the third quarter quell. it's crept up on him. like old age. like the threat of sunrise after a long, fitful sleep. the anthem blares, snow takes the stage, and it's as though he sees haymitch — like after all this time, after years of spinning out and trying to forge a life in solitude, he's been drawn back into the president's orbit. tethered as though by a red string. by a line of petals over frozen ground.
" on the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder that two rebels died for each capitol citizen, every district was required to send twice as many tributes. " clinical, as always. haymitch sips his whiskey and watches on through half-lidded eyes. how bad can it be, really? kids will die. kids like louella, lou lou, wyatt, ampert, maysilee, and lenore dove. kids will die, and there'll be no stopping it. how much worse can it get?
" on the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors. "
by the time the door creaks open, the walls are painted with liquor. the table, where he'd been sipping his drink in relative peace, is cracked down the middle. splintered wood and shattered glass. it's peeta, because of course it's peeta.
katniss will come later.
" i know what you have to do, but let me do it. " @sunpersists
he doesn't have to ask what it is. it's been snapping at his heels like a hungry dog since he turned sixteen. they're intimately acquainted. this is how it was always going to end — jaws fastened tight around his neck. if only his star-crossed victors had come just two years later. " why, " he sighs, turning to the figure in the doorway. " would i do that? "
