@feuhrer said: [ . . . ]
HE'S BEGINNING TO FEEL LIKE A CORNERED ANIMAL, the fog of capitol's miracle drugs already beginning to lift as he smiles for photos with people who feel entitled to it because they put money towards trying to keep him alive. they ask him questions like how did you figure out the demolition pattern so quickly? and were you afraid you'd bleed out before ezra? they, lovers of eccentric extravagance, compliment the shine of metal grafted to skin, calling his choice of prosthetic a bold statement piece as if he hadn't needed to show a vicious disapproval towards more realistic models, a new sort of rage bubbling past his teeth as he yelled that he wouldn't take a prosthetic at all if he couldn't at least choose which one he'd be stuck with.
several people move to touch it, grabbing at his wrist and holding metal arm out, oohing and aahing as unmarred fingertips run over the plating. it's almost like armor! was that intentional? does this model require more maintenance than others? they pull and prod, treating shiny new appendage like a toy, unaware of the pain their curiosity brings him.
they talk at him rather than with him and he nods along. all he can think of is the recap, three long hours dedicated to the highlights of the sixty-ninth hunger games. ed almost hadn’t recognized himself on the screen, covered in blood and grime, vicious glare sharpening a still-round face.
that glare melted into pure panic as, on the final day, the muttation caught him off guard, teeth sinking into flesh and tearing away his right arm. panic is a misuse of oxygen, he’d repeated, over and over and over as he dragged himself into an alleyway, ripping up his jacket to try to create a makeshift dressing. you’re hyperventilating. panic is a misuse of oxygen. calm down or you’ll pass out. panic is a misuse of oxygen. panic is a
someone calls his prosthetic an upgrade, voice tinged with a bizarre sort of jealousy. it’s then that ed gently shakes himself away, desperately scanning the crowd for a familiar face.
golden eyes finally land on roy. the eerie faraway calmness from the recap and the interview are gone. what takes its place now is a familiar agitation, emptiness filling with newfound awareness as medicine cocktail wains- he shoots roy a look that screams i'm about to fucking lose it. his escort wastes no time crossing the room, making a lame excuse ( which ed can’t hear over the ringing in his ears ) before gently ushering newest victor away.
ed grips roy's forearm so tightly he’s sure it’ll bruise, almost afraid to lose him in the small crowd. panic is a misuse of oxygen. panic is a misuse of oxygen. panic is a misuse of
' i'm sorry, ' he manages. there's a weird sense of shame that washes over him. strong enough to survive the games, still too weak for the fucking afterparty. what a joke. ' i'm sorry. i can't- fuck, it hurts too much. i'm sorry. '
no one's mad. you're safe.
when did they get out into the hallway? ' it hurts. ' even he isn't sure if he's referring to his stump, the gradual med crash, or maybe just the entire ordeal that is the closing ceremony. his head is spinning regardless, black spots decorating the corners of his vision. without warning, he presses his back to the wall and slowly slides to the floor, drawing his knees to his chest. ' i think 'm gonna be sick. '
