glances over his shoulder every few seconds, just to be sure that Ellie and Oakley are still right behind him—Tommy, too. And, every time, they are.
The crowd weaves through the labyrinthine hallways, taking turns and corners which otherwise are never used. Then, they begin to descend flight after flight of stairs. Nobody speaks, for it would be futile and unheard over the alarm anyway. It’s unifying, this sense of fear and complacence which has overtaken the entire District. He wonders if Marlene is here somewhere, though he doubts it. She would have already been in the bunker before the alarm even started.
As they get lower and lower into the ground, the sirens grow more and more tolerable. His ears pop and he knows that they are getting close. Stephen told him once—back when they were mentors together—that mine shafts are so deep beneath the ground that miners’ ears pop during the descent. He’d told him because he wanted to know if the ocean was the same. Ruben said that it was, though he didn’t know from experience. He thinks of that now, and wonders where Stephen and Cecil are. Together, no doubt.
The cavern of the bunker is larger than Ruben can fathom someone even building. It seems to continue forever, though that may be due to the shadows. There are sleeping bunks lining the walls like war barracks. There is so much space, though, that there are shelves filled with non-perishables and a cut-out area for toilets. And, at the very back, there is a space for medical emergencies—a curtain hanging from a pole to keep any potential patients out of sight.
There are also signs with letters for different ‘wings’ of the cavern. This way, it is easier to find people and to make sure everyone is where they’re meant to be. It’s a safety precaution, though it reminds Ruben of cattle. As most things in Thirteen do.
“Here ya go.” Tommy says, leading the three of them into H Wing with a hasty wave of his hand. He lingers while they enter the wing and get comfortable, but seems itching to go. Once he is certain that they are settled and have no questions, he presses a quick kiss to Oakley’s head before rushing to help more people—always the damned hero, that one.
The amount of bodies squished into this space would typically be too overwhelming to even imagine placidity. Alas, Thirteen displays no such panic. Women, children, and elders are guided to their assigned wings with practiced ease. It’s almost easy to forget the calamity which engulfs them all in its manacles. Almost.
Ruben heaves a sigh before dropping himself onto the bottom bunk. The springs groan under his weight, poking against his skin through the thin mattress. He attempts to feel grateful for the preparedness of the entire situation, but he can feel naught aside from loathing for Marlene. To imagine her caged away somewhere safe and reticent while her people are forced to share beds with strangers due to overpopulation—that’s only a fraction of his loathing. What truly irks him is knowing that, had she heeded Ruben and Ellie’s warning, you wouldn’t have had to suffer the abuse of the Capitol tonight. In fact, had she taken action from the start, you would likely be here now: sitting beside Ruben on this god forsaken mattress with Oakley in arm’s reach.
So, no, he feels nothing akin to gratefulness nor relief. There’s no room for it.
Ruben risks a glance in Ellie’s direction and immediately regrets it. Her eyes are glossed over as though her mind is tucked away somewhere far from here; her skin is pallid and gaunt, like she’d just seen a ghost. But worst of all, she’s shaking from head to foot. She’s holding Oakley so tight against her chest that he’s begun to whine at the strain of her grip.
He pushes to his feet—foot, rather—with a wince. Ruben dithers for a moment, pondering how terrible of an idea it would be to touch her. In the end, he inhales a deep breath before laying a hand on her shoulder. She reacts like something vicious, all bared teeth and protracted claws. And yet he doesn’t so much as quail, holding her pained gaze until she has returned enough to recognize him. And when she does, reality hurls itself back toward her. Her chest stutters and she does not refuse him when Ruben gently peels Oakley from her embrace. She blinks harshly, chin trembling.
Ruben guides Ellie toward the bed—both for her sake, and for his leg’s. When she sits down, she seems to collapse under the weight of everything. She buckles over, burying her face in her hands as her shoulders begin to twitch in unison with inaudible sobs.
Ruben shifts Oakley’s weight into his lap so he can rub the line of Ellie’s back in hopes of offering some semblance of consolation. He doubts it does much to alleviate her pain, but he can’t bring himself to do anything else. To speak of her sorrow—of what happened to you—is far too much for him to bear. He’d rather gouge out his eyes and bite off his tongue before allowing his mind to replay those images.
For a long time, they remain like this: drowning in their respective sorrow as the world spins around them. The people of Thirteen enter and exit H Wing in waves. Families hunker down into their beds and cling to the few belongings they’d managed to rescue prior to the evacuation.
Cecil and Stephen passed through the Wing at one point, giving a tour to their army of children so that they perhaps don’t feel so lost in the maze-like cavern. Tommy returned, too, but lingered only long enough to flash a smile in Oakley’s direction before he was being beckoned elsewhere. Maria did the same a few minutes afterward, asking where her husband had strayed.
By the time Ellie lifts her head from her hands, an eternity has chrysalized and a new world has eclosioned. Her cheeks are tinted pink and her eyes are bloodshot, but she appears to withhold a determination which threatens to burn the entire world down. Ruben shudders at the sight.
Ellie turns toward him, gaze intent. “She–”
“Don’t.” Ruben interrupts. Considering the seething rage in his chest, he very well could have shouted it. But he didn’t. Instead, it emerged as a whisper: a glance into the shattered resolve of his soul. Ellie’s expression softens but she is no less murderous. He sighs, lowering his head. “Sorry. You deserve to have someone to speak to, I just– I can’t. Not now.”
She nods. “I understand.”
The Wing has become flooded with people. The bunked beds are so close together that there are only two feet between each one. The one Ellie and Ruben have laid claim to hasn’t yet been disturbed, though that cannot be said for everyone. He watched a family lay claim to a pair of beds only to leave for a few minutes and return to find it reclaimed by a different family. They bickered, but eventually grew too exhausted to fight among themselves any longer. They both had children to feed and spouses to cheer. It was simply not worth the time. So they split the bunk in half—one family per bed. It was borderline disquieting to watch four people clamber into one twin-sized mattress. There was an air of dehumanization to it.
Ellie and Ruben will both be privileged enough to sleep in a bed alone, bar Oakley. Yet Ruben feels sinister to do so. He cannot stomach the idea of having a bed all to himself while, just a few yards away, a single mother sleeps with four toddlers’ elbows prodding at her ribs.
“We should share a bed.” Ruben announces.
He almost expects Ellie to balk and deny him, for it would be passing the line they have wordlessly drawn between one another. However, she seems to have witnessed the same atrocities as he. She nods. “Agreed. The top bunk can be given to someone who needs it more. Besides, I doubt either of us will be able to sleep a wink tonight.”
He nods knowing, despite his attempts to stifle the memories of your announcement, slumber will certainly call them to the surface once more. If he dares close his eyes, you will be waiting for him: screaming and bloody and on your knees. He refuses to lay witness to your pain again.
Ellie shifts across the mattress, adjusting the pillows against the wall so that she can lean against it without feeling the stone bite into her spine. Then she holds out her arms and Ruben already knows that she is requesting to have her son returned. He glances down at the boy. Oakley is enveloped in a thin veil of sleep, easily woken yet unconscious enough to earn himself an ounce of rest. His eyes flutter beneath their lids, watching events pass in his dreams. His face is dotted with the same freckles he left the womb with, though they are much lighter after spending five months barred from sunlight. His fist is clenched around the front of Ruben’s shirt, as though beckoning him to never leave.
He knows it’s stupid, but he can see you in him. Not in a hereditary sense, of course, but in the smaller details. He can see you the way Oakley purses his lips when he’s vexed; he can see you in the way Oakley’s eyes flick across an unfamiliar place as though to assess it; he can see you in the way Oakley reaches first for her face when he tries to comfort Ellie.
Ruben knows that Oakley is Ellie’s as much as he is yours, but he cannot see it that way. When he looks at your son, he sees only the marks you left on him—not the malicious marks which your parents left on you both, but the doting kind of marks that a mother will always leave on her kin. Ruben never wants to let him go; he never wants to let him out of his sight. And yet he must.
He places Oakley into Ellie’s arms with as much gentility as he can muster, trying to keep him asleep. It doesn’t work, of course, and Oakley’s eyes flutter open despite his attempts. He whines and writhes but the waking world doesn’t quite grip him and he ends up falling right back into the arms of slumber. Ellie smiles down at him with all the love in the world, her heart spilling over with it.
She’s a wonderful mother, Ruben knows she is, and yet he cannot help resenting her for being the one to raise Oakley while you cannot. How is that fair? How is any of this fair?
Just then, the first bomb hits.
The world trembles under its rage, giving a hard shake to the entire cavern. Children begin to wail and the overhead lights swing from side to side, causing an eerie atmosphere to overwash the entire Wing. Ruben’s instinct is to grab something solid and ground himself to it. He grabs the metal bedframe, only to hiss at the searing gelidity of it.
Before Thirteen can regain its composure, a second—more vicious—bomb makes impact. Ruben can feel his organs and his bones all quivering from the resonation. And, a few moments later, the lights flicker into darkness. Silence envelops the entire cavern, from Wings A to Z. Mothers hush their babies and children whisper fretfully among one another. Ruben rests his hand on Ellie’s shin, hoping to provide both of them some comfort from the connection. Oakley does not whine and does not cry, but there is a distinct quiver to his little breaths.
Bzzzz. A low hum emanates from somewhere both over and under the cavern. A generator, Ruben realizes, when the lights flicker back to life. H Wing gives a collective sigh of relief and Ruben turns immediately toward his nephew. His eyes are squeezed shut, his entire face scrunched up. Ellie is rocking him back and forth, muttering consolations into his ear. Still, he does not cry.
“Thank fuck we found you.” Jesse’s voice yanks Ellie’s gaze upward before Ruben has even the time to process who it belongs to. He turns to find Jesse with a sheen of sweat clung to his skin. Beside him, Dina stands with a tight expression and a face tinged with green, like she’s about to be sick.
Ruben scoots over to make room, gesturing toward the mattress. “Sit down, Dina, before you vomit all over my boots.”
She appears reluctant but does not dare to argue as she approaches the bed and exhales a contented breath when she takes the weight off her legs. Jesse follows suit, despite the springs groaning their complaints against the weight of four full-grown adults.
“Sorry to disturb your peace,” Jesse’s voice has dropped to a whisper so as to not disturb everyone in H Wing’s peace. “We were technically assigned to X Wing but I don’t think anyone is actually obliging the rules when it comes to the beds. Entire families have been separated. Nobody wants to be alone if we die tonight.”
“We won’t die tonight.” Says Ellie.
“That last bomb was a bunker missile.” Jesse tells her, frowning as though not wanting to be the bearer of bad news. “It’s made to dig under the ground like a mole. Hitting the surface is futile and Fedra knows it. He might be a shit person, but he’s smart: he knows better than to waste nuclear power. Especially considering District Two is toeing the line of abandoning the Capitol’s war efforts.”
There is a tense silence after that and Ruben hopes none of the children overheard Jesse’s grim tone.
“Do you think there will be more?” Dina asks warily, as though afraid to know the answer.
“It’s unlikely,” Jesse muses, scratching at his chin in thought. “Both sides know just how detrimental a nuclear war can become. Killing off the entire human race would be pointless. Fedra and Marlene want the same thing: power. They cannot achieve that if there is no one left to hold power over.”
His voice has lowered to almost inaudibly quiet. As much as the four of them can agree on their resentment for Marlene, many of the people in Thirteen adore her as a savior. To suggest that she and Fedra hold their desires in similar places of greed would be akin to blasphemy. Ruben grows sick at the thought of it. Marlene has the same hold on Thirteen that Fedra has on the Capitol.
“That’s good news at least.” Dina sighs, pressing her palm against the swell of her stomach. “There’s so little of that these days.”
Jesse nods, solemn, as his eyes trace the curve of her belly. “Good thing Y/n warned us in time. We had hardly an hour before the bombs landed. I can’t imagine what would have happened if she hadn’t spoken.”
“I can.” Ellie says. “We would all be dead before the broadcast ended. They were probably planning on making her talk the whole time, hooking our minds on her words while they dropped death from the sky. And, you know, the first bomb wasn’t nearly as terrible as the second. The first would have killed some and injured many. We’d be lying in the halls with half our bodies missing and our organs hanging out—just enough time to think God I wish I hadn’t sided with Marlene. Then the second would hit and we’d all be dead.”
There’s a great, long pause.
Some of the other residents in H Wing cast long glances in their direction, expressions mixed somewhere between fear and solemn acknowledgement. It’s a terrible thing for Ellie to have said, but it’s the truth—and some truths are better faced than ignored.
All things considered, the propaganda campaign passed rather insipidly—and quickly.
Ellie had, admittedly, been hoping it would take weeks for the video to be completed, for it would aid time in passing quicker. Marlene demanded that Robert have it finished by next Saturday; the damned fool had it finished by Wednesday.
The filming of it was tedious. She had to pose in front of a blinding camera and act natural. She was giving the audience a tour of Thirteen, pretending as though she weren’t walking only through Marlene’s quarters. The rest of the District was much too crowded and filthy for the world to see. She explained to the camera that they had plenty of job opportunities and that she would ‘love to see her community flourish’.
Ellie pretended not to care about the divide in citizens, pretended not to be annoyed with Marlene’s insistence that it had to be refilmed twenty times. Any other time, Ellie would have made her insolence known. But this time, she didn’t because, from the corner of her eye, she could see Oakley squirming in Marlene’s arms, whining to be back with Ellie.
After her soliloquy commenced, she all but ran to have her son returned to her. Marlene cooed at the toddler, mockingly stroked his hair, then passed him over roughly to Ellie’s awaiting arms. She’d never held him tighter in all her life. She feared that his ribs would crack under the pressure of her relief. They did not.
In Ellie’s absence, the camera shifted its view over to Ruben. Robert decided it would be best to highlight his prosthetic, as it would make the audience recall how much Y/n risked for him. The entire thing was clinical and morbid. Robert and Marlene treated the entire ordeal as though it were a mere film to enjoy rather than peoples’ lives to exploit. They were no better than the Capitol, but Ellie knew better than to speak those thoughts aloud. In the Capitol, Fedra was too egoistical to pay any mind to his people because he thought everyone loved him. In Thirteen, Marlene is much wiser—she has ears everywhere, waiting sentry for someone’s distaste for her to slip up.
Ruben delivered a beautiful speech, one that he’d been practicing for days. Ellie saw him writing it in his spare time: between the gaps in his cluttered schedule, during lunch while he sat alone, while he held Oakley in the other arm. She even saw him pacing back and forth in his compartment, reading the speech aloud to an empty audience. Ellie pretended not to notice because she knew he would be embarrassed. But she saw. She saw the tears clouding within his eyes, too.
By Thursday, the campaign was edited and ready to be aired.
By Friday, it was streaming all across the country.
Marlene called the group into a meeting so that they could all watch it together. Ellie loathed her for having done this, because it was naught but a taunt. She forced Ruben and Ellie to bear witness to the lies they were forced to spew. They were laying a trap for helpless citizens to fall into. Thirteen was over-populated enough as it was. Adding more people would only strain the bars of the cage. She feared the day it would break.
Oakley is sleeping against Ellie’s chest as the screen shifts from Capitol propaganda to Thirteen propaganda. And, eerily enough, they look almost identical. The entire thing is disgustingly cinematic, as though the audience isn’t already glued to their screen at the sight of Ellie’s face plastered onto it. She looks healthy, happy. They must have distorted her features to appear more pleasant. Her cheeks are flush with red and her eyes are brightened with cheer. They even pitched her voice higher. She watches the woman on the television and does not recognize her.
Images flash on the screen to show pictures of Thirteen’s citizens. They’re all smiling in a cafeteria which has enough space for hundreds more. Their plates are filled almost to an almost inhuman amount. Ellie wonders how long after the picture was taken did Marlene take the food back.
When Ruben is brought to the forefront of attention and begins speaking, she tries not to wince. They added even more bags under his eyes and even more cracks to his voice. And when he says your name and mentions his leg, Robert went through the trouble to replay the fucking footage of when it had happened. Ellie cannot help her gasp, then.
Ruben is seen propped against the side of a building, screaming in pain while Thea cuts meticulously into his flesh. In front of them—protecting them—you can be seen slaughtering an entire horde of clickers on your own. It’s terrible.
Ellie turns toward Robert with her face feeling hot with rage. “What the fuck is your problem!?”
“Shh,” he presses a finger to his lips and does not turn away from the screen. “It gets better.”
When she turns back to the screen, more records from the arena are being displayed. Over the footage, Ruben’s speech is heard as an overlay. A low, sorrowful tune accompanies his broken voice.
The first video must have been taken when Ellie first left because your group is still on the beach. You’re sitting astride Ruben, grabbing at his collar and yanking him forward until your noses touch. You look venomous. You look beautiful. “This is all your fault. You’re so filled with pride and strength that you thought you could– could piss off the Capitol. Thought you’d be the only one to suffer. But now look– we’ve all got to face the consequences! You did this.” Ellie does not need to be told that you’re not speaking to Ruben. She can see it in your eyes: you're speaking to the pieces of yourself which you find in him. You’re speaking into a mirror. Her assumption is proven correct when you slump against his chest and descend into horrible, grating sobs: “I did this. What did I do wrong?”
Ellie has to force back the lump in her throat. She can feel Ruben’s eyes on her, watching her reaction. Because he is who speaks next in the video. His speech has long since been muted, allowing the replay to take full attention. “Absolutely nothing. You were good. You were so, so good. You did nothing wrong. The world is a cruel and horrid place, and you’re so good. You’re good.”
“Then why–?”
“Some people just can’t see what they have in front of them.” The Ruben in the video pulls away, both hands situated firmly on either of your shoulders. He looks deep into your teary eyes. “Ellie is–” there is a slight glitch, like some of his dialogue was cut out, “–terrible. You did nothing wrong, do you hear me?”
Ellie turns to Ruben, but he looks distraught. He shakes his head, brows furrowed deeply against his forehead. He turns toward Ellie, pleading, but she already understands: Robert is trying to pit them against one another. He is trying to make the Districts choose sides between him and Ellie. That way, the people will have yet another thing to divide them. And when the people are divided, it is all so much easier for a new dictator to clamp chains on their throats. She does not need to hear Ruben’s apologies because there is nothing to apologize for. He did nothing wrong; he is good. Marlene, however, is not.
The rest of Ruben’s speech continues to resound across the room but Ellie pays it no mind. She is wholly focused on the night imperceptible grin on Marlene’s lips. And the slight stirring of Oakley as he rouses awake. She only notices the fullness of his attention when he begins to cry and reach a hand out toward the screen. She turns to find that you’re once again at the center of it.
This time, you’re in a bookstore. You’re fighting Remy, pleading with him to answer you. For some reason, you seem convinced that he is alive and he will recognize you. The sight is jarringly grotesque. Then Penelope arrives and forces your hand. She snaps you into reality, albeit brusquely. Ellie covers Oakley’s eyes when you bring the scythe down on Remy. She almost removes her hand, but then you keep going. And going. An overlay appears on the screen, reading:
“THIS IS WHAT THE CAPITOL DOES.
JOIN FREEDOM. JOIN PROSPERITY. JOIN THIRTEEN.”
12:08.
DISTRICT THIRTEEN.
Ruben can hear you screaming for his help, but he cannot seem to reach you. He is trapped in an abyss of darkness, no matter how hard he tries to see through it. The ground beneath his feet reminds him of the dirt roads in Seven; the walls remind him of the slick stone in Thirteen—like he is trapped somewhere between one place and the next. A cave, but not quite so solid.
Your voice reverberates within his mind, grating against the marrow of his skull like nails against a chalkboard. He punches and scratches at the stagnant stone walls, trying desperately to reach you. Alas, nothing works. He knew deep down that it was hopeless, but he couldn’t stop himself from trying anyway.
Then there is a grotesque harmonization of screams, contorted into the shape of his name. He recognizes both voices from the arena: you, his baby sister, and Birdie, his estranged love. He attacks the walls with such force that he can feel his fingernails peeling from their roots; he can feel the skin of his knuckles breaking apart. He shouts in frustration, collapsing to his knees and covering his ears as your collective voices grow louder, louder, louder, louder, louder, louder, loud–
“Ruben.”
He sits up so violently that his head slams into something solid and he sees stars. He hasn’t the time to complain, though, for he is much too occupied with the task of scrambling as far away as possible from the person who’d been hovering over his sleeping body. His movements are stuttered and pained as he still expects to find a second leg beneath his hip. When he realizes there is none, his panic only doubles.
“Calm down.” Maria’s voice sounds oddly like yours when it takes on such a consoling tone. He relaxes, imagining that it’s your face which stares down at him. “Breathe, Ruben, you’re fine. You’re safe.”
Slowly, steadily, he obliges. After a few embarrassingly long minutes of Maria consoling him, Ruben’s breathing begins to even out and the rigidity in his body begins to lax. He thought he knew Maria before this—back when they were mentors together, caged to the same pyre. Alas, he did not. He knew nothing about her because, apparently, her husband has been alive this entire time. Where he thought she trusted him, she trusted no one. She kept her mouth sealed shut and revealed nothing of import to a single soul. She was biding her time before she could return to Tommy and start a new life underground as Marlene’s trusted partner. Maria was never tied to the pyre, she just had a good view of the scene while Ruben burned.
“I was sent to ensure you were awake.” Her voice is apologetic, but he doesn’t forgive her. Not when Joel could have known that his brother was alive this entire time but didn’t; not when she could have given everyone something to fight for in the arena and didn’t. He wouldn’t be surprised if she knew, the whole time, of the rescue mission yet allowed everyone else to believe only one person would survive.
But, deep down—so deep that Ruben would prefer to ignore it—he cannot blame her. Sure, he can hate her all he wants, but he would have done the same. If it were Birdie waiting for him at the other side of the war, he’d have fought it twenty times over. And if he needed to remain silent in order to see her, nobody would ever learn the sound of his voice. He hates Maria. Not because she lied, but because he wishes it were him who was given this opportunity.
“It’s early.” Is all he can manage to say without revealing the jealousy wedged within his soul.
“Yes.” She agrees curtly. “You have an appointment scheduled with Doctor Gawan Fulmer. He’s renowned for his innovative genius and Marlene thought his insight would prove useful regarding your leg. He just arrived in Thirteen and is expecting you within the hour.”
Maria dithers for a moment, on the precipice of saying something more. Ruben looks at her, allowing his disgusted expression to do the talking. She clears her throat awkwardly before sweeping out of the room, making sure to wish him luck over her shoulder.
He knows it’s unfair to treat her like this, but he can hardly help it. Ruben has been wearing masks and playing nice for years in the Capitol. All he wants is to be seen for who he truly is. And if his truly, unadulterated identity ends up belonging to an asshole, so be it. He would prefer having no friends at all than having friends who do not know him. Here, he doesn’t care what people think. Here, he has better things to focus on than his reputational appearance: getting you home.
When the soldiers rained down from the sky, he thought he was dying. He’d heard accounts of men hallucinating God before taking their final breath. Ruben merely thought he’d hallucinated Satan instead. It would make sense, all things considered. But he wasn’t so lucky as to be dying. Instead, the door was slammed down and a series of soldiers filed inside, heaved Ruben from the ground, and transported him here. He thought they’d go back for Thea and Penelope. He thought they’d go back.
He was fading in and out of consciousness after being injected by some sort of syringe, but still managed to whisper your name. The soldiers ignored him. So he mustered all the strength he could spare, then reached out for one of them. He managed to hook his fingers on the loop of one of their belts, stopping them from moving. When the soldier whipped to face Ruben and pressed a pistol against his skull, Ruben could still only conjure one solid thought: you. He repeated your name, louder this time. The soldier yanked from his grip, holstered his gun, and shook his head. “We couldn’t get her.”
Those four words have drummed against the walls of Ruben’s consciousness ever since.
He doesn't remember arriving in Thirteen because someone had doubled the drug and made him pass out. When he awoke, it was your name being chucked from his dry tongue. He was shushed and told to lie back down, lest he wanted to cause more damage to his leg. It was gone. They’d performed the surgery while he was unconscious. Apparently, he’d been sleeping for four days.
The medic explained to him everything that happened: he was rescued from the arena by the Fireflies, he was brought to Thirteen for his own safety, some of the tributes could not be rescued, and war was waged against the Capitol after District Seven burned down during the Quarter Quell. Ruben asked who was taken, and the list was sickening. Thea Thatcher, Penelope L/n, Abigail Anderson, and Y/n L/n. At the sound of your name, he promptly turned over and vomited straight onto the floor. The medic looked upon him pityingly, but knew there was nothing to be said. He thought it would be reassuring to hear the list of people who did survive and were taken to Thirteen. Not just the tributes, but everyone who the medic thought he would recognize the name of. Yasmin L/n, Maria Miller, Tommy Miller, Dina Woodward, Jesse, Stephen Lawrence, Cecil Bowe, Ellie Williams, and her son, Oakley.
The second list was admittedly longer, but not very reassuring. That is, until he heard Oakley’s name and everything else ceased to exist. He tried to stand up, only for the medic to push him down and demand that he remained seated. Because Ellie and Oakley were already in the room, both sleeping in a chair in the corner.
Ruben turned, squinting against the haze which the drug still brought to his mind, and found that the medic hadn’t been lying. Ellie was covered in bandages and bruises, looking more of a mess than he’d ever seen her look before—even worse than after she was whipped, for even then she had you to keep her sane. But there, fast asleep on her chest, was a bundle of sunlight. Oakley’s little pink lips were wet and parted, allowing a patch of drool to seep into Ellie’s shirt. His hair was still only a wisp of black atop his head. His cheeks were plump and rosy against his soft, sleepy skin. Ruben started crying before he could stop himself.
Even now, the mere thought of Oakley is enough to make his stomach swoop with sorrow. You deserve to be here; you deserve to be living here, with your child.
“Good morning, Ruben!” Chirps Doctor Fulmer from a sterile white chair, which sits like a splash of paint against a muted backdrop. The entirety of Thirteen is made of concrete, stone, and metal. Such a plush, white chair is enough to tell Ruben all he needs to know: this man is a Capitolite. At Ruben’s lack of response, Fulmer turns around with a wide smile filled with perfectly straight teeth. “I understand how grossly early it is and I apologize for that inconvenience, but I am very excited to be acquainted with you.”
“I don’t like you.” Ruben says while crossing the room and lowering himself down onto the cot against the wall. Despite his attempts at appearing loathing, he cannot help the gratitude which flutters across his face as his weight is removed from his leg. Fulmer smiles at him, and Ruben quickly stomps down any hopes of becoming friends. “You are from the Capitol and I would thereby much rather see your corpse than your smile.”
“Yikes. Don’t worry, though. I’m not at all offended by–”
“I want you to be.” Ruben interrupts him. “I want you to wince at my words and wish you were not born the way you were. Millions of people from the Districts wince at the Reapings, wishing they were born into a wealthier family. So yes, Gawan, I want you to be offended. You have slaughtered my kind and–”
“Oh, but that is where you’re mistaken.” Doctor Fulmer is still smiling as he gathers his tools and begins to remove the prosthetic from what remains of Ruben’s leg. “I have done nothing personally to lead to the death of anyone from the Districts. You, however, have much more blood on your hands than I. So perhaps you should swallow your pride and see the world for what it is: a damned pity.”
Ruben yanks his leg away from the man’s ice-cold hands. He stares at Doctor Fulmer with a slackened jaw. It is not rare for Capitolites to believe themselves better than those from the Districts, but for someone to speak so blatantly about it—to blame Ruben for the deaths, then to deem the loss of lives as a ‘pity’—is absolutely sickening.
Something deep within Ruben’s chest spikes with anger, fueling his body to act without thinking. He lands a punch across Fulmer’s jaw before he could stop himself. Although, in hindsight, he’s unsure whether he would care enough to stop even if he knew what he was intending on doing. The sting in his knuckles is a pleasant sensation, spurring a gentle hum of glee to whisk through his nerves. The hum is silenced, though, when Fulmer turns his face toward Ruben with that same smile he has not yet dropped from his lips.
“How very intriguing.” The man muses, rubbing his forefinger and thumb against the blooming bruise dotting his skin. He wheels his sterile chair across the room and scribbles something onto a slip of paper. His back is still turned as he speaks up again. “Might I say, Ruben, your family is a rather mystical fascination. Studying the lot of you has always been a vivid passion of mine.”
“The lot of us?” He blurts out, nearly falling from his cot due to the vehemence with which he leans forward. He knows it is impossible, but Ruben cannot help himself from thinking that Doctor Fulmer knows something about you. He’s from the Capitol, is a renowned doctor, and is morbidly attracted to your tree. It can’t all be a coincidence, it can’t. This is the closest Ruben has been to you in a long time; he cannot allow it to slip through his fingers.
“Indeed.” Says Fulmer with his back still turned. “I have spoken recently with some of your relatives. A shame I was never lucky enough to meet Elina, but Penelope comes close. Such a vicious thing, she is. So stubborn. But such things are present in all of you, I suppose. But that anger she and your sister have: it’s so singular! Your anger is stronger than most average people, yes, but it does not hold a candle to that which is present in Penelope and Y/n. They are–”
“I will kill you where you stand.”
“Oh, but I am not standing.” Fulmer finally turns around, indelible smile still glued to his face.
Ruben wants to rip his flesh clean from his bone. Fueled with rage, Ruben tries to stand but finds that his limbs are all heavy and sluggish. He manages to lift his arm, only for it to slump back down again.
“You drugged me.”
“And you threatened to kill me.”
Ruben blinks at him, slow and lazy. Fulmer stands from his chair and walks over to where Ruben is now weak and bed-ridden. He reaches forward, caressing the back of his hand down the side of Ruben’s face like a mother to her baby. Then he pulls his hand away and lifts a scalpel. The blade glints under the light and Ruben braces for impact, wholly expecting Fulmer to cut him open and see what a L/n is truly made of. But he does not. Instead, Fulmer slides the blade across his own face, tracing it from his left ear to the corner of his mouth. He screams in pain, blood dripping to the floor in a steady pat, pat, pat. Then, still whimpering with pain, Fulmer places the scalpel into Ruben’s palm.
“If I’m lucky,” Fulmer speaks through the pain, “this will have you deemed clinically insane and sent away to the Capitol, to me.”
“You’re a monster.”
Fulmer smiles down at him, pityingly. “Your sister says the same.”
When the door is slammed open, Fulmer resumes his act. He hunches over himself, pressing a shaky hand against the side of his face, and begins to breathe heavily in feigned agony. Tommy, Robert, and Cecil all come barrelling into the room at the same time, demanding to know what exactly happened.
“He– he’s crazy!” Fulmer bellows, pointing a bloody finger in Ruben’s direction. “I was checking on his leg a-and he accused me of kidnapping his sister! I-I-I tried to tell him that I was innocent, but– he attacked me!”
“And yet he is the one unable to walk.” Cecil points out.
“Don’t patronize the victim, Bowe!” Robert brushes past his counterparts as he enters the room to assess the situation. He looks at Fulmer’s bloody face, then at the scalpel in Ruben’s hand. Robert is aghast, staring at Ruben as though he is some sort of mangled creature rather than a human being. Ruben tries to speak in his defense, only to find that the drug has now prevented his ability to speak. Robert turns toward Tommy, arms flailing. “He must be arrested! He has injured an employee of Thirteen!”
“I ain’t arrestin’ anyone.” Tommy scoffs, pushing Fulmer aside as he approaches Ruben. “We’ll bring the topic to Marlene ‘n see what she thinks. Meanwhile, help me carry ‘im back to his room.”
“Back to his room!?”
“Are ya deaf as well as stupid?” Tommy snaps. “Fuckin’ help.”
The journey back to Ruben’s compartment is embarrassingly difficult as Robert supports the left half of his weight and Tommy supports the right half. Robert complains the entire way, saying Ruben could at least pick up his foot and try. He is silenced, however, when Tommy says that he’s clearly been drugged—likely as a common procedure for an amputee check-up. Cecil stays behind to tend to Doctor Fulmer and ask him more questions regarding the ‘attack’.
Ruben hates everything about this. His entire life, he has been more than competent in keeping himself and his loved ones safe. Ever since his leg was injured, he cannot seem to do anything but the opposite of that. Everyone he loves has been hurt in some way, and he has been reduced to a pathetic animal who can hardly even walk on his own. It would be easier if you and Birdie were here. Perhaps he could even manage a smile.
A few minutes later, Ruben is being laid out on his bed. Robert scoffs as he leaves the room as hastily as possible, likely to deliver his account to Marlene before Tommy has the chance. But Tommy does not appear so convinced that he needs to persuade her.
Tommy pulls a blanket up to Ruben’s chin and sits on the edge of his mattress, staring down at him with a frown.
“I always thought that guy was weird. Ever since I heard ‘bout ‘im from Marlene, I knew there was somethin’ off.” Tommy says with a heavy sigh. He braces his hands on his knees, tucking his head between his shoulders. “Ya don’t know me very well, I know, but I hope we can become better friends in the future. You’re a good guy, Ruben. ‘N we all know the world needs more good guys. So whatever ya say Doctor Fucker did in there, I’ll believe ya. No questions, no comments. I’ll take your side ‘n try my hardest to make Marlene take it, too. Ya deserve somethin’ to go your way for once.”
Ruben would cry if he weren’t rendered unable. He would cry and hug Tommy for as long as he’s allowed. Perhaps it’s a good thing he’s drugged, lest he make an absolute embarrassment of himself—even more so than he already has.
With a small smile, Tommy stands up. “I’ll get Ellie. I know y’all ain’t exactly on the best terms right now, but she’s the closest thing to a friend you’ve got—and you’re the closest thing to family she’s got. If ya weren’t high as a kite, I’d tell ya to talk to her your damn self. But as it stands, I’ll do the talkin’. No need’a thank me.”
One last fond smile is sent Ruben’s way before Tommy sweeps out of the room to retrieve Ellie.
The rest of Thirteen is still sleeping, save for the miners and higher-up leaders—hence why Robert, Cecil, Maria, and Tommy were so quick to action this morning. It’s a good thing everyone is asleep, too, because it would have been even harder for Ruben to be pulled back to his compartment if the halls were all crowded beyond belief. It was difficult enough as it was, and they only passed a handful of people.
Ellie should be sleeping right now, too. Though Ruben doubts she’s able to get more than an hour of rest per night what with her nightmares and Oakley’s teething. Still, he cannot help but feel guilty for having her roused for his sake. Thirteen is freezing cold and it’s nigh torture to leave the warmth of one’s bed. Due to how far underground they are, the lack of wood to build fires, and the stone stripping all heat from the air, it’s undeniably fucking frigid.
But still, Tommy was right: Ruben and Ellie aren’t on the best terms right now.
Mainly because, every time he sees her, he thinks of you. He sees the woman whom you loved so much and hates that he cannot bring himself to treat her with the kindness you would want him to. Because, while he can see Ellie as that doting girl from Seven, he can also see her as that cruel victor from the Quell. He can still see the roughness in her which drew her to abscond you in the arena. He thinks of how she’d left and cannot unsee your tears nor unhear your broken cries. Ellie’s leaving ruined you.
For that, Ruben cannot treat her with the same brotherly love he’d once have been able to conjure. He cannot laugh with her and smile at her. He cannot confide in her and trust in her. He cannot see her as a friend, as a member of his family.
But, for you, Ruben cannot loathe her. He cannot hate the voice you’d once fallen asleep to. He cannot hate the hands which you’d once held so softly in your own. He cannot glare into the eyes you’d once memorized. He cannot hate the woman who you once wanted to spend eternity with.
That is why Ruben and Ellie aren't on the best terms. Ruben doesn’t know what to do with himself. Would you understand if he were to ignore her to avoid the turmoil her face brings him? Would you understand if he were to forgive her for leaving you? Every breath he takes, he takes it for you; every decision he makes, he makes it for you. Ruben lives for the sole purpose of seeing you returned. His heart beats in the steady thump of a timer awaiting your return. He wants more than anything to die. He wants to leave this world and never again have to imagine the terrors which are being inflicted upon you and Birdie. He wants to never return. But he has to keep going—he has to keep living—so that he may see you again. Before he dies, he will make sure that you kiss Ellie again, that you hold Oakley again. He will give you the family you deserve before taking away the one that you never asked for.
“Ruben?” Ellie is out of breath when she bursts into the room.
She would have arrived much, much sooner without that limp slowing her down. It’s nigh imperceptible at this point, but he can still see the pain which her stitched torso causes. He notices that she only carries Oakley on one side and that, when she stands for too long, she grows restless with discomfort. She is holding Oakley on that same side, heaving for breath as her anxious eyes land on Ruben’s unmoving form. You’re the closest thing to family she’s got. Damn Tommy and his stupid fucking words.
“Tommy told me what happened.” She says, walking over to the bed with a heavy frown. When she reaches his side, she extends the hand which isn’t holding Oakley. Her fingers are warm against his throat, feeling for a pulse. “He told me you were drugged, but– but I just had to be sure. Sorry.”
There’s an awkward pause which Ruben wishes he could fill. Instead he stares at her, rendered silent and immobile. He tries to imagine all the things which Fulmer could do with this drug if he truly desired; he imagines all the things which Fulmer has done.
“I don’t know exactly what happened, of course, but Tommy told me what he could. He said everything should be taken with a grain of salt because it was only the doctor’s account who he’d heard. He said you stabbed him in the face when you thought he had something to do with kidnapping Y/n?” Ellie settles on the edge of the bed, in the same exact spot Tommy had priorly rested. She places Oakley on the floor, watching from above as he explores the room. “It’s easy to forget that he can walk now. Despite having only been away for a week, he’s grown a lot. Cricket apologized profusely when she told me that– that Y/n and I missed his first steps. And I told her it was fine, that she couldn’t control it, but I was still crying. I couldn’t stop. Y/n had– she had at least five different books about how to teach babies to walk. She wanted to be there so bad. I think it’s because you were there for her first steps. And that’s a really special thing, even though she can’t remember it.”
Ellie leans back, her hands bracing most of her weight as her eyes follow Oakley around the room. He waddles across the floor—which Ruben has a rug placed specially so Oakley won’t crack his head on the concrete when he walks around. Ruben wishes he could turn his head and watch him, too, but can only see the ceiling and the side of Ellie’s face.
“I want to kill Robert.” She suddenly blurts. “If that doctor had anything to do with Y/n or is associated to what’s happening in any way, Robert has no fucking authority over how he should be dealt with. If you ask me, Marlene doesn’t have that authority either. It should be placed in Y/n’s hands, ideally, but the next closest thing would be mine and yours. We should decide his fate—rather, his death.” There’s a pause, then she takes a deep breath and turns toward him. “I believe you, Ruben, and only you. If the doctor is telling the truth, then I’m sure you attacked him for a good reason. But if everything the doctor has said is bullshit, then he has reason to lie and thereby is guilty. The man is a piece of shit no matter what, it seems like. So I won’t make any definitive claims until you’re able to make your own account. And when you do, I will be on your side. Even if Marlene says you're wrong—hell, even if the whole world says you’re wrong—I will always be by your side. Not only because it’s what Y/n would want, but because it’s what I want.”
There’s a soft thud from the other side of the room. Ellie gasps. He can’t turn to see if Oakley is okay, only imagine what could possibly have happened. Instantly, a series of thoughts run through Ruben’s mind. He imagines Oakley hitting his head on the stone wall and bleeding, he imagines Oakley falling over onto the floor and bleeding, he imagines Oakley walking into something hard and bleeding, he imagines–
“He’s fine.” Ellie’s hand is on his shoulder. “He picked up a book and dropped it, Ruben, he’s fine.”
Apparently, his breathing started to pick up as his panic set in. Even as Ellie continues to describe how perfectly fine Oakley is, Ruben cannot stop himself from imagining the most terrible scenarios. His breathing only slows down when she leaves the bed, grabs her son, and holds him out in front of Ruben’s line of sight. Sure enough, Oakley is unharmed. He blinks down at his uncle, eyes wide with curiosity. There is a string hanging from his clenched fist, which was presumably yanked from the rug. Then Ellie places him back onto the floor, hops back onto the bed, and smiles down at Ruben.
“You’re so much like her, you know.” Her voice is almost too quiet to hear. “Sometimes, it hurts just to look at you because all I can see is her. You have the same colored eyes, the same texture of hair, and the same smile. But what really stands out is your incessant worrying. You worry about Oakley almost as terribly as she did. That’s why she had so many of those baby books, she– she could never trust herself enough to just live. She needed everything to be proven by a scientific fact or else she wouldn’t take the risk.
And– And I hope you don’t hate me for what I did. I regret having left her, but I don’t regret going after Abigail. I loved Joel with every fiber of my being. He was my only family and I would have died to keep him safe, just as I would die for Y/n, Oakley, and you. I never had a father, not even for a second. But Joel was pretty damn close. I only wish avenging him didn’t cost this. I wish I could have never left the sanctity of Seven. I wish I died in those fucking spores with everybody else. I wish I was sleeping in bed with Y/n and Oakley when it happened: curled up and warm, then just– dead. No pain, no misery. Just dead. And I wish the same thing would happen to them. I wish Y/n didn’t have to experience everything in the Capitol which she is certain to be enduring, and I wish Oakley didn’t have to spend his toddler years underground in some sort of war-time bunker. They both deserve better than that. But this world can offer nothing better. So I wish we were all dead and you were, too. I wish we could all find that ‘better’ in the next life.”
Ruben blinks and something wet slides from the corner of his eye.
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