deadweight

mahlon mccreary jr • 28 • rotten from the roots sunshine beating on the good times. moonlight raising from the grave. string band playing worn out honky-tonks. pretty young thing going dancing in the rain. corn liquor tastes sweeter in this town. could it be it's the same as the last? i swear i've seen your face elsewhere before -- just as familiar as a bottle and a glass

[mxhlon]

𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐒 ; 𝘮𝘢𝘩𝘭𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘤𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘺

❝ 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎: 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚢𝚊𝚠𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎 -- 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 ❞

NAME : Mahlon McCreary Jr. AGE : 28 years old DISTRICT : 12 ROLE : Disappointment Mentor

B I O ／P L A Y L I S T／P I N T E R E S T

[greer-morgan]

“They stretch,” she explained as Mahlon’s free hand trailed along her waistband, searching. “You—” pull ‘em, Greer would’ve continued, but even as the words were leaving her mouth Mahlon was reaching the same conclusion. Suddenly, she was over his shoulder, drawing a sharp inhale from the surprise of the movement. Greer’s elbows pressed into his back for leverage, and she shifted her hips as much as she possibly could in her given position, trying to allow him the space he needed to strip away those last bits of remaining fabric. "Ya didn't consider maybe jus' puttin' me down?" She laughed airily, her head dropping to follow the curve of her spine. As much as she appreciated his show of resolve, she wasn't sure how much longer she could mange her part in supporting herself— either over his shoulder or wrapped around his hips. "Ain't sure stayin' up here's gonna work for too much longer. One of us is gonna wind up pullin' a muscle," she snorted, a humored admission of her own inevitable defeat. Greer half-expected some tinge of disappointment over her inability to move in ways that would've worked for them in the past, but they weren't simply grasping at memories tonight. Instead, Greer found there could be a thrill in getting to discover with him again, to learning the nuances of this new dynamic.

[mxhlon]

"Didn't wanna let y'go," Mahlon admitted, slightly breathless, bending at the knees to set her down. She had a point, but he felt senseless, as every one of his five were focused on Greer. There was a stretching pause, then, as the gears turned, his eyes darting from her around the room, trying to figure out a way to proceed that was logistically coherent. "Easier on top?" he asked, having never been with someone nine months pregnant (and entirely uncertain if this was going to hurt the baby or something). "Or, uh -- bent over?" He chewed his cheek. "Or on the sink?"

[greer-morgan]

She was tired too, exhausted by her own constant restraint. There was no denying the base desire that was ignited by the way her legs wrapped around his hips, or the way her breath hitched as his mouth made its contact. Yes, Greer wanted him to lay claim to her in the most primal of ways. She wanted to be consumed by the heat of a touch she'd been so many months without. But the heart of her exhaustion was buried deeper than that, rooted in an ache for an intimacy that existed beyond physical nakedness. It wasn't just Mahlon; they were both lost, searching, unmoored.

Greer's hands carded through his hair once more, her thumb brushing against the shell of his ear— a tether to ground her again. "Then, we'll stop searchin'," she accepted, and she wondered if Mahlon could feel the weight of the confession shift in her. We. She'd played her part in his searching, trying constantly to hand him pieces to a puzzle he still hadn't fit together. She'd waited and waited for him to find their matches, but still, they were scattered, and in the end, all she'd done was hurt them both. "And we'll stop pretendin', and jus' let it be... this." And right now, for Greer, that was enough.

[mxhlon]

It was permission. At last, given freely. Mahlon was certain now that there was nothing between them: no fabric, or expectation, or inhibition preventing this from happening. Greer had stopped keeping him at arm's length, and Mahlon had given up on fighting his memories (the lack of them, missing, still missing). They coiled around each other, his hands sliding around her thighs, dipping beneath to tug at his own belt. Greer remained pinned, her legs around his hips, her back pressed to the tiled wall. Goosebumps rippled over flesh. "Sorry," he laughed, working his zipper, lips against her heartbeat. "It's probably cold. Here, let me--"

His pants pooled, and he stepped out of them, moving away, turning so Greer's skin wouldn't be against the wall. "How the hell d'you get out of maternity clothes?" Mahlon was searching blindly between them, one hand supporting her around his hips, the other feeling around her waistband, trying to make sense of it. But there were no buttons, no zippers, no directions. Huffing, he gave up toying nicely and hoisted her up, bending Greer over his shoulder, leaving her hips and legs dangling. "There," he tugged the elastic down over her hips, followed by her underwear.

[greer-morgan]

Greer hummed her concession, a laugh trailing after from low in her chest. She tipped her head back as Mahlon moved against her skin, following its slope down to her shoulder. Her own fingers threaded through the tufts at the crown of his head, holding him close as her eyes fell shut against the dim incandescent lights. “Guess you’ve finally found the one upside to memory loss,” she managed through her humored smile.

But Mahlon’s continuation formed a twisted knot of guilt and relief. “I know,” she admitted softly, because she was always the one who knew, and intrinsically, she knew this too. He had nothing to hide from her, and she’d kept everything from him. He had no secrets, and she had secrets in droves. Even now, when he’d begun to dig into the depth of her feelings for him, there was more to unearth. It went deeper still.

Greer pulled back from him enough to tug her shirt over head and cast it away. Her hands moved to her back and took hold of the clasp of her bra. She wanted to peel away the layers that existed between them— to lay herself bare before him, even if only physically. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed the same anticipation of the night they’d snuck away from that rooftop wedding. That may have been just another of the innumerable moments she knew he couldn’t recall, but it was all overlapping now— what was familiar and new, first and routine— folding in on itself. Greer pulled the hooks apart and let another barrier fall away, blurring the once distinct boundaries between what was their past, present, and future.

[mxhlon]

He wanted to peel the layers of her away, to unearth some long, winding history between them in the process, but Greer seemed intent upon unraveling herself, and Mahlon made no move to intervene. Instead, he drew the fabric of his shirt up, freeing himself so that her skin had the warmth of his to press against. There, his hands ran the length of her back, fingers rippling over each vertebrae of her spine on their way down to grasp at her hips.

"I'm tired--" he mumbled, "of bein' blank, bein' empty." Mahlon dipped, hoisting her up, bringing her legs to his hips and her back to the wall. "Searchin' hasn't gotten me shit. Wanna focus on makin' new memories instead--" His mouth made landfall upon her chest, which heaved eagerly beneath his lips. "There's only you, only this--"

[denverneumann]

When she heard Mahlon, Denver laughed, but there was no humor to it. "Thanks," she said. "For catching me. And for not being a mutt, I suppose." She watched as Mahlon looked around. Trying to find the dog, she assumed, although for what purpose she had no idea. But what purpose was there to any of this right now? "You mean, aside from scaring pink poodles and making handsome men catch me?" she asked. "I just...couldn't sleep, I guess. You?"

[mxhlon]

Mahlon chuckled, charmed by the compliment and the carelessness with which it was bestowed. "Didn't think those were thing y'set out t'do, but t'each their own, I s'pose." Denver felt half-real, like something out of his arena: corporeal but planted, crafted with intention. He'd been navigating the world in a sort of semi-sleep, the world around him only partially conceptualized, but she was recurring. Mahlon couldn't seem to shake Denver, for whatever that was worth. "Jus'-- Tryna make sense of things." It was the truth, though it sounded pathetic coming out. Mahlon wasn't much of a liar these days. He didn't have reasons to hide shit anymore. "Figured retracin' my steps might trigger somethin'."

[greer-morgan]

"From before," she confirmed, her voice barely above a whisper as she entangled herself in him again. It was the kind of answer that only enlightened more questions— breadcrumbs in a trail to whatever existed in the mysterious past. It was enough to know that their before was not what she'd made it out to be, and yet, not enough to have any indication of what it actually was. It was just another tug in the slow unraveling of knowing that they'd been here before, but the depth of their history was still so murky.

The kiss was an easy melding of forms. It was all old habit, haste giving way to a familiar sensuality under the pressing of his fingers. She broke her lips from his to answer his request, though she knew Mahlon had no idea how dangerous a request it really was. I've missed you. I love you. I lied. I'm sorry. The secrets were so thinly veiled it was a wonder he hadn't tasted them on her tongue, but those were secrets she'd keep for the light of day. "What I said wasn't true." Her head fell. Momentarily, she buried her face against the space of his collarbone, pressing a featherlight kiss against the fabric of his shirt, before she lifted it to look at him again. "I said I wouldn't go to Four." It was something of a dig she'd denied in Ten. "But if you got hurt, I'd go to Four." Yes, she'd have waited at his bedside then too.

"I think you're startin' to rack up a debt now," she noted, pulling in a deep breath of air. "Your turn."

[mxhlon]

But if you got hurt, I'd go to Four.

Mahlon's fingers crept up the back of her neck, snaking into her hair, tugging gently just to draw her head up, mouth open, pupils dilated. He was assessing her, searching, differentiating the present moment with the past's overlay. "You want a secret from a man who can't remember anythin'?" His lips grazed her jaw, then her throat. She asked too much. She wanted the impossible.

"Besides--" Mahlon murmured, drawing the fabric down off her shoulder. His mouth replaced it, teeth leaving marks of adoration. "I haven't kept anythin' from you." It was a telling realization, a confession in its own right. How rare -- to say you know everything. I am not a good person, but I have been true to you.

He busied his mouth, unsure what else might slip out, finding that laving his tongue across her collarbone was a better use. So much of him felt lost or fractured, but he could feel something nearing the surface, pressure building in his mind. A realization, maybe. A breakthrough.

[denverneumann]

Denver couldn't sleep. She just kept staring at the Games broadcast as the clock ticked onward, later and later into the night. Most of the tributes, even, were asleep in some perceived safety, to be awoken by either mutts, other tributes, or morning light, the latter a gift only few would get. Anacondas she recognized from the 113th Games slithered through a tunnel, before the feed switched to the District Twelve kids, one keeping watch while the other took his rest. They were in the south corridor, hidden behind some boulders. Those boulders were a popular photo opportunity. Denver could almost feel herself asking, "would you like for me to take your picture?" She always had to ask, if she saw a camera. And be sure to take multiple photos from a few different angles, so they have a selection, she could hear her manager saying.

This was her Arena, this broken promise of a thing. The worst of Panem always came from the Capitol. She'd never forget it as long as she lived.

Denver found herself yawning, the first symptom of sleepiness she'd managed to get since the shock of the launch had wired her beyond reason. At that, she picked herself up from her seat in the viewing room and trudged through the empty corridors of the Tower toward one of the staff rooms the Vox had assigned her. She stopped short when she got to the lobby. A small jingle sounded - a bell - and Denver squinted through the darkness, trying to determine what it possible could be from. Feet shuffled in a flurry too fast to be human, stopping only when they came into view, the creature as surprised to see Denver as she was to see him.

A familiar pink poodle stood before her, swathed in moonlight and shadow.

"Hi boy," Denver called out, gently, taking a few steps toward him. "What are you doing out here this late? Where's your owner?" Her next step, though, spooked him, and he took off running, nearly bowling her over except for the body she slammed back into.

"Sorry!" Denver said as she righted herself off of the other person, too loud for the empty lobby in the dark of the night. "Sorry," she repeated, quieter, as she turned around to face them.

[mxhlon]

"Easy--" Mahlon's hands came up, careful and considerate, bolstering Denver by the shoulders, then lingering as he tried to make sense of her through the darkness, searching for distinguishing features in her face and form. "Ain't an arena mutt or anythin'," he assured her, referring to both himself and the dog, which he'd followed into this room in the first place, though he hadn't been sure where it had come from. "I was jus'..." He released, turning to look for the poodle, though it had disappeared down another corridor. "Well, shit, I--" Mahlon hadn't been sleeping well, but that had been real, hadn't it? Present? Not a mirage or a memory peaking through? "What're you still doin' up?"

[maverick-montana]

"You remember this? The pre-games nerves?" Maverick asked Mahlon, who was sitting nearby in one of the viewing rooms. The pre-games show this time around was a bit strange, with an odd tone -- simultaneously celebratory and somber -- and he was trying to tune it out and not think of the impending Bloodbath.

@mxhlon

[mxhlon]

"Sure," Mahlon shrugged, though whether he was referring to his own Games or the twenty-five that followed, it wasn't clear. He was sitting upright, bent forward, eyes flicking from one screen to another, simply because they offered a different angle of the same thing. The tributes, standing in the center of the original arena. The timer counted down. "Charmin' arena," the sarcasm was thick in his voice. "Got a matchin' uniform waitin' for me on the other side of this bullshit. How 'bout you?"

[mxhlon]

TASK 001: WAR

The Vox saved Mahlon. He fought for them once, then twice, and now a third time. When the Tarren attacked, Mahlon joined up, heading to the front, to the thick of the fighting. It was the least he could do. Mahlon wanted revenge, or maybe he wanted to do something good for once. He couldn't remember. But he believed the Vox when they said they wanted a better Panem -- one without the Games, without the on-going slaughter.

So why the fuck were they back in the Tower again?

Mahlon is trying to regain his footing, more caught up with unraveling the memories as they return than questioning Vox leadership on their decision. He's also learning not to question, broadly. A good soldier listens. A good soldier obeys. And who is a better soldier than someone who can't remember being anything other?

[lindenunderstory]

Linden didn't think the boomerang was that sharp.

If she had known, she wouldn't have thrown it. But She was doing her best to try to expose her tributes to new things, and what better way to lead than by example? She'd made a bet, however many things you try, I'll try. you can watch me mess up as much as I watch you. It had worked on the shier of her two tributes, who had tried halfheartedly at firemaking and chosen to watch her fail at the boomerangs.

"Sorry!!!" She called, waving. "Um, be right back. I got to make sure he's okay." She left her tribute in the dust, laughing at her, as she made her way to Mahlon. "I'm sorry. really."

[mxhlon]

Mahlon picked the boomerang up, inspecting the weapon, trying to figure out how she'd thrown it that poorly. "Y'nearly gave me a close fuckin' shave," he muttered, holding it back out to her. "Maybe don't fuck around w'shit y'don't know how to handle. At least if it has a blade. Shit's not as sharp as it'd be in the arena, but it'll still slice an' dice all the same."

[mxhlon]

Mahlon swerved, barely dodging the object as it whizzed by, hitting the wall behind him with a cutting woosh. "What the fuck?!" He turned, looking for the culprit, for either some idiot with poor aim or some cocky little shit that had thought mentors made for good moving targets. "Are y'outta your fuckin' mind?"

[mxhlon]

TASK 004. PLAYLIST (MAHLON + 137)

Yeah, I owe you more than one And beggars can't be choosers But I'll pay for all I've done Just please don't let me lose her

[denverneumann]

Denver nodded. "It's a newspaper, but it started in Twelve," she explained. She wasn't entirely sure what the tommyknockers were, just that they were from Twelve, so she didn't elaborate. "Then it was a rebel news source with radio broadcasts too, and when the Vox won, it became a national publication. But they don't do the radio anymore." She had her suspicions as to why - a certain missing tech wiz from District Three - but she hadn't brought herself to ask Slate or Cat about Nano. She had tried not to think about him, to be honest. She missed him. Abel too. Her friends who didn't come out of the snow.

[mxhlon]

"Seems like radio would be helpful, 'specially now that they're national," Mahlon pointed out, frowning. "Most people in the districts can barely read. Myself included." He was functional, enough to get by, but if he'd stumbled upon a newspaper, he'd have been pulling out one or two words, mainly relying on pictures. "So you write?"

[greer-morgan]

No.

Greer let herself be tugged back, just as she'd promised she would. She'd given Mahlon the option, and yet, her heart sank a bit when it seemed he was taking it. In one moment he was telling her she was the only thing in the world, and in the next, he was refusing her. Perhaps, she'd played her hand when she should've been folding. But instead of turning for the door, Mahlon pressed forward, and Greer understood. His fingers laced with hers, and the tension in Greer's expression eased again with the realization that he simply had no intention of being left out on the dance floor twiddling his thumbs.

Greer fell into step behind Mahlon, their pace hurried. She bit her lip to stifle a laugh. It was a good thing no one was paying attention, because if they'd ever been aiming for subtly in the first place, they were definitely past it now. They moved down the hallway, finding the ambient babble of the few other patrons and the swell of the music more muffled with each step. Mahlon knocked feverishly at the door to make sure it was empty, and with one final look over her shoulder to make sure the coast was still clear, they were practically tumbling through the door.

She released his hand, turning to push the door closed and shift the lock with a decisive click. When Greer turned back to him she let the door held her weight, leaning back against it. "I've missed you. I love you." Her eyes fell on him again, and the words were right there on the tip of her tongue, but Greer forced herself to swallow them sharply. "Y'wanna know a secret?" She asked, pushing off the door and crossing the small space toward him slowly. Her heart was still beating a frantic rhythm in her chest, but she was done rushing. Now, she wanted the chance to savor— at least as much as was possible given the circumstances. Greer’s hands skimmed his waist, already wearing the heat of their proximity and the truth of her admission in the flush of her cheeks. "I've been thinkin' about this for a long time."

[mxhlon]

She worked more swiftly than he did, her movements quick and deft. Door closed, lock turned -- each action felt definitive, and his heart raced out of his chest. Yes, he wanted to know a secret. I've missed you. I love you. Mahlon was too afraid to offer his. "From before?" he asked, focusing on hers instead. There was something there, something he could trace back between them, deep into the nothingness.

Greer's fingers danced along his waist, and Mahlon's caught her face. His palms cradled her head, thumbs sweeping broadly across her cheekbones and over her lips. "Tell me another," Mahlon's touch dipped, down to her throat, hands kneading slowly into her shoulders and the back of her neck. He liked to see her pliant, relaxed. "Tell me another secret." He dipped, tilting her chin up, tasting her lips.

[greer-morgan]

"No, probably not." A laugh vibrated low in Greer's throat. Maybe in a moment with greater clarity she would've caught Mahlon's humming— the spark of memory tied to it— but she was focused now solely on the movement of his hands, his lips as they spoke against her skin and the question they posed. They couldn't stay here, carrying on like they were. Although, there was a joke somewhere in the periphery of her mind, half-formed, and not relevant to a man who couldn't remember, "Bein' out in the open ain't ever seemed to bother you before." But she cleared it from her mind like swiping wafting smoke. "You real worried 'bout bein' displeasin'?" She asked instead, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

In truth, Greer knew it would've been the reasonable thing to do to wait until they made it back to the Tower. Why risk getting banned from a place she wanted the opportunity to return to in the future? But it was about more than just simple instant gratification. She didn't want to give herself the walk back, and in that walk, the time to talk herself out of this again. She was afraid of breaking this spell cast by the soft glow of lights and the warm buzz of brass, afraid that in the stark cold of night principle would overtake desire. She didn't want a repeat of what had happened in Ten— putting rooms between them, convinced that neither had earned the right to hold the other. Greer wanted this.

She pulled back just enough to look at him properly. "I'll tell you what," she offered, ready to present him the options as she saw them. But before she continued, Greer met his lips once more. It was a rough, breathless kiss, and as quickly as she'd pressed into him, she receded again— catching Mahlon's bottom lip between her teeth with a tug as she pulled away. She was laying her cards on the table, making her intentions perfectly clear— damn the consequences. "I'm gonna start makin' my way towards the bathroom," she told him, glancing over her shoulder at a hallway past the bar. "You can grab my arm, stop me an' tell me I'm bein' ridiculous, an' we can leave— walk all the way back to the Tower." Greer began a few small steps backwards in her intended direction. "Or you can meet me there when you decide ain't anybody payin' enough attention to worry about us overstayin' our welcome. S'your choice."

[mxhlon]

"An' if I am?" Mahlon pushed back, taking the excuse to run his fingers across her collarbone, to draw the fabric overtop an inch farther down. "Don't give a fuck about anythin' or anyone in the world, 'cept you." And maybe that was the truth he'd been afraid of voicing: the depth of his apathy (or worse, the depth of his want). How much would he really be confessing if he looked her in the eye and said yes, I worry about pleasing you?

He was grateful, then, that she spoke for them both, even if it coupled with the slow parting, her body untangling (a punishment, surely, or torture). "Greer--" Mahlon scoffed, huffing with exasperation. But for what? Because what they were doing was wrong? His eyes skimmed the bar, the other booths, but no one noticed them, or cared that much. He was frustrated, but only at himself. When had he become this person? This person with all of these fucking hangups?

"No."

Mahlon reached out, gripping her arm, tugging her back close. "No." But he couldn't think with her this close. He couldn't think about the consequences of this, about the impacts, or of the existence of anything outside of this room. "Ain't meetin' you in there," the words came rough, ragged without preparation. If they were doing this, if Greer could let go, then Mahlon could too. He stepped forward, forcing her back. One step, then another. "Where you go, I go." Then he released, brushing past, his hand gliding down her arm to intertwine fingers as he led them toward the bathroom.

[greer-morgan]

It was like breaking through some invisible barrier— crossing the threshold of an open door that locked again behind her. There was no going back from this, not this time. Perhaps, not really ever before. She'd learned once, on a rooftop in the heat of summer, that any feelings she had for Mahlon couldn't be easily locked away. For one reason or another she'd tried, and always, she'd failed. And now, when she'd clung to the notion that she was doing the right thing by disguising their past, her feelings were still ripped from her chest with such ferocity it could've been the sinew from her ribs.

Though familiar, this touch was not simply some revisitation of what had been felt before. It was completely present, so deeply rooted in the immediate here and now. Granted permission from the fantasy of pretend, there was no need to consider how the choices of today bled into the consequences of the future. There was no burden of reality to hang over their heads, no question of trying to untangle the knotted yarn of past and future. There was only this, only him.

Greer pressed deeper, meeting his eager exploration with her own. She drew the taste of whiskey and citrus from his mouth as her hand tightened its grip on his shoulder. There was an urgency born from the death of her restraint, a pot finally boiling over. Whatever it was that they were pretending, this hunger was palpable, primal— more real than the ground beneath her feet.

[mxhlon]

What game were they playing anymore? Mahlon wasn't sure. He couldn't recall if the promise had included discretion, if either of them wake up tomorrow morning and pray he'd also forget this, but tonight, everything felt vibrant and real. Her skin like velvet, her hair like silk. Mahlon traced the silhouette of her form the way he used to shade his drawings, smearing the thicker lines of charcoal. She melted too. His mouth worked a faithful line off her mouth and to her throat, catching at her jaw and lower -- beneath her ear. There, he hummed the melody of the song that was playing. He'd heard it before, last time they were here.

"Reckon they wouldn't be too pleased if we overstayed our welcome," Mahlon murmured, trying to play at a level of easygoingness that he'd once had. In truth, he felt desperate. Overeager and needy, which was an embarrassing combination of things to be. He didn't want to be seen in all of his raw desire, all of the messy, starving mouths of him begging for a taste. And, well, he didn't want to get thrown out of the place for mauling Greer on the dancefloor. "Should we--?" Go? Stay? Pretend more?

[greer-morgan]

Greer's eyes flitted down, watching Mahlon's hand pause to rest against the taut curve of her middle— a momentary connection between them and their child. It made her heart ache, stirring with both a sharp pang of regret and a wave of unearned relief. There would be a tomorrow— one without this imagined circumstance— and in that tomorrow, Greer would tell him the truth. But in this present, what gripped her beyond anything else was longing. She needed him, unbearably. She couldn't push it away for one more night, and what good would it do when they always ended up back in each other's arms anyway? Always.

Her gaze shifted, looking up at him through her lashes before lifting her face to meet his eyes. "It's alright," she answered, her voice husky in its quiet admission. Her certainty grew, and with his hand on the slope of her cheek, her expression softened. "It's more than alright, Mahlon," she stuttered a faint laugh, because simply permitting this proximity didn’t even begin to scrape the surface of her desire. Their breath overlapped, close enough to feel the charge of the air exchanged between them. "I want this... you."

[mxhlon]

The lines began to blur: between him and her, between now and then, between Panem and whatever had existed prior. Mahlon let them. The melding eased his muscles, pulled them down from sharp angles into easy slopes. Yes, this was more than alright. The overlap didn't scare him, not like it had. They were pretending. The world didn't have to make perfect sense.

But this did.

This touch, this proximity. He saw her across time and space, those same eyes, but a new fullness to her face. The versions overlayed upon each other, and Mahlon marveled, seeing double, seeing his past and his present. "Greer--"

He wasn't sure who had leaned forward, who had crossed the final, minute gap. But his mouth found hers, tongue delving, pressing past the chaste formality of a closed-lipped kiss. His want ran deep, as did their history. Mahlon understood that now, that none of this was unexplored, left simmering. His thumbs sloped the arched bones of her cheeks, palms gliding down to trace her throat. Greer had been hiding something in plain sight, something worth discovering.