She returned her attention to his scar, trailing her lips along its swirling lines. His breath caught in his chest, his grip on her waist tightened. She looked up. âWhat does that feel like?â she asked.
âIt⊠burns,â he admitted softly. She pulled away apologetically, but he shook his head. âIt burns in a good way. In⊠in the best way.â
When Damia and Shadowheart had taken themselves and an overflowing basket of clothes down to the river, he had kept himself conspicuously visible in the camp. He had cleaned the breakfast cutlery and dishes. He had reorganized the cooking supplies and taken a new stock of their food items. He had kept his hands and his mind as busy as humanly possible.
Because otherwise his mind wandered to thoughts of Damia naked in the river, water caressing her bare thighs, the sun kissing the freckles on her shoulders and nose, bringing the deep color out of them.
If he didnât count the knives and apples, note down the amount and kinds of spices they retained, and carefully consider the weight of the sugar, then his mind would start to imagine curve of her shapely backside, his hands coming around to cup her damp, swollen breasts.
Busier. Must be busier. Something else must need doing in this wretched, empty camp.
Because if he were not busy, he would begin to imagine licking water off her skin, his mouth roaming lower toward the darker wetness between her legs.
âDeep thoughts?â Astarion asked slyly and Gale nearly gasped aloud.
He looked up at the fair haired vampire and his shit-eating grin with a frown. âJust going to organize thisâŠâ he trailed off, actually looking at what he held in his hand. âAh, this basket of sequestered blankets.â
âOf course. Of course.â Astarion practically sang. âChilly nights and all.â
âPrecisely,â Gale said warily. He did not like the way the other man was grinning.
âAnd so much to do. Beneath a blanket and all.â
Galeâs hand jerked and he took a breath to berate Astarionâs improper assumptions but he beat him to the next word with a deeper knowing smile. âOh and here come the ladies, fresh from the river. How⊠clean they must be.â
Gale didnât rise to the bait, but he did look to see Damia and Shadowheart return, their hair wet still and falling down their backs, shining in the sun. Damia bore the basket of clothing, items they could choose to wear should their regular garments become too soiled or improper for the weather. Shadowheart began to help her hang the clothing up to dry.
He watched the stretch of Damiaâs abdomen, slim and strong beneath her sleeveless tunic. Her arms were lean and corded, results of pulling back a bowâs drawstring countless times. He wished for those arms to be holding herself over him, hands on his chest, back bowed. What would he give right now to rip the magic from his body and allow himself, all himself, to be given over to her.
He carefully folded the blanket and retrieved the next one. Donât think. Stop. Thinking. He felt as though Astarion would know every filthy hope within him if he stopped moving for even a single moment. If he allowed his full attention to waiver from the task at hand.
Astarion narrowed one eye at him, waited just a beat longer in the silence, then turned away as though bored. He flicked a hand casually back over his shoulder and sauntered over to Damia and Shadowheart, falling into easy conversation, earning Galeâs cold envy.
Because Gale knew that if he didnât have a ticking timebomb in his chest, he could have everything he wanted. He could have Damia at the mercy of his mouth and hands, flick his tongue over warm skin and feel her come alive at his touch.
But he was an even bigger fool, because as soon as he told her, as soon as he warned her about the danger he was, and needs he had, she was going to turn him away. Even the shadow of her rejection constricted his chest and made the next breath painful. He was going to need to consume the Weave very soon, he could feel the maelstrom of hunger building even now. He had to tell her. Had to warn her.
But if he did, would she still hold that delicious fantasy of kissing him beneath starry skies and a canopy of green? He remembered, oh how he remembered that moment when they held the Weave and he saw within her mind the kiss that sped his heart, and made his groin stir. If she knew, would he disgust her? He couldnât bear the thought.
Hunger spiked again and he grunted, hand closing about the cloth over his chest. Too soon. He would need a magical item too soon.
âGale?â Damiaâs voice was close, and caught him off guard. âAre you alright?â
He had to tell her. It had to be now. Sadly, he closed his mind to the fantasy of her, of the thought of her voice low and needy in the dark.
âWell, I do need to talk to you about something, well, rather important,â he said, trying to sound more chipper than he felt.
There was this woman poet in 4th century China called Su Hui (èè), a child genius who had reportedly mastered Chinese characters by age 3.
At 21 years old, heartbroken by her husband who left her for another woman, she decided to encode her feelings in a structure so intricate, so beautiful, so intellectually staggering that it still baffles scholars to this day.
Came to be known as the Xuanji Tu (ççŁć) - the "Star Gauge" or "Map of the Armillary Sphere" - it's a 29 by 29 grid of 841 characters that can produce over 4,000 different poems.
Read it forward. Read it backward. Read it horizontally, vertically, diagonally. Read it spiraling outward from the center. Read it in circles around the outer edge. Each path through the grid produces a different poem - all of them coherent, all of them beautiful, all of them rhyming, all of them expressing variations on the same themes of longing, betrayal, regret, and undying love.
The outer ring of 112 characters forms a single circular poem - believed to be both the first and longest of its kind ever written. The interior grid produces 2,848 different four-line poems of seven characters each. In addition, there are hundreds of other smaller and longer poems, depending on the reading method.
At the center a single character she left implied but unwritten: ćż (xin) - "heart." Later copyists would add it explicitly, but in Su Hui's original the meaning was even more beautiful: 4,000 poems, all orbiting the space where her heart used to be.
Take for instance the outer red grid of the Star Gauge. Starting from the top right corner and reading down, you get this seven-character quatrain:
Notice how it rhymes? tĂĄng / cÄng / huÄng / shÄng
The rough translation in English is: "The benevolent and wise cherish virtue, like the sage-kings Yao and Shun, With steadfast will I swear to the heavens above, What I revere and feel - how could it be wanton or dissolute? My heart's sorrow grows, longing brings only grief."
Now read it from the bottom to the top and you get this entirely different seven-character quatrain:
And the meaning is just as beautiful and coherent: "Grief and sorrow, longing fills my worried heart, Wanton and dissolute fantasies - is that what you revere? I swear to the heavens my constancy is true, May we embody the sage-kings' virtue, wisdom, and benevolence."
That's just 2 poems out of the over 4,000 you can construct from the Xuanji Tu!
At the very center of the grid, the 8 red characters wrapped around the central heart, she "signed" her poem with a hidden message:
Empress Wu Zetian herself, the legendary woman emperor of the Tang dynasty, wrote a preface to the Xuanji Tu around 692 CE (baike.baidu.com/item/%E7%BB%87âŠ).
Incredibly, there's even far more complexity to the Xuanji Tu than just the poems:
- The name çç (Xuanji) - Armillary Sphere - is astronomical in meaning and the way the poems can be read mirrors the way celestial bodies orbit around a fixed center. It's a model of the heavens.
- Her original work, with the characters woven on silk brocade, was in five colors (red, black, blue/green, purple, and yellow) which correspond to the Five Elements (äșèĄ) - the foundational Chinese philosophical system that explains how the universe operates. So it's also a model of the entire cosmic order according to ancient Chinese philosophy.
- It's also of course deeply mathematical with this 29 x 29 perfect square grid, with sub-squares, lines and rectangles, and a structure which allows for symmetrical reading patterns in all directions
- Last but not least, the content of the poems themselves contain multiple registers. On top of expressing her personal grief and longing for her husband, it's also filled with accusations against the concubine (Zhao Yangtai) he left her for, reflections on politics (with many references to sage-kings) and philosophical reflections.
So the Star Gauge is simultaneously:
- A love letter (expressing personal longing)
- A legal brief (arguing her case against her rival)
- A cosmological model (structured like the heavens)
- A Five Element diagram (encoding the fundamental structure of the world according to ancient Chinese philosophy)
- A mathematical construction with perfect symmetry and precision
And yet, for all this complexity, we should not forget this was all ultimately in service of the simplest human message imaginable: a 21-year-old woman asking the love of her life "come back to me".
Her husband did, eventually. According to what empress Wu Zetian herself wrote in her preface to the Xuanji Tu, when he received Su's brocade he was so "moved by its supreme beauty" that he sent away his concubine and returned to his wife. As the story goes, they lived together until old age.
twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)
â in which eddie munson and you absolutely hate each other's guts. what happens when your friends make a bet that you can't spend more than twenty four hours consecutively together?
â tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn
â warnings: strong language, eventual smut, minors dni
â pairings: modern!college!eddie x college!fem!reader
chapters with smut marked with *
spotify playlist.
ao3
masterlist:
PROLOGUE: A BET
HOUR ONE
HOUR TWO
HOUR THREE
HOUR FOUR
HOUR FIVE
HOUR SIX
HOUR SEVEN
HOUR EIGHT
HOUR NINE
HOUR TEN
HOUR ELEVEN*
HOUR TWELVE
HOUR THIRTEEN*
HOUR FOURTEEN
HOUR FIFTEEN
HOUR SIXTEEN
HOUR SEVENTEEN
HOUR EIGHTEEN
HOUR NINETEEN*
HOUR TWENTY
HOUR TWENTY-ONE*
HOUR TWENTY-TWO
HOUR TWENTY-THREE
HOUR TWENTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE: A BET*
"BEYOND THE HOURS" - extra content posted outside of canon 24 hours. (i.e. eddie povs, groupchat conversations that were cut, scenes mentioned in passing, etc.)
summary when the eldest donner volunteers for the fiftieth hunger games in place of her sister, survival is the last thing she expects. trapped in an arena designed to punish rebellion, she is forced to confront loss, violence, and the boy she always hated: haymitch abernathy. as the games twist toward an unprecedented ending, she learns that some special things endure even when the capitol tries to erase them
warnings 22k+ word count, little use of y/n, angst, mentions of death + violence, heavy spoilers for sunrise on the reaping w/ a somewhat altered plot â request
the tributes
i donât feel the cold until the door slams shut behind me.
the justice building always felt too big from the outside, but from in hereâfrom the backseat of the black car that smells like leather and polished brassâit feels even bigger. like the walls are swallowing the sound of everything i didnât get to say.
my hands are still trembling. not the dramatic kind of tremblingâno shaking shoulders, no sobbing, no broken breaths. just this quiet, constant vibration under my skin, like my body hasnât realized the reaping is over yet.
like it hasnât realized that i volunteered as tribute.
the window beside me fogs with my breath. i stare at the blurred shape of the justice building as we pull away, the faint gold lettering smearing into nothingness.
maysileeâs voice still rings in my earsâyou shouldnât have done thatâshe said it twice. once angry, once muffled by sobs. the first time, she sounded like a sister. the second, she sounded like someone losing one.
merilee said nothing at all. she just held my hands so tightly her knuckles went white, her forehead resting against mine like she was trying to memorize the shape of me. my motherâs sobs felt muffled, like i was underwater watching someone elseâs life play out. my father had to pull her away when the peacekeepers stepped in.
i didnât cry. i think something in me wanted to, but the shock was thicker. like grief was settling into my bones before i even left district twelve.
across from me, wyatt callow sits with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like the numbers are running behind his eyes. louella mccoy is beside him, tiny and pale, wringing the hem of her dress in her fists. she looks thirteen in the worst wayâtoo young to understand everything, but just old enough to understand enough.
haymitch abernathy sits in the farthest corner of the carriage, wedged against the window, arms crossed so tightly it looks painful. he hasnât bothered wiping the soot off his face from the mines. it streaks across his cheekbone, sharp like war paint. he glares out the window like he wants to punch it until the glass shatters.
my heart tugs at the thought of him and the undoubtedly horrible thoughts that swim through his head. haymitch wasn't reaped, not really. i watched with a slack jaw as woodbine chance, who had just had his name announced, was shot seven times after his attempted escape. it was all a blur after that; haymitch's friend, lenore, trying to comfort woodbine's mother, the peacekeepers trying to hurt lenore, haymitch trying to protect lenore.
he was then designated the second male tribute; a punishment for his kind but rebellious regards.
i donât look at him. i canât. not with how brittle i feel. not with the way his eyes cut through everything.
drusilla sickle and her flaming orange bob sit nearest the front, legs crossed neatly, her makeup cakey, a smile painted on like sheâs hosting a garden party and not escorting four children to their televised execution. âsuch bravery today,â she chirps, as if bravery is what happened in the square. as if volunteering to die is noble.
no one answers her. not even haymitch, who never misses an opportunity to snarl at the capitol.
previous victors, mags flanagan from district four and wiress from district three, are on the bench with the driver, murmuring softly, preparing rooms, food, schedules. they are kindâtoo kind. the worst kind. the kind that makes you realize how doomed you are.
my fingers curl into the fabric of my skirt. the carriage bumps over uneven stone as we cross out of the merchant district. the roads change texture when we hit the seamârougher, colder, biting at the wheels.
i feel it before i look: haymitchâs eyes shifting away from the window. the weight of his attention lands on me like a stone. i keep staring straight ahead, jaw tight, breath steady, pretending i donât notice him watching me. pretending i donât feel his resentment curdling the air like smoke.
heâs hated me for years. "spoiled princess" he had called me that night. iâd thrown it right back at him, calling him a charity case myself, unknowingly two days after his father passsd in a mine explosion. i regret that now, iâve regretted it for years. but neither of us ever apologized.
the distance between us in the carriage feels like a punishment.
louella sniffles quietly. wyatt rests a hand on her shoulder, awkward but earnest. i should reach out tooâi want toâbut my body feels like someone elseâs. like itâs stuck between wanting to crumble and refusing to be the weak one in front of haymitch abernathy.
the carriage slows as we near the station. steam billows from the massive engine waiting on the tracks. the tribute train gleams silver under the fading lightâtoo clean, too beautiful, too bright for district twelve.
the peacekeeper outside calls, âdoors!â
drusilla beams. âoff we go, my dears.â her voice is sugar but this situation is acid.
the door swings open. cold air rushes in, sharp and metallic. i shiver.
haymitch doesnât move at first. he watches me stand, watches me wipe my palms on my skirt, watches my shoulders stiffen as i prepare to step out of the life i knew and into whatever waits for me on the other side of that platform. his jaw clenchesâone sharp line. i donât know what it means.
i take the first step out of the carriage. the station lights flare white-hot, almost blinding. the platform smells like coal and oil and something sweet drifting from the trainâs open doorsâdeath dressed in velvet.
i hear maysileeâmy sweet younger sister, my best friendâin my head again, voice cracking: âplease come back. promise me youâll try.â i didnât promise her anything. i couldnât.
my throat locks. i stare at the train, at the polished steps leading into the car, at the curtain of warm air brushing my face like an invitation i never asked for. i am not ready. i am not the brave volunteer they think i am. but i walk toward the train anyway. because maysilee is safe. merilee is safe. and i will bear the consequences of loving them more than myself.
haymitch passes me on the steps and mutters, low enough only i can hear: âfigures you volunteered." the words sting sharper than they should. i donât answer. i donât trust what cruel words that i don't truly mean might come out of my mouth.
the seven of us step inside one-by-one, the door sealing shut behind us with a soft click. and just like thatâdistrict twelve is gone. the warmth of the car hits me first, wrapping around me the second i let myself deeper into the tribute train. it smells faintly of lavender steam and something sweet simmering in copper pots far ahead.
i blink hard, letting my eyes adjust. everything inside gleams. gold fixtures polished within an inch of their life. soft carpets that swallow my footsteps. walls paneled in dark wood that looks expensive enough to feed my family of five for a year.
louella hesitates at the doorway like sheâs afraid to step on anything. wyatt gently nudges her in. haymitch stomps past all of us down the aisle, boots still covered in seam dust, tracking it onto marble tile in a carelessness that makes me wince.
drusilla gestures down the corridor. âdining car first! refreshments, introductions, announcementsâoh, itâs all so exciting, isnât it?â no one answers. again.
the corridor smells too clean, too warm, too alive. it makes my stomach churn. district twelve fades behind us through the narrow train windows, shrinking to a blur of gray and smoke. i swallow hard at the sight.
the dining car opens before me like something out of a dreamâvelvet seats, crystal bowls full of vibrant fruit, a shining chandelier overhead. the table is already set. wiress sits at the far end, fingers tapping lightly against a silver fork, eyes drifting between details no one else notices. mags is beside her, small and steady, hands folded over one another.
drusilla flutters in behind us. âtake a seat, darlings! anywhere youâd like!â
haymitch doesnât sit. he leans against the wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched. daring someone to tell him what to do.
scoffing, i move toward an empty seat across from mags, trying not to stare at the plates in front of us: pastries glazed with honey, sliced pears, shimmering cubes of pink meat. food meant to tempt tributes into forgetting theyâre sacrificial lambs.
louella climbs into the chair beside me, her legs barely reaching the edge. she looks up at me like sheâs asking permission. something in my chest twists; she reminds me of my sisters.
âgo ahead,â i murmur. âsit. youâre okay.â
her shoulders relax by a fraction.
haymitch scoffs quietly from behind, like the idea of me comforting anyone is laughable. i ignore it.
wyatt sits next to louella, already analyzing the table like heâs tallying odds on which dish is poisoned. when mags gestures for us to eat, he waits a full ten seconds before picking anything up.
iâm not hungry. i donât think iâll ever be hungry again.
drusilla, however, is starving. âchildren!â she claps her hands. âintroductions! enthusiasm! letâs get to know one another, shall we?â
haymitch mutters something under his breath. it sounds like, âgo choke.â drusilla ignores him.
âweâll start with our dear, sweet lou-anneââ
âlouella." wyatt corrects gently.
the correction makes louella perk up just a little, like the gesture was made of gold.
âlouella,â drusilla repeats with strained delight. âisnât she precious? protected by our own, personal calculator, wyatt callow. nowââ her attention snaps to me. âand you, miss donner. our bold volunteer. our heroine.â
my stomach drops. heroine. what a grotesque word.
i feel haymitchâs stare before i see itâsharp, slicing, waiting for me to bask in the praise like some merchant princess who loves attention. i keep my expression empty. âthereâs nothing heroic about it,â i say quietly. âi did what i had to.â
louella looks at me. wyatt looks at his hands. wiress looks through me, into something deeper. and haymitchâhis expression shifts. not softening, not sympatheticâjust something like surprise flickering behind the resentment. like he expected me to smile. or boast. instead, iâm just hollow.
drusilla moves on quickly, eager to regain her performance energy. âand last, but certainly not least: haymitch abernathy!â
haymitch lifts one hand in the laziest parody of a greeting iâve ever seen. âthrilledâ" he deadpans, âto be here.â
drusilla stiffens.
mags speaks up gently, âyou all must be exhausted.â
louella nods hard enough to wobble. wyattâs jaw tightens. haymitch scoffs. i inhale, the smell of honey pastries sickeningly sweet in my throat.
âyour rooms are ready,â mags continues. âafter you rest, weâll begin discussing strategy.â
haymitch pushes off the wall. âi donât need a strategy,â he says. âi wonât last long enough for it to matter.â
louellaâs eyes widen, terrified. wyatt shoots haymitch a look like he wants to punch him. i feel something hot rise in meâanger, sharp and sudden. âdonât say things like that in front of her,â i snap before i can stop myself.
haymitchâs head whips toward me. oh no. âdonât tell me what to say, princess.â
the old insult lands between us like a blade. my heartbeat stutters. merchants donât fight. donners donât cause scenes. tributes are supposed to save their energy. but i donât care. not now. not today.
âsheâs thirteen, haymitch,â i say quietly. âshe doesnât need to hear about your death wish.â
his nostrils flare. âshe needs to hear the truth.â
âshe needs hope.â
âhope?â he laughs, bitter and sharp. âyou think hope saves anyone in the arena?â
âmaybe not,â i whisper, leaning forward. âbut cruelty wonât either.â
his jaw tightens. for a momentâfor one breathâhis eyes flicker. not anger, not hate, but hurt. he looks away first.
drusilla clears her throat quickly, desperate to patch the cracks forming in her perfect tributes. âwell!â she says too brightly. ârest up! tomorrow is all too busy with your makeovers, parade, and the beginning of training!"
i stand too quickly, almost dizzy. haymitch steps aside for me, but the space between us is razor-thinâclose enough to feel the heat off his skin. close enough that i catch the faint scent of coal smoke and sweat clinging to him.
i donât sleep much that night. the bed on the train is too soft, the sheets too clean, the pillow too quiet. every time i close my eyes, i see maysileeâs face in the crowd, wet with tears she tried too hard to blink away. merileeâs hands clutching her necklace. my motherâs knees buckling. my fatherâs jaw set in that way that means heâs about to break but refuses to do it where anyone can see.
when i do drift off, itâs in piecesâthirty seconds here, a minute there. flashes of louellaâs wide eyes, of wyattâs hollow stare, of haymitchâs voice saying i wonât last long enough for it to matter.
i wake to sunlight i donât recognize. it pours in through the narrow window of my compartment, pale gold and too clean, nothing like the sickly gray that seeps over district twelve in the mornings. the train hums underneath me, smoother now, like the tracks themselves are made of polished glass.
someone knocks once on my door, brisk. âup, up, up!â drusillaâs voice trills from the hallway. âweâre nearly there, little doves!â little doves. like weâre pretty things in a cage, meant to sing until our throats give out.
i sit up slowly. my body feels heavy, like grief settled in overnight and crystallized behind my ribs. i swing my legs over the side of the bed, toes curling into the plush carpet. it feels wrong. all of this does.
thereâs a uniform laid out on the chair by the door: simple, soft, too white. capitol-issued. i change into it, my fingers clumsy with sleep deprivation, and tie my hair back out of habit, like iâm getting ready for a normal dayâthere will never be a normal day again. i know that.
when i step into the corridor, louella is already there, swallowed in fabric that doesnât quite fit her, hair mussed from sleep and eyes red-rimmed. she gives me a small nod, like sheâs not sure sheâs allowed to say good morning.
âhey,â i say quietly. âare you okay?â itâs a stupid question. of course sheâs not.
she shrugs one shoulder, lip wobbling just a little. âi dreamed about my mom.â
âme too,â wyatt mutters behind her, running a hand through his hair. he looks like he didnât sleep at all, dark circles bruised under his eyes. he catches my gaze. thereâs something like truce there.
haymitch appears from the opposite direction, stepping out of his compartment like heâs already halfway through a fight. his curls are a bit flatter from the pillow, shirt twisted at the collar, eyes bloodshot but hard.
he looks at me once. just once. thereâs no snide comment this time. no princess. no sneer. for some reason, that makes my stomach twist worse.
âgather, gather!â drusilla flaps her hands, her wig slightly askew like she slept in it. âweâre pulling into the station. first impressions are everything in the capitol. shoulders back, heads high, donât throw up.â
mags and wiress are waiting in the small lounge at the end of the car. mags gives us a soft smile that almost undoes me completely. wiress is watching the window, eyes tracking something outside only she can see.
âwe are almost there,â mags says gently. âremember to breathe.â
i move to the window. the world outside is nothing i recognize: towering buildings of glass and metal claw at the sky, throwing back the morning sun in shards of color. streets crisscross below like a living map, teeming with people in clothes that look more like plumage than fabricâbright, shimmering, impossible. fountains spray water that glitters pink and blue. even the sky looks different here. too blue. too open. like itâs laughing.
the train begins to slow. my heart picks up.
haymitch comes to stand beside me. so close that our shoulders almost touch, but not quite. his jaw works, like heâs grinding his teeth. âlook at them,â he mutters under his breath, so quiet i almost miss it. âlike this is a show they paid for.â
my eyes flick to the crowds lining the tracks. theyâre already pressing forward, waving, cheering, some holding up holographic signs that read sayings you'd see at a sporting event. my stomach lurches at the sight. weâre entertainment. thatâs all weâll ever be to them.
âremember,â drusilla says, voice suddenly sharp, âsmile when the doors open. the capitol adores bravery. and tragedy. and teeth.â she bares hers in demonstration.
wiress finally speaks, still staring at the world outside, âthey built all of this on bones,â she says, voice distant. âlayer after layer. they forget whatâs underneath if it shines enough.â mags touches her arm softly, like sheâs heard this before.
the train shudders to a full stop. for a heartbeat, no one moves. then the platform erupts in sound. cheers. shrieks. music blasting from unseen speakers. flashes of cameras. the train doors hiss as they unlock, and drusilla clasps her hands together like itâs wintermas morning.
âtime to meet your adoring public.â
the doors slide open and air floods inâwarmer than twelve, scented with something floral and sharp, like crushed petals and electricity. the noise slams into me a second later.
i take a breath that doesnât quite make it all the way down. my legs feel wooden as we move forward in a small cluster: wyatt, louella, haymitch, me. mags and wiress behind. drusilla leading the way, beaming.
the platform is a sea of color. capitol citizens press against barriers, reaching out, straining for a touch. some hold those ridiculous, large signs. others have styled their hair in bright yellow plumes âin honor of the quarter quell.â a few have already painted 12 on their cheeks.
louellaâs hand brushes mine. i donât realize sheâs reaching for me until her fingers hook tentatively around two of mine. i squeeze back.
haymitch notices. his eyes flick down at our joined hands, then up to my face, his expression unreadable. for a second, i think heâs going to say something cutting. he doesnât.
a man with gold tattoos etched into his cheeks and a hovering camera at his shoulder shouts, âlook this way! yes, perfectâdistrict twelve, give us a smile!â i donât but he takes the shot anyway.
âkeep moving,â drusilla sings. âweâre off to the remake center! your teams are just dying to get their hands on you.â
weâre fun new dolls for them to dress. for a handful of days, weâll be the cityâs latest obsession. and then weâll all die, and theyâll find someone else.
the station floors are slick and spotless beneath my flats as weâre shepherded toward a set of glass doors. the sunlight catches my reflection brieflyâpale, wide-eyed, jaw tight. i hardly recognize myself.
behind me, haymitch mutters, âdonât let them see you scared.â
i almost laugh. âiâm not scared of them,â i say under my breath.
he cuts me a sideways look, skeptical. âso what are you scared of then, princess?â
i ignore his snarky comment and think about the answer of his in-genuine question. turning into someone i hate.
ânothing that concerns you,â i decide.
âgood,â he replies. âkeep it that way.â
we step through the glass doors into a gleaming white lobby so bright it makes my eyes water. capitol staff are already lined upâattendants in bizarre outfits, stylists with insane cosmetic surgery done, all smiling too wide.
a woman with teal hair and gemstones glued along her eyelids clasps her hands when she sees us. âoh, theyâre perfect,â she sighs. âso tragic. so fixable.â
drusilla claps once, delighted. âwelcome to the capitol, my darlings. next stop: the remake center. after thatââ she spreads her arms like sheâs unveiling a new product. âyour grand entrance in the tribute parade.â
my stomach flips. the parade. the training. the private sessions. the interviews. and then the arena. an entire week ahead of me, pretending iâm not already dead.
i glance sideways at haymitch. heâs staring straight ahead, jaw clenched, eyes burningânot with awe, not with fear. with fury. with something feral and stubborn and alive.
for the first time, it hits me: if anyone is going to claw their way through this, it will be him.
if i want to live even just a little longer than expected, iâm going to have to survive beside someone iâve spent years despising and heâs going to have to survive beside me. the thought should terrify me. instead, it just makes everything feel sharper. louder.
âkeep up, miss donner,â drusilla trills from ahead. âcanât have our volunteer falling behind.â i take another breath of strange, perfumed air and force my feet to move.
the training
the remake center smells like chemicals and rubbing alcohol. it hits me the second the glass doors slide shut behind usâsharp and sweet and sterile all at once, like something thatâs been scrubbed so clean it forgot what it was before. the lobby is cavernous and white, floors gleaming, ceilings impossibly high. everything echoes. footsteps. laughter. the soft hum of machines somewhere deeper inside the building.
i feel small. not physically, but emotionally. like if i stood still long enough, this place would sand me down until i fit whatever mold they wanted.
capitol stylists descend on us immediately. they move fast, circling, murmuring to each other, fingers hovering just shy of touching like weâre art pieces in a gallery theyâve been dying to curate. one woman with metallic green lipstick tilts my chin up without asking, studying my face like sheâs calculating how much of me she can change before i stop looking like myself.
âbone structureâs excellent,â she says to no one in particular. âstrong jaw. eyes will photograph beautifully when angry.â
i donât know how to feel about angry being my defining trait.
louella is whisked away first. two stylists crouched in front of her, voices syrupy and soft, promising no pain, no mistakes, no cuts. she looks back at me once, eyes wide, and i force myself to nod. to smile. to act like this is fine.
wyatt follows, already resigned, shoulders squared like heâs bracing for impact.
haymitch resists longer. âdonât touch me,â he snaps when someone with a zebra skin reaches for his arm.
thereâs a pauseâthick, dangerous. capitol people donât like being told no. drusilla laughs too loudly. âoh, darling, they have to. itâs tradition.â
haymitchâs jaw tightens. for a moment, i think he might actually swing at someone. then mags steps forward, resting a hand on his arm affectionately. âjust let them,â she tells him quietly. âweâll still see you underneath.â something in haymitch flickers. not obedience. not acceptance. just exhaustion. he lets them take him.
when they come for me, i donât fight. i let them guide me down a bright hallway into a private styling room that looks more like an operating room. mirrors line the walls. too many angles. too many versions of me staring back.
i strip out of my clothes and sit in the chair they point to, spine straight, hands folded in my lap like my mother taught me. i feel humiliated, exposed, sitting completely naked in a room full of three strangers. my heart is beating too fast, but my face stays still. if they want a volunteer who looks composed, i can give them that much.
âweâre going to clean you up first,â the green-lipped woman says cheerfully. âthen weâll talk concept.â
warm water runs over my hair in a basin that cradles my neck. fingers comb through the strands, careful and practiced. i close my eyes. this should feel nice. it doesnât. it feels like erasure.
i think of my family's sweet shopâflour dust in the air, sugar under my nails, my sistersâ laughter echoing down the stairs. i think of maysileeâs braid, always just a little messy, and merileeâs quiet hum when she concentrates. i hold onto those images like anchors.
âyou have such a striking intensity,â someone says behind me. âweâll keep that. maybe sharpen it.â
my hair is dried and styled, smoother and glossier than iâve ever seen it. my skin is scrubbed, treated, brushed with something that smells faintly of citrus. they remove the faint scar on my wrist without asking. i watch it disappear in the mirror. a part of me aches.
then comes the clothes. they dress me in something simple but sharpâtailored lines, deep charcoal coated fabric that hugs my shoulders and cinches at my waist. i'm handed a coal-mining hat and a faux pickaxe. for just a sliver of a second, i think of haymitch's dad. more specifically, his fate. i cross the room to meet my own reflection and barely recognize her. she almost looks like someone who might survive, if you ignore the accessories.
âperfect,â the stylist murmurs. âvery quarter quell.â
they leave me alone for a moment, and the silence rushes in. my hands shake when i unclench them. i press my palms flat against my thighs, grounding myself in the feel of fabric, the weight of my body in the chair. i breathe slowly. deliberately. i will not cry here.
when i step back into the main hall, the others are already waiting. louella looks like a porcelain dollâhair brushed and braided until it shines, her cheeks softly flushed. sheâs gripping wyattâs sleeve like itâs the only real thing left in the room. wyatt himself looks sharper, cleaner, his merchant-side polish turned up to something almost regal.
haymitch looks furious. they didnât soften him at all. if anything, they sharpened him too. his curls are tamed just enough to look intentional, his face scrubbed clean of soot but not his defiance. they dressed him in dark fabrics that emphasize his shoulders, his height, the coiled tension in his frame. weâve both been carved into something for them.
drusilla claps her hands, delighted. âlook at you all! absolutely radiant. the capitol is going to adore you.â
i donât care what the capitol adores. i care that louella is trembling. i care that wyattâs jaw is set too tight. i care that haymitchâs hands are clenched like heâs holding himself together with sheer will.
i move without thinking, stepping closer to louella, placing myself just a little in front of her. itâs a small thing. maybe meaningless. but itâs mine. haymitch noticesâhe almost always does. his eyes flick to where i stand, then back to louella. his expression shiftsânot soft, not kindâbut less sharp around the edges.
the parade is explained next. chariots, costumes, presentation, crowds. the list makes my stomach twist.
âdistrict twelveâs look will emphasize resilience,â a designer says brightly. âcoal tones, flame accents, something symbolic.â
symbolic of what? our inevitable deaths? i donât ask. instead i listen, i memorize. this is survival nowânot just in the arena, but here. learning when to speak, when to stay silent, when to bend without breaking.
drusilla calls us forward again. weâre ushered deeper into the building, toward fittings and rehearsals and cameras. every step feels heavier than the last. somewhere in the distance, i can hear music starting upârehearsal for the parade, no doubt. bright and triumphant and cruel.
i straighten my shoulders. i volunteered for this. for maysilee. for merilee. for the girl trembling behind me and the boy calculating before me and the other boy snarling beside me and the life i refuse to lose without a fight.
the capitol can dress me up, sure, but it doesnât get to decide who i become.
the parade staging area feels like standing inside the mouth of a beast. everything vibratesâmusic pounding from unseen speakers, the clatter of hooves against polished stone, the hiss of fire cannons being tested overhead. the air smells like oil and artificial smoke, sharp enough to sting the back of my throat. stylists dart in and out, making last-minute adjustments, brushing invisible dust from shoulders, tugging fabric into place.
wyatt and i stand beside our chariot, dressed in coal-dark fabric threaded with veins of glowing ember. heat coils beneath the material, not enough to burn, just enough to remind us what the capitol thinks district twelve is made of: fire and fuel.
across the wide staging floor, i spot the other chariot in which haymitch and louella will ride. louella looks impossibly small standing beside the horses, swallowed by her costumeâcoal-black silk with flickers of flame stitched along the hem. her hands are clenched so tightly at her sides her knuckles are white. haymitch stands just behind her, one hand hovering near her back, not touching but close enough to catch her if she tips.
my chest tightens at the view. i catch haymitchâs eye for half a second across the chaos. he looks wired, restless, jaw locked tight like heâs bracing for impact. when louella flinches at a sudden crack of sound overhead, his hand finally lands on her shoulder. she leans into him without hesitation. that sight hits me even harder.
âdistrict twelve!â someone shouts. our part of the parade is starting.
wyatt and i climb onto our chariot first. the metal is warm beneath my palms as i steady myself, the horses snorting softly, muscles rippling beneath glossy hides. the crowd noise swells as weâre guided forward.
when we roll out into the avenue, the sound is immediate and overwhelmingâcheering, screaming, laughter. thousands upon thousands of capitol citizens line the streets, waving, throwing glittering confetti into the air. camera drones buzz past my face, red lights blinking as they capture every angle, every expression. i school my features into something sharp and steady. not smiling, not scowling, but something in between.
wyatt lifts his chin, regal, composed. he looks like someone who belongs in this spectacle. i feel like prey dressed as a queen.
i bask in the unfortunate fame as people shout absurd praises at me. telling me i'm beautiful, brave. asking me to survive the games purely for them. i scoff at that comment.
that's when i hear it: a sharp, concussive crackâtoo loud, too close. a firework detonates overhead, showering sparks dangerously low. the horses behind us scream. i twist around just in time to see haymitchâs chariot. the horses rear violently, eyes rolling white, hooves striking sparks against the stone. handlers shout, scrambling. louellaâs face goes slack with terror.
âlouella!â haymitch shouts.
the chariot lurches. the wheels clip another chariotâs side. metal shrieks. the harness snaps. and then theyâre airborne. haymitchâs body collides with louellaâs as theyâre thrown forward, his arm wrapping around her instinctively, like he can shield her from the ground itself.
they hit the pavement hard. haymitch rolls, slamming shoulder-first, breath knocked clean from his lungs. louella doesnât move. her head strikes the stone with a sound i will hear for the rest of my lifeâa wet, hollow crack.
the crowd gaspsâthen cheers, confused, thinking itâs part of the spectacle. i scream. the sound rips out of me before i can stop it, raw and sharp and entirely unfit for capitol television. wyatt grabs my arm, hard. âdonât,â he hisses. âdonâtââ
peacekeepers swarm the scene instantly, blocking the cameras, shouting orders. fireworks explode again overheadâtoo loud, too bright, deliberately distracting.
haymitch pulls at my heart, crawling to where louella landed. i see his hands, shaking and frantic, as he cradles her head. thereâs blood. he looks up, face twisted with something feral and broken, and for one horrible second, his eyes meet mine across the avenue.
the parade continues. our chariot, and the twenty-two others in front of us, are ushered forward faster, the crowd roaring louder, the music swelling to drown out what just happened. wyatt doesnât let go of my arm until my nails dig into his sleeve, undoubtedly leaving indents in his olive skin.
my vision blurs. the avenue stretches endlessly ahead. i donât remember the rest of it. not the cheers. not the end. i only remember the sound. that crack.
the training center a half hour later is silent by comparison. too silent. weâre escorted through gleaming halls, ushered into elevators that whisper as they rise. the doors open onto the twelfth floor and everything is glass and light and wrong.
âyour quarters,â drusilla announces brightly, like she didnât just watch a child nearly die. âsettle in. dinner in one hour.â
i turn to her, swallowing hard. "whereâs louella?â she doesnât look at me.
âwhereâs haymitch?â wyatt adds.
we receive no answer. magsâ mouth is pressed into a thin line. wiress is staring at the floor, fingers tapping erratically against her leg.
âgo get ready,â drusilla says sharply. âyouâll be late otherwise.â
the rooms are obscene. my bedroom looks like something out of a dreamâwalls that shift color when i touch them, a bed that hums softly beneath my weight, a bathroom with mirrors that light up at my approach. i stand there, frozen, hands limp at my sides.
louella should be here already. she should be crying on the other side of the wall, asking if dinner is poison, asking if we can hold hands again.
i sit on the edge of the mattress and stare at the door. when the knock comes, i nearly jump out of my skin. dinner.
they arrive late. haymitch walks in first and something is visibly wrong. he looks empty. hollowed out. like whatever was holding him upright has been scooped clean from his chest. his eyes donât focus right away, his hands hang useless at his sides. beside of him is louella. the relief that hits me is so sharp it almost hurtsâlike my body had been holding its breath since the crash and only now remembered how to inhale.
louella's smile is wide, her posture stiff. her eyes are glassy, unfocused, like sheâs looking through us instead of at us. i tell myself itâs shock. i tell myself sheâs been drugged for pain. i tell myself a hundred reasonable possibilities for her uncharacteristic behavior. my breath catches painfully in my throat.
haymitch doesnât take a seat at the table. he remains standing behind louella's chair, fingers digging into the backrest so hard his knuckles blanch.
we eat in silence. i watch louellaâi canât stop. every movement feels slightly wrong, like the accident has stripped her of her heart and soul. the way she holds her fork, the way she doesnât fidget, the way she doesnât glance at me once. louella always looks at me.
my hands start to shake. i press them under the table and force my fingers still. force my face still. force my mind to stop reaching for the worst conclusion like itâs a bruise i canât stop poking.
after dinner, when wyatt and louella are distracted by drusilla, i step closer to haymitch who is still pressed against louella's empty dining chair. "what happened?â i whisper, "after the crash."
he doesnât answer at first. his jaw flexes like heâs chewing through iron. then, very quietly, like each word costs him something: âthey killed her.â
my stomach drops so hard it feels like my insides shift. âwhat do you meanââ my voice cracks. i clear my throat and try again. âhaymitch, sheâs right there.â
his eyes flick to the girl across the room. thereâs nothing in his expression. not confusion. not doubt. just this dead, furious certainty. âshe died,â he says, voice flat. âon the pavement. and theyâ" his throat works like heâs swallowing glass. âthey covered it up. wiped the footage. swapped her out for a girl from district eleven.â
i stare at him. my brain refuses to take the words in all at once, like if i fully understand them iâll collapse. i look back at louellaâreally look nowâand suddenly all the things i was trying not to notice slam into place. the stiffness. the too-bright smile. the emptiness behind her eyes. my chest caves in. thatâs why it felt wrong. because it is. because it isnât her.
haymitchâs voice goes lower. âthey told me to forget.â his fingers tighten on the chair so tight i worry he might snap it in half. âso i didnât.â
my throat closes around a sound. i canât tell if itâs a sob or a laugh or something feral. i glance at the girl againâat the way she mirrors louellaâs posture like she learned it from a scriptâand something cold crawls up my spine.
maysilee has a canary. its name is lou lou. the thought comes out of nowhere, bright and stupid and painfully tender. but suddenly i need to say it. i need to make a small thing true in a room full of lies. âweâll call her lou lou,â i suggest without thinking, my voice shaking. âmy sister has a songbird. that was its name.â
haymitch stares at me, like that is the stupidest idea he's ever had, but then something in his expression breaks. just a little. not enough to fix himâjust enough to prove heâs still human under all that hurt. âlou lou,â he repeats. a small, almost-smile appearing on his pale face.
i quickly discover that the training center doesnât sleep.
i doâbarelyâbut itâs the kind of sleep that feels like drowning slowly. every time i close my eyes, iâm back on the avenue. the crack of louellaâs skull against stone echoes through my head like a fault line splitting open. i wake with my heart already racing, breath caught somewhere between my chest and my throat.
the room hums softly around me. the walls glow faintly blue, reacting to my movement like theyâre alive. i sit up, drag my hands over my face, and press my palms to my eyes until the pressure turns the darkness red.
this is real. i am here. tomorrow we train. that thought doesnât scare me the way it should. what scares me is how quickly my mind slides into preparation; exits, angles, advantages, how many bodies could fill a room this size, how long it would take to cross the floor if someone charged me from the doorway. i hate that it comes so easily.
muffled movement drifts through the hall. footsteps. a voice too low to make out. someone pacing. i swing my legs over the side of the bed and pad quietly to the door, pressing my ear to the cool surface. i know without checking that itâs him.
haymitch must not be able to sleep either. some part of me wants to open the door. some part of me wants to pretend i donât hear him falling apart just a wall away. i do neither. i stand there, forehead resting against the door, breathing slowly until the pacing stops.
when i finally crawl back into bed, lou louâs too-bright smile flashes behind my eyelids and i have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
morning comes too fast. the alarm blares at dawn, loud and merciless. iâm already awake.
breakfast is quick and quiet. lou lou sits between wyatt and mags, smiling when prompted, nodding when spoken to. if i didnât know better, iâd almost believe sheâs okay. i donât let myself linger on it. i donât trust my hands not to shake if i do.
the only words that were truly said during the entire meal were wiress'. she had briefly asked us our combative skills, if we had any at all. she then urged us not to go to that station in training, to save that skill for the private showcase to the gamemakers. with the way she said it, this plan seemed like the most important thing she'd ever tell us.
the training center opens up like a cathedral built for violence. weapons gleam under harsh white lights. stations stretch in every directionâknives, spears, swords, axes, archery, snares, climbing, camouflage. tributes flood in from every district, voices overlapping, bodies jostling, alliances already forming in the way people cluster without meaning to.
careers move like they own the place: district one laughs too loudly, district two sizes everyone up like livestock, and district four pretends not to watch while watching everything.
wyatt drifts toward a numbers-based station with tributes from six and nine almost immediately, drawn like a magnet to people who think in patterns. lou lou is gently guided away by a trainer with pastel hair and a smile too wide, ushered toward basic survival drills.
that leaves just me and haymitch. we stand shoulder to shoulder near the edge of the knot tying station, not touching, not speaking. the air between us feels tight, stretched thin as wire.
âdonât follow me,â he mutters without looking.
âwasnât planning on it,â i reply.
a trainer slams a basket of worn ropes down in front of us anyway. âpair up,â she says briskly.
haymitch exhales through his nose like the universe is personally mocking him.
i step forward first. the frayed rope feel familiar in my hands. my late grandfather taught where to place my fingers, how to fold the material perfectly and quickly, how precision saves effort.
i knot it when prompted, making it tight and enduring. i tie anotherâa bowlineâand then another. both clean and efficient. no flourish. the trainer hums approvingly. âmerchant kid,â she notes. âsteady hands.â
haymitch watches despite himself. i feel itâhis attention pressing against my back like heat. he steps up next, grabbing a slack rope with an unwavering clench. his knot is quick and perfect too, not budging as the trainer tugs on it.
âeffective,â she comments carefully, haymitch's creation still in her hands.
we rotate the non-combative stations together, not because we want to, but because the room keeps folding us back into each other; climbing, camouflage, traps. itâs the last station that changes something. they give us wire, weights, and hooks.
âbuild something,â the trainer instructs. âsomething that stops someone bigger than you.â
my pulse picks up. i kneel, hands already moving, mind mapping space; tension points, leverage. haymitch hovers behind me, arms crossed, skeptical.
âyouâre overthinking,â he says.
âyouâre underestimating,â i shoot back.
i finish in silence. when the trainer triggers the snare, it snaps tight around a weighted dummyâs leg and slams it flat. haymitch goes still.
âagain,â the trainer says.
i rebuild it faster. something shifts thenânot trust. not forgiveness. just respect grinding its way into the space where hatred used to sit comfortably.
by the end of the day, my arms ache and my head pounds, but my mind is sharper than itâs ever been. as we file out, haymitch falls into step beside me. âyouâre better than i thought,â he mutters, like it pains him to say it.
i donât smile. âso are you,â i reply. it isnât kindness. it isnât peace. but itâs the first crack in something thatâs been locked shut for years.
the next two days of training are the same. haymitch and i are grouped in pairs before we have a chance to protest, we move through the calmest stations together all whilst observing the other tributes. we spend our evenings with wiress and mags, learning our combative skills in private. i'm beyond handy with a knife, thanks to my father, and it turns out haymitch is too. we learn how to use a multitude of weapons in many different fashions. lou lou and wyatt pick up enough information and skill during these evenings that it almost gives me a small hope for their survival. but fact is still fact, and it's evident that if anyone from district twelve survives these games, it will be haymitch.
as the third day of training comes to a close, we are ushered to lunch where one by one each tribute is taken out of the cafeteria and to the showcase room. we each have five minutes to prove that we are worthy of a twelve, that we are worthy of sponsors, that we are worthy of living.
after over three hours, louella is finally called. then wyatt. then me. i leave the cafeteria without sparing haymitch a second glance.
the gamemakers sit high above the floor, beyond bored already. drinks in hand. laughter drifting down like static. i step into the circle and feel something cold settle in my spine. i donât bow. i donât smile. i just make a beeline for my knives and fist them in my shaky left hand.
i move fastâfaster than in the gym. not flashy, not theatrical. controlled throws. tight arcs. blades embedding where i want them, when i want them. i adjust mid-motion, compensating for distance, for wind i canât feel but know is there. it's one knife after another. no wasted movement.
when iâm done, the room is quiet. then someone claps. slowly and deliberately. i donât look up to see who. i set the knives down, take a slow bow, and walk out without waiting for dismissal.
haymitch goes in after me. i instantly hear the snap of his voice, muffled but furious. i think he calls the gamemakers murderers. there's never a whip of a crossbow or the slash of a knife, haymitch only ever showcases his anger. when he comes back out mere minutes later, his eyes are bright with something dangerous and alive.
âtheyâll hate that,â i say.
he grins, sharp and humorless. âgood.â
by the time the day ends, exhaustion sits on my shoulders like a weight i canât shrug off. my hands ache. my head throbs.
when haymitch falls into step beside me again, thereâs still no insult waiting on his tongue. just that same quiet understanding. weâre not friends, weâre still not allies, but weâre no longer pretending the other is the enemy.
that night, the seven of us sit crowded around the sitting room, watching the hologram of the tribute's training scores play before us. there's not many perfect ten's. in fact, there's not many scores above a six.
haymitch included, whose rebellion in the showcase, earned him a one. wyatt received a six exactly and louella only received a three. i swallow my inhumane pride as the number ten displays itself underneath my name and picture.
it doesn't take long for me to realize that the interviews are worse than the training. training hurts your body but the interviews aim for something softer and more dangerous.
weâre woken before dawn again, ushered through showers and clothes and stylists who chatter like birds pecking at carrion. the preparation room smells like hairspray and heated metal and sugarâeverything sweet layered over panic. my dress waits on a mannequin when i step inside, deep coal-gray silk that shifts silver under the lights, cut sharp at the shoulders and clean down my spine.
âstrong,â one stylist murmurs. âdefiant. very you.â i donât remember ever telling the capitol who i am but they sit me in the chair anyway. brushes skim my cheeks. powder dulls the dark circles under my eyes. my hair is styled back from my face.
âremember,â drusilla says from behind me, crouching to meet my eyes in the mirror. âthey donât want fear. they want a story. give them something to fall in love with.â i swallow hard.
lou lou is dressed beside me in pale gold, all innocent and light. she smiles at her reflection. it twists something in my chest until i have to look away.
haymitch is across the room, half-turned from the mirror, fingers flexing like he wants to break something. theyâve dressed him in black with faint copper threading at the cuffs. he looks unrepentant.
the stage is blinding. lights crash over me the second i step out, heat pressing against my skin like a second sun. the crowd roarsâthousands of voices crashing together into something monstrous and thrilled. my heartbeat stutters, then steadies. i lift my chin and walk like i belong here.
caesar flickerman beams from his chair, all bright suit and eager eyes. he looks younger than i expected. âdistrict twelveâs volunteer!â he announces, voice booming. âgive it up for y/n donner!â
applause slams into me. i sit, folding my hands in my lap, my posture impossibly straight.
ânow,â caesar says, leaning forward, âyou surprised everyone when you volunteered. tell usâwhy?â
the question lands like a trapâi could lie, i could perform, i could cry. i think of maysileeâs braid slipping loose in the wind; merileeâs hands clutching mine. âbecause my sisterâs name was called,â i say simply.
the crowd quiets around me.
âjust like that?â caesar prompts gently.
âjust like that,â i repeat. âsome things donât need more explanation.â
thereâs a beatâthen applause again, louder this time. i donât smile. i let them clap for the truth.
âyou impressed the gamemakers with your outstanding eleven,â caesar continues. âknives, they say?â
i nod. âi grew up learning to be careful with my hands.â
âcareful,â he echoes, amused. âyet here you are.â
i meet his gaze. âcareful doesnât mean afraid.â the crowd loves that. i can feel itâfeel the shift, the interest sharpening. i tuck the sensation away, uncomfortable with how easily it happens.
âlast question,â caesar says. âdid you know your fellow tributes before the reaping?â
âup on the stage was the first time i met lou lâlouella,â i catch myself, forcing a smile brighter than i feel. "they're both two years younger than me but i know wyatt and haymitch from school."
"were you close?" cesar pushes instantly, before the syllables have truly left my breath.
i raise an eyebrow softly at his question, seeing through his intent. "we were not, no. i knew of them, rather than knowing them!"
"what a shame, you won't be able to get to know them now," he jokes, with a tight, toothy smile. the joke never lands though, it feels bitter and upsets me instantly. i don't let it show.
when i stand to leave, the lights dim slightlyâmy cue. i walk offstage without looking back.
haymitch goes out two interviews later, after lou lou and wyatt. he's the final interview of the forty-eight. the crowd is already buzzing when he steps into the light, tension crackling like electricity. he doesnât wave, doesnât bow, he just sits, one ankle crossed over his knee, daring them to try him.
âhaymitch abernathy,â caesar grins, appearing a little nervous now. âyouâve been memorable this week.â
haymitch smirks. âi have that effect.â
laughter ripples through the audience at his comment. he sounds briefly like the haymitch i knew of from the seamâlike the haymitch that cat-called me princess in the most venomous ways possible for three long years.
âtell us,â caesar says, leaning in close, âwhatâs your strategy?â
haymitch tilts his head, eyes glinting. âto survive longer than they expect.â
âand who do you expect to help you do that?â caesar presses.
haymitchâs gaze flicks, just once, toward the wing of the stageâtoward me. âi donât trust easy,â he says slowly. âbut i trust people who donât lie when it matters.â
the crowd erupts. my stomach drops.
caesarâs eyes light up. âah,â he says delightedly. âsounds like an alliance forming.â
haymitch shrugs. âmaybe.â
the cameras eat it up. i can almost hear the capitol spinning it alreadyâfire and steel, merchant and seam, enemies forced together.
by the time the interviews end, my head is pounding. backstage, drusilla is radiant. âdid you hear them?â she gushes. âthey adored you. all four of you!â
mags squeezes my hand. wiress murmurs something about patterns aligning. haymitch catches my arm as we move toward the exit, his grip brief but grounding.
âyou did good,â he says quietly.
i meet his eyes. âyea, you too.â
the capitol never really lets you rest. after the interviews, they herd us back to the twelfth floor like glass figurines that have survived a fall and need to be locked away before we chip. the hallways feel narrower than they did this morning, the lights a little harsher, the quiet louder. adrenaline drains out of me all at once, leaving something heavy and shaky behind.
lou lou is the first to break. the moment the door slides shut behind us, she sagsâjust a fractionâand mags is there immediately, guiding her to the couch with a hand at her back. wyatt hovers, unsure what to do with his hands, eyes darting between all of us like heâs waiting for the odds to rearrange themselves into something kinder.
âyou did beautifully,â mags tells lou lou, voice low and steady. âyou were very brave.â lou lou nods on cue, smile snapping into place a half-second too late. it makes my chest ache.
wiress paces the room, muttering to herself. âimages are set. narratives are locked. sponsors respond to contrast, fire and restraint; opposites draw attention.â she glances at me, then at haymitch. âyou two are loud without being loud.â
haymitch scoffs lowly. âis that supposed to be a compliment?â
wiress considers. âyes.â
drusilla claps her hands together. âall right! now that the public adores youââ she grins widest at haymitch, who does not look adored ââwe need to talk practicalities. arena gear, supplies, what you can reasonably carry without tripping over your own feet.â
we gather around the table as a projection flickers to life above it, displaying rotating images of standard arena packs: water purifiers, rope, dried rations, knives, flint. the basics. the lies they tell you so youâll believe preparation makes this fair.
âyou wonât know the environment until launch,â mags says gently. âso you plan for flexibility. layers. nothing that slows you down.â
âweapons?â wyatt asks.
âwhatever you can reach first,â haymitch replies before anyone more experienced else can. his voice is flat, tired. âdonât get attached to anything.â
my gaze flicks to him. thereâs something brittle in the way he says it, like he learned that lesson early.
for the next few hours, time blurs. we talk through scenariosâwhat to grab, what to leave, how to read the opening seconds of the bloodbath. wiress sketches strange little diagrams on a pad, lines and angles and symbols that make my head spin but seem to calm her. mags listens more than she speaks, but when she does, everyone quiets.
lou lou drifts in and out, answering when asked, nodding when prompted. i keep an eye on her without meaning to, tracking the slight delays in her reactions, the way she mirrors wyattâs posture when sheâs unsure what to do with her own body.
mags and wiress have private conversations with each of us, just a minute or two long a piece. they tell us our strengths and how we can and should use that when we're out there.
they expect a lot from me. they think i am braver than i have ever considered myself even dreaming of being. i'm told to brave the cornucopia, to risk grabbing a knife and anything else i can safely manage.
when drusilla finally dismisses us, itâs late. too late. back in district twelve, the shop will have already been closed for hours now. i assume maysilee and merilee still lie awake though.
my room greets me with a soft yellow light and silence that feels almost kind after the noise of the day. i peel off the training uniform and change into the plain sleepwear laid out for me, my movements slow and automated. my reflection looks calmer than i feel. my eyes give me away.
i sit on the edge of the bed for a long time, hands resting uselessly in my lap. this is the last night before the arena. the thought lands without drama. no spike of fear. just a dull, heavy certainty. tomorrow is movement and noise and blood. tomorrow, something in me will have to harden whether i want it to or not.
i lie down and stare at the ceiling, listening. the training center hums. vents whisper. somewhere down the hall, a door opens and closes. there's a pad of footsteps. then silence.
iâm almost asleep when the knock comes. itâs quiet and hesitant. like the person on the other side isnât sure theyâre allowed to be here. my heart kicks hard against my ribs.
i slip out of bed and cross the room, opening the door just enough to see haymitch standing there in the dim hallway light. he looks wrecked, worn down to something raw. his shoulders are slumped, frizzy curls falling into his eyes, hands shoved deep into his pockets like he doesnât know what to do with them.
âsorry,â he murmurs immediately. âiâi shouldnât haveââ
âitâs fine,â i cut in softly, stepping back to let him in. he hesitates, then crosses the threshold quickly. i close the door behind him. the room feels smaller with him in it. warmer, heavier.
we stand there for a moment, neither of us moving.
âare you okay?â i finally ask.
he huffs out a quiet laugh that holds no humor. âno.â he's honest, startlingly so. he rubs a hand over his face, dragging it down until his fingers catch at his jaw. âi canât sleep. every time i close my eyes, i hear it again.â
i donât ask what, i donât need to.
âi almost knocked two nights ago,â he adds, eyes fixed on the floor. âi stood outside your door like an idiot forâ i donât know how long.â
my breath catches, remembering the shuffling in the hallway. "why didnât you?â i ask.
he shrugs, a sharp, defensive motion. âi didnât think youâd want me here.â
something tightens in my chest. âyou couldâve,â i say. âyou still can.â
the silence that follows is thick and fragile. slowly, he steps closer, like heâs afraid of breaking something if he moves too fast. he doesnât touch me at all at first. he just stops in front of me, close enough that i can feel the warmth of him, the uneven rhythm of his breathing.
âi donât know how to do this,â he says quietly. âwhatever this is.â
âme neither,â i quietly admit, my voice cracking on my last syllable.
haymitch leans forward, his hand resting lightly against my shoulder, sliding down my chest just a sliver. the contact is gentle, almost tentative, like heâs checking that i wonât pull awayâi donât.
after an excruciatingly long moment, his arms come around meânot tight, not possessive. just there. i slide mine around his back almost immediately, pressing my cheek against his chest, breathing him in. he smells like soap and metal and something unmistakably human. his body trembles once. it's barely noticeable, like a shiver he didnât mean to show.
we stay like that in the dark, holding each other silently in a painfully unfamiliar fashion.
eventually, he straightens and steps back before i can say anything, hands dropping to his sides like heâs putting his armor back on. âthanks,â he says, voice rough. âfor not asking for more.â
i shake my head. âyou donât owe me anything.â
his mouth twitches, almost a smile. almost. then he turns and leaves without another word. the door clicks shut softly behind him. i stand there long after heâs gone, arms still wrapped around empty air, heart aching in a way that feels strangely steady.
the day of the games arrives without ceremony. no countdown. no dramatic knock. just a soft shift in the lights, a low hum in the walls, and the sudden understanding that there are no more rehearsals left.
i wake an hour before the alarm. my body feels strangely calm, like it has finally accepted what my mind has been circling for days. i shower quickly, mechanically, the water warm and scentless. when i dry off, the clothes are already laid out on the bed: my arena uniform.
i recognize it instantlyârough, practical, deceptively simple. fitted pants the color of pale stone, a black undershirt, a sleeveless vest with too many pockets and not enough padding. there's nothing ornamental about it; nothing kind. this is the kind of outfit that tells you survival is your own responsibility.
i pull it on piece by piece. the fabric is heavier than it looks. when i fasten the vest, it sits snug against my ribs, grounding me. i flex my fingers, steadying myself in the weight of my new clothes.
i stand in front of the mirror and let my hair fall loose down my back. it feels wrong to leave it untouchedâtoo wild, too vulnerableâso i reach up and braid a thin strand on the left side, quick and practiced. maysileeâs braid. my throat tightens, but i finish it anyway, fingers moving with muscle memory. i tuck the end behind my ear and look at myself again.
this is who goes into the arena. not the older sister above the sweet shop. not the witty girl who argued in classrooms. not the volunteer everyone keeps calling brave. it's just me.
i was given the option to bring a keepsake with me into the arena. a necklace, a pin, a braceletâanything small and important to me. i chose against it, maysilee's braid is enough of a reminder for me.
when i step into the common area, the others are already there. wyatt stands near the window, adjusting the straps on his vest. his face is pale but set, jaw tight in that familiar wayâlike heâs calculating something that refuses to give him good odds. lou lou sits on the couch beside mags, hands folded neatly in her lap. she looks composed, almost serene, like sheâs been told exactly how to be and is determined not to mess it up. something in my chest aches when she smiles at me.
haymitch leans against the counter, arms crossed, eyes shadowed. his outfit, though identical to mine, looks like it was made for him. his curls are damp, pushed back from his face, and for a moment i have the irrational thought that he looks younger like this. more like sixteen than the hardened version the capitol wants.
his gaze flicks to my hair, to the braid. he doesnât say anything but his jaw tightens, and then loosens again, like he swallowed a thought.
it appears that out of the four of us, haymitch is the only one to adorn something special to him: a c-shaped metal charm, with a snake and a bird on either side, that sits on a chain around his neck. i quickly wonder the story behind it.
drusilla claps her hands together, peeling me from my thoughts, the sound too bright for the moment. âall right, my darlings. this is it. final checks.â
wiress circles us slowly, eyes darting, fingers twitching like sheâs listening to something only she can hear. âremember patterns,â she murmurs. âthe arena lies. trust movement, not beauty.â
we all nod. i notice tears welling at the edges of lou lou's eyes.
wiress lands in front of me, putting her left hand firmly on my shoulder, "do not be afraid of the cornucopia, get your knife and goâthat is important. food if you can, but hunger is easier than fear."
my breath catches in my swelling throat at her words. i don't respond, i just nod again.
mags steps forward next. she takes each of our hands in turn, squeezing gently, firmly. when she reaches me, her grip lingers just a second longer. âbe clever,â she says softly. âand be kind when you can. even if it costs you.â
then weâre moving again, ushered through corridors iâve never seen before, down into the heart of the building. the air grows cooler, heavier. doors open and close behind us with final-sounding clicks.
the courtyard waits below. the transport ship squats in the center of it like some mechanical animal, sleek and black and humming with restrained power. one by one, weâre called forward.
lou lou is guided in first. she goes without hesitation, hands folded, posture perfect, like sheâs been taught exactly how to walk toward her own fear. wyatt follows, his jaw tight, eyes scanning the floor like heâs memorizing every bolt and seam.
then itâs my turn. i pause at the edge of the ship, the wind tugging at my hair, the smell of fuel sharp in my nose. i look back onceâat mags, at wiress, at drusillaâs fixed smileâand then, without letting myself hesitate, i step aboard.
the interior is cold and metallic. a medic waits inside, her face blank, her slender hands gloved. âleft arm,â she says emotionless.
i donât flinch as the tracker is injected just beneath my skin. the needle slides in clean and fast, sharp enough to bite. it burns briefly, then settles into a dull ache, like a reminder etched into my flesh.
haymitch boards last and the doors immediately seal behind him. for a sliver of a second, our eyes meet across the narrow space. he nods once, the outer corner of his eyes crinkle softly. i nod back and tear my eyes away from the sight.
the games
the ship lifts, smooth and silent, the ground dropping away beneath us. no one speaks. thereâs nothing left to say.
when the transport finally slows, itâs not the arena that greets us, itâs a grand building. low, angular, made of smooth gray stone that blends too well with the surrounding landscape. it sits just outside the arenaâs perimeter like a control nodeâclose enough to feel, far enough to keep us from seeing anything that matters.
the four of us disembark with no goodbyes, no last looks. peacekeepers separate us immediately, guiding each tribute down identical white corridors that branch away from one another like veins. i donât see haymitch again. i donât hear wyattâs voice. lou lou disappears behind a closing door without a sound.
my launch room is smaller than i would have thought, circular and bare with its smooth walls and bright lights. there's a single opening in the floor where the metal launch tube waits, sealed and silent. the platform sits at the center, perfectly still, ringed with faint markings that tell me exactly where to stand.
i step onto it. the floor beneath my boots vibrates faintly as it activates, recognizing my weight, my tracker, my pulse. cool air rises from below, carrying the scent of grass and something sweet that makes my stomach tighten.
a voice crackles overhead, emotionless. âtribute, stand still.â i listen.
the tube seals around me, walls sliding up until the world narrows to polished metal and artificial light. i canât see anyone else, canât hear anything but my own breathing.
i shut my eyes so tight they start to hurt.
this is it.
the platform hums louder beneath me.
day one
when i open my eyes again, the ceiling begins to slide away and a bright white light floods in and fades outârevealing a blue sky, a green meadow, flowers that are too bright to trust.
the cornucopia gleams at the center of it all, surrounded by a ring of other pedestalsâforty-seven other tributes, forty-seven other lives about to shatter.
i lower my chin and breathe once, deep and steady. my platform locks into place and the countdown beginsâten. nine. eightâi spot haymitch across the circle. heâs already crouched slightly, coiled like a spring, eyes fixed on the metal pile at the centerâseven. six. fiveâmy fingers flexâfour. three. twoâi think of maysileeâs braid. of sugar-dusted mornings. of a boy pacing outside my door who didnât know how to ask for comfort.
one.
the horn sounds like the world cracking open. for a split second, everything freezesâforty-eight bodies held in the same breath, the meadow so beautiful it almost convinces you this isnât a slaughter. the flowers gleam like spilled paint. the air smells sweet, clean, wrong.
then the sound finishes echoing and the spell snaps. i run. not a careful run, not a smart one. i launch myself straight off the pedestal, boots tearing into grass slick with dew, lungs burning as the distance between me and the cornucopia collapses in a blur of color and screaming. i donât look left. i donât look right. i donât look for haymitch.
if i stop, i die.
the cornucopia looms larger with every strideâmetal teeth flaring upward, its shadow pooling dark and cold beneath it. bodies slam into each other around me. someone trips. someone else goes down. a career laughs, bright and thrilled, like this is exactly what theyâve been waiting for.
i hit the metal pile and donât slow, wiress' instructions echoing through my brain. my hand closes around a set of knivesâlight, balanced, wrapped tight in leather. my other arm scoops a small satchel without even glancing inside. my instinct screams go, and i obey.
i barely get two steps in before a boy i recognize from district five stumbles into my path, eyes wide, mouth already openingâmaybe to warn me, maybe to beg. i skid to a stop so hard my knees scream.
then a knife punches through his chest from behind. the blade erupts out the front of him, red and wet. his body jerks onceâhard, puppet-sharpâbefore sagging. his weight collapses forward, almost into me.
i scream and shove him away at the same time, hands slipping on blood. i donât wait to see who took his life, i donât want to. i turn and sprint.
the first cannon booms. it's sound is enormous, concussive, shaking the air itself. it echoes off the meadow and slams straight into my bones. my stomach flips, bile clawing up my throat.
that's one.
i donât stop running until the grass gives way to shadow and the forest swallows me whole. my lungs burn like theyâre tearing themselves apart, but i keep going until the screams fade into something distant and unreal. only then do i skid to a stop at the tree line, chest heaving, hands shaking so badly i have to brace them against a trunk.
the meadow is still chaos when i turn back. the careers move like predators, cutting down anything slower than them, anything stupid enough to freeze in awe of the arenaâs beauty. panache barker is unmistakable even from here, tall and brutal, leading the pack like he was born for this.
cannons keep sounding. two. three. four.
i scan frantically for familiar faces. for curls. for a stance i recognize. but i see no haymitch. panic spikes sharp and fast in my body.
then i see wyatt. heâs near the edge of the cornucopia now, already bleeding, already outmatched. lou lou is just behind him, frozen in place like her feet have grown roots. panacheâs blade flashes toward herâwyatt steps in front of her without hesitation. the final strike lands. hard.
wyatt crumples, shielding her even as he falls, his body collapsing between lou lou and the blade meant for her. the cannon fires almost immediately. that's five. the sound tears a hole straight through me.
lou lou screams. a raw, broken sound that doesnât belong in her throat. a pair of hands drag her away by the arm and she disappears into the chaos, still alive, still screaming. i donât stay to see more. i know that if i do, i wonât leave.
i turn and run deeper into the forest, branches tearing at my uniform, tears blinding me as i sprint blindly until my legs give out and i slam to my knees behind a fallen log.
the meadow is gone now. the screams are muffled. but the cannons keep coming. six. seven. eight. i curl forward, pressing my forehead into the dirt, knife clutched so tight my fingers ache. i donât cryânot really. itâs more like something inside me is screaming with no sound.
eighteen cannons ring out before the sun even shifts. eighteen lives erased in minutes.
when night finally falls, it does so all at once. the forest goes still, like itâs holding its breath. the anthem of panem rises. it pours out of the sky and the holograms flicker to life above the trees. faces bloom one by one, ghostly and bright.
wyatt callow, district twelve.
my chest caves in. i press my hand over my mouth to keep from making a sound as louella mccoyâs name does not appear. as haymitch abernathyâs does not either. they're both alive. i'm alive. for now.
the anthem ends. the faces fade. the forest exhales. i sit there in the dark, shaking, knives heavy in my lap, the satchel still unopened at my side; tears streaming down my face.
the forest doesnât feel like shelter. it feels like a mouth that closed around me. i donât stop crying, until the screams and cannons are nothing but echoes stitched into my ribs. i have wedged myself beneath a fallen tree tangled with vines and moss, the earth damp and cold beneath my palms. only then do i let myself breathe. only then do i open the satchel.
my hands still shake so badly i almost spill everything into the dirt. there's three bottles of waterâtwo full, one empty. i press my forehead briefly against the plastic of one, grounding myself in its coolness. two mre packets, sealed tight. antiseptic, small but intact. there's nothing else. no flint. no rope. no luxuries. it's enough to keep me alive but not enough for me to get comfortable.
i slide the knife set inside the satchel and cinch it closed, tucking the strap across my chest like an anchor. then i crawl deeper beneath the log, curling onto my side, back pressed to bark, knees drawn in tight.
i donât light a fire. i donât eat. i donât drink. i just sit there in the dark, eyes wide, listening. every snap of a branch sounds like footsteps. every rustle feels like breath on my neck. my body stays coiled, knife already in my hand, even as exhaustion drags at my bones.
the thought of wyatt keeps me upright through the night. i donât sleep. i just survive the dark.
day two
morning arrives quietly. there's no alarms, no peachy announcements from drusilla, just light filtering through leaves, turning dew into glass. the forest looks almost kind in the daylightâgreen and soft and deceptively peaceful.
i ration immediately. taking a long sip of my water, half a bottle. nothing else. my stomach knots in protest, but i ignore it. hunger is easier than fear, wiress had said.
i move slow today. careful. every step deliberate. i mark my path with small, subtle signs only i would noticeâa bent fern, a scuffed stone. i donât stray far from cover. i donât touch the berries, even when they look perfect and ripe and sweet. especially not then.
i hear things. footsteps, onceâtoo heavy to be prey. laughter, distant and wrong. something screaming far enough away that i can pretend it isnât real. i never do see anyone.
by midday, i find a better hiding spot: a shallow hollow formed by intertwined roots, partially hidden by low brush. itâs defensible, sheltered. invisible unless you know where to look. i tuck myself inside and let my muscles loosen for the first time since the horn.
thatâs when the shaking starts. it comes out of nowhereâviolent, bone-deep. adrenaline leaving my system like it was pulled out by force. i press my teeth into my sleeve to keep from crying out, breathing through it until it passes.
i eat half an mre. it tastes like cardboard and salt.
when night falls again, the anthem comes softer this time. the sky lights up; a boy from district six, a boy and both girls from district ten.
then louella mccoy. district twelve.
the world around me goes quiet. i donât scream. i donât cry. i just stare until the light fades, until her pale face and long raven braids dissolve into stars and nothing.
my heart aches for lou lou. for the real louella. for the both of their clueless families.
i stay curled in the roots long after the anthem ends, knife pressed flat to my chest, wondering how many names are left before mine appears.
day three
the morning is calm again.
my body feels heavy when i move, limbs sluggish from hunger and stress. i sip water sparingly and force myself upright. i canât stay hidden forever. sponsors wonât bet on a ghost.
i follow the forest edge, careful not to break into open meadow, watching the ground as much as the trees. thatâs when i see them: holly berries. bright red. perfect. glossy as candy.
i stop instantly. something about them feels wrongânot poisonous-wrong, not obvious-danger, but staged. deliberate. my skin prickles.
the berries move in half a second. they split apart with a wet, clicking sound. ladybugs crawl free from its shell. dozens. then hundreds.
they surge toward me in a living wave. i scream. it rips out of me before i can stop itâraw, panicked, animal. they swarm my legs, my arms, my neck. pain explodes everywhere at onceâsharp, burning. i claw at the bugs, sobbing, slapping, my vision blurring as weakness floods my limbs.
âhelpââ my voice breaks into nothing. i keep slapping at my body, digging my nails into my skin carelessly in rushed attempts to rid of the muttations. i yelp as one crawls into a loose flap on skin. that's when a pair of calloused hands slam over my mouth. hard.
âquiet,â snarls in my ear. haymitch. heâs there suddenlyâsolid, realâhauling me backward, crushing my face against his chest as he runs. i feel him swatting at the mutts with brutal efficiency, i feel his breath hot and fast against my hair. âdo you want them to hear you?â he hisses. âstay quiet.â
i canât fight him. i can barely stay conscious.
he doesnât stop running until the forest thickens again, until the air feels safer. he lowers me to the ground, immediately stealing my satchel and dumping the contents out, his hands moving fast, practiced.
âyouâre bleeding,â he mutters. i look up at him. there's three red marks scattered on the left side of his pale face. they're shiny, blistering. i try to raise a finger up, to warn him of his small ladybug-berry injuries but my arm is limp.
i feel completely and utterly useless as he pours my water over my skin, scrubbing the bugs away, pressing antiseptic into the bites while i gasp and shake, pain and relief tangling together.
i look up at him through hot tears. this is the first time iâve seen him since the horn. he's alive. his hands donât stop shaking even after the last of the insects are gone.
the antiseptic stings like fire, but the pain is sharp and clean now, not the hollow draining ache from before. my skin burns, throbbing in angry patches, but i can feel my fingers again. my legs respond when i flex them, weak but obedient. it's just temporary. i cling to that fact like a lifeline.
haymitch presses a wad of cloth against the worst of it, jaw clenched so tight i can see the muscle jump. he doesnât look at my face. he doesnât say anything comforting. he just worksâefficient, focusedâlike if he stops moving, something inside him will crack open.
then there's voices. close. too close. haymitch freezes beside me. his hand comes up instantly, firm against my shoulder, guiding me backward into the shadow of a fallen tree. he pulls me in tight, positioning my body flush against his chest, one arm wrapped across my shoulders, the other braced against the ground like a barrier. i donât resist. i donât even breathe.
boots crunch through leaves not even ten feet away. âthought i heard something,â a boy saysâlazy, amused. a career. district two, maybe.
âprobably mutts,â another replies. âthis place is crawling with them.â there's laughter. low. confident.
i feel haymitchâs breath warm against the crown of my head. i feel the slow, deliberate rise and fall of his chest as he forces himself calm. his chin dips, almost resting in my hair, like weâre just another tangle of roots and bark and shadow. his grip tightensânot painful, but grounding. stay still, his body tells me. my heart slams so hard iâm terrified theyâll hear it.
âweâll sweep the meadow later,â someone else adds. panache barkerâs voice. i recognize it from the bloodbathâtoo smooth, too pleased.
footsteps move on. branches snap farther away. only when the forest swallows their voices completely does haymitch loosen his holdânot all at once, but slowly. like heâs making sure theyâre really gone.
in one swift motion he completely pulls away. the space between us feels cold immediately. he doesnât meet my eyes, doesnât ask if iâm okay, just pushes the satchel back into my hands and nods toward it once.
âyouâll be sore,â he says quietly. âdrink, only water from your bottles. eat something. donât touch anything red again.â
i swallow. my throat burns. âthank you haymitch.â he stiffens before me. for a moment, i think he might say somethingâanythingâbut he just shakes his head once, sharp and final.
âstay hidden,â he adds. âtheyâll come back.â and then heâs gone. no goodbye. no explanation. just the sound of him melting back into the trees like he was never here at all.
i sit there long after, fingers curled tight around the satchel strap, skin aching, heart still racing. somewhere deep in this forest, a boy iâve spent years hating just saved my life and disappeared without claiming it.
that night, the anthem plays again. four more faces rise into the skyâampert latier was unfortunately one of themâleaving twenty-one of us.
i stare at nothing in front of me, letting the involuntary tears fall from my swelling eyes, saying a silent prayer that haymitch comes back to me.
day four
pale light bleeds through the trees, thin and cautious the next morning, like the arena itself is holding its breath. i wake slowly, every muscle stiff, every bite from yesterday still tender but dulled. the antiseptic did its job. haymitch did his job.
i drink someâonly from what's left of my water bottle like haymitch instructed. i eat some. i move quick.
i donât know why i walk in the direction i do. instinct, maybe. or the fact that i havenât stopped thinking about the way haymitch vanished into the trees without a word. about how close the careers were. about how his hands shook while he saved me.
i keep to the forestâs edge, circling the meadow without stepping into it. the open space feels wrong nowâtoo watched. too exposed. i donât want to go to the cornucopia again. i donât want the ghosts still clinging to it.
the forest edge narrows where the trees press closer to the meadow, roots snarling beneath the soil like theyâre trying to trip me on purpose. i move slow, eyes up, knife already loose in my grip.
i hear her before i see her. a breath. sharp. panicked. close. i stop instantly, lowering my center of gravity, every sense tightening. the sound comes againâsomeone clearly trying not to cry.
âplease,â a voice whispers. female. young. âi donât want toââ she stumbles into view from behind a cluster of ferns, nearly colliding with me. district eight. i recognize the fabric scraps woven into her sleeve, the thinness of her frame, the way her eyes dart everywhere but my face. we both freeze. sheâs holding a short blade, but her grip is wrongâtoo tight, knuckles white, elbow locked. fear, not training. âdonât,â she says immediately, voice breaking. âdonât come closer.â
i donât move. my heart is pounding so loud it feels like a betrayal. âiâm not,â i say quietly. âi wonât.â
she swallows hard, tears tracking down her cheeks. âi canât do this,â she whispers. âi havenât eaten since the cornucopia. i thoughtâi thought if i followed the treesâŠâ her eyes flick to my satchel. then back to my face. shame floods her expression instantly. âi donât want your things,â she rushes. âi justâi just donât want to be alone when it happens.â
the words hit harder than any blade could. i take a careful step to the side, angling my body so iâm not blocking her path. âyou donât have to stay here,â i say. âyou can keep going.â
she shakes her head, frantic. âtheyâre everywhere. i hear them laughing at night.â careers. she takes a step toward me without realizing it. too close.
something in her eyes shifts thenânot aggression, not courageâjust desperation tipping into panic. her blade lifts and my heart sinks.
my body moves before my mind catches up. i step in. fast. close enough to smell her sweat, her fear. my knife finds her ribs because thereâs nowhere else to put it, because hesitation is how you die here.
the resistance is awful. she gasps, a sharp, startled sound, more surprise than pain. âiâm sorry,â i breathe, even as my hand keeps moving, even as i know apologizing doesnât undo anything.
her blade clatters to the grass. her knees buckle. i catch her instinctively, lowering her so she doesnât hit the earth too hard. her blood soaks into my sleeve, hot and slick.
her green eyes find mine. âthank you,â she whispers, so soft i almost miss it. then those eyes go empty.
i kneel there longer than i should, hands shaking, my knife still buried where i put it. the cannon sounds overheadâloud, finalâand i flinch like it hit me instead of the sky.
i pull the blade free and stumble back, bile burning my throat. i wipe my hands on the grass, on my pants, on anything that isnât her. this is real, i think numbly. this is what it costs.
i donât take anything from her. not her blade. not her pack. i turn away instead, moving fast, breath coming too shallow, my chest aching like something inside it cracked open. the forest doesnât care. it closes behind me like nothing happened.
my legs carry me forward on instinct alone. i walk a yard or two numb, not thinking, not strategizing, just moving my body one step at a time. i instinctively hike a leg over a fallen log, suppressing the pain that tugs at the still-blistering skin on my thighs.
that's when i see him. haymitch is crouched near a stand of trees i havenât explored yet, back half-turned to me, backpack resting against his knee while he studies the ground intently. he looks different out hereâleaner, sharper, carved down to survival and stubbornness. not bleeding, not frantic, just set. like someone whoâs already lost everything and refuses to lose anything else.
i freeze. for one horrible second, i consider turning around. disappearing again. pretending yesterday never happened. pretending he didnât save me, didnât hold me still while death passed us by, didnât walk away like it meant nothing.
then a branch snaps underneath my boot. his head comes up instantly. blue eyes lock on mine. no surprise, no relief. just recognition. âyouâre alive,â he says flatly. itâs not a question. itâs not even warm. itâs just fact.
âso are you,â i answer.
he nods once, like that settles something, then pushes himself to his feet. he doesnât tell me to leave. he doesnât invite me closer. he just turns and starts walking, deeper into the forest, like he expects me to follow. after a beat, i do.
we move side by side, not touching, not looking at each other. the silence between us is thick but not hostile anymore. itâs the kind of quiet that comes after screaming, when thereâs nothing left to say except the truth.
the walking almost distracts me from the girl from district eightâhow she was ready to die but also ready to kill, how blood spilled from her chest, how i vomitted all over her and her belongings.
after a while, i say it, what's been on my mind for two days: âlou lou died.â
the words fall flat between us, a statement shaped like a wound. haymitch doesnât stop walking when he opens his mouth. âi know.â
i swallow. my throat burns. âthey showed her face.â
"yeah," he exhales slowly through his nose. âthey do that.â
my steps falter just a little. âyou were with her.â itâs not a question. i know the answer from his uncharacteristically witty comment. i just need him to say it.
âsince the bloodbath,â he starts, âshe found me after. wouldnât stop following me. wouldnât stop apologizing for breathing too loud.â my chest tightens. "she kept asking if she was doing it wrong,â he continues, voice rough but steady. âsleeping. walking. surviving. like there was a rulebook she missed.â
i look at the ground so i donât have to look at his face and those red blisters on his face, his consequence for saving my life.
âshe was tired,â he says. âthey kept steering her. drugging her. every time she tried to sit down, sheâd get confused. scared. said the flowers were singing.â my fingers curl into fists. âby the second night,â he adds, quieter now, âshe couldnât walk anymore.â
we stop near the stump of a tree. he sets his axe down on top of it, staring at it like it might answer for him.
âi stayed,â he says. âi didnât let them take her right away.â my heart sinks for him. for lou lou. for louella. âi held her hand until she stopped shaking,â he finishes. âthen i made it stop.â
the arena feels too big around us suddenly. too open. too cruel. âiâm so sorry,â i whisper.
he snorts, sharp and bitter. âdonât.â
âi mean it.â
âi know you do,â he says. âthatâs the problem.â
we walk again. i almost tell him about the life i took but decide not to. i'm not sure i trust him not to do the same to me. that thought makes me want to vomit again.
after a while, the anger creeps in, quieter than before but heavier. âyou hated me,â i say suddenly. âbefore all this.â
he lets out a short laugh. humorless. âyeah.â
âwhy?"
he doesnât answer right away. when he does, itâs like pulling splinters from bone. âyou had a roof that didnât leak,â he says. âfood that didnât disappear. sisters that didnât look at you like you were already dead.â
i flinch. âthatâs notââ
âi know,â he cuts in. then softer, âi know. but i didnât then.â
i swallow. âyou called me a spoiled princess.â
âyou called me a charity case,â he fires back.
the words hang between us, ugly and old.
âi didnât know about your dad yet,â i say.
âi know,â he replies. âdoesnât make it hurt less.â
we stop again. this time, we face each other.
âi hated that you saw through me,â he admits. âthat you werenât afraid of me. that you looked at me like i was something.â
my heart stutters. âand i hated that you thought i was pretending,â i say. âthat everything i had meant i hadnât earned anything.â
he looks at me then. âstupid,â he mutters.
âyeah,â i agree. âreally stupid.â
something settles after that, an understanding pressing its weight down on both of us.
âyouâre not doing this alone anymore,â he says eventually.
"neither are you.â
he nods once. we turn and walk together, side by side, into an unfortunately beautiful part of the arena neither of us has seen yet.
he tells me about how he almost died of poisoned water thirty minutes into the games; about lou lou's flower bed; about his mutt portal mission with ampert, following my ladybug injuries; about ampert's death; about the three lives he's taken already.
i tell him i'm sorry again, despite how much he hates it.
day five
the forest smells different when i wakeâsharp, metallic, like rain that hasnât fallen yet. or maybe it's just the arena shifting its weight, reminding us it isnât done.
haymitch is already awake. heâs crouched a few feet away, back to a tree, axe across his knees while he sharpens the blade with slow, methodical strokes. the sound is steady. controlled. too calm for how close danger feels now.
eight more tributes lost their lives last night. leaving haymitch and i versus thirteen others. thirteen fighters.
i sit up quietly, stretching stiff legs, rolling my shoulders to work out the soreness that never quite leaves. the bites from the mutts still ache if i move too fast, but theyâre fading. temporary. everything here is temporary one way or another.
âyou hear that?â he asks without looking up. i pause, listening harder. at first thereâs nothingâjust birdsong and the soft breath of the treesâbut beneath it, something else. a distant rumble. low. constant.
âno,â i say. then, after a beat, âwait. yeah.â
he nods once. âmountain.â
my stomach tightens. we havenât gone near it yetânot really. itâs been looming in the distance since the games began, white-capped and harmless-looking, like it belongs on a postcard instead of in an arena built to kill us.
âit wasnât making noise yesterday,â i say.
ânope.â he finishes sharpening the axe and stands, testing the weight in his hand. his movements are efficient, practiced. like heâs already adjusted his expectations.
i sling my satchel over my shoulder, checking the strap automatically. âare we moving?â
âyeah,â he says. âbut not toward that.â he jerks his chin away from the mountain, deeper into the forest, angling north. toward terrain we havenât touched yet. something about the way he says it, decisive and final, sets my teeth on edge.
âwhy?â i ask.
âbecause whateverâs waking up over there,â he replies, âisnât something i want at our backs.â
our. the word lands heavier than it should. we start walking, side by side again, boots crunching softly over leaves and brittle twigs. the forest feels tighter today. less forgiving. branches snag at my clothes like hands that donât want to let go.
after a while, i notice the pattern. haymitch keeps drifting a half-step ahead of me. keeps taking the outside edge when the ground narrows. keeps positioning himself between me and every open sightline.
i let it go once. then twice. the third time, i stop. "hey.â
he takes another step before realizing iâm not with him. he quickly turns back, irritation already flashing across his face. âwhat?â
âstop doing that.â
âdoing what?â
âthat.â i gesture between us. âyouâre not a shield.â
his jaw tightens. âi didnât say i was.â
âyou donât have to.â
he scoffs quietly and turns away again. âwe donât have time for this.â
i follow, but my voice sharpens. âyou keep moving us away from food. from water. from visibility. you volunteered to scout last night. you took point again this morning.â
âsomeone has to.â
ânot like this.â
he stops abruptly, spinning on me. âlike what?â
âlike youâve already decided how this ends,â i snap. my words hang there, raw and dangerous. for a moment, i think heâs going to explode. instead, something in him goes still.
âwatch your step,â he says coldly.
âno,â i fire back. âyou donât get to shut me out now. not afterââ
âafter i saved your life?â he cuts in.
that hits. hard. i swallow, anger flaring bright enough to hurt. âafter you chose to stay.â
silence stretches between us, thick and brittle. the forest seems to lean in, listening. haymitch drags a hand through his hair, pacing once like a caged animal. âthis isnât about feelings,â he mutters. âthis is math.â
âdonât,â i warn. wyatt callow flashes in my brain at the word math.
âone of us makes it farther if the other draws attention,â he continues, voice roughening. âthatâs just how it works.â
my chest tightens painfully. âso youâre planning to be the distraction.â he doesnât answer and thatâs answer enough. i step closer, lowering my voice, each word precise. âdonât turn me into someone who survives by letting you die.â
he finally looks at me then. i see something crack through the angerâfear, sharp and unguarded. âyou think i donât know that?â he snaps. âyou think i donât wake up every morning counting how many ways this ends with your name in the sky?â my breath stutters. âyou still have a reason to live,â he adds. âdonât make me pretend i do.â
the words cut deep, because i know where they come from. âyouâre wrong,â i say quietly. âand you donât get to decide that for me. or for yourself.â
he shakes his head, bitter. âyou donât understand.â
âmaybe not,â i admit. âbut i understand this: if you disappear on me, i wonât forgive you. not in this arena. not ever.â
there's another long silence. the distant rumble rolls again, louder this time, vibrating faintly through the ground beneath our boots. ash drifts from somewhere unseen, dusting the leaves like gray snow.
haymitch exhales slowly, like heâs letting go of something heâs been gripping too tight. âwe move together,â he says at last. âno heroics.â
he turns and starts walking again, slower this time. matching my pace. the mountain growls loud behind us. its sound rolls through the arena like something ancient stretching its spine, deep and resonant and wrong. the ground beneath our boots shivers againânot enough to knock us off balance, just enough to make the hairs on my arms rise.
haymitch stops mid-step. his head tilts, listening. âthatâs not a warning,â he says quietly. ash drifts through the trees now, thin as dust at first, clinging to leaves and catching in my hair. it smells sharp and chemical, not like smoke from a fire, but something manufactured. something designed.
âthe forest,â i say.
âalready headed there,â he replies.
we donât run yet. running draws eyes. running makes noise. instead we move fast and deliberate, angling deeper into the woods as the light shifts from green-gold to sickly gray.
we're barely in the denser portions of the wood before the mountain cracks open. the sound is deafeningâa violent rupture that tears the sky in half. lava fountains upward in brilliant orange arcs, beautiful in a way that makes my stomach churn. heat washes over us even from this distance, the air growing heavy, oppressive.
âgo,â haymitch snaps. we break into a sprint. branches whip at my face, roots snag my boots. the ash thickens, clinging to my skin, coating my tongue with bitterness. i hear screamsâdistant, panicked, cut short far too quickly. cannons start firing in uneven succession, each one a punch to the chest. one. two. three. âdonât breathe it in,â haymitch shouts over his shoulder. âit burns.â
i pull my dirtied sleeve over my mouth just as the ash changes textureâno longer powdery, but slick, gel-like. it splatters against my arm and i hiss as my skin flares hot, chemical pain blooming instantly.
ârain,â haymitch says, almost to himself. âtheyâll send rain.â as if the arena heard him, the sky darkens. clouds roll in unnaturally fast, and then the downpour comes, heavy and sudden. the gel dissolves on contact, melting away like sugar, hissing softly as it breaks down.
we collapse beneath a dense stand of trees, gasping, soaked through. the rain cools my burns almost instantly, leaving behind angry red patches but nothing deeper. temporary. again. cannons echo onâseven by the time it slows. we donât speak while it happens. we just listen, each boom another life erased somewhere beyond these trees.
when the rain eases, the forest looks pristine again. leaves washed clean. air crisp. the mountain quiet once more, like it never tried to kill anyone at all.
âliars,â i mutter.
haymitch lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh scraped raw. âwelcome to panem.â
we move again once the ground steadies, circling wide around the mountainâs reach. itâs then we start noticing the patternâthe way the trees thin unnaturally near the northern edge. the way the ground slopes too cleanly, too evenly.
the hedge maze rises out of nowhere. dense, towering, clipped into sharp angles that donât belong in nature. it forms a wide v-shape, hedges so thick i canât see through them at all.
haymitch slows, eyes narrowing. âend of the world,â he mutters. i step closer, peering at the leaves. something glints faintlyâa small brass plaque nailed low into the hedge.
we follow the hedge line instead of trying to breach it, boots crunching over dry earth that feels wrong underfoot. we walk until the land just stops. a cliff yawns open ahead of us, sheer and brutal, jagged rocks far below. my stomach drops at the sight. âthatâs it,â i whisper. âthe edge.â
haymitch crouches, scooping up a stone. he tosses it forward. the rock flies maybe ten feet before it slams into nothingâricocheting violently back toward us. haymitch jerks me aside just in time as it whizzes past, skidding harmlessly into the dirt behind us. a force field.
we stare at each other. something dangerous lights in his eyes. âthey bounce,â he says slowly. âeverything bounces.â
i feel it thenâthe shift. the arena isnât just killing randomly anymore. itâs showing us its teeth. its rules. daring someone smart enough to use them.
the anthem sounds that night while weâre still tucked near the hedge, hidden in a pocket of shadow. faces bloom across the skyâmore than i want to count. none of them are us and that's all that matters.
we sit shoulder to shoulder, close enough that our arms brush. neither of us pulls away.
âwe're still here,â he mutters eventually.
day six
haymitch is on his feet early the next morning. heâs standing at the edge of our cover, staring toward the mountain with his head tilted, listening again. itâs quieter today. no groaning. no warning tremors. just silence stretched thin as wire.
my throat feels raw when i swallow. my skin is tight where the gel touched it, faintly tender but healed enough to move.
âitâs done for now,â he says.
weâre careful packing up. slower than before. there are fewer sounds in the arena nowâless movement, less panic. fewer people left to make noise. it makes everything feel closer. heavier.
six. that number sits between us like a third presence. âfour others,â i say quietly, like if i donât say it out loud it might ambush me later. âcareers.â
âyeah,â he replies. âand theyâre hunting.â
we move anyway. thereâs no choice but forward now. no more circling the edges. no more pretending we can wait this out. the arena has started tightening its grip, and we can feel the pull of it everywhereâin the way paths funnel, in the way the forest thins, in the way open space dares us to cross it.
we keep to the hedge line again, moving north, then west, then back south in a slow arc. haymitch keeps glancing at the cliff like itâs a thought he doesnât want to finish having.
eventually, i stop. âyouâre thinking about it.â
he doesnât ask what i mean. âyeah.â
âabout throwing something.â
âabout making them throw something,â he corrects.
my stomach flips. âthatâs dangerous.â
he finally looks at me. âeverything left is.â we walk in silence for a while after that, the kind that hums instead of rests. i keep replaying the ricochet in my head. the way the stone snapped back like the arena itself had teeth. âif it comes to it,â he says eventually, voice low, âyou run.â
i stop short. âno.â my stomach sinks, it's like he either forgot our almost-argument yesterday or he simply does not care.
âiâm serious.â
âso am i.â i step into his space, close enough that i have to tilt my head up to look at him. âwe already did this yesterday.â
his jaw tightens. âthis is different.â
âitâs not,â i say. âitâs just closer.â the thought of haymitch dying protecting me is somehow worse than the thought of one of us having to kill the other if we are the final two.
for a second, i think heâs going to argue again. instead, he exhales hard, like the fight drains out of him all at once. âi hate that you make sense,â he mutters. i almost smile. almost.
the afternoon stretches long and tense. we hear the others before we see themâdistant voices, laughter sharp with nerves, boots snapping twigs without care. panache's voice carries easily. he sounds confident. like he thinks the arena already belongs to him.
we drop lower, moving through undergrowth, careful not to leave signs. once, we flatten ourselves into a shallow ditch as footsteps pass close enough that i can smell sweat and metal. haymitchâs hand brushes mine in the dirtâbrief, instinctive. when theyâre gone, we donât speak about it. we just breathe, heavy and needed. i lean back against the hedge, exhaustion finally sinking its claws into me. haymitch sits beside me, knees drawn up, axe resting across his thighs.
âif we make it to morning,â i start softly.
âwe will,â he replies, too quick.
i glance at him, forgetting the end of my thought. âdonât lie to me.â
heâs quiet for a long moment. then, honest in a way that hurts, âi donât know how this ends.â thatâs the closest thing to fear iâve heard from him.
âneither do i,â i say. âbut i know how i donât want it to.â he nods, once. agreement without words.
the fire did more damage than we realized at first. entire stretches of forest are goneâcharred trunks, brittle ash underfoot, the air still faintly acrid. the nearest waterfall is visible now through the dead trees, white and tempting and completely useless with its poisoned contents.
we donât go near the cornucopia. not with four others still breathing. not after the volcano stripped the forest raw and left the open meadow feeling like a stage with too many sightlines. the metal pile glints in the distance like itâs mocking us, daring us to be stupid. we arenât.
haymitch watches the waterfall for a long time. then he looks away. ânot worth it,â he says, clutching his stomach.
âno,â i agree. my voice comes out hoarse. âitâd kill us slower than the others would.â
we sit with the thirst instead. let it settle. let it gnaw. my burns itch under my sleevesâangry, healing, still tender. the ladybug bites have faded to bruised constellations along my skin, but they ache when the heat rises. haymitch hasnât complained once about the blisters on his hands from the axe, or the burns on his forearms. he just keeps flexing his fingers like heâs reminding them they still belong to him.
the arena is quiet in that dangerous wayâno screams, no cannons, no obvious threat. just the sense of being watched and weighed.
the sky hums. we both look up at the same time. two silver parachutes bloom overhead, drifting down slow and deliberate, like the capitol wants us to savor it. haymitch is already on his feet, scanning the perimeter, axe loose in his grip. i stay still, eyes tracking the descent.
the boxes land a few yards apart with soft thuds. we wait a full ten seconds. then another. finally, haymitch approaches the closer one, crouching, checking for wires, triggers, anything that might turn generosity into a joke. he flips the lid.
water. two full bottles. clear. real. for a moment, he just stares. thereâs a folded slip of paper tucked beside them. he picks it up, hesitates, then opens it. his mouth twitches.
âwhat?â i ask.
he hands it to me without comment.
drink. think. donât die doing something stupid âm & w
itâs barely a note. barely handwriting. but my chest tightens anyway. the other box is closer to me. i kneel and open it carefully. antibiotic cream. one thick tube. more than i would have expected. much more than i deserve. another folded note waits underneath.
you were right to survive âm & w
thatâs it. no flourish. no advice. i blink hard and close the box before my eyes can do anything embarrassing.
haymitch hands me one of the water bottles without ceremony. our fingers brush brieflyâcalloused, warm, real. âtake small sips,â he says.
the water tastes like nothing and everything. it burns going down. i want to cry with relief. i donât.
we ration. we put the cream on one another's burns. we wait silently. the sun inches lower. and for the first time since the volcano, my skin stops screaming; for the first time since the ladybugs, my muscles unclench just a little.
the arena settles around us, pretending to sleep. somewhere out there, four tributes sharpen their weapons, thinking theyâre the last fighters standingâtheyâre wrong. weâre still here.
haymitch doesnât sleep. neither do i. we take turns keeping watch, backs to the hedge, eyes on the shadows. every sound feels intentional now; every pause too long.
day seven
the first cannon sounds sometime after midnight i presume. it cracks through the air sharp, rattling my ribs. i flinch before i can stop myself, fingers digging into the dirt. haymitch exhales slowly. âone,â he murmurs.
the forest settles again, deceptive in its quiet. minutes drag. maybe an hour. iâm starting to wonder if that was itâif the arenaâs done thinning the herd for the nightâthen the second cannon fires.
my heart slams hard enough it hurts. i press my hand to my chest, breathing shallow, listening for movement that doesnât come.
haymitch closes his eyes briefly. not in relief. not in mourning. just acknowledgment. âthat leaves four,â he says. the number lands heavy. four of us are left. me, him, and two others.
i stare up through the branches at the empty sky, trying to picture faces that arenât there yet. trying not to imagine weapons, trying not to imagine blood.
âcareers,â i whisper.
âyeah,â he says. âhas to be.â
i swallow. my mouth tastes like ash and adrenaline. âtheyâll come at first light.â
âprobably,â he agrees.
we donât say anything else after that. thereâs nothing left to plan tonight. no moves to make in the dark without tipping the balance the wrong way.
eventually, exhaustion wins in fragments. i drift in and out of shallow sleep, the ground cold beneath me, the hedge solid at my back. every time i wake, haymitch is still thereâsilent, coiled, watching the arena breathe.
morning comes thin and gray. the forest looks almost innocent again, washed clean by night dew. birds stir cautiously. light creeps through leaves like itâs unsure itâs welcome.
three names are left to fill the sky. my body shivers at the thought. i sit up slowly, muscles stiff, heart already racing. âwe donât know who they are,â i say.
haymitch shakes his head. ânot until they show themselves.â somewhere out there, two tributes are waking up too, sharpening their blades, thinking theyâre the last obstacle standing between themselves and victory.
i look at the hedge, at the cliff beyond it, at the invisible wall that bounced a stone back like a warning shot from the arena itself. whatever happens next wonât be subtle.
âstay close,â haymitch says. i nod.
we head south first. the forest thins that way, slopes gentler, less theatrical. i keep my eyes on the ground, my ears open, every sense stretched tight.
there's a disturbance in the air. it starts with heat. not the honest kind, not sun-on-skin warmth, but a sudden pressure change that makes my lungs feel too full. the air thickens. candy pink birds scatter all at once, exploding from the canopy like something spooked them from below.
haymitch stops dead in his tracks. âdonât,â he says, already turning. âdonât look back.â i donât need to. the smell hits nextâburning sap, chemical sharpness, smoke that doesnât belong to any natural fire. thereâs a roar behind us, fast and hungry, and when i risk a glance despite his warning, my stomach drops.
flames. not creeping, not cautious, but a wall of fire tearing through the forest like itâs being pulled by wires. trees ignite too cleanly, their leaves flashing bright before blackening, collapsing inward with sharp cracks.
âthey want us north,â i gasp.
haymitch grabs my wrist, hard. ârun.â
wind bites at my face, smoke burns my throat, heat licking at my back like teeth. the fire moves wrongâtoo fast, too purposeful, changing direction when we do. my lungs scream. my legs feel like lead.
donât become someone you hate, my brain whispers uselessly as panic claws up my spine.
the trees thin abruptly and light floods in: the meadow. we burst out of the forest together, stumbling into open space just as the fire roars to the edge of the tree line and unnaturally stops. flames rear and curl, frustrated, before dying back fast, leaving only scorched trunks and smoking earth.
i drop to my knees, coughing, my chest on fire. haymitch stays standing, axe raised, eyes sweeping the open field. the cornucopia gleams ahead of us, obscene and familiar, metal catching the sun like itâs proud of itself. the grass is trampled now, stained darker in places i donât let myself look at too closely.
voices carry across the meadow; laughter; slow clapping. âcome on, abernathy,â a boy calls, voice smooth and sharp-edged. âdonât tell me you ran all this way just to hide again.â
another voice joins in. âweâre bored.â
haymitchâs jaw tightens. i feel it even without touching him, like tension radiating off his body.
âtheyâre close,â i murmur.
âyeah,â he says. âthey want a show.â
a loud speaker crackles to life overhead, sound reverberating through the open space until it feels like itâs inside my skull.
âattention, tributes.â the voice is calm and practiced. my heart starts pounding hard and sputtered. âdue to the exceptional circumstances of this yearâs quarter quell, the capitol has authorized a final amendment.â i watch glossy-eyed as haymitchâs grip tightens around his axe, his knuckles turning white. âthere may be two victors, provided they are from the same district.â
the words hit like a physical force. for a heartbeat, the arena tilts. i stare straight ahead, pulse roaring in my ears. i donât look at haymitch. i canât. the thought is too fragile, too dangerous to touch directly. hope is a blade hereâsharp, tempting, ready to cut you open if you hold it wrong.
across the meadow, the laughter stops. âwell, iâll be damned,â the boy calls, delighted now. âhear that? looks like itâs personal, abernathy.â
the other voiceâfemale, low and taunting. âguess weâll have to break you and your little lover up.â
haymitch exhales slowly through his nose. when he finally looks at me, thereâs something different in his eyes now. not anger, not fear, but calculation. âthey want us desperate,â he says quietly. âthey want us to turn on each other.â
i nod once. âwe wonât.â
his mouth twitchesânot a smile, not quiteâbut something steadier. âgood.â
the grass ripples as a breeze cuts through the meadow, carrying the faint scent of smoke behind us and blood ahead of us. the arena feels smaller now. like itâs closing its fist.
we donât get time to plan. they move first.
silka sharp comes out of the tall grass like a nightmare pulled uprightâtoo tall, too solid, axe already swinging in a lazy, confident arc that whistles as it cuts the air in front of me. six feet of muscle and intent. she grins when she sees me, eyes flicking over my knives like sheâs already decided iâm manageable.
i dart forward instead of back. the first knife leaves my hand before my brain finishes the thought, spinning low and fast. silka jerks aside just in time; the blade slices fabric and skin along her ribs. she snarls, surprise flashing hot across her face.
âfeisty,â she laughs, adjusting her grip. âi like that.â i donât answer. i donât waste my breath. i circle, knees bent, weight light on my feet, knives flashing between my fingers like extensions of thought. the world narrows to distance and timing and the way her shoulders tense before she swings. sheâs strong, but sheâs slow.
i throw again. then again. one knife embeds in her thigh. another skims her forearm. blood beads bright against her skin, stark and shocking against all that confidence. she stumbles half a step, growl turning sharp and furious.
thatâs when silka gets visibly angry. she roars and charges, axe coming down hard enough to split bone. i roll, barely clearing it, dirt exploding where iâd been a second before. the shock rattles my teeth. i come up low, slicing, driving another knife into her calf. she howls this timeâreal pain, real shock.
i feel something fierce bloom in my chest. i can do this. i canâthere's pain. white-hot, blinding, catastrophic pain.
panache moves faster than i thought. his sword hacks backward in a brutal, careless motion, steel biting deep into my hip. the impact is like being struck by lightning and crushed at the same time. i screamâi canât stop itâas my body folds, legs giving out beneath me.
the pain isnât sharp anymore. itâs everything. it floods me, swallows me whole, radiating outward in sickening waves. my spine lights up, nerves screaming like theyâve been ripped open and set on fire. my spine goes numb instantly, dead weight dragging uselessly behind me. i taste blood. i canât tell if iâm biting my tongue or just breaking apart.
i hit the ground hard, breath tearing out of me in a sound that doesnât even feel human. i canât move. i canât feel half of myself. panic claws in next, cold and suffocating. i try to push upânothing. my hands slip in the grass. my vision blurs, tears spilling hot and helpless.
haymitch roars my name. the sound cuts through the pain like a hook. i see him only in flashesâhim slamming into panache, axe coming up hard, the flat of the blade cracking into panacheâs waist with a sickening thud. panache goes down, sword slipping from his hand, breath knocked clean out of him.
i wait for the sound of the cannon but it never comes. he's not dead, just knocked unconscious.
i want to scream at haymitch to finish it. to run. to win. to leave me. instead all that comes out is a broken sound, wet and shaking. he turns back to me for half a secondâjust long enough for our eyes to meet. i see it there. terror. fury. devotion so sharp it hurts to look at.
then silka is on him. sheâs bleeding badly now, limping, axe heavy in her handsâbut sheâs still standing. still dangerous. she swings with everything she has left, driving haymitch back step by step.
he has no choice but to fight defensively now. his axe is buried in panacheâs lower torso and he doesnât dare turn his back to retrieve it. he grabs my satchel instead, yanking it toward him with one hand while blocking silkaâs strikes with the other, movements tight and desperate.
i watch through tears, chest heaving, pain pulsing in nauseating waves that make the world tilt. every heartbeat sends another bolt through my spine. i feel like iâm coming undone at the seams.
i donât want to live like this. i donât want him to die because of me. please, i think wildly, stupidly. please let it be him.
a cannon boomsâpanacheâthe sound punches through the air, final and merciless. silka screams, raw and feral, grief and rage tangled together as she rips her axe free and hurls it with everything she has left. i see it spin end over end, gleaming, beautiful and terrible.
haymitch dodges it swiftly. clean, instinctiveâperfect. the axe sails past him and slams into the invisible wall behind. the force field, our discovery, hums as the weapon ricochets.
i see silkaâs eyes widen just before the axe buries itself in her chest, right where her heart should be. the impact lifts her off her feet. she collapses without another sound. the cannon fires again. silence crashes down, heavy and unreal.
my vision tunnels. the edges go dark. the pain is unbearable now, overwhelming, like my body is trying to eject me from itself. i sob openly, broken, gasping, half-aware of the anthem swelling overhead, triumphant and cruel.
i donât want to see my face in the sky. i want him to win.
haymitch is suddenly hereâknees in the grass, hands on my face, on my shoulders, everywhere at once. heâs shaking harder than i am, breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. âheyâheyâstay with me,â he begs, voice breaking. âdonât you dareâdonât you dareââ
i cling to him weakly, fingers fisting in his ruined shirt, pain and relief and terror blurring together until i canât tell where one ends and the other begins.
above us, the voice returns, colder now. edged with something like resentment. "the capitol hereby announces the victors of the fiftieth hunger games, the second quarter quell.â my hearing fades in and out. âfrom district twelveââ
haymitchâs forehead presses to mine. his breath is warm. he's real. he's alive.
ââhaymitch abernathy and y/n donner.â the anthem crescendos and the sky burns bright.
the last thing i feel is haymitch holding me like heâs afraid the world will take me if he lets go.
the victors
i wake up breathing. thatâs the first thing i notice. not pain, not panic, but the steady rise and fall of my chest, smooth and uninterrupted, like nothing ever went wrong.
the ceiling above me is white. not the harsh arena-white. not the fluorescent glare of the capitol hospital. this is softer, warmer. familiar in a way that makes my stomach twist; the training center.
my fingers twitch. they respond immediately. there's no delay, no tremor. i sit up too fast, heart slamming, waiting for the agony to hitâfor my hip to scream, for my body to remind me what it went through. nothing happens.
i look down at myself. iâm clean. spotless, really. my hands are manicured, nails painted a pale, shimmering color iâve never chosen for myself. my skin is smooth, unmarked. no burns, no bites, no blood or dirt beneath my nails.
i slide off the bed and nearly trip on fabric pooling at my feet. a dress. long, blue, elegant, capitol-perfect. the kind of thing designed to distract the eye, to erase history with silk and sparkle.
i stagger toward the mirror. the girl staring back at me looks nothing like me, she looks like a victor. my hair falls over my shoulders in soft curls, styled within an inch of its life. my makeup is already doneâdark lashes, shimmering lids, lips painted a deep rose.
i lift the hem of the dress with shaking fingers, breath caught painfully in my throat. my hip is flawless with no stitches, no bruising, no scar. there's not even a hint of discoloration where a sword should have ended me.
they cut me open while i slept; fixed me, perfected me, erased the proof that i bled for their entertainment.
the door opens quietly behind me. i spin, heart lurching. an avox dressed in crimson stands there, head bowed. it's a woman, much older than me. her eyes flick up brieflyâgentle, sadâbefore she gestures for me to follow. she doesnât speak. she canât. i donât either.
the hallway feels wrong under my feet. too quiet. too clean. like the building is holding its breath. every step echoes with memoryâtraining, laughter, shouting, fear. a week ago, i was here pretending i wasnât already dead.
the avox stops at the twelfth floor. the elevator door opens and she quickly steps aside.
haymitch is there.
for half a second, my brain refuses to process it. heâs clean. dressed in a tailored suit the same deep navy as my dress. his curls are clean and coiled. his face is unmarked, healed, whole. alive.
he crosses the room in three long strides and crashes into me, arms wrapping tight around my shoulders, my back, my waistâeverywhere at once. i slam into his chest, fingers fisting in the fabric of his suit like iâm afraid heâll disappear if i let go.
heâs shaking. so am i. we donât cry, not really. we press our faces into each otherâs shoulders and breathe, chests hitching, holding on like the world might tear us apart again if we loosen our grip even an inch. he smells like soap and something expensive and wrong, but underneath it all, itâs still him.
âyouâre here,â he murmurs, voice rough. âyouâreââ
âi know,â i whisper. âi know.â
the door opens again. drusilla sweeps in first, already dabbing at her eyes dramatically. mags follows, slower, steadier, her smile soft. wiress lingers near the door, watching us like sheâs memorizing the moment.
haymitch loosens his hold, just slightly, swallowed by the cluster of women suddenly surrounding us. hands on shoulders. murmured reassurances. relief layered over grief.
i hug mags. then wiress. drusilla presses a kiss to my cheek that smells like powder and perfume.
âmy darlings,â she says brightly, voice trembling despite herself. âyou did it. you did it.â i open my mouth to askâabout the arena, about my family, about what happens nowâbut drusilla cuts me off with a gentle clap. âno time, love. we mustnât be late. caesar is waiting.â
waiting. the word makes my stomach twist.
the stage is blinding. brighter than before. louder. everything amplified now that weâve survived. caesar flickerman beams at us like weâre his favorite miracle. everything around me is a blur of lights and applause and voices that feel too loud in my skull.
âpanem,â he announces, voice ringing, âplease welcome your victors of the fiftieth hunger games!â the following applause is deafening. it rolls over us in waves. i sit beside haymitch, knees close enough that our legs brush.
ânow,â caesar says, leaning forward eagerly, âyou gave us something truly unprecedented. two victors.â he smiles wider. âtell meâdid you believe it was possible?â
haymitch answers first. âno,â he says plainly. the crowd laughs, startled. âbut i believed we werenât done yet.â
caesar turns to me. âand you, y/n? when did you realize you might both make it out?â
i swallow. my voice comes steady anyway. âwhen i realized i trusted him more than the arena.â the applause swells again.
âbrave,â caesar sighs. âromantic, even.â i donât correct him.
i keep my eyes forward, focusing on a random woman in the large sea of people. she has neon pink skin. i stare at her so hard i worry holes might burn into her figure. i refuse to look at the screen behind us showing highlights of the games. i donât need to.
cesar asks about the final fight; about silka and panache; about the force field; about loyalty. "how did it feel,â he asks lightly, âto watch your final opponent fall?â
my chest tightens. âit didnât feel like winning,â i say. âit felt like surviving.â the room quiets.
next come the crowns. gold circlets, heavy and cold as theyâre placed on our heads. haymitch stiffens at the contact. i barely feel it at all.
my mind keeps slipping sidewaysâback to the girl from eight, to louellaâs face in the sky, to wyattâs body on the grass. to haymitchâs hands shaking as he held me together.
to the life i took. to the lives i couldnât save.
our hands are forced and raised together. cameras flash, lights explode. we smile because weâre told to, because everyone is watching.
we're pulled aside immediately after the crowningâhands adjusting our fancy clothes, angling our faces, directing us closer.
âcloser,â a voice insists. âarm around the waist. yes. smile.â haymitchâs hand settles at my lower back. his fingers flex once, like a warning, like reassurance.
there's a flash. it stings my eyes.
âlook at each other!â
i turn my head. our smiles donât reach our eyes. flash.
when itâs over, when the lights and cameras finally dim, i feel hollowed out. like something essential was taken and replaced with glitter.
the victory tour passes in fragments as well. districts blur togetherâfaces, names, speeches written for us and memorized like prayers. dinners where we sit at the head of tables we donât belong at, talking about courage and sacrifice while parents stare at us with hollow eyes. i say the names of the dead. i bow my head. i keep my voice steady.
haymitch stands beside me every time. solid. silent. a presence i anchor myself to. we save twelve for last; the capitol comes first.
snowâs mansion glows like something unrealâwhite and perfect and full of laughter that doesnât belong to us. the party is overwhelming. music, color, movement. hands grabbing, voices congratulating.
wine is pressed into my hand. i donât drink it. haymitch, however, downs half of his immediately. people congratulate us left and right like we won a game, not a massacre.
then president snow appears at my side. his smile is thin and politeâdeadly. âmiss donner,â he says softly. âhow extraordinary.â
âthank you, sir,â i reply automatically.
his eyes flick to haymitch. then back to me. âyou and abernathy,â he continues, âwere not the intended outcome.â my heart stutters. âsilka sharp and panache barker. they were meant to be the story. but,â snow adds, leaning closer, âstories can change.â his smile sharpens. âjust remember who edits the ending.â
he steps away like heâs said nothing at all.
at some pointâi donât remember howâhaymitch and i slip away to a secluded bedroom. enormous and quiet. the door clicks shut behind us and the silence rushes in like water. we donât speak at first. haymitch leans against the wall. i sit on the edge of the bed. the space between us hums with everything we havenât said yet.
âi donât know how to go home,â he says finally.
the words land softly. honestly. âme neither,â i admit, thinking of our new home back in twelve: the victor's village; nothing like the merchants area, nothing like the same.
"i donât know how to be a victor.â
âyou donât have to be anything,â i reply. ânot with me.â
his breath catches. âi was ready to die out there,â he admits. âi wasnât ready to come back.â he looks at me then, his eyes darker than iâve ever seen them. âtheyâre going to expect things from us. smiles. gratitude. mentorship.â
âwe donât owe them that,â i say.
his mouth twitches. âno. but theyâll take it anyway.â
something shifts in me then. a quiet, terrifying clarity. i realize i donât just care if haymitch survivesâi care if heâs alone. i care if he breaks. i care in a way that has nothing to do with the arena or an alliance, but everything to do with who he is when no oneâs watching.
âhaymitchââ i start.
he crosses the room in two steps. both of his hands come up to my face, warm and sure, thumbs brushing my jaw like heâs grounding himself. like he needs to feel something real. "please tell me to stop, princess,â he murmurs.
i donât.
when he kisses me, itâs desperate. hungry. years of fear and anger and restraint collapsing into one moment. his mouth is firm against mine, breath uneven, hands cradling my face like i might shatter.
i kiss him back with the same urgency, fingers sliding into his curls, pulling him closer, closer, closer. the world narrows to heat and breath and the way he presses into me like heâs afraid iâll disappear.
his hands slide down my back, anchoring me. my lips part. he groans softly, like itâs been locked in his chest for weeks.
for a few more minutes, nothing else exists, but then thereâs a knock. we break apart, breathless.
âyouâll want to see this,â drusilla callsâsofter than i've ever heard herâfrom the other side of the door.
the door swings open after a beat and a yell of assurance from haymitch; maysilee is there. merilee. my parents. willamae and sid abernathy.
they rush forward all at once, arms wrapping around me, around haymitch, around each other. itâs messy and overwhelming and perfect. i bury my face in my sisterâs hair and breathe her in. i feel sidâs arms around haymitchâs waist. i feel my motherâs hands on my back, solid and warm.
haymitchâs hand finds mine in our crowd of loved ones. our fingers lace together without a twitch.
for the first time since the reaping, something like peace settles in my chest. not happiness but gratitude. and love. and the knowledge that even after everythingâafter fire and blood and lossâsome things survived. so did we.
btw it's so fucking stupid you can be anxious physically in your body even after you've decided mentally you don't care. I'm supposed to be in charge here
A short, silly, sappy comic - about how Ceridwen fell for Halsin's big ol' heart first, so of course she would give it a smooch and she's the perfect height to do it <3
Goddd the way you wrote the quiet tav x halsinâŠ.im utterly broken on the floor sobbing!!!!! You wrote and described him so well???? I canât deal đâ€ïž your writing is incredible.
Could you write more halsin x tav? Maybe a shy touch starved tav that wants to be held by him. Wants to kiss but is overwhelmed by the thought of it.
A/n: thank you!!! I had an absolute blast writing this one, so much so that I already have a part 2 in the works (may or may not finally be working on some smut đ). Hope you enjoy this tooth-achingly sweet yearning <3
Honeysuckle Breeze ~ Halsin x GN Shy Touch Starved Tav PT1/2
{~Masterlist~}
Word Count: 10.3k
Summary: Halsin has fallen hopelessly in love with you over his journey but has struggled to find the right way to tell you, too worried he might scare away your skittish heart. It's one sweet night on the road to Baldur's gate that finally allows him the perfect moment.
-
A boisterous laugh fills the air, a sound that cuts through camp with a levity that instantly brings a smile to your face. You notice how his eyes catch against the starlight and dance in ways beyond any beauty youâd known; loose hair dripping water onto an already damp shirt after his afternoon trip to the lake. His voice carried a melodic lilt youâd somehow always known, yet remained so distant. Hands so far from yours, far, too far-
âStaring is considered rude, you know,â a voice smooth as velvet snaps you quickly out of your distracted gaze, heat creeping through you at the realization of being caught. Your head whips in the direction of the well-known blood-sucker, a loathsome smirk on his face.
âOr at least thatâs what the others keep telling me,â he continues, embarrassment sinking its way to your core. You swiftly turn away from him too and bring your attention back to the stew you were tasked with watching while Gale went to grab whatever ingredient heâd missed. You stay silent, like you so routinely tend to. A safe place to return when you knew all that would come from your mouth was a bumbling string of mortifying excuses.
âI do have to point out that your taste in viewing material is certainlyâŠlacking,â he murmurs the last part, though itâs loud enough for you to hear â it always is. It pulls at frustration that had already been stretched thin.Â
âDo you need something?â You manage the words through gritted teeth, though they donât contain the harshness you so wished they did. Astarion tsks, hands coddling a cup of what you very well knew wasnât wine, a satisfied glint in his eyes.
âNo. I just figured you looked like the most fun at the moment,â he answers with the aloofness of someone with nothing to lose from his up-front nature. He had no problem making you squirm. In fact youâre pretty sure he enjoyed it. Your lip upturns at the thought, a wave of irritation spreading through you. But alas, you were never really good at navigating his strange way with words, nor how quickly they dug under your skin.
âNow, back to the subject at hand. The bear? Really?â He speaks in utter disbelief, though it is the dramatic kind two posh women would have gossiping over tea and dainty cups. All accusations that felt like they held the weight of the world, no matter how petty they truly were. All the same it makes you shift where you stand, mouth suddenly too dry to even attempt a response. Not that you planned to. His heavy sigh almost makes you, though.Â
âHe smells like dirt and creek water- He talks to trees for fun! What about that is so appealing to you?â He goads, prodding for more information, always prodding. At least he doesnât wake people up by biting them, you thought, almost smirking as the idea passed. But youâre quick to hide the expression, lest Astarion be tempted to try and find the meaning of it. You settle on something a little less pointed to say.
âI enjoy his quietâ you humor him, giving him an inch so heâd be less interested in trying to rip the mile out of you. Like feeding a mouse a piece of cheese so it wouldnât put its grubby hands on the wheel. He groans at your answer, eyes rolling so dramatically you hope he might actually get them stuck.
âGods you people are so boring,â he whines, finally returning to the drink in his hand and minding his damn business. When youâre sure that heâs found some other form of entertainment, you turn to look at the sky for some reprieve from the swirl of emotions that plague you. Dark clouds part over a star-filled night again and you contemplate their shapes, watching as they continue their slow crawl over the moon, though they never quite cover it entirely. A welcome sight after your time in the shadow lands where such light was a privilege. Itâs a sky that allows you to breathe again. A slow and peaceful night.Â
-
Halsin sat amongst a few of his newly made friends â Karlach and Wyll namely â as they spoke about their many misadventures before their journey here. It was certainly strange to hear that word echo in his mind again, friends. Decades had passed since the last time he genuinely meant it. A very welcome old feeling. But he must admit, even as fond as he was with their very entertaining speeches on the latest of the fiends theyâd slain, he wasn't quite paying attention.Â
His eyes tended to wander back to a familiar place, moving of their own accord until they found what they kept seeking. The sight they catch on is always one to behold, though he thinks the one he captured tonight might just be his favorite. Illuminated by flame, your features mix with warm colors and soft shadows, relaxing in the comfort of the moment. Your head tilted to the heavens, eyes gleaming with the night sky, expression holding an admiration he always enjoyed. He found that you quite enjoyed the stars, or at least you seemed to with how often heâd catch you looking up on nights like this.Â
That is when you werenât looking at him. A habit of yours that heâd made note of, though not one heâd pestered you about just yet. Your timid nature left him hesitant to be so brazen. He thought little of the staring at first â had even convinced himself for a while that you were just lost in thought; that it could have been anybody else your stare could have found and there wouldnât have been a difference. But then he had caught you one night staring at him like you did the stars, a memory he couldnât help but smile at. The slight panic that had reached your face then, how you had waved, laughed like you were trying to cover up a fumbled word, quickly distracting yourself with something else. Timid indeed.
âYou two should really just get it going already,â Karlach nudges him, her words only registering after he blinks back to reality, realizing then that he had been the one staring this time. He feels the warmth of his body burn him as it floods to his face but he laughs lightheartedly anyway, smiling all the while.
âI have no clue what you are talking about,â he answers her, though he knows heâs far from convincing. Even Wyll shoots him a knowing stare, surely having fun with the playful teasing.Â
âAh, câmon ya big softy! You know exactly what Iâm talking about! Why not just go for it? Never pinned you as a nervous type,â Karlach pushes a bit further. Right about now is when heâd wave away the gentle prodding with a dismissive hand, poorly explaining that there was nothing more to talk about or excusing himself to finish a task he had already completed hours ago. But tonight felt a little different. His mind wasnât so fogged; in fact it was the clearest it had ever been and so the idea of entertaining their questions didnât leave such a pit of guilt in his chest. The shadows had been freed and he traveled amongst nature with great company. He feltâŠweirdly free. And so he allows himself to at the very least think over her words.
She was right. He wasnât normally a nervous type. Excitable, sure, perhaps even cautious at times, rarely nervous. But this was somewhat different. It had been a very long time since heâd held any kind of romantic affections, but even longer still since they weighed so heavily on him. There was nothing casual or easy about the feelings you bloomed within him and while he was sure he could handle them just fine it did nothing to wash away the worry that he might have misjudged your stares, or worse that you didnât hold the same care for him that he had grown for you. A worry not made any easier by how quickly you often scurried away from him. He swears sometimes the rabbits are less jumpy than you.Â
Soon enough he clears his throat, shifting in his seat as he tosses the question in his mind. Then finally he decided he might as well give the two their long awaited answer.
âI am not nervous, onlyâŠtaking my time,â he allows the words to leave, deeply amused by how their faces light up. It was the first time heâd ever allowed them to talk this far about it and they were even more elated than heâd thought theyâd be. Quite a nosey bunch of companions you surrounded yourself with, it seems.
âSo he finally admits it!â Karlachâs words come quickly, her grin plastered widely across her face. Wyll laughs, just as delighted.
âTime is a valuable thing, my friend! You would do well to use more of it,â Wyll encourages, a sweetness there that Halsin appreciates. He takes the words to heart, despite them having little effect on his approach. Instead, it only serves as a reminder of the precious little time left before you all would reach the city, once more thrown to the chaos of duty. These few days on the road had been a welcome reprieve before the storm and you all only had a few days more.Â
Before anything else can be said Gales yell sounds the dinner bell, the day coming to its inevitable close. The two across from him pass knowing looks, but he decides it best to end the talk for now. There would still be plenty more time to talk.
At least he hoped so.
-
The murmur of conversation flowed just as bountifully as the wine, most of them electing to eat by the fire tonight. They split off into their little groups, trading members every now and again, one conversation dying to help bloom another. It was a rare night indeed when they were all able to remain civil enough to eat in peace. Itâs nice to see, though you donât participate in their conversations. You elect instead to eat silently with them, listening to bits and pieces of their random babblings. For the most part itâs entirely uninteresting. Gale explains some niche magic theory mostly to himself, Shadowheart and Astarion argue over who they believe has the best fashion taste, Wyll and Karlach are unusually quiet, murmuring to each other about bets for something you canât quite make out, Jaheria and Laeâzel discuss the advantages of different blades and their uses, and HalsinâŠ
Well he sits just across from you, engaging in the same observation. You try your best not to glance too often at him, instead distracting yourself with the banter the others offer. But you almost canât help yourself. Itâs the first time youâd ever seen him with his hair fully down and it seemed like something even he wasnât quite used to, the stray pieces falling in his face every now and again, a slight frustration building in the furrow of his brow. Your fingertips trace the edges of your bowl, imagining the slightly damp strands between them, of easing them behind his ear. But you blink and the moment passes, your eyes quickly turning to look at anything else as heat floods your face, burning you from the inside with the sheer embarrassment of letting those thoughts roam to you.Â
The group was growing rowdier, though that was to be expected. You would have to find your own peace before it got out of hand as you were never really one to stick around when they began their bickering. Though the sound of heading to bed while the others created such a racket wasnât really all that appealing either. It's then you remember a clearing just up the way by the river; a place you imagined was beautiful this time of night. And whatâs more, it was far enough away that you wouldnât have to worry about the noise. Yes, that sounded perfect.
You had hoped to sneak just under their noses. Theyâd ask where youâd gone, surely, but they knew by now that you were keen on making silent exits and enjoying your own company, so you can be sure that they wouldnât come looking. However, as quiet as you were you never did seem to make it past Halsinâs eyes as of late. You had even tried to slip away right behind him, yet still he somehow knew. Like he could sense you. Or more likely because he hadnât taken his attention off of you. A strange thought.
âA little late to be sneaking off,â he spoke to you, though was sure to be as inconspicuous about it as possible, the others too distracted by their own conversations to care. You freeze like you always do; a deer caught in lamplight. But you calmed soon enough knowing he wouldnât keep you.
âJust want to do some reading. There's a spot up the river I wanted to see,â you answer his unspoken question and he hums in acknowledgement. There is a noticeable pause before he speaks again.
âWould you mind if I joined you? I have been meaning to grab a few herbs I saw along the water earlier,â His offer should have been expected, he was never a man to let anyone stray too far from the pack alone. Though it still somehow surprises you each time he wishes to be in your presence. Ever since leaving the shadow-cursed lands he hadnât ever left you on your own. Itâs nice to enjoy good company among the wilderness, he had told you when you had gained enough courage to ask. After that you didnât much question it, less so out of nervousness this time and more so because you liked his company enough to not need more explanation than that. Most nights he would help collect wood for the fire long after the others went to bed while you poked and prodded to keep the dying flames from smothering. A fine balance, one you adored the unspoken simplicity of.
But tonightâŠwhy did it feel so different? Was it the aroma of honeysuckle that gave it a soothing effect? Or maybe the stars aligned to make the gentle night all the more beautiful. Whatever it was it carried calm with it, relief found in the slight breeze that kisses your skin. Though his presence caused your every nerve to thrum and your throat to tighten with a delicious ache, you somehow found yourself finally relaxing.Â
âIf you wish,â you allow, and he wastes no time in joining. He grabs a bag of his own and a nearby lantern, following you into the dark. You feel the stares of a few of the others, Halsinâs colossal figure having fully blown your cover. But they remain strangely to themselves as the two of you walk off, not a stray comment made. You would have questioned such an uncharacteristic silence if you had the will left to care. Whatever it was wasnât for you to question, only for you to be thankful for.Â
Along the way he does what he said he came to do, collecting plants of all kinds along the path like heâd memorized each of them. Words never pass between either of you, only the familiar sounds of night taking its claim of the land with every cricketâs chirp and resting animal. It doesnât take too long before the two of you arrive at the alcove you had been looking for and you are quick to make your spot on a tree stump, setting your bag at your side to search through it. He sets down his lantern nearby before sitting amongst the grass and rummaging through his own bag. It's clear then that he intends to stay in your company.Â
You try to focus on things other than him as you get comfortable, hoping to distract yourself. You busy your hands with the old book Gale had lent you, your lantern set close by to light up the pages. It was a rare day indeed you allowed yourself the luxury of a good book in the presence of another, too afraid prying eyes would ruin what precious little comforts you had, but you donât think youâd mind too much if he bothered you.
He stayed a safe distance away for a while, busy with mixing herbs and keeping his lantern. His blending had become as routine as your late nights; the smell of fragrant crushed plants bringing a peace even complete isolation couldnât beat, each smell invoking memories new and old; like the breeze of spring does after a long winter.Â
Once more your mind betrays this tentative peace, eyes flicking up to him between pages. You almost couldnât resist, drawn in like moth to flame. A tired analogy, but true nonetheless. Still you sought him, still you longed for him. Pained to be in his presence yet somehow suffering without. There was no winning for you, only yearning for something you would likely never have.Â
That thought was the one that stung the most. You could imagine a dozen different futures with him in it, but you had trouble imagining that he felt the same. His kindness spread to everyone, his smiles generously given â you were hardly special. He cared for you just as much as he cared for the rest of the world.Â
Yet sometimes, on these quiet nights shared between the two of you, something in you believed otherwise. You could convince yourself for the briefest moments that the way he looked at you was different. That the sudden gleam in his eye was anything other than a trick of the light. For just a moment he held your heart in his hands, knowing or not. And never did he have so much grace as when he did, voice always a quiet mumble, careful with the gentle treasure.Â
But only for a moment. Just before you would realize that your eyes had wandered and your smile laid too sweet on your lips. You would dart away, coil back in on yourself and curse how youâd let someone hold such sway over you. How youâd let someone back into your reclusive heart, how you allowed yourself to want for what could never truly be. And like a dreadful dance it would continue on, his mere presence a sweet melody, a siren song to your wandering soul. Calling you deeper to the ocean only to drown in the empty feeling the air between you brought. Always too far, never enough.
A silent waltz must be in the air tonight with how the dance didnât seem to end. Usually you would have control over yourself by now, or at least have found a task engrossing enough to ignore the call of him. But his pull seems stronger than ever before among the nature he so loved, your mind incapable of thinking of much else. Your eyes fall on the same lines over and over again, but the words never reach you before you glance away. Itâs frustrating, a cruel trick of the mind.Â
His hands work dutifully, his eyes holding the quiet focus of a job needing done. He chooses from the many laid out, crushing and pulling with a harsh gentleness that has always captivated you. There is a slight irritation that underlies his movements tonight and again you see him struggle with his hair. Though now instead of sticking wetly to his skin the dry strands whisp out, tickling his nose and blocking his view. The sight is amusing, if you were being honest. Seeing the big man struggle against something so small and losing was enough to earn a small laugh from you.
You regret it immediately when his eyes snap upwards, locking onto you with a quickness that threatens your very existence. There is confusion on his features that mixes quickly with a curious smile. Almost instantly he is pulled from his work, the full weight of his attention placed squarely on you. And whatâs worse is you hadnât even thought about turning back to your book to cover your tracks, instead foolishly staring back, assuring him that it was him you were so entertained by and not the words youâd hardly begun to read.
âSomething amusing?â His voice cuts through the quiet like thunder even despite him lowering it to just above a whisper. Your body tenses, panic shocking through you as if it had been the lighting strike just before he spoke. You bite your tongue in guilty dread, almost sure your response would be even more embarrassing.
âYour hair,â you blurt out with an unstoppable grin when yet another piece falls and his hand goes to push it back with very apparent frustration. Your words seem to hit him a moment after he does, the curiosity of his lips melting into something fond, a short laugh passing to match your own.
âI havenât worn it freely in quite some time,â he answers flippantly at first, but you catch the way he shifts just before his next words, how his eyes train just a bit sharper onto you.
âDo you like it?â He questions with a tone somehow softer than heâd ever spoken before. You feel yourself warm further at the question, the answer so immediate in your mind that it almost frightens you. Of course, you thought, you look like the gods sculpted you themselves just to torture me.
âI do,â you admit with a confidence you arenât sure the origin of, somehow pulling yourself together for the split second that the words slip your tongue. It takes your backbone with it, eyes finally pulling away from his, fingertips fiddling with the edge of a page. You donât catch the way he looks at you then, smile widening in a grin and his straightened posture relaxing into something much calmer. A truly agonizing second of silence passes, tension pulling at a taut string inside you, beckoning sound forth, begging to be rid of this horrid heavy want that laid stagnant in your chest. A rare feeling for you. After all you were used to erasing yourself from the gaze of others and you happily dwelled in the long quiet. But gods, he just never let you disappear, did he? Even in the silence you still heard his breath, still felt the sting of his gaze. You never felt so seen by someone before. Your heart thumped with just as much elation as it did fear at being so exposed.
âBut it seems itâs causing you a great deal of trouble,â you manage the words with a babbling messiness, murmured in some places as you halfheartedly move your gaze back to your book, hoping that somehow the written words would shrink you into nothing.
If you had been looking at Halsin you might have seen the shattered look on his face as you do, a man so desperate to feel your stare that he found himself jealous of the pages. A foolish feeling, an old feeling, but there all the same. He canât help it, canât hope to stop it. Not when he replays how only moments ago you held such fondness for him; your smile curled into the corners and enjoying him even in his frustration. But now they harden into something distant, somehow falling further than the already impossible distance the air kept between the both of you.
Yet still he catches a tone under your words, some meaning held between the breaths it takes for you to speak them. Slow, almost worried, inviting further comment. Not all is lost, it seems. Perhaps he still might yet earn your attention again. He imagined many a man had failed in such an endeavor before, their brazen attempts like howling wolves to a flighty bird. Chasing, jaws clamping only on the loose feathers left behind after flight. But he had often met with the part of nature that had molded you. A lone doe in a field, a flower waiting for only the sweetest air to bloom. Careful creatures instilled with the understandable fear of opening themselves to a harsh world. And now, sitting across from you, he sees them. And he wonders for a time if it had been you all along, pieces of your being left to guide him here. He just needed to be gentle, careful, patient. Luckily for him he held such things in spades. The only obstacle now is himself, selfish thoughts urging him to finally know your hand in his, your eyes on him, your lips-
He shakes the thought away, knowing better than to indulge. Perhaps when he was alone, but certainly not when temptation sat just across from him.
âI will admit, it does tug at my patience. I was planning to fix it in the morning, though I scarcely believe I will be free of slumber early enough at this rate,â he speaks aimlessly, not seeking purpose or meaning in it. Mostly thinking out loud.
âBut I think I will deal with the inconvenience, if only to stay here a little longer,â he allows the words to hang in the air, an invitation instead of a demand to speak. He lets them sound like nothing, as mundane as his rambling. But even as he decides to turn back to the prior task at hand he still watches you from the corner of his eye. And what he sees is a delight to his senses. Your eyes slowly peek over, hands resting on the hard-backed edge of the book, teasing the thought of setting it aside. It held the magnificence of being chosen by a sacred creature. Then finally you dare words, this time not out of obligation or a stumble to fill the air, but because you choose to.Â
âWouldnât you only need a few hours of trance?â You ask tentatively, as if awaiting the backlash of something harsh. Your words avoid the implication he had set at your feet but do little to hide the way your tone shifts to recognize it. You donât scramble or hide from it, but instead sit in disbelief, as if trying to convince yourself that youâd heard him wrong.Â
âOne would think. However I live with a bear under my skin, and unfortunately that bear requires much needed rest, lest it grows restless and I grow irritable. A trance is usually enough, though not with so much traveling,â he answers the mundane question with little fanfare, making idle conversation and nothing more. He sees you creep ever further from behind the shield of pages and he fights a smile.
Once more you fall quiet, though it feels less like retreating this time and more like gathering your bearings, still so unsure of him. Gods what he wouldnât give to just hold you right now, to whisper much bolder admiration than just wanting to sit with you, to assure you he meant every word. But he knows better than to reach a hand when such skittish things start to make their own way. He risked your retreat when you felt the closest youâd ever been.
âWould youâŠâ the unfinished question hangs in the air, tempting him with the million words that could follow. Would you come closer? Would you sit with me? Would you kiss me? Would you hold me? Yes, gods heâd do it all.
âNevermind,â the single word guts him, crushing a million dreams all at once. He loses the fight against himself then, gaze returning to yours with a stare he knows must be strange to you, some mix of panic and devastation hardly hiding the dagger you had taken to his anticipation.
âNo, please-â he stops suddenly, clearing his throat of the sound he had let escape him. Far too vulnerable, far too risky. It revealed everything he was trying to temper, his patience a distant memory then. Perhaps he was among the foolish who had tried their hand at holding the bird, perhaps he was no better than all who failed before him. Yet he had become so captivated by the flutter of your wings and the sweetness of your song that he could not help but try.
âAsk it of me,â he tried to soften his words, to make the fact that heâs trying to steal answers seem less daunting than it often is with you. Never did you enjoy the action and more than once he had seen you fall into a panicked spiral when asked to explain the thoughts behind your bitten tongue. And yet he tried with a recklessness that threatened to revert every bit of trust heâd built so slowly. When your silence draws out further he believes heâs done just that, almost giving up then and hoping for another chance tomorrow.
âŠAlmost.
Because just when he believes heâs once more forgotten the lesson decades worth of calming careful creatures has taught him, your hands slowly close the book, eyes having yet to turn their gaze. There is still hesitance, worry found in your subtle movements. But then thereâs something else. Something that overtakes the skittish parts of you in an uncommon show of will.Â
âWould you like it if I did your hair? Iâd hate to see you suffer just for enjoying the night,â the words are almost a whisper, your hands ringing against each other and your eyes wavering again. The question surprises him, the thought of it alone almost sating his need for you at the fact that you would allow yourself to step so far from your place of comfort for him. The joy must have shown plainly on his face, for he could not stop the way it nearly consumed him.
As for you, getting that question out took every last ounce of your nerve and only made it past your lips because you couldnât bear the pleading look in his eyes. He had stared like you held the sun and were denying him its warmth, a look that was so unmistakably for you, a twisting in your stomach forming at the thought. It was one thing to see kindness in his gaze, but need was never something it felt like he was capable of, or at least not capable of expressing. But in that moment he needed you, and you could never deny him that.
âI would,â something sweeter than honey lined his lips with a voice that sounded from a place deep within his chest, ringing as if he was inviting you towards a welcoming warm reassurance. The anxieties that picked at your being seemed feeble against the force, sending the unwanted feelings away with just how genuine the sound is. Still, you shuffle in your seat, a new horrible emotion now nipping at your mind as you fully realize the reality of what you just signed up for.
Long had you wished to hold him, to feel even the brush of his skin. Your body craved it in ways you found terrifying. Your hands were known for betraying you, searching for him in the smallest ways and sometimes greedily risking a graze against his. A simple shadow of the real thing when he was just that bit too close, something to quell the ache the lack of him left. And worse than that you remember the times when his skin met yours willingly. A steady hand on your shoulder that would fry your nerves with its unintentional heaviness, a gentle grasp when cleaning a particularly nasty wound, those few nights when he had a place beside you at the evening fire, a cramped log allowing his shoulder to bump yours. Each instance brought the echo of its memory, searing across you with a dizzying quickness. Never too intentional, never anything more than accidents or gentle reassuring. But they all burned their way deep into your very being when faced with something so very real.Â
It had been some time since you allowed yourself the closeness of another. What once began as a slightly annoying wish had spiraled into a gnawing void, desperate for any contact given. It was a mortifying thing to admit, and one you kept locked away as best you could. It became instinct to slip away from the overwhelming feeling, too afraid to lose yourself in the vulnerability of it to realize how desperate you had become. Late nights were spent cold, wanting for a type of comfort youâd never been freely given. A wish to be held, but a heart that was scared of the consequences.Â
So being here now, having offered such a tender closeness to the man that threatened to rip your heart from its cage was nothing less than your worst nightmare and your most blissful dream. You hardly believed that youâd done it. It was all too overwhelming, all too real. No longer distant fantasy, no longer images left floating absently in your head â it was real. You would have run- you should have.Â
But then you finally and truly look at him, free from your anxious gaze and now allowing yourself to observe him the way you do when youâre sure he isnât looking. And what you find is a gentle softness to the way his smile meets his eyes, hands moving to grab a small pouch from his bag with the glee of a man waiting for this moment. Waiting, the thought rings, waiting. The idea feels absurd, yet with the practiced way he moves itâs as if he had played the scene a hundred times before. There was no hesitation, no more time to waste. You are thinking too much of it, youâre almost sure you are. But can you be blamed for hoping? For allowing yourself to believe, against all odds, that the man who longed for just the mere presence of wanted you just the same? An unlikely thing â a dream. But a sweet one, nonetheless.
So for a time, however bitter it might taste when you inevitably return to the absence of him, you allow yourself the comfort. You allow just one piece of you to fall as he takes a seat in front of you, the scent of pine and creek water coating the air with him. You revel in it, the aroma carved into memory right alongside his name. Forever inseparable. You were sure that come winter, when all the other trees fell dormant, you would look into the dead forest and find only him amongst the evergreen; their sap and needles forever tainted by his memory. And never again would you be able to stroll leisurely along a small stream without imagining him there, striding alongside you. A pain you would have to hold on your own, an empty spot where he laid. The victory over your heart would be something he never knew the true extent of, youâre sure. A place he would hold with you forever that he would leave behind the moment he was called to something better. But at the very least youâd remember. At least, for one second in time, he was yours.
You take the pouch with a slightly shaking hand, steadying yourself with a deep breath before retrieving the tools from inside. Itâs nothing special; a couple of bands, a brush messy with hair and a few torn bristles, and a few loose ribbons of varying shades of brown, green and yellow, worn at the edges, showing years of use. All of it felt so very much like him, like you held a part of his world at your fingertips. With the tools you need in hand you look up to see he had already made himself comfortable just in front of you. The true realization of how close he is hits you then. The heat of his body radiates in waves â or more likely it is your body betraying you again. Either way you try not to let it get to you as you set your legs on either side of him, steadying your hold but burning his presence even deeper. Carefully, as softly as you could, you begin to brush his hair.
The first touch feels sacrilegious, as if your hands landed upon something meant only for the heavens. The strands float between your fingertips like dreams â almost intangible, whispers held in the way they fell. Slowly, carefully, softly your motions repeated, the rhythm calming your senses, hushing your nerves. Slowly, carefully, softly.
âAny preference?â You donât feel your usual panic as you speak now, as if the motions had entranced you, soothing your worry. The thoughts of wanting and longing became only a faint hum now that he was under your hands, your usually reserved nature joining that distant chorus with each breath. You had no need in this moment to retreat. You had never felt safer.
âAnything,â he mumbles the sound under his breath. You notice then how his shoulders slumped, tight muscles now loose and relaxed. If you could see his face you would have caught the heaviness of his eyes, the slowing of his breath. But you know enough to recognize just how mailable he felt under your touch, how he had begun to melt.
âAnything you wish,â he manages the few extra words with a bit more volume, his shoulders tightening for a small moment, as if recognizing himself. But they fall just as quickly when you continue the careful pull of the bristles. You draw out the movements even when his hair was thoroughly unknotted, giving yourself the chance to wonder just what youâd do. You decide on something simple, pulling his hair into a familiar half ponytail before beginning to braid it.Â
There is something to be said about the way you hold him as you work, a closeness you arenât entirely aware of as your mind focuses on the task. But oh does he. You tilt his head towards you with just the suggestion of a touch, a light tug against his scalp that builds an unfathomable yearning. He almost loses himself to the idea of you being absolutely tangled in even just a small part of him; mind racing as his tongue grows heavy with the familiar emptiness heâd come to loathe. Something missing, his lips trying to find a memory that existed only in thought. An imagined taste, an old dream. He knows he falls too far into himself when your fingertips brush against his jaw, tilting him to where you needed him, a quiet reprimand that faded all too quickly, hands returning to their work and leaving behind only the echo of your touch. So close, yet not enough. Never enough.
âYou are much more gentle than most are with me,â he breaks the sanctity of the quiet, something he only realizes when your hands stutter and your breath catches. But like the waves of a quiet ocean you return all the same, falling back to him after only a moment.
âI figure you do enough hair-pulling trying to keep this group in check. Thereâs no need for me to add to it,â an uncommon jovial tone reaches you, a true sign of how comfortable youâd become. He cherishes the sound, another smile forming at your words.
âYou do keep quiteâŠinteresting company,â he plays along, his heart swelling at the tsking laugh you allow. Each small step closer to you felt like a roaring victory, and tonight it seems he was on a winning streak. The air itself seemed laced with something sweet, calming his most flighty love long enough for him to gain even these few steps forward. He thanks Silvanus for allowing him this wonderful night.
âWe keep interesting company. You chose this too, you know,â you point out with a teasing accusation. He chuckles at that, though he canât help the way he swallows the word âweâ. It was strange the effect the word has, the images it conjures are far from foreign to his mind but are still so distant. Intangible. Out of reach. Yet the way you speak it sounds so natural, as if it had always been the two of you, as if it were so simple.Â
Suddenly a new thought gripped him, a realization that heâd been too soothed by your touches to notice. You were talking to him, truly talking. Your tone held no worry, your hesitation only a minor footnote in the lull of your voice. Still always there, but now only following behind. An afterthought, habit mostly. This is the first time heâs ever heard you so clearly, that you havenât hidden behind whispers. Heâs glad youâre faced away from him as the dawning thought sends his smile noticeably lopsided, the small discovery blooming something sweet in his chest. After all this time heâd found a place where you felt comfortable, and it was with your hands in his hair. It was you touching him, you close to him, you with him. He felt the giddiness of a lovesick youth creep back in, bubbling with the wickedness of uncovering a secret. Heâd never felt so simultaneously empowered and absolutely wrecked.Â
âAnd I would choose it again, if just to have this moment with you,â the words slip before he means them to, too swept away to realize the bluntness of the small admission. He surprises even himself with how little thought he put into the words, how they flowed from him as if they had always belonged to you and he had only borrowed them. As if it were only one in a thousand other whispered confessions.
You fall quiet, heartbreakingly so. He bites his tongue almost to the point it bloodies, though it is too little too late. Heâd allowed himself the temptation of the moment and was rightly burned. The sweet air is sickly in the absence of you, as if to mock him. He knew well enough to be patient, a virtue he had learned a million times over. Yet again and again heâd found himself lost against the tide of you, pulled in despite knowing the danger and reaping the consequences when heâs left drowning in the silence.Â
You finish the braid and for the first time in what feels like sweet eternity your hands fully leave him, retreating to once more bring the ache something missing. There is a moment where he thinks heâs once more lost you, that you were coiling back in and going to scurry off soon after. But then just as quickly â and most unexpectedly â you return. Slow at first, wavering and careful. He doesnât move an inch, afraid that even the smallest breath might send you away. But by some miracle you stay, hesitant hands growing in conviction, familiar motions showing you had moved to braid small pieces into the other parts of his hair like he once had. Unnecessary little things you didnât have to do, but chose to anyway. Slowly he calms, tense muscles once more giving way to slumped posture with the release of a held breath. He tries not to get too comfortable again, to lose himself in how you move so sweetly through his hair, but it proves an impossible task. Especially as distant thoughts flicker into something real, a quiet simmering joy that creeps from his chest to the tips of his fingers. You didnât run from the small mention of his affection, didnât hide from the possibility. You stayed.Â
You work skillfully, each tiny piece weaving into perfection. But truthfully it is in spite of the swirling thoughts and the sudden tightness of your throat. You canât believe yourself, at the audacity you had to continue after what his simple words could mean for you. Your entire world was threatened, your anxieties crawling back through you in rushing waves. You had a choice then, another opportunity to leave and flee back to the safety of distance before you allowed yourself the sting. But his words had grabbed you, had claimed their place in the spot youâd made for him. They had fallen from him like they were the most honest thing he'd ever spoken, hardly giving you the chance to deny his truthfulness. He would choose this; he was choosing this. This quiet moment, this small place in time where peace was possible. He was choosing you.
No, no that was far too optimistic a thought, far too clear-cut and simple. It surely canât be what he meant â of course it wasnât. His honeyed words always had that effect, always seeming at the precipice of something deeper. But never quite there, never all the way. There could be a million reasons he wished for this. The night was thick with life, the smell of earth lingering all around you; perhaps that is what he was enjoying. Or the warmth of the night after a bath in a cool river. Or maybe just the simplicity of not having to struggle with his own hair in the morning. Mundane things, meaningless things. Not because of you, never because of you.Â
But your heart, ever the weak thing, continued to betray you. It flipped with elation, clinging to hope. Even as silence stretched on, even as the echo of his voice had long faded and the ringing left your ears. The rhythmic thump couldnât be ignored, a constant reminder that despite your inability to act on it a part of you wanted him and it was all too willing to tell you so.
Eventually you finished your small excuses to keep touching, tiny braids mixing in with what was left of the loose strands. You pull away in a motion that feels final, your stomach sinking at the idea. But there is only one thing left to do.
âTurn around for me? I just want to make sure itâs all even,â you speak into the quiet. He hesitates, muscles fighting themselves before he nods and shifts around. He looks to you and you make it a point not to meet his gaze. The fact that his didnât stray was already enough to burn you hotter; you couldnât imagine what it would do to you to actually see him like this. A hands reach away and between you, close enough to feel his breath. You focus instead on fixing the small strands left out of place, a deeply held breath trying to steady you.
Itâs then you tuck the final piece behind his ear, slow and careful, almost afraid you might hurt him despite the idea being absurd. What damage could you ever do to the likes of him? A man full of a strength youâd never known, quiet as a midnight forest, calm as morning. He reminded you so very much of what he often mused of, deep-rooted oak with branches stretching out like quiet offerings to all who needed shelter. All of natureâs beauty sat before you and should you dare to meet its gaze you fear you would lose yourself to it.
Your mind wanders further than youâd allow if you had the strength enough left to pay attention, thoughts passing that had become so common you hardly acknowledged them anymore. You imagined your fingertips trailing down his ear, light as a breath â careful, tender, patient â observing the way it twitches ever so slightly. And you would trace slowly down the line of his jaw, hands splaying for a moment to experience just what it might feel like to have him fully under your palm. Then your thumb would find purchase on his bottom lip, slightly chapped and worn. His lips would part ever so slightly in response, the quietest rise of his chest catching, holding for just a moment before the heat of its release would-
Your entire body freezes when the warmth of his breath snaps your mind back into focus. In an instant you realize the thoughts become a horrifying reality, your hand caressing him, your thumb pressed gently on lips that seemed too inviting for you to believe them real. In a panic you do the worst thing you possibly can, your eyes falling into the vast expanse of his in vain hope of escaping reality itself. It only serves to trap you there, unable to move, think, breathe. Terror strikes through your veins at what you had done, even more so when he does nothing but stare back.
How could he do anything else? One moment he had only hoped your gaze would reach his and the next it felt as if you were capturing him to a detailed memory. There was a reverence in your eyes as your hands traveled over his face, adoration painting itself plainly against your features. Your eyes met his lips with a need youâd never shown before, his breath taken as you touched them. Daring him, testing him. So simple a touch that pulls at him so effortlessly. And how you had held there for that long moment. The heavy weight of silence sank its harsh pressure to his chest at his held breath, the trickle of nearby water only offering short bursts of relief. There was something tangible in the air, thick enough to bite into. Something unsaid, something suffocating. Yet still you do not dare, as it isnât your nature to. You only linger like you always do, temptation in its cruelest form. Like a breeze in summer heat cooling the fire on his skin only to float away to somewhere too far. And finally his breath falls.
When your eyes finally met he knew you were going to flutter away too soon, that youâd leave him with an unbreakable feeling, unlivable knowing just how close to sweet release youâd allowed him. And foolishly, selfishly, he doesnât allow it. His hand quickly cradles the one you hold to him, not allowing you to run. Not now, not yet. When you twitch at the contact â something that feels like pulling away and falling deeper at the same time â he turns his head to lay a kiss against your palm. Slow, deliberate. His eyes never turn from yours, making sure you understand that this was no mistake, that he meant it, that he wasnât about to let you crawl away from the blessing youâd just given him.
âDonât be so cruel as to leave me after such sweet affections,â he mutters, reveling in the way you shutter, in your wide eyes, in you. Every bit of you, everything you gave and everything you kept just out of reach. All of you all at once set right before him. You who had finally reached for him, you who he saw riddled with unspoken need. You. You.Â
âHalsinâŠâ his name leaves you in a desperate whisper, pleading for mercy. He shivers at the way you speak it, the way the sound just seems so different coming from you. Like it meant more, like you cherished every syllable. His eyes shut for the shortest moment to savor the sound, hoping it would be far from the last time. When they open again heâs all too aware of the look you give. Fear is beating away the care heâd seen in that brief moment your mind allowed you to cherish him, and he wished nothing more than to see it returned.
âYou flutter away so often, little bird, but I can see the want in you, I can feel it. Why do you stray?â he dared a question, to seek answers to your nature, to plead with it for just one sweet moment more. It is greedy and a tad bit cruel, but he canât bring himself to remember virtue at your hands. Patience was for a man who didnât kneel in front of such a divine being, patience was for a man who hadnât felt the elation your soft caress could bring, patience was for a man who had time. And he still couldnât help but replay what Wyll had told him, to wonder if this might be the last moment he had to be held in such a way. He couldnât bear to see it end so soon. Not yet, gods please not yet.
âStaying isn't what I'm used to,â your voice shakes, trying to find any way to ground yourself in this sudden storm you were the cause of.
âThe thought isâŠterrifyingâ you manage through a sound so soft he almost doesnât hear it. But he finds your voice in the wind, plucking it away and holding each admission to his chest. Just the smallest bit of worry creeps into his face, your words so vulnerable it almost makes him melt all over again. He is sure to be careful with the fragile place you let him into, always tender with your skittish heart. He turns your hand to hold it in his, kissing the knuckles as if each placement of his lips against your skin is his deepest honor.
âI will not deny you the emotion. I was quite nervous myself when your presence first began to burn me. But I promise you there is nothing to fear, not with me,â his voice turns into a gentle sound that aims to lull each of your senses, succeeding in the deep rumble it gives. Though his admission sets light to the hollow space you held for him, the idea that he had felt this way for any prolonged amount of time proving each of your worries wrong.Â
âWhatever you want of me I will give it willingly, you need only say the word. I am here,â he offers himself bare at your feet, eyes pleading, the heat of him found in the warm skin you couldnât pull away from. He was truthful in every ounce of breath that left â whatever you wish.
You are beautifully suffocated by his presence; the smell, the touch. It was as if each press of his lips was lightning through your skin, striking all the way up your arm before shivering down your spine. Though it is his eyes that strike you most, his half-lidded gaze openly admitting his desire without a hint of shame. There was no longer any denying his feelings as he laid them out plain as day. There was only what you were willing to allow yourself, what you wanted.
âIâŠâ your voice trails, words stuck in your throat, that terrified part of you still caught there. His thumb traces lovingly over your hand, allowing you the time to find your words. He does not shy away in the silence, staying steady against the crumbling of your final wall.
âI want to kiss youâ the words sear, ripped out of that part you usually kept so hidden. He smiles then, as calming a sight as youâd ever seen. He raises to his knees and you find your eyes falling away, embarrassment creeping in at the edges after allowing yourself to admit such a petty thing. Something that would mean so little to so many, that you were sure heâd experienced a thousand times before, yet to you felt so intangible that the idea had nearly become fantasy.Â
But he doesn't let you hide, his hand reaching just under your chin to tilt your gaze and return you to him. He left you no place to run as he leaned dangerously close, chasing after his fluttering bird with a fondness that showed just how much he was enjoying himself. He leans closer still, lips ghosting yours, breath mixing, hearts racing in a similar sound.Â
âAnd I you, my heart,â he whispers against your lips, stilling your breath as your grip on his hand tightens. Then finally there is nothing left between, the air stolen and replaced entirely by him. His weight, his smell, his breath, his taste. In that moment all of existence was entirely and overwhelmingly him.
You are stiff at first, unmoving, petrified. But he guides with ease, slowly tearing down the fear until there is nothing left. You melt against it, becoming soft putty in his palm. Stiffness gives way to slow careful pulls, each move a subtle testing of the waters that he takes with an almost desperate greed. He tastes you like he hadnât known anything so sweet, an unabashed need that draws you deeper. You give little bits more and find you are only tossing scraps to the hungry bear, goading him forward, pushing him, teasing him as you so often unintentionally do. But he takes each small bit like he believes it will sate him. That he only needs that little bit more, that he will ever be satisfied by the taste of you.Â
But then he does something unspeakably cruel, breaking sooner than youâd like and slowly falling away. Not because he was fulfilled, but for your sake. Because you still seem so reluctant despite the pieces you give, and he had hoped that he might encourage you further if he could only say the right words, that he might whisper sweet assurances into the breath of you before falling back for more. Endlessly more if the gods would allow such a thing.
But he doesnât get the chance, not when itâs you who gives chase. Reluctance gives way at the threat of him leaving and you lean in with the desire you had once been so careful in showing him. As unafraid as him, as needy, as wanting. You give all that you are and all that you have, unable to bear being free of this moment just yet. You donât even realize youâre falling until his hands catch your waist, pulling you towards him as heâs forced back to his heels to steady the sudden weight. Yet even now you donât allow him to leave, your hands gripping tightly at his shirt, pawing, begging him to stay. You straddle his hips and he smiles something wild against you, his passion returning hotter than before.Â
He pulls you impossibly closer, hands steady in their tightened grip as his tongue finally dares a small lick against you, asking for something he would not have dared mere moments ago. But you give now without pretense, without pause. You lose yourself entirely in the intensity and he returns with his own. Your hands crawl up around his neck, one running gently along his scalp as you bury it in the softness of his hair; his smile faltering at the low, almost growling sound he gives at the touch. Yet even through the tight grips and heated breath he is still so unfathomably gentle. Careful in a way youâd never known, taking only what is given, and you reward him plentifully for it.Â
But inevitably the moment must break. Were it not for the need for breath or a relief from the pounding of your heart against your ears, you would have stayed a part of him for as long as he would have allowed. Alas, the world could not be so kind and you would have to endure his departure. It seems itâs just as painful for him when he remains still so very close, his head resting gently against yours as soft pants fill the air from the unexpectedly heated kiss. His eyes finally fall from you, though it is only to admire the sight before him. Breathless, close, held safely in his arms. A sight heâd imagined before, though thoughts never did compare to the reality of it. He smiled again when he caught enough of the breath you had stolen.
âSweetest love,â he speaks, eyes warm, utterly lost in you. His lips fall against the corner of your lips, then your cheek, then trailing down until he rested in the crook of your neck, one heavy sighing breath releasing every muscle into a puddle of affection under your touch.
âEven sweeter than I could have imagined,â he mumbles into your neck, grinning wider at the way your entire body shutters. Your hands still play in his hair, fingers loosely twirling strands, perhaps seeking a now familiar comfort from the burning felt across your entire body. Boldness was leaving you rather quickly now, replaced by that familiar nervousness. As reality sets back in youâre left with that terrifying realization of what you had just done. The dam broke, the flood-gates opened. Your most preciously protected heart had been laid bare, and you had never felt so safe in the vulnerability.Â
Yet still you could do without the fanning of his breath against your neck, goosebumps riddling your skin and nerves alighting with the deeply intimate sensation. It was doing terrible things to your resolve, crumbling you down far enough that words became difficult and your body begged to just melt entirely in his grasp.
âWould you stay with me tonight?â He dares the words, hands caressing the sides of your hips as he leans further into your embrace.
âUnder the stars, in the grass. My heart, my sweet bird. Stay with me,â the words come out pleading, hopeful in their sincerity. Words evade you for a long moment more and you feel his grip tighten as if to brace, as if your flight was inevitable.
âIâll stay,â the words fall from you in that familiar whisper, his body relaxing again, his heavy held breath sent across the skin of your neck in that most torturous of ways. He kisses you again and you feel the smile on his lips.
Day was sure to break and time would inevitably move on. But the night was still young, heavy with that honeysuckle air. It was impossible to fit a lifetime in one moment, to fit the infinities of love into one night. That the both of you knew wellâŠ
But there was surely no shame in trying.
{~PT2 AFAB [Explicit]~}
{~PT2 AMAB [Explicit]~}
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