bludstaine

[bludstaine]

she  is  no  god,  in  fact  she  is  helpless.  dressed,  prettied  up  for  the  slaughter  like  a  sweet  little  lamb,  her  doe  eyes  which  hide  all  of  her  ugliness  from  the  world.  it  is  strange  to  imagine  she  could  ever  be  cruel,  not  when  she  appears  so  incredibly  delicate,  a  doll-like  creature  near  birdlike  in  her  tenderhearted  beauty.  but  she  is  nothing  even  close  to  the  thing  she  resembles,  she  is  nothing  soft,  but  she  is  furious.  lavender  feels  the  world  digging  its  claws  into  her  once  more,  dragging  her  kicking  and  screaming  into  an  arena  of  death,  somewhere  to  place  her  and  watch  as  she  tries  to  free  herself  for  their  entertainment.  as  though  the  rest  of  the  tributes  aren’t  so  much  bigger,  and  so  much  stronger,  too.  she  doesn't  stand  a  chance.  “haven’t  they  already?”  her  voice  is  soft,  slow.  almost  dreamlike  as  they’ve  always  portrayed  her  to  be.  how  does  this  image  remain  after  what  she  did  in  the  arena  six  years  ago? her  dark  gaze  trails  over  iris,  the  costume  which  seems  to  swallow  her  whole.  lightly,  lavender  reaches  for  a  flower  and  plucks  it  from  her  being,  reaching  to  instead  place  it  behind  iris’s  ear.  a  thanks,  perhaps,  for  ensuring  her  own  costume  hadn’t  tipped  over,  humiliating  her  any  further  than  she  already  has  been.  “you’re  like  a  garden  in  your  own  right.  do  you  like  this?”  she  asks,  once  more  brushing  her  dainty  fingers  over  the  flowers  adorning  the  other  tribute’s  body.  she  wonders  where  the  girl  even  begins  beneath  all  of  that.  “they’ve  taken  from  all  of  us.  all  i  want  to  take  right  now,  is  a  bath.”  but  duty  calls,  it  persists  in  demanding  from  them.  more  appearances,  more  cameras,  more  conversations  with  people  who  disgust  lavender.  “are  you  ready  for  this,  then?  at  least  it  hasn’t  been  that  long  for  us.  the  others  will  be  rusty.”

"but you don't want them to see you come undone either," iris noted. there was something calculated to her actions, the fixing of the crown, her words, that seemed far removed from her body and being. something airy, like she was somewhere else entirely and only just about reached through the fog. she was already undone, consistently, unraveling like breathing.

iris was covered in flowers, head to toe. her face was the only part poking out of the greenery, she'd been surprised she'd had the hands to even fix the crown. she felt as though it was a necessary precaution, to put this many flowers between herself and all others, so that she could only reach them with the utmost intent and precision. like she'd leave killings in her wake without even realising, like she had to be protected from herself as much as others needed protection from her. she wore stupid sheep's horns on her head. she wasn't sure why.

"they've already taken enough from you. they don't deserve to see you with your crown askew."

[bludstaine]

they  miss  it  sometimes,  but  libra  is  a  grief  addled  being.  nothing  seems  to  work  anymore,  nothing  affects  the  gamemaker  who  has  been  stuck  in  this  cycle  for  eight,  long  years.  at  once,  hani  had  been  someone  gentle,  someone  who  comforted  and  whose  touch  could  calm  the  heavy  beating  of  their  heart  when  they  would  wake  up,  sweating  and  shaking  off  nightmares.  how  odd  it  is  to  look  at  one  another,  to  feel  like  they  are  on  opposite  sides  of  a  war  waged  in  silence.  her  cover  is  so  deep,  she  can’t  come  out  and  say  it,  not  after  establishing  the  person  she  is  here,  so  far  away  from  district  thirteen  and  everything  she  so  willingly  left  behind.  instead,  she  can  only  come  to  her,  to  have  known  what  this  would  do  to  hani,  to  all  of  them. “of  course  i  know  better,  but  did  you  think  i  could  stop  this  from  happening?”  it  comes  from  the  top,  it  comes  from  snow  wanting  to  quell  the  fire  of  rebellion  by  creating  martyrs  of  those  who  had  won,  at  least  plutarch  has  given  them  a  vital  chance  at  life.  and  even  more  than  that,  he’s  given  them  time.  libra  forces  their  expression  into  neutrality,  a  stony  refusal  to  give  away  that  they  know  more  than  they  let  on,  that  all  of  this  is  a  part  of  something  so  much  bigger  than  they  could  ever  begin  to  explain.  her  whole  life  was  given  over  to  this,  sitting  by  plutarch’s  side  and  abandoning  her  home,  her  friendships,  anything  resembling  a  family.  she  has  done  all  of  this  for  her  fury,  and  she  still  fights  herself  from  sharing  all  of  that  with  hani. “no  one  ever  wins,  hani.”  they’ve  seen  it,  how  the  capitol  keeps  its  grip  on  the  victors,  and  how  the  handful  of  those  who  have  joined  this  resistance  all  seem  to  have  it  the  worst.  her  dark  gaze  slips  from  the  drink  in  her  hand  to  hani,  inhaling  as  her  head  shakes,  as  she  tries  to  find  a  way  to  put  into  words  how  deeply  entrenched  in  all  of  this  she  finds  herself.  “i  couldn’t,  you  know  that.”  it’s  not  an  explanation,  it’s  just  a  fact.  all  of  this  is  absurd,  it’s  ripping  her  apart  from  the  inside  out,  and  still  she  wears  that  expression  of  quiet  stillness.  she  gives  nothing  away,  and  she  never  will.  “hani.  do  you  really  hate  me?”  an  arched  brow,  to  look  at  someone  who  had  seen  her  so  deeply,  so  long  ago.  libra  knows  that  she  probably  doesn’t  hate  her,  but  she  fears  it,  all  the  same. “i’m  on  your  side,  hani.  i  just…  i  didn’t  have  the  power  to  stop  this.  and  if  i  had  told  you,  who  knows  what  they’d  do?  maybe  they’d  find  a  way  to  make  sure  your  name  is  called  on  reaping  day.  you  know  how  they  like  to  punish.”  reckless  words,  especially  here,  especially  where  they  can  be  taken  and  mangled,  used  against  her.  “i’m  sorry,  anyway.  i  really  am  sorry.”

Hani took the glass, but didn’t drink from it. Not yet. She held it in both hands, as if it were something fragile; though not because of what it was. Because of who had handed it to her.

For a long second, she didn’t say anything. She just looked at Libra with that same unreadable expression she’d worn at the door. Except now, something in her had softened. Not enough to be safe, not enough to be kind. Just enough to let the anger drop into something quieter. Something closer to grief.

“‘It’s complicated’ is what people say when they don’t want to admit they knew better,” she said finally. Not cruel, just flat. Just honest. “And maybe you didn’t have a choice. Maybe none of us did. But I watched friends step onto that stage thinking they were done with all of this. That they’d survived. That they’d won.”

She looked down at the drink, the amber liquid catching the light. Her voice dropped lower. Not a whisper ( Hani didn’t whisper ) but something private, something real.

“You didn’t tell me.”

There it was. Not an accusation. A truth.

“You didn’t even try to. You stood there at that damn party like it was another Capitol stunt, like it wasn’t going to rip through every single person who’s already lost everything.”

Her throat tightened. She hated that it did.

“I would’ve hated you a little less if you’d warned me.”

There was a beat of silence, and then she finally looked back up at Libra, like she was still trying to find the person she used to know under all that calculation, all that calm.

“I’m not asking for an apology,” she said, more gently now. “I know what sorry means in a place like this. Just… don’t stand here and act like showing up counts for something. If you want to be here, be here. But be honest about what side you’re standing on.”

She took a sip, finally. Her face didn’t change.

“But yeah. We were... friends once. So if you’re not lying, and you really are trying to be here, then- Well, I’ll listen.”

A beat.

“But you better make it worth the drink.”

[bludstaine]

the  games  have  taken  so  much  from  katniss,  but  in  so  many  ways  it  gave  her  this  —  him.  her  father  is  dead  and  buried,  but  something  of  him  is  alive  in  haymitch,  she  feels  it  when  they  sit  quietly  together  at  night,  when  his  proximity  is  enough  to  comfort  her.  she  doesn’t  feel  that  all  consuming  need  to�� protect  when  she  is  with  him,  and  instead  feels  the  warm  weight  of  safety,  even  if  they  do  find  themselves  at  each  other’s  throats  more  often  than  not.  he  is  one  of  those  people  closest  to  her,  someone  who  knows  her  more  than  she  knows  herself  at  times,  something  she  begrudgingly  accepts.  and  so  it  kills  her  to  ask  this  of  him.  it  kills  her,  but  it  doesn’t  stop  her.  whatever  is  happening  between  she  and  peeta,  she  knows  that  she  does  love  him  to  some  extent.  how  could  she  not,  after  everything  that  they’ve  been  through  together?  man  and  wife,  survivors,  allies,  friends.  there  are  too  many  definitions  to  put  on  their  relationship,  but  in  this  moment,  she  is  choosing  him.  how  wretched  a  person  she  is;  but  haymitch  knows  her,  he  knows  she  is  nothing  resembling  a  good  person,  and  she  thinks  that  they  both  silently  agree  that  peeta  is  the  best  of  them.  this  time,  they  need  to  choose  him.  “you  do.”  she  agrees,  quietly  staring  into  that  tumbler  of  amber,  she  can  feel  one  sip  of  it  sloshing  in  her  stomach,  burning  her  from  the  inside  out.  one  way  or  another,  katniss  is  always  on  fire.  she  looks  to  him,  his  hand  clasped  around  that  glass.  she  doesn’t  even  know,  really,  how  he  isn’t  in  worse  health.  maybe  it’s  her  mother  keeping  him  alive,  if  it’s  her  work  that  keeps  haymitch  standing,  she  thinks  she  might  love  her  more.  “if  you’re  going  in  there,  he’ll  be  mentoring  you.  he’ll  try  to  make  you  stop.”  she  points  out,  nodding  to  the  glass  in  his  hand.  at  least  here,  it  isn’t  quite  as  destructive  as  the  white  liquor  he  drinks  back  home.  home,  that  trio  of  houses  in  victor’s  village  which  she  hates  as  equally  as  she  loves.  she  lets  out  a  breath,  shaking  and  stinging  with  the  alcohol  she  can’t  quite  stomach.  “thank  you.”  it’s  quiet,  and  again  she  wants  to  lean  into  him,  give  him  some  comfort  as  much  as  she  craves  it,  herself.  but  because  it’s  the  pair  of  them,  they  sit  quietly  together,  barely  moving.  “what  was  it  like  for  you?  you  never  talk  about  it.”  the  arena,  the  games;  she  never  asks  him  out  of  respect,  but  she’s  achingly  devastated,  and  curiosity  wins  her  over.

haymitch misses his family like one would miss a limb if it was gone. but deep down he knows that the woman now sitting next to him and peeta were his. he just could never actually admit it to himself because the hurt was too great and knowing what they're all about to go through again knows that only one could make it out alive and he knew that deep down it would never be peeta. he knows that she'll ask. and he never said it to burdock's face when he was alive but he would do anything to protect his daughter that feels more like his now. he loves peeta too, and maybe it isn't fair, he knows that it isn't. but if he had to choose, he knew the answer. he doesn't want peeta to die, it's why he already knew why she was going to ask before she even came in. the least he could do was die for peeta. he knows that they both would. "because i know you." he says, lifting the drink to his lips again. he lets out a sigh. on the other end of it, he knows that peeta would ask him not to and he would be honest and say that it's not possible. there's no reality that haymitch doesn't volunteer. his love for the two of them was overwhelming sometimes, so much so that it made him angry. none of it was fair, and he had grown to live with it since the years from his games. he has watched brilliant people die in that arena all while standing back with a drink in his hand with only little shreds of hope that it would be the last games but it never is. "my liver has gone to shit let's hope if it happens they make my death tasteful." he smirks at katniss. when she orders the whiskey he watches her, the guilt is eating him alive it feels like. he wants to smack the drink out of her hands but he knows fully well what it feels like to be babied and he would never do that to katniss. he can tell that she wants comfort and haymitch wants to give it to her but he doesn't know how, doesn't know how to reach out without feeling like he's being burned. he places a hand on her shoulder. "i was already going to volunteer whether or not you asked me to." when the drink comes he watches it being slid to katniss and he looks away. sorry burdock. sorry asterid. everything i touch gets destroyed. my fault.

[bludstaine]

open     to     —     @thoroughfxre

she’s  furious,  but  this  has  been  apparent  since  they  boarded  the  train  and  katniss  could  barely  stand  to  look  at  peeta.  it  isn’t  fair  on  him,  of  course  she  knows  this  rationally,  but  none  of  this  is  fair.  all  she  wants  -  all  she’s  ever  wanted  -  is  to  survive.  whether  it  be  starvation  or  the  arena,  she  has  done  nothing  but  fight  since  the  day  her  father  died.  and  so,  slowly,  she  grows  tired  of  it.  sick,  angry,  and  so  tired  she  can  barely  stand  it.

she  had  always  thought  they  had  more  time,  a  chance  to  suffer  through  mentoring  together,  to  one  day  attempt  to  find  her  way  to  loving  him  the  way  he  wants  her  to.  maybe  she  has  it  in  her,  but  now  neither  of  them  will  get  the  chance  to  find  their  way  to  that  far  off  place  in  which  she  feels  safe  enough  to  try.

quiet,  seething,   she  doesn’t  bother  to  stay  with  haymitch  or  hyacinth,  and  instead  she  goes  straight  to  their  room.  everything  is  their’s  these  days,  ever  since  the  wedding  which  had  felt  like  a  slow  suffocation,  standing  before  them  all  in  a  dress  chosen  for  her  and  like  nothing  katniss  would  ever  wear.

the  door  slides  open  behind  her,  and  she  finally  turns  to  meet  his  eye.  it’s  rough,  seeing  his  face  and  knowing  that  one  of  them  is  doomed.  already,  her  goal  is  to  get  him  out  alive,  but  she’s  been  married  to  this  man  for  almost  seventeen  years,  and  she  knows  his  line  of  thinking  must  align  perfectly  with  her  own.  her  head  shakes,  and  it  isn’t  him  her  fury  should  land  upon,  but  it’s  not  as  though  she  can  give  snow  a  piece  of  her  mind.  “you’re  not  doing  this,”  she  states,  her  voice  hard  and  shaking  despite  the  steady,  clean  motion  of  the  train.  “you’re  not  dying  for  me,  peeta.”

[bludstaine]

open     to     —     @burntgcds

a  fear  has  lingered  since  she  left  district  twelve,  and  here  it  is  realised  before  her.  prim  in  her  medic’s  gear,  tending  to  one  of  the  tributes  wounded  in  today’s  training.  she’s  heard  it  during  those  few  capitol  trips,  a  call  for  those  skilled  enough  to  come  work  in  the  capitol  now  that  so  many  are  choosing  to  work  for  themselves,  choosing  more  glamorous  professions  which  leaves  the  city  lacking  in  those  such  as  her  sister.  skilful,  healing  hands.  that  elusive,  innate  ability  to  help  those  who  suffer,  something  which  has  never  been  natural  to  katniss  who  only  feels  at  home  in  the  woods,  bow  in  hands  and  far  from  the  pain  of  those  in  the  district  who  must  now  be  missing  prim.  because  she’s  here,  she’s  in  the  training  centre,  she  is  so  close  to  snow  that  he  can  probably  smell  katniss’s  anxiety  prickling. “primrose,”  her  voice  catches  on  the  name  which  has  been  closest  to  her  chest  all  these  years.  the  sister  she  has  protected  with  everything  within  her  now  stands  there,  deep  in  the  belly  of  the  beast,  that  very  beast  which  has  been  digesting  katniss  for  eighteen,  long  years.  “when  did  you…  what  are  you  doing  here?”  she  tries  to  put  a  timeline  on  it;  her  first  day  of  training  coming  to  a  close  and  katniss  with  a  swollen  ankle  following  a  brawl  on  the  mats.  “i  told  you  to  stay  with  mom.”  she  ignores  the  other  tribute  entirely,  her  heart  pounding  as  the  realisation  sits  with  her,  that  her  sister  is  too  close  to  everything  which  tries  to  destroy  katniss  everdeen.

[bludstaine]

open     to     —     everyone

her  anger  is  a  buzzing  thing,  a  thrumming  beneath  her  skin.  lavender  can  feel  a  heavy  hatred  for  this  place  thrown  over  her,  warm  and  comforting  as  a  shawl.  it  is  something  to  hold  onto,  or  so  she  tells  herself  as  she  pushes  from  the  chariot  following  the  tribute  parade.  how  foolish  she  feels,  ridding  the  life  she  has  earned  to  be  thrown  back  into  the  arena,  into  the  maw  of  the  wolf  awaiting  her  delicate  flesh  with  hungry  familiarity.  they've  decked  her  out  in  gold,  having  taken  inspiration  from  some  deity  of  olden  times  for  her  costume,  long  before  panem  was  even  a  glimmer  in  the  future.  a  crown  resembling  grain  sits  upon  her  temples  and  she  feels  it  knocked  askew  as  she  pushes  past  the  journalists  desperately  trying  to  grab  her  for  a  comment.  but  then  she's  stumbling  into  another,  watching  curiously  as  they  adjust  the  crown  atop  her  curls.  “you  don't  have  to  do  that,”  she  states,  her  voice  a  thing  made  of  steel.  “honestly,  i'm  desperate  to  get  this  thing  off  me.”

[bludstaine]

it  is  quiet  as  hani’s  stare  penetrates.  it  holds  libra  captive,  standing  in  the  doorway  and  awaiting  either  an  invitation  or  a  slap  in  the  face.  how  deserving  they  would  be  of  the  latter,  to  see  that  familiar  hand  flying  through  the  air  until  their  cheek  erupts  in  a  flaming  bruise.  it  is  as  though  she  craves  punishment,  seeking  it  out  as  though  it  might  make  any  of  this  right.  it  is  much  too  late  late,  eight  years  in,  how  dare  she  begin  to  question  all  of  this  now?  linna’s  death  had  fuelled  every  movement  since  leaving  district  thirteen,  allowing  sacrifices  to  fall  at  libra’s  feet  until  the  world  felt  as  though  it  was  growing  unstable,  to  feel  it  quiver  as  she  does  in  the  night,  aching  for  the  love  lost  to  this  brutal,  horrific  world. but  then  they  look  at  hani,  the  consequences  of  their  actions  stand  before  them.  it  never  would  affect  libra,  this  plot  schemed  up  by  heavensbee,  dragging  them  into  his  schemes  which  grow  more  convoluted  by  the  day.  if  they  could,  libra  might  share  it  all  with  hani,  the  mental  acrobatics  this  year’s  head  gamemaker  has  performed  if  only  to  make  this  possible,  to  watch  the  arena  implode  and,  after,  snow  with  it. but  they  can’t.  the  words  are  trapped  behind  full  lips.  before  a  lover,  hani  had  been  something  like  a  reluctant  friend;  something  a  gamemaker  doesn’t  have  much  of.  and  libra  misses  her.  “it’s  more  complicated  than  that.”  sighing,  libra  leans  in  the  door  frame,  exhausted  from  the  hours  spent  at  work,  and  by  the  weight  of  her  guilt.  and,  partially,  she  doesn’t  want  hani  to  slam  the  door  in  her  face.  “i’m  not  trying  to  act  like  anything,  hani.  i’m  trying  to  be…  here.”  their  eyes  fall  shut,  squeezing  tight  for  a  moment  before  returning,  stubbornly,  to  meet  her  gaze.  “we  were  friends,  once.”  a  reminder,  for  both  of  them.  as  though  the  world  hasn’t  changed  since  then. her  words  land,  and  libra  swallows.  they  do  not  smile,  but  they  do  step  closer,  slipping  past  hani  and  into  the  apartment.  it’s  larger  than  her  own,  and  she  takes  a  moment  to  look  around,  dark  eyes  curious.  her  strategic  mind  wants  to  plant  something,  a  listening  device  maybe,  but  libra  is  here  to  be  something  resembling  a  human  being.  moving  to  pour  them  some  drinks,  libra’s  fingers  quiver  until  she  forces  them  to  still,  and  then  she  hands  a  glass  to  an  old  friend,  an  old  flame,  whatever  the  hell  they  are  now.  “i’m…  sorry.  there’s  nothing  else  i  can  say,  is  there?”

Hani stared at her for a long moment, the words catching somewhere between her ribs and her throat. Libra always had that calm, untouchable presence. Like she was already five steps ahead, like she’d already made peace with the consequences. But Hani hadn’t. Not with this.

Her fingers curled tighter around the edge of the door, knuckles gone pale, but when she spoke, her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t accuse. It just wavered slightly, like she was still deciding if she could let herself speak at all.

“I think I need a reason,” she said finally, her voice quiet but clear. “Not for the drink. For… why you’re standing here like we’re still on the same side of all this.”

She stepped back, just enough to let Libra enter if she wanted to - but didn’t move away completely. The apartment light cast Hani’s face in a low, warm glow, and the lines of tension in her jaw softened, just a little.

“I watched them fall apart, one by one, when their names were called. I felt it. You don’t get to act like you didn’t.”

Her breath caught again, and she looked down for a beat before meeting Libra’s eyes once more.

“But, still, the door is open.”

It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t surrender. It was something slower, more fragile, like the last part of her that still remembered what it was to trust her. The smile she wore was bitter, as though Hani resented herself for opening the door to someone who was in a position to kill every single person Hani cared about.

[bludstaine]

a    child    weaned    on    poison    considers    harm    a    comfort  

(   duda santos   ,   cis woman   ,   she / her   )    did you see them ?!   that was LAVENDER GOMES, the winner of the EIGHTY SIXTH hunger games. they’re back for the 92nd games as a TRIBUTE, and you know they’re one of my favourites!  the TWENTY FOUR year old brought such honour to DISTRICT 9 when they won their games with SWORD.  they’re known all over panem for being so PERCEPTIVE despite being so MANIPULATIVE. they remind me of an almost unconscious craving for love and for understanding, to be delicate as a flower and to despise the weak willed, wearing beauty as an armour against a world you have always seen as something hideous,  and when i think of them, i think of CLARA BOW by taylor swift 

𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘴

full name : lavender gomes age : twenty  four gender / pronouns : cis  woman she  /  her orientation : lesbian   occupation : tribute  , district  nine 

𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭

eye  colour  :  brown hair  colour  :  brown build  :  slim   height  :  5′6″ piercings  :  ear  lobes  and  helix tattoos  :  small starbursts on fingers distinctive  features  :  high cheekbones, knowing eyes  face  claim  :  duda   santos

𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥

tw:  violence,  murder,  dark  themes

they  say  that  strict  parents  raise  sneaky  children,  and  how  rightly  this  applied  to  you.  your  schedule  was  set  each  day  by  a  mother  who  adored  the  beautiful  daughter  she  spent  her  days  prettying  up.  first  it  was  school,  and  then  you  would  work  in  the  farm  afterwards  for  just  a  few  hours.  then  you  would  return  home  where  you  would  bathe  and  allow  your  mother  to  do  your  hair,  to  dote  on  you  as  was  her  nature.  from  the  nicer  part  of  town,  you  were  to  behave  yourself  and  to  represent  your  family  well.  do  your  homework  and  be  home  before  nightfall.  keep  your  clothes  clean,  speak  well  and  eloquently.  all  of  it  you  did  until  the  night  fell  and  you  slipped  from  your  bedroom  window  to  run  wild.

everyone  knew  you.  at  school,  you  were  untouchable  and  forever  surrounded  by  a  group  of  girls  who  worshipped  you  with  the  same  adoration  your  mother  showered  you  with.  in  those  long,  hot  afternoons  you  would  lie  with  your  head  resting  in  your  mother’s  lap  as  she  stroked  your  hair  so  tenderly,  and  as  the  balmy  evening  began  to  cool,  you  and  those  girls  would  set  off  to  destroy  this  world  which  was  so  brutally,  horribly  ugly,  you  could  not  help  but  want  to  see  it  burn.

perhaps  it  was  a  punishment  for  your  bad  behaviour,  to  have  your  name  called  on  reaping  day  despite  being  one  of  those  from  a  well  to  do  family  (  if  such  a  thing  could  exist  beyond  the  career  districts  ).  but  called  you  were,  and  your  mother  wept  as  her  angel  was  taken  from  her.  you  were  used  to  getting  your  way,  prone  to  tantrums  despite  your  age,  and  yet  you  walked  with  your  chin  tilted  skyward,  proud  as  anything  as  you  took  to  the  stage.

you  grew  close  to  your  mentor,  for  a  time  you  wanted  to  be  her  to  a  near  obsessive  extent.  you  liked  the  way  that  the  capitol  treated  you,  so  beautiful  and  intelligent,  your  wit  sharp  as  a  knife.  you  were  a  hit,  and  for  that  you  earned  sponsors.  all  of  this  attention  shone  like  golden  light  upon  you,  and  you  decided  then  that  you  would  do  anything  to  get  back  to  this  wonderful,  dazzling  place.  you  fought  viciously,  but  it  was  your  mind  which  helped  you  win.  a  sword  upon  your  back,  manipulation  earned  you  a  place  within  the  career  pack.  they  never  could  have  seen  it  coming,  how  you  picked  them  off  one  by  one  in  the  night.  you  took  trophies  with  you,  locks  of  hair  tucked  into  your  token  which  was  a  silver  locket  given  to  you  by  your  mother  before  you  left  for  the  trains.

the  career  pack  gone,  you  made  it  home  soon  after.  you  were  celebrated  for  your  victory,  and  it  had  felt  so,  so  good.  beautiful  and  shining,  you  were  the  winner  snow  wanted  and  for  that,  you  were  one  of  his  favourites.  eighteen  years  old,  the  world  opened  up  for  you.  appearances  at  parties  held  in  your  honour,  you  became  something  of  a  style  icon  and  sat  for  as  many  interviews  as  they  wanted.  your  mother  was  proud,  so  happy  just  to  have  her  daughter  back,  though  you  would  never  adhere  to  strict  guidelines  again.  you  were  set  free.

in  the  few  years  since,  you’ve  grown  disillusioned  with  the  games.  the  sparkle  dimmed  as  each  child  in  your  care  went  off  to  the  arena  and  died.  the  shining  light  of  attention  slipped  from  your  beautiful  face,  and  you  were  old  news.  you  couldn’t  even  keep  your  tributes  alive,  after  all.  but  you  tried  so  hard,  you  strived  for  their  love  to  land,  warm  as  the  sun  upon  you  once  more.

and  then  comes  the  games  in  celebration  of  snow.  you  almost  didn’t  believe  it,  but  you’ve  always  gotten  your  way;  surely  it  couldn’t  happen  again.  but  it  did.  your  name  was  called,  your  knees  grew  weak,  and  those  toothy  smiles  became  forced.  you  weren’t  angry  but  something  deeper,  something  dark  and  intense.  you  were  furious,  and  once  more,  you  wanted  to  watch  the  world  burn.

[bludstaine]

he  means  the  world  to  her,  and  sometimes  it’s  terrifying.  meeting  honore  had  revived  something  within  mina,  how  he  had  found  that  piece  of  her  still  willing  to  trust,  and  to  hope  that  there  was  something  beyond  this  life  she  found  herself  stuck  in.  to  hope  that  one  day  she  might  be  freed  of  the  shackles  president  snow  has  clamped  around  her  dainty  wrists,  to  pull  all  of  those  eyes  from  her  and  know  that  her  family  will  not  suffer  because  of  her  actions.  is  it  too  much  to  ask?  not  to  he  who  came  to  her,  pushed  her  towards  something  to  fight  for.  she  looks  at  him  now  and  feels  her  heart  swell  and  sink  all  at  once,  so  fearful  of  losing  the  person  who  had  brought  her,  inexplicably,  back  to  life. “maybe.  they  have  a  habit  of  winning.”  she  reminds  him,  still  somewhat  chained  to  the  ground  for  fear  she’ll  float  too  high  and  find  all  of  those  hopes  dashed.  at  the  end  of  this,  she  will  either  see  an  empire  fall  or  be  flattened  under  its  boot.  mina,  despite  the  picture  presented  to  the  world,  is  much  more  cynical  than  she  might  let  on.  when  he  speaks,  there  is  such  passion  beneath  those  words,  it  makes  her  pulse  quicken  and  she  pulls  her  eyes  from  someone  so  good,  she  fears  it  might  taint  him  just  to  be  looked  upon  by  mina  dewitt. his  hand  takes  hers, how  natural  it  feels.  sometimes,  she  hates  the  act  of  physical  touch,  but  she  is  always  reminded  that  she  will  be  safe  in  his  presence.  he  has  never  hurt  her,  it  feels  like  a  cushion  under  her  silken  curls,  somewhere  to  lay  her  head.  she  is  twining  her  pale  fingers  around  his  when  he  pulls  away,  and  her  own  hand  is  drawn  back  into  her  lap.  “they  notice  everything  i  do,”  she  scoffs,  head  shaking.  here  she  can  be  resentful,  bitter  as  the  coffee  gulped  down  like  life  force  she  will  need  to  make  it  through  the  morning.  “but  can't  we  use  that?  can't  i  do  something  from  where  i  am?"  she  asks,  near  pleading  to  be  a  part  of  this,  even  if  it  means  she  gets  to  remain  by  his  side  just  a  little  bit  longer.  she  swallows,  nodding  slowly  as  her  eyes  meet  his,  and  she  must  trust  him  once  again;  this  time  that  he  might  come  out  of  this  alive.  she  sighs  and  moves  to  lie  her  head  on  his  lap,  glancing  at  the  television  screen  before  looking  away  in  disgust.  the  news  is  nothing  but  tributes  to  snow,  reporting  on  his  greatness.  “of  course  i  will,  i’ll  miss  you.  these  parties  are  awful  without  you.  you're  my  best  friend.”  she  glances  up  at  him,  her  eyes  still  somewhat  sleepy.  “do  you  have  a  cover?  or  aren't  you  allowed  to  tell  me?”

HONORE WAS TIED TO HIS DUTY LIKE A DOG ON A LEASH, BUT SOMETIMES, HE FOUND HIS MIND DRIFTING AWAY FROM THE MISSION. It often happened when Mina was present. Perhaps it was because she was a moment away from the chaos of planning a rebellion, or because he quietly wondered what life with her would be like post-war. Either way, it was a dangerous game to play with the rebellion fast underway and Mina's friends and family unaware of the events unfolding before them.

"They are, and they'll get what they deserve in the end. I'll make sure of it." Honore hated how the Capitolites treated Mina and the other victors. Though he escaped the worries that came with the yearly reaping, it didn't take much to know that the victors had been through hell and back. They deserved to live out the rest of their lives peacefully, not constantly enduring the wants of the people who took away their childhood.

He glanced up at Mina's question, a softness in his eyes at the worry evident on her face. He wished he could fully invite her into his world, but his mother was cautious when it came to the victor's involvement. Mina had eyes on her throughout the Capitol-- it was risky to include her in such an important mission. Still, he felt comforted at the thought of her worrying about his well-being. "You'll have your chance. It's just too risky right now. People will notice if you disappear from the party." His hand gently clung to hers, his thumb stroking the side of her hand for a brief second before he pulled away. That's all he could allow himself--- a few seconds of her touch before he began to feel unworthy. "I promise I'll be safe. You won't even notice I left."

[bludstaine]

open to — @metaltourniquet

are  they  remorseful?  libra  had  learned  a  long  time  ago  that  being  here  meant  making  sacrifices  which  might  benefit  a  greater  future  for  all  of  them.  but  then  she  saw  the  looks  on  their  faces  at  the  party,  particularly  those  she  had  known,  without  a  doubt,  would  volunteer  once  they  knew  what  came  next.  but  no,  libra  is  not  remorseful,  not  when  the  day  passes  and  they  watch  the  reapings  with  tired  eyes,  stiffening  when  it  came  around  to  district  2  and  hani,  thankfully,  survived  it.  it  was  a  foolish  thing,  an  ill  fated  relationship,  but  she  had  still  brought  comfort  to  libra  who  had  thought  that  any  sort  of  tenderness  was  an  impossibility  following  the  loss  of  linna.  a  tenderness  which  they  are  grateful  for,  even  after  so  long. when  the  tributes  arrive  to  the  training  center,  she’s  stuck  at  work.  plutarch  speaking  in  her  ear  and  quietly  calm,  though  she  can  hear  the  undercurrent  of  pressure  in  his  voice.  he’s  eager  to  get  things  moving,  push  it  all  into  motion  and  see  that  this  plot  will  not  find  these  tributes  all  dead  with  nothing  to  show  for  it.  it’s  days  of  endless  work,  but  she  still  makes  her  way  to  the  second  floor  of  the  training  center,  still  knocks  on  district  two’s  apartment  door  and  awaits  her  anxiously.  will  she  know  that  libra  played  a  part  in  this?  the  idea  was  not  incepted  with  her,  but  she  helped  to  mould  it  into  what  it  is  now,  alongside  plutarch  who  is  near  ruthless  in  his  ideas  for  the  resistance.  when  the  door  opens,  their  eyes  attempt  to  soften,  but  libra  is  who  they  are,  and  they  do  not  offer  kindness  too  easily.  instead,  their  eyebrows  raise  and  their  gaze  steadily  meets  hani’s  as  their  head  rests  in  the  doorframe.  “need  a  drinking  partner?”

[bludstaine]

returning  home,  she  feels  exhausted.  it’s  been  a  long  night  for  mina,  but  at  least  it’s  coming  to  a  close  as  the  sun  slowly  begins  to  rise  above  the  capitol.  despite  herself,  she  can't  deny  that  it's  a  beautiful  place.  something  which  shimmers  much  like  the  sun  reflected  against  the  blade  of  her  axe  back  home.  she  still  works  the  lumber  yard  some  days,  relishes  the  ache  in  her  biceps  as  she  swings  her  axe  and  watches  the  trees  plummet  to  the  ground.  just  another  beautiful  thing  chopped  down  for  the  sake  of  the  capitol.  she's  glad  of  it  now,  that  she  has  held  onto  some  of  that  strength  in  working  back  home,  seems  like  maybe  she'll  need  it  if  she  finds  herself  back  in  the  arena.  it's  all  she  can  think  about,  the  likelihood  of  it  being  her  or  ash.  they've  told  her  she  may  not  volunteer  for  her  sister,  and  that's  almost  worse  than  going  in  at  all.  no  wonder  she  hates  her  so  much,  mina  would  hate  herself,  too. shoes  in  hand,  she's  making  her  way  back  to  the  victor's  accommodations  when  she  finds  herself  facing  another  mentor.  a  potential  competitor,  come  a  few  months.  would  they  prefer  it  if  they  all  just  had  it  out  here?  kill  one  another  on  the  streets  of  the  capitol  until  there's  only  one  victor  left  standing?  how  entertaining  would  it  bem  should  they  have  to  step  over  their  bodies  on  the  way  to  work?  their  expensive  shoes  stained  with  the  blood  of  the  fallen.  “i  doubt  many  of  us  are  sleeping  tonight,  fallon."  she  sighs,  rolling  her  aching  neck  as  she  takes  a  few  steps  forward,  smiling  humourlessly  at  the  other  victor's  words.  “i  was  heading  to  bed,  actually.  but  now  that  you  mention  it,  i  should  probably  get  as  many  sunsets  in  as  possible  between  now  and  the  games."  she  sighs  and  grabs  her  beaded  purse,  pulls  out  a  cigarette  and  lights  up  before  offering  the  box  to  fallon.  she  isn't  much  of  a  smoker,  only  when  she  so  desperately  needs  it.  "how  you  holding  up?"

𝐖𝐇𝐎: FALLON FLUX & MINA DEWITT ( @bludstaine ) 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: THE CAPITOL, VICTOR'S ACCOMODATION 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: EARLY MORNING

Fallon was numb. She'd been in something of a state of shock since the previous evening, Caesar Flickerman's words reverberating in her mind, over and over again – his sadistically upbeat tone taunting her as she tried and failed to fall asleep. Despite downing more than the recommended dose of sleeping pills, she found that rest still alluded her, tossing and turning fitfully for hours before giving up on the illusion of sleep altogether.

The moon still hung low in the sky and the clock by their bedside read 4:30 AM – but Fallon suddenly began to feel stifled by the apartment they'd spent the week residing in. They quickly pull on a jumper and some sneakers before heading out the door, relishing in the feeling of cool air on their skin. They breathe shakily before heading off down the street – unsure of where it is they're going but needing to be somewhere else.

Perhaps she should have known better than to expect to have the city to herself, even at this time – but there is still a hint of surprise at the sight of another figure haunting the victor's accomodations. Upon closer inspection, Fallon notes a lock of ashen hair and immediately recognises the moonlit face of MINA DEWITT. "Here I was thinking I'd be the only one mad enough to be up this early." Or late, depending on how you looked at it. "Out here to enjoy a beautiful sunrise over the presidential mansion?" Because apparently none of them had many of those left.

[bludstaine]

she  stumbles,  she  grows  dizzy,  and  mina  thinks  that  she  might  faint.  needful  hands  grab  onto  her  shoulders,  her  elbows,  digging  too  deeply  into  her  skin  which  glistens  with  the  glitter  her  prep  team  so  often  loves  to  adorn  her  in.  decoration  for  the  beautiful  victor  from  district  7.  sometimes,  she  aches  to  see  herself  age,  to  grow  too  old  for  their  attention,  though  she  fears  they'll  never  allow  it.  she  wonders  if  they  will  keep  her  in  the  prime  of  her  beauty  for  the  rest  of  her  natural  life.  or,  for  as  long  as  is  humanly  possible,  even  with  capitol  advancements.  they  ask  her  if  she’s  alright,  trying  to  meet  mina’s  wide  eyes  as  the  information  settles,  as  the  room  swells  with  excitement,  so  much  so  that  she  thinks  many  of  them  have  already  dismissed  the  address  from  the  resistance  which,  really,  she  should  feel  some  sort  of  delight  towards.  is  this  not  what  she’s  been  working  so  diligently  towards? it  takes  everything  not  to  pull  her  arms  violently  from  their  hands,  to  simply  smile  and  pretend  as  though  she  tripped,  to  thank  them  for  their  congratulations  and  to  hope  that,  yes,  perhaps  she  will  play  a  large  role  in  this  year's  games.  and  then  another  is  colliding  with  her,  in  the  confusion  it  takes  a  moment  for  her  eyes  to  meet  della's,  and  soon  for  her  hands  to  reach  for  hers.  "of  course.  come."  her  voice  is  a  low,  quiet  thing,  banishing  the  ditsy  and  excitable  celebrity  which  had  almost  fainted  moments  ago  to  lead  della  from  the  crowd  and  out  of  the  mansion.  she  knows  she  must  get  her  out,  mina  will  always  feel  a  certain  sense  of  protectiveness  over  a  delicate,  beautiful  thing  such  as  her.  an  arm  wraps  around  her  slight  shoulders,  mina  looking  around  them  as  she  pulls  the  young  victor  from  the  party  and  out  into  the  fresh  air  where  she  sits  her  down  on  a  bench  in  one  of  the  quieter  corners  of  the  garden.  "it's  going  to  be  okay,"  she  reassures  her,  voice  softening  as  she  meets  her  gaze,  attempting  comfort  in  the  pale  blue  of  her  eyes  alone.  "they  want  us  out  of  here,  we  don't  have  to  go  back  in.  just  try  to  breathe.”  she  sighs  and  sits  herself  down  next  to  her,  arm  wrapping  around  her  once  more.  “maybe  they  won't  let  this  go  ahead.  the  capitol  loves  most  of  us,  after  all.”

closed starter for @bludstaine, MINA DEWITT + DELLA QUINN. snow's mansion, right after caesar's announcement.

THE CROWD BURSTS INTO A ROAR THE MOMENT THE ANNOUNCEMENT SETTLES. Or perhaps it doesn't settle, because her skin erupts into numbness and panic and her hands begin shaking. For a single, solitary moment, Della is trapped within a box of her own making -- she cannot have any other reaction other than calm, cool, collected, taking the information in stride and allowing herself to be grateful for the love from the Capitol -- grateful, grateful, grateful.

Except she cannot focus on schooling her features, she cannot focus on anything other than the need to leave, immediately, and so her feet swerve to deftly exit the crowd, careful not to knock into anyone, but the crowd grows louder and Caesar's laughter shoots right through her. Della looks up, searching for anyone, Volt, her brother, anyone -- and in her searching, does the one thing she is not supposed to do and, lacking the grace she ought to have, collides with someone. For a moment all she can see is white hair and soft features that have been forced to be sharp, and Della apologizes instinctively. "Mina," she gasps. Well, she meant to apologize. "I--I didn't mean to -- I didn't see you. Can you -- can you help me?"

[bludstaine]

she  doesn’t  drink,  and  so  coming  to  the  bar  usually  means  she’s  on  the  hunt  for  haymitch.  it’s  his  greatest  influence  over  her,  a  sobriety  in  response  to  her  witnessing  exactly  how  that  white  liquor  from  district  12  has  affected  a  man  who,  begrudgingly,  means  a  whole  lot  to  her.  they  haven’t  said  it  to  one  another’s  faces,  she  doesn’t  think  that  they’ll  ever  find  the  words  to  tell  each  other  how  much  it  means  that  they’re  both  still  here,  still  a  team  —  but  haymitch  is  family.  he’s  a  pain  in  the  ass,  they  yell  at  one  another  a  great  deal  more  than  they  actually  sit  down  and  talk,  but  in  so  many  ways,  she  sometimes  feels  he  gets  her  more  than  peeta,  prim,  her  mother,  or  even  gale  does.  and  so  she  doesn’t  flinch  at  his  words,  the  gravel  in  his  voice.  he  can  be  so  much  more  hurtful  when  he  wants  to  be,  but  katniss  has  never  shied  away  from  the  meanness  in  haymitch’s  tone  when  he’s  drunk.  that  being  said,  there’s  an  ounce  of  kindness  in  how  he  beckons  her  closer,  a  mutual  understanding  of  what  she  wants  from  him,  and  how  terrible  she  is  for  coming  here  to  ask  it  of  him. “how  did  you  know?”  she  asks,  because  there’s  no  use  in  denying  it.  peeta  will  do  anything  in  his  power  to  be  in  that  arena  with  her,  would  never  force  her  to  face  it  all  over  again  without  him  at  her  side.  she  can’t  bear  it,  how  inherently  good  her  husband  is,  and  how  she  forces  herself  to  be  his  wife  every  single  day.  she’s  always  said  that  no  one  decent  ever  wins  the  games,  but  in  the  eighteen  years  that  have  passed,  katniss  has  grown  to  know  the  other  victors,  all  of  them  holding  quirks  and  differences  which  make  her  wonder  how  in  the  hell  she’s  going  to  get  peeta  out  of  that  arena  alive  if  it  comes  down  to  it.  no  one  decent  ever  wins  the  hunger  games,  and  yet  there’s  more  decency  in  half  of  their  baby  fingers  than  there  is  in  the  whole  of  katniss’s  body.  and  peeta,  if  anyone  deserves  better,  it’s  him.  “i’ll  have  a  whiskey.”  she  states  quietly,  sitting  herself  down  next  to  haymitch  and  watching  as  the  bartender  who  had  been  lingering  nearby  moves  to  pour  her  a  drink.  she  swallows  it  with  a  hiss,  her  face  scrunching  up  as  the  alcohol  sets  her  throat  on  fire.  “how  the  hell  do  you  drink  this  stuff?”  she  asks,  and  she  forces  herself  not  to  retreat  into  herself,  she  holds  in  her  tears  and  she  stops  herself  from  dropping  her  head  onto  haymitch’s  shoulders  like  she  so  desperately  wants  to.

haymitch hasn't cried in years. there are no tears left for himself. and selfishly, for anyone else either. when the announcement had had happened he had done what he always did, which was stay calm in a crisis figure out what needs to be done and then move. he never moved on, but he still kept himself walking. he gets back to the hotel in one piece, his moves zombie like, not to be bad for half a dead man. he knows what the games mean, he's known it from his own games. but more importantly, he thinks about his own tributes, the one's that he's mentored and left to a bloody death. when he made that promise to maysilee to be the worst victor he didn't think he'd mean it so literally. miracles are not real, and he knows that just by looking at his own life and all the misfortune that followed. he wishes that he had memories to hold. the only real photo he had of his ma and sid was one from burdock that he had given him in one of his many attempts of trying to talk to haymitch. it's a simple picture, but he buried that somewhere in his house in a drunken state at the time, not wanting to see it. and it's times like these where he wished he could have one more conversation with everyone that he's ever loved, but he thinks that's even selfish of him. he made it out alive, but he didn't make it out alive in one piece. there are fragments of himself everywhere in the capitol, in the games that had been torn down, in every single victor, but most of all in katniss and peeta. he takes a small breath as he reaches the bar in the hotel. he's calculating the time that katniss will come to him. she always did, in the end. he's on his third drink by the time he feels her presence. his hands are around the glass and he's blocked everyone else's voices out. the hologram plays a repeat of the announcement, and he hates ceasar flickerman so much he doesn't know how people can stomach it. his eyes train on snow's face knowing that even after all these years, he's won again. "hi sweetheart." he says, his voice dejected of emotion. he brings the glass up to his lips, not looking at her. "are you here to ask me to volunteer for peeta in the games?" he says, his smile is small, his eyes finally meeting hers. they both know that he will. even if it isn't peeta to be called, the only other option would always be haymitch. and he'd do it, again and again and again. it's the kind of thing that would drives others to insanity. "have a seat." he says, not letting the thought finish. he runs a hand through his hair before letting out a small sigh unnoticeable to others, but he's long past cared what people thought of him. "perhaps a liquorice tea with honey will help your coarse throat. unfortunately i think the only thing here that could help is whiskey." whiskey was a numbing agent after all. hattie meeney had taught him that about whiskey just add a bit of peppermint when he was sixteen.

[bludstaine]

has  she  ever  had  a  friend  like  honore?  mina  was  popular  enough  growing  up,  but  her  commitment  to  working  alongside  her  father  is  what  held  her  back  from  forming  those  true  childhood  friendships.  she  was  close  with  some  for  a  while,  but  the  games  and  who  she  became  in  their  aftermath  has  since  ripped  her  connections  clean  from  her  grasp.  and  then  she  met  him,  and  how  easily  they've  grown  to  care  for  each  other.  it's  so  unlike  her  to  trust  these  days,  but  here  she  is  spending  the  night  in  his  bed  and  knowing,  more  than  anything,  that  she's  safest  here.  with  a  hum,  she  pulls  her  legs  up  and  under  herself,  relaxing  against  the  couch  cushions  which  feel  so  familiar  beneath  her  weight.  how  many  years  has  it  been?  more  than  she  wants  to  admit. “they're  sick.”  she  sighs,  head  shaking  as  she  sips  on  her  coffee,  a  necessity  if  she  has  any  hope  of  getting  through  the  morning,  let  alone  what  ever  else  this  day  has  in  store  for  her.  a  reminder  of  her  games,  to  watch  herself  fall  apart  in  the  chaos  of  the  arena,  to  soak  herself  in  blood  until  there  is  no  mina  dewitt  left,  but  whatever  animal  she  had  become  in  the  middle  of  that  snow  storm.  “my  hero.”  she  smiles,  biting  on  her  lower  lip  as  she  looks  across  at  him.  comfortable,  at  home,  mina  reaches  to  switch  on  the  television  and  turn  to  the  news.  it  would  almost  feel  like  a  normal  day  if  she  weren't  in  the  capitol,  the  dread  a  living  thing  which  seems  to  crawl  up  her  spine  each  time  she  comes  here.  “the  party…  you're  ready?  i  wish  they'd  let  me  do  something.”  she  frowns,  a  wrinkle  forming  between  her  brows.  “just  be  safe.  please.”

THOUGH HONORE WAS RAISED TO BE A SOLDIER WHO DEDICATED THEIR LIFE TO THE REBELLION, EVEN THE GOLDEN CHILD HAD A WEAKNESS. His weakness wasn't his hair or his Achilles tendon like in the myths--- it came in the form of a silver-haired girl currently draped in his bed. A mission to keep an eye on the victor and recruit her into the rebellion turned into weekly visits to keep her away from the hungry Capitolites who wanted to wrap their arms around her. He told himself that it was all for the rebellion, that letting her sleep peacefully in his room was a way to keep her safe, but truthfully, he knew there was more to it than that--- he just didn't want to admit that out loud.

When she spoke, Honore momentarily forgot how to speak. He just stared at her sleep-tossed hair and tired smile before he finally pulled himself out of his stupor. "Morning." He responded, voice scratchy and hoarse from sleep. He watched her make her way into the kitchen as if she owned the apartment, and a light smile fell on his lips while her back was turned. The smile disappeared once she brought up the exhibition. "It's just another way to keep the Capitolites interested in the games." He shook his head, disgusted with the whole notion of summoning the victors during their time off. "I'll be working the event. If you want an escape, just come find me and I can sneak you out."

[bludstaine]

the  wine  glass  in  her  hand  feels  like  an  almost  comforting  weight.  she  sips  and  the  day  shrugs  itself  from  her  tired  shoulders.  libra  hates  being  here  almost  as  much  as  they  hate  the  the  place  itself,  it's  all  for  a  unified  goal,  but  it's  selfish  too.  revenge  seems  to  drive  everything  they  do,  linna's  memory  a  constant  shadow  hung  over  their  head  until  they  can  see  nothing  but  their  wife,  dead  amongst  the  trees  that  day.  it  never  will  leave  them,  but  maybe  that's  what  has  made  them  such  a  good  soldier,  marching  through  this  silent  war  until  they're  allowed  to  roar.  “aren't  we  all?”  she  snorts,  arching  a  brow  towards  miray.  this  work  as  a  gamemaker,  though  it's  all  for  show,  is  never  ending  and  wholly  demanding.  plutarch  tries  to  give  her  time  off,  but  she  doesn't  want  it,  anyway.  what  else  would  she  be  doing?  “i  need  a  comfortable  bedroom,  or  else  i  can't  get  to  sleep.”  they  admit,  shoulder  shrugging.  insomnia  has  plagued  libra  since  that  day  in  the  woods,  they  find  that  they  need  a  full  routine  just  to  get  a  few  hours  of  sleep.  “not  that  i  do  much  sleeping.  i'm  either  working  or  pacing.”

Miray walks over to the open plan kitchen and wastes no time in cracking open a bottle of her favourite red wine. She pours two rather generous classes into some overly extravagant Capitol glassware and heads back to hand one to Libra.

"Not a whole lot, I'm a very busy woman." Is all the explanation she gives for her home being so clinical. In actuality it's a tool, to remind herself that she doesn't belong here, that this place is not her home and that one day she will leave. It's so easy to be swept away by the Capitol and sometimes she needs the reminder. "Not every room in the house is like this, my bedroom is... slightly more cosy." slightly being the key word.

[bludstaine]

it's  all  a  misery,  everything  since  they  left  the  arena  had  been  a  goddamned  misery.  katniss  knows  she  could  be  doing  worse  than  the  life  she  has  with  peeta.  his  quick  thinking  has  meant  she's  avoided  her  greatest  dread,  no  children  running  around  their  ankles,  growing  too  quickly  until  they  reach  that  vital  age  of  twelve.  she  never  has  to  worry  about  her  mother  or  prim  going  hungry,  in  fact  she  sees  them  live  comfortably  all  things  considered.  she  even  has  haymitch  to  speak  to.  it's  all  better  than  it  should  be,  but  it's  the  mandatory  nature  of  it  all  which  has  made  her  so  reluctant.  and  then  peeta  makes  her  smile,  stood  in  a  hologram  of  the  arena  where  her  lips  had  barely  twitched  during  all  of  those  days,  and  she  is  reminded  of  how  wretched  a  person  she  is.  maybe  if  she  had  a  surer  grasp  of  herself,  katniss  could  let  herself  love  him  the  way  that  he  wants  her  to. she  cannot  stop  looking  at  it,  almost  amazed  at  their  childishness.  her  fingers  had  been  so  small,  her  hips  and  shoulders  skinny  and  nimble.  but  there,  in  her  eyes,  there  is  the  proof  that  she  had  felt  so  much  older  than  she  should  have  at  sixteen.  “we  were  so  small.  you're  taller,  now.  you've  grown  into  your  ears.”  it's  soft  and  it's  teasing,  and  it's  rare  for  them.  katniss  doesn't  open  herself  up  to  many  of  the  nicer  moments  in  their  relationship,  not  when  she's  on  such  high  alert  at  all  times,  keeping  herself  and  her  family,  their  friends  alive.  like  it  or  not,  peeta  is  her  family,  and  that  puts  a  target  on  his  back. “sure  as  hell  keeps  the  capitol  spinning.”  she  retorts,  watching  the  way  that  peeta  can  barely  stand  to  look  at  the  holograms.  maybe  it's  a  form  of  self  punishment  which  forces  katniss's  eyes  forward,  watching  it  all  unfold  exactly  as  it  had.  she  hates  the  way  they  all  seem  to  sigh,  it  almost  sounds  relieved  from  the  crowd  as  the  pair  share  a  kiss,  and  they  can  all  pat  themselves  on  the  back  for  allowing  two  people  so  in  love  to  go  on  living.  “you  were  helpful,  in  your  own  way.”  she  glances  towards  him,  a  small  smile  tugging  on  her  lips  as  she  teases  him  once  more.  he's  good  at  bringing  this  side  of  herself  out,  and  it  frightens  her.  “maybe.  cato  probably  would've  gotten  me,  if  you  hadn't  pulled  him  off  of  me.  i  don't  think  i  would've  wanted  to  win  without  you,  anyway.”  her  words  are  absentminded  and  casual,  katniss  believing  it  would  have  been  guilt  holding  her  back,  but  it  often  feels  like  so  much  more  than  that.

IF HE COULD COAX A SMILE OUT OF HER EVERY DAY FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE, IT WOULD ALL BE WORTH IT. Even the barest of smiles, the ones in which, Peeta knows, she tries so hard to hide. Katniss Everdeen is a woman built on survival, on making it to the next sunrise. Over the years, he began to wonder if that sense had waned at all. She's tired, he knows it. He's tired, too.

And yet, they stand beside each other next to a small hologram in memoriam for what made them famous: small, hungry, bleeding out. All the things the Capitol had not seen, because they were too focused on the bedazzled glamor of their budding love. Peeta wishes things had been different. There's no use in dwelling on the past, he knows, but his heart has grown so heavy over the years, how could he not?

He smirks, looking at her as if his words were some trade secret. "Money makes the world go round, didn't you know?" She nods toward the hologram and he reluctantly turns to glance. Only a glance, it's all he can bear, seeing a small version of himself dying from blood poisoning before he turns to face her and is greeted with her lips instead. It makes him relax a bit, though only a little. Peeta grasps her hand with an iron grip. "No, I just slowed you down for a few days instead," he jokes, matter-of-fact. "You would have won regardless. No doubt about it."

[bludstaine]

there's  something  about  these  parties  which  makes  the  minutes  spread  and  swell  into  hours.  katniss  has  grown  to  just  deal  with  them.  she  doesn't  kick  her  heels  in  any  longer,  nor  does  she  simply  refuse,  in  all  of  her  righteous  anger,  to  go  at  all.  she  just  gets  on  with  it,  because  this  is  her  world  now.  at  least  she  keeps  prim  safe,  her  mother  and  peeta,  gale  and  madge.  they  aren't  guilty  by  association  if  she  just  goes  through  the  motions  and  allows  what  happens  to  happen.  “you  know  everyone.”  she  reminds  him,  teasingly.  he's  one  of  the  very  few  she  likes,  even  considers  him  a  friend  if  such  a  thing  were  possible  in  the  capitol,  of  all  places.  “more  announcements?  what  next.  another  week  of  this,  probably.”  to  jett,  katniss  is  free  to  complain.  she  knows  he  won't  judge  her,  nor  will  he  pass  along  her  insolence  to  capitol  officials.  scoffing,  her  eyes  roll.  “they  really  need  to  find  someone  else  to  fawn  over.  surely  they  don't  believe  i  actually  like  speaking  to  them."

"Good, I know him and trust me you did not want to be stood there for too much longer." Jett grinned in that goofy way he often did. Despite everything he absolutely hated about the Capitol and the things that continuously happened around him Jett tried to say positive; especially around the tributes and victors. They'd been through so much if he could bring a tiny bit of positivity into their lives he would. "The second Ceaser makes his announcement I can make excuses for you so you can get out of here. Before then people might notice unfortunately, you know how they love the girl on fire."