Tag someone here and tell them why they’re important to you. Pass this on to another five people anonymously if you get this ask. (For hfrp members only)
Another one? Wow, I think for this one I'm going to group a few people into one response.
Connor (@storrries) and Hudson (@hudsonwills) are just the absolute best buds a guy could ask for. These two are so important to me, mainly because they're keeping me employed with their immense talent. (I'm kidding.) Both of them have shown nothing but kindness and love towards this old man, and I am forever grateful for their friendship. I guess 40 is the new 26.
Naomi (@naomiiwattss) is just an amazing woman. She has been an icon for me even before I met her and I am so grateful to call her a friend. She is lovely, just absolutely lovely.
There’s something about the number two as of late.
It’s been two nights since her second wedding and two of her friends haven’t been seen since. (Friends — she understands the importance of having them now.)
Fava, awake and restless, drums her fingers against her stomach in silence. Her spouse rests beside her, equally alert. She typically relies on Hudson’s calming presence to trick herself into slumber, but as time ticks on, sleep becomes more and more like a fallacy.
Something akin to a whine emits from her throat and she finds solace in the crook of her elbow; it drapes over the bridge of her nose, allowing her momentary solitude. (She’s learned through trial and error that isolation isn’t good for her.) Knowing that she shouldn’t retreat, Fava frees herself and rolls onto her side, intending to capture Hudson’s attention. It doesn’t take long to steal it away from their thoughts. It never does.
“You aren’t sleeping,” she observes. Even in the darkness she can see them so clearly. “What are you thinking about?” Nothing good by the look in their eyes. Hudson’s nervous energy is palpable and multiplied by her own. They’re a mess together, but they are worse without each other near.
– BY TEN PM, ALLIE IS NOT ENTIRELY HERSELF. well, she’s herself, just – herself after a few shots ! she’s not much of a drinker, but pretty much all of the witness protection kids have changed their ways in search of...unhealthy coping mechanisms. she could be worse, but her balance is a little off-kilter as she makes her way over to hudson. “ hudson ! ” she beams, using his arm to steady herself with as she finally makes it across the grounds to where he’s standing. “ here, TRY this, ” it’s just a tequila sunrise, but she’s never had one before and now she thinks they’re amazing. honestly, she probably wouldn’t even be BOLD enough to initiate conversation to him without one or two drinks in her, but now she’s hitting the perfect buzz – confident, but not detrimental. and she can’t stop smiling for a change. “ how are you ? ”
They say it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding, but Hudson and Fava don’t have to worry about such superstitions because this ceremony is only for show.
Fava stands in a large dressing room complete with marble counters and floor-to-ceiling mirrors that show every angle of her form. Her reflection makes her feel uncomfortable. This is not her. This is who they want her to be -- a glossy, overproduced version of the girl that outsmarted them with a handful of berries.
The dress is suffocating. It is too high on her neck, too tight around her waist, and heavy, too. Intentionally so; it was meant to remind her of the grip that President Snow has on her. Make one wrong move and suffer. She will take her steps slowly to not lose balance. She will take her steps slowly and remember to breathe. If she made it out of that Arena with her life (and most of her sanity), she can make it through anything. Publicized nuptials should be a piece of cake.
Emphasis on should.
A knock on the door draws her attention away from the unfamiliar reflection across from her. She expects Nelly to be on the other side, but she’s wrong. It’s her “partner-to-be”. Her face softens when she sees them and she breathes a sigh of relief. That means they have more time.
“Hudson,” she says as she turns her back on the mirrors, “what are you doing here? Nelly will kill you if she catches you in here.” And they all know an angry Nelly is far worse than anything else.
under the “read more” you will find the real story of hudson & fava’s proposal. there is mention of the games so please be wary of the following triggers: death, suicidal ideation, serious injuries.
(it’s also long so be aware of that too lol)
Dinner has become a regular thing. Not just once or twice a week, but three — four, five — and they never leave after the dishes are done. They stay to chat with Wren, to make jokes with her mother, to stare at Fava herself when they think she isn’t looking. Sometimes she catches herself staring at them too though the sentiment is different.
It is Thursday when they talk until long after the sun goes down. It is Thursday when she asks them to stay, if they don’t mind, because she hasn’t been sleeping well. That was an understatement; she hasn’t slept in days.
Insomnia is a wretched beast, one far more painful than anything she had to face in the Games.
Fava doesn’t know how long she’s been lying with her cheek pressed against their shoulder, but it feels like an eternity. It feels weighted too, but everything does these days. After a moment, she rubs her face against the fabric of their shirt gently to gain their attention. She can still see their eyes clearly in the darkness. Thank you, Capitol, for the enhancements.
“Hudson,” she begins softly, “do you ever think about marrying me?”
//
They wondered, when they were alone in their new bedroom at night, whether Fava was sleeping. While they wondered, of course, they weren’t sleeping, either.
It felt easier on the train, on their Victory Tour. Like they only had each other. Now, though, Fava has their family, and Hudson keeps their distance, unsure of what any of those nights actually meant. It’d be simpler, maybe, if Fava loved them only when the Capitol could see, and never at any other time. But it wouldn’t be better. They wouldn’t trade these moments in the dark for anything.
It feels easier to talk to her, like this. But her question still trips them up, makes their tongue feel heavy in their mouth. They don’t know why she’s asking; they don’t know what she wants to hear. “Yes,” they say, because they’ve never been in the habit of lying, although they do turn their face away. “Is that okay? Should I—not have?”
//
Fava inhales at their confession — yes, they have thought about marrying her. Immediately she wonders how often the thought crossed their mind, what kind of fantasies they constructed. The outright sincerity of their statement makes her stomach turn; she’s never been good with vulnerability.
Hudson must hand pick specific traits of hers and expand on others, creating a universe where she is more open with them and more forgiving too. She knows that she will never be able to give them the life that they deserve. She isn’t capable of such softness, such romanticism. Guilt will plague her for the rest of their lives; guilt hand delivered by President Snow himself.
“Yes, it’s okay.” She chooses her words carefully, grateful that Hudson’s looked away from her. Light eyes search the air for something to say. “Sometimes I think about it too.”
It is a lie. She has never once thought about marriage. Not with Hudson, not with anybody.
//
They’re not so far gone in their childhood crush that it doesn’t surprise them to hear that.
When he was dying in the Arena and her kind touch on his face felt like all he had to hold onto, he believed that she loved him. After the Games, though, they came crashing back down to earth. Now they don’t know what she feels. Like picking petals off of a flower: she loves me, she loves me not.
Sometimes, they feel like they can’t keep up with her moods. When they’re allowed to be close, and when they’re not. It’s easiest, then, to let her set the pace. To let her come to them. It doesn’t usually lead to disappointment: she tells them they can stay for dinner; she asks them to spend the night. She takes what she needs.
“You do?” They ask, because after the Arena they can’t not ask, even when part of them wants to stay in this bubble where they can pretend that they have no reason to doubt it, when it’s dark and and they’re holding onto each other and it feels like it could be true. “I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
//
If she were smarter, Fava would have started softening herself for them a long time ago. Or, rather, she would have maintained the vulnerability that she showed back in the Arena. She still had moments of it to be fair, but it isn’t as often. Or asconsistent.
She can nearly hear Nelly scolding her about the importance of planning as if this was something that Fava could see coming. She should have — everything done in the Games is looking at through a magnifying glass until someone else comes along with a victory more exciting. But she — they — made history. This is the first time there’s been two Victors, the first time that District 12 has ever seen so much greatness. They will never rest easy.
Or maybe they will.
Hudson seems content with the idea of spending the rest of their life with her. Surely they are the only one who has ever looked at her in that light. Maybe that is worth listening to.
She laughs despite herself, her head shaking slightly as rolls fully to her back, separating them. “It must be shocking that I of all people have dreams of the future.” She is staring at the ceiling above them when she reminds herself of the point of their conversation. “That I think about us.”
//
They’ve been carrying such guilt. He sat under the lights, in front of the cameras, and said something. Something that’s changed the course of their lives. And they didn’t even ask Fava about it.
They’d only been thinking about the Games, then. About getting attention, about getting sponsors, about increasing the chances of one of them—because it could only be one of them, and it could only be Fava—coming out of it alive. They never thought about after, because there wasn’t supposed to be an after. And so they never thought about this.
Maybe Fava’s words should absolve them of some of that. But instead, they just feel confused. Like they’ve hurt her, maybe. Like she thinks that they’re calling her cold, cruel, when they feel like they’ve just been—trying very hard not to think anything at all. Not to assume anything.
She rolls away from them, and their side suddenly feels very cold. Her words say that she wants to be closer—that she’s thinking about marriage—even as she’s moving away.
“And you think,” they say, sounding it out, trying to make it sound real. “About marriage? Marrying me?”
//
They say it so simply, yet it sounds so incredulous: and you think about marriage — marrying me?
For a second it makes her stomach turn to knots and she fights the urge to curl into a ball and close her eyes. Everything she’s ever done has been to support her family, to survive. Marrying Hudson is something that she needs to do to ensure the safety of those she loves. But it doesn’t feel good. They deserve more. They deserve the truth.
And yet, she can’t bring herself to give it to them. It would be easy to be honest and share the threat given by President Snow, but it would break them, perhaps irreparably, and Fava can’t have that on her shoulders too. It wouldn’t be that bad anyway; everyone longs for someone to love them unconditionally.
(A part of her loves them, of that she is certain, but she doesn’t know how to explain it.)
Allowing herself a moment of genuine vulnerability, Fava repositions in order to see them clearly once more. Her fingers tap against their chest plainly. It is a nervous habit, they know that much. “Yes. I think about marrying you. I can’t imagine spending my life with anyone else.” Her lips part slightly, wanting to continue, but she doesn’t know what else to say.
//
The question on the tip of their tongue—is this about the Hunger Games?—isn’t one that there’s any point in asking. They already know the answer.
From the moment Hudson and Wren’s names were read in the Reaping, their every move has been about the Hunger Games. They made it out of the Arena, but still their every move for the rest of their lives will be about the Hunger Games. They wouldn’t be here, now, in this room together, without the Hunger Games. And so if Fava’s talking about marriage now, then surely it’s about the Hunger Games, too. About committing to the lie that they’ve both been telling, and will tell for the rest of their lives.
Hudson just has to decide if they can live with that, though it doesn’t feel like they have much of a choice.
They know she isn’t one to speak idly. If she’s bringing this up now, especially when it seems to cost her so much—her tapping fingers, her restlessness—then it’s for a reason. And they don’t want to make it harder for her, not when it’s already been so difficult. Not when the scrutiny seems to fall on her most of all out of the two of them. The Girl on Fire.
They raise their hand, take her tapping fingers in theirs, hold them clasped against their chest. “Is this a proposal?”
//
The action is so subtle yet it catches the breath in her throat. For a moment all she feels is peace. She allows her eyes to close and relish in the serenity of the feeling; her mind is at ease. There’s a part of her that wants to stay like this forever, trapped against their chest, but that would be selfish of her. She has people to care for, a District to represent, a Capitol to impress. Sometimes the pressure she feels is immeasurable. She’s drowning.
Drowning, drowning.
When her eyes open, a small smile follows and she shakes her head ever so slightly. “No, this is not a proposal.” She scoots closer to them once more and her lips press against his jaw, a gesture far more intimate than they have shared in weeks. It is fitting considering their current conversation. She knows what she’s doing, how to get them to act in a way that is needed. She has never considered herself manipulative, but apparently she is.
“I was hoping you would do that part.”
//
There’s so much that Fava’s had to do on her own. So many burdens that she’s taken on. She went into the Arena to protect her sister; and, once there, she protected Hudson, she saved their life. They think that she’s protecting them now, too. Both of them. She thinks this is something they have to do.
She’s already been asked to do so much, be so many things she’s not. They asked her to kill, and then they put her in pretty dresses and told her to smile, look at Hudson with lovesick eyes. She’s done it all, but now she’s asking Hudson for something, and they can’t ignore that. The last thing they want is to let her down.
If she needs Hudson to do this part for her, they can. They will, even if they know it will cost them something.
“I’ll do it,” they say, and it’s a promise, one made to themself as much as to Fava. “I’ll do it right now, but first, I just have to, you have to tell me—” they bite off their babbling, slide down in the covers until they’re eye level with Fava, their forehead pressing to hers, searching out her eyes in the dark. “Are you sure?”
//
A new thought: it isn’t only that Hudson deserves so much more than her, but that she doesn’t deserve them at all. Not in a million lifetimes according to Griffin. She knows that he is right, that she is broken in a way that cannot be held together with sweet whispers and promises, but —
No, it is about love. It is about survival.
In her best dreams, the ones that her mind gifts her as a reprieve between weeks of horrific nightmare, she is alone in the woods. The birds chirp and the sun is high; in the distance, a babbling brook and a deer gently drinking. It could feed her family for weeks. She can taste it in her tongue. In some ways, Hudson has become that deer. With them, they will never go hungry.
She is honest in her reply, though not in her intentions. “Yes, I am sure.” She repositions again to get closer, quite certain that she can’t get as close as she’d like to. She’d like to bury into their rib cage where it is warm and safe and quiet. Won’t they let her? “Ask me. Ask me and I’ll say yes.”
//
They stay there, for just a moment. The two of them close, like they couldn’t get any closer, in silence. It’s a moment that—if they could strip it of everything that brought them here, which seems like an impossible task—seems worth remembering. Just for a moment, and then with a final squeeze of their hand around hers, they extricate themself.
If they’re going to do this, they’re going to do it right.
There’s no shortage of Capitol-provided frippery in these new houses of theirs. They only have to cast around in the dark for a minute before they’re able to strip a small length of ribbon from some decorative something or other. They don’t have a ring, but they’re going to give Fava something.
And then they kneel at the side of the bed. Down on one knee. Getting there feels clumsy, a movement they haven’t practiced with their new leg. They’re glad, then, that they haven’t taken it off for the night, even though they should do that more than they do. They’re glad that it’s dark. That this is happening here, now, when it’s just them, and not on some TV screen.
“Fava,” they say, and that feels clumsy, too, a little too formal. They don’t have a speech prepared. But, luckily, there’s just one thing they have to say, hands held out for hers: “Will you marry me?”
//
When Hudson moves away from her, her heart begins to race, not because she’s happy, but because she’s fulfilling the prophecy that President Snow laid out for her.
She gets the urge to stop them from asking her, but she knows that would do more harm than good. They would never be able to look at her the same. (The worst parts of Fava say that’s for the best too.) Instead of facing them with honesty, she watches as they search her room for something to offer her. This brings a genuine smile to her lips. Hudson in so many words: thoughtful and kind.
Though she isn’t particularly experienced when it comes to any form of intimacy, Fava knows that this moment means a lot to them. It isn’t happening on Caesar’s show to be broadcasted to the masses; it is a moment made for only them, the way it should be. She sits and scoots herself to the edge of the bed, her eyes glued to Hudson as they clumsily bend to one knee.
Fava has never witnessed an engagement before. How fitting that her first one is her own. She too is pleased that it isn’t some grand thing. Her hands move into theirs before the nod comes. “Yes, Hudson,” she breathes, “I will marry you.” She seals their promise to each other with a kiss, one needed to convince them that this is real.
//
Their hands are shaking. They can’t say exactly why. They know she’s going to say yes. They know that, while maybe a sliver of it is, this isn’t really about how they feel about each other.
But they tie the ribbon around her finger, hold her hands tight in theirs. They’re going to have to ask Nelly for a ring, and they’re going to have to try hard to rein in her natural extravagance to make sure that it’s something Fava won’t hate to wear—nothing too big or bulky that would get in the way of drawing a bow.
But still they hope, maybe, that Fava will keep this improvised piece of ribbon, that it can be a reminder of the part of this that was just between them, before everything else came crashing in.
From the Arena to the Victory Tour, to sitting together on Cesar Flickerman’s stage, it feels like every kiss Fava’s bestowed upon them, every one that they’ve shared, has been for an audience. Has been sending a message. Maybe this is sending a message, too, but it’s one that they want to hear, one that’s just for them: We’re in this together.
The decision to move up their wedding came two weeks after President Snow’s announcement of the Quarter Quell. The pair agreed to marry secretly in District 12 in order to honor their families, families that would be irreparably broken for a second time. (These Games would only have one Victor, of that much they were certain.)
Though they had the means to provide for a lavish wedding, Fava Thornewood and Hudson Overgrove decided to keep it simple and honor their roots. The pair borrowed clothing from elders in their District, outfits that were hidden in the back of closets or buried in the bottom of trunks — souvenirs from the few good times the people on the Seam were able to enjoy.
Wren Thornewood, District 12’s darling, personally picked the flowers used in Fava’s bouquet and Hudson wore a pocket watch made in their parents’ shop, replacing the one lost in the arena during their Games.
The evening ceremony was intimate, consisting only of their families and a few people that were closely associated with the couple. It featured several District 12 rituals, such as the breaking of the bread and the lighting of the candles. The reception, while beautifully lit, was short-lived in order to get the children to bed at a reasonable hour.
The newlyweds — the Thornewood’s — have decided against making their union public at this time. Please continue to respect their wishes and requests for privacy.
