Day After the Tea Party, Five’s Suite (@losinqtouch)
Two Days. That’s all the time they have left. He never really believed that anything could stop the Games, and yet he still feels taken by surprise.
He should be making the most of it, but instead he’s doing something else. Running away. It hardly feels like it matters: give him two days or twenty, he still isn’t going to say any of the words he might want to say, and he isn’t going to do it because he already knows he won’t receive any of the words he wants in return. Time isn’t the problem, when he can’t reach inside Harbor’s mind, find the memories that went missing and bring them back to surface.
Years from now—(if he makes it that long)—maybe he’ll look back on this with regret, but he doesn’t know what he could do differently now that would change anything. He made his bed a long time ago. This is just him living with it.
Living with it, but he can’t say for how long. With the shitshow this Quell has become, to say nothing of the number of them that already haven’t made it through, it’s easy to imagine the Capitol cleaning house of anyone who was a part of it.
Five’s suite feels as good of a place as any to hide. Aven’s never judged him, he’s never judged her. They’ve both always been survivors; or maybe just cockroaches. He can’t imagine that she feels sanguine about the brink that they’re all teetering on, filled with revolutionary fervor.
Though of course, it’s not only Aven and Emory in Five’s suite, their Tributes, not anymore. Though when Aven opens the door, there isn’t a blonde head in sight. “Thank god,” he says, still keeping his voice low enough not to carry. “For a second I was afraid I’d have to make small talk, and I can’t say I’m feel very sociable.”
