firefly-ace - Tumblr blog

firefly-ace · 7 days ago

Text

the notes are always the scariest part of this 🤧

‧₊˚┊simple living things !

❛ NO MATTER WHAT ❜⌇𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭 𝔵𝔵𝔵

summary. Dishonesty and reticence is a plague to relation, eating away at credence. As Eleven descends into madness, this plague washes over the souls of many—revealing just how many truths were veiled over the past year.

warnings. depictions of death, descriptions of blood & gore, implications of impending rebellion, implications of a panic attack, references to past child deaths, mentions of drug addiction (morphling), descriptions of nightmares.

wc. 6 228

⊹ series masterlist ⊹ playlist ⊹ ao3 ⊹

7:42.

DISTRICT ELEVEN.

“Fuck Fedra!”

These words, despite being short in their longitude, hold enough significance to bring their possessor to his knees before the entirety of District Eleven. His flannel, red and plaid, catches your eye as you release Ellie’s hand and rush down the steps toward him. The entire District is shouting and screaming and pushing toward the front.

Then, when you’re two mere feet away from the man, a bullet is propelled from the barrel of a gun and driven right through his brain. You skid to a halt, your heart pounding under your ribs. His body thuds heavily against the ground at the same time that a Peacekeeper shoves you hard in the shoulders.

“Back up!” They shout, pointing their gun at your chest. You’re unmoved by the threat, glaring right at their whitened mask. They press the barrel deeper into your chest until the metal is biting at your skin. “I said back up!”

You then feel a hand tug at your shoulder before turning to find Ruben. He shoots you an unamused expression for having stirred up unnecessary problems. You huff before following him back onto the stage and into the Justice Building.

The doors slam shut behind you, the screams of Eleven slightly muffled by their thickness.

Your heart is still pounding—hard—when you look down at yourself, gaze falling onto the blood that now stains your clothing and your skin. It’s hot and it’s sticky and you suddenly feel like it’s choking you. Your breathing becomes increasingly uneven as your hands begin to shake.

Ruben touches your shoulder, but you flinch away from it. You don’t mean to; of course you don’t. But it reminds you of the Peacekeeper and his gun and the man’s flannel. It was red, as though he’d been expecting for it to end up stained with his own blood.

“Hey,” someone whispers your name as they crouch in front of you. “Hey, look at me.”

Slow and unsure, you lift your gaze to find Ellie a few inches away from your face. Her brows are knitted and her green eyes are filled with concern. She reaches a hand forward, but doesn’t quite touch you. She hovers it beside your cheek until you tip your head to the side, leaning into her palm, allowing you to make the decision of being touched.

Then she’s wiping the pad of her thumb across your skin, ridding you of the blood that stains it. You shut your eyes, breathing shakily through parted lips. She continues to wipe the splattered blood from your face, though it just feels like she’s cradling it. You let her, too, as you stand there with your eyes squeezed shut and our chest heaving for air.

Your ears are ringing, though you can hear the muffled conversation between Dina and Ruben about damage control as well as the muffled argument between Jesse and Alice about how best to keep the District in line.

The world swirls around you in blurred colors and whizzing noises. You’re suddenly longing for a dose of Morphling, uncaring of the consequence; for a moment of silence so as to collect your thoughts; for a hug from Remy. At the thought of him, you feel your throat close up as tears begin to trace steadily down your cheek. Ellie wipes them away, too. She doesn’t say anything as more begin to spill from your eyes, sobs wracking through your body in shudders.

When you manage to peel your eyes open, blinking rapidly, the loveliness of Ellie’s face comes into focus—all gentility despite the worry laced into her features. She meets your gaze and frowns deeply. “I’m sorry, I– I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help.”

You raise a hand, placing it delicately on her wrist as she continues to cradle your face. Then, in a soft whisper, you tell her, “You’re already helping.”

Ellie seems to relax at that, albeit minimally.

A semblance of sorrow resides within her eyes—always her eyes. You hold her gaze as your lower lip trembles slightly. She takes a step forward, sliding her hands from your cheeks to your shoulders. Then she’s wrapping her arms around you and pulling your body against her own. You stand there for a moment, rigid and stiff at the feel of her touch. It’s foreign. Not because you’re unused to it; rather because, this time, it feels genuine.

When you lie in bed beside her and she drapes an arm over your torso in her sleep, or when you’re reading in bed as she curls into your side, or when you wake from a nightmare to find she’s already consoling you. Those don’t feel real. Not the way this does.

You allow a soft breath to pass through your lips before shutting your eyes and raising your arms. Your palms press into her shoulder blades, pulling her closer against you. Then you’re dropping your head onto her shoulder and breathing shakily into the warmth of her skin. Tears continue to trace down your cheeks, though they slow a bit as your mind is pulled away from thoughts of the arena and toward thoughts of her.

In truth, you’re not sure why you reacted this way. You’ve thought of Dahlia and Cooper countless times before. Their faces have been scorched into the very marrow of your skull, of course you’ve thought of them. Dahlia’s kind smile as she played games with Remy; Cooper’s bright eyes when he spoke of his family during his interview. But those thoughts are now tainted by the memory of Dahlia’s split throat and Cooper’s corpse thudding before your feet.

Both of their untimely deaths were caused by your bloodied hands. Dahlia stepped toward Selene because she intended to help you, despite knowing the risk. Her endeavor in aiding you resulted with a blade in her neck. And Cooper’s death was, well, very directly caused by you. It was your own sword that drove his heart to a halt.

These two fallen children of Eleven are reminders of the cruelty that flows through your veins and the horridity that keeps your heart beating. You’re a L/n. Through and through, regardless of how you try to run from it, you’re a L/n.

You’re not sure how long you and Ellie stand like this: holding one another as though the rest of the world has already fallen away. But your attention is only retracted from Ellie when you hear someone leave through the front doors.

At the noise, your head snaps up. You release Ellie, turning your attention to the sounds of screaming and gunshots slicing through the air. You catch sight of Eleven’s descent through the crack in the doors as they’re swinging closed. It’s terrible. Bodies litter the ground, blood seeping into the cobblestone. Peacekeepers shoot into the crowd, caring naught for who or where their bullets hit.

Still, despite the inevitability of punishment, the crowd pushes onward. Still, they chant “Fuck Fedra” with nigh palpable abhorrence.

Ellie’s hands linger on your skin as you stare at the newly closed door. Dina assisted Mayor Lorraine onto the stage and they’re now attempting to calm the whole of Eleven. The mayor’s voice is muffled through the walls as she speaks into the microphone. It’s futile, you think, to even attempt such a feat.

“That–” You turn to Ruben with a furrowed brow. “That’s a rebellion.”

He inhales a deep breath. Almost as though he’d been waiting for this conversation to arise but hadn’t yet been prepared to address it. That’s when it clicks within your mind: he was hiding this from you. And, after taking one look at Joel and Jesse’s faces, you know they’d been harboring the same secret: there has been ongoing rebellion within the Districts. You glance at Ellie over your shoulder. She appears confused, though not nearly as shocked as you.

“Okay, jus’ listen…” Joel steps forward with a sense of tentativeness that’s reserved for hunters whilst approaching a wounded animal. You back away from him, shaking your head in disbelief. He pauses his movements, pressing his lips into a thin line. “This ain’t somethin’ to be taken lightly, alright? Rebellion has been rapidly growin’ in the Districts, but it’s nothin’ to be worried about. The mayor is handlin’ it as we speak.”

“And what of all the people out there who just died for something you’re saying to not worry about?” You snap. “Not to mention their mayor! That poor woman is far too old to be handling something like this.”

“Dina and I have been helping the mayor with her duties as much as possible.” Jesse says, striving to offer some sense of consolation to you. “But it has been getting harder. We’ve been trying to keep the District at bay, but it– It’s been getting worse.”

“Worse?” Ellie blurts out. “What do you mean worse?”

“It’s never been this bad, or course.” He’s quick to assure her. “But they’ve been getting restless in their demand for change.”

“They should be!”

“Calm down. All of you.” Joel demands rather harshly. “Rebellion like this ain’t uncommon within the lower Districts.”

“Maybe because the lower Districts are treated like cattle.” You point out.

“Okay, that’s enough.” Joel says. “I understand that you’re feeling…passionate. But this kind o’thing ain’t to be meddled with. It’s between the District mayors and the president himself. It’s not the business of victors who want t’demand change all of the sudden.”

“Change won’t happen unless victors demand it.” You tell him. “The Capitol will never listen to the Districts.”

“And if you knew this shit was happening, why didn’t you tell us?” Ellie adds on.

“The lives of everyone we care about are riding on this Tour.” You say. “Had I known a speech like that would have caused all of this, I would’ve chosen my words more carefully. But instead, you guys kept us in the dark and all hell broke loose.”

Ruben comes forward, a frown on his face. “Why don’t we head back to the train?”

“What?” You ask. “We’re supposed to spend an entire day within each District. We can’t just leave when shit gets shaky.”

“I think that's a good idea, Ruben.” Joel says, completely ignoring you.

With that, you’re led toward the back exit of the Justice Building. As you’re escorted to the station, you and Ellie exchange a look. What the fuck just happened?

13:24.

DISTRICT SEVEN’S TRAIN.

“Are you alright?”

Ellie’s voice is cautious, tentative. She’s sitting on the bed, knees drawn to her chest, as she watches you pace the floor. Her eyes follow you back and forth and back and forth again. It’s been twenty minutes since the two of you were brought back to the train. It hasn’t left the station, you guys were just put on it. Ruben and Joel are still in the Justice Building with Dina and Jesse, but both escorts and both stylists are in the train with you guys so as to ensure your safety and restrict your abscond.

If it were up to Ellie, she’d claim that the speech you gave was beautiful—even after witnessing its consequence. To her, the rebellion only proves the power behind your words and the adroitness to your eloquence. She admires it. Especially considering how many times she’d stumbled during her own speech. And she had a script in front of her!

“No! I’m not alright.” You snap, turning to her with a deepened scowl. But she knows you don’t mean the harshness residing behind your words. You’re just worked up and irritated and, admittedly, her question had been rather insensitive. You frown when you register how austere you’d spoken. “Sorry, I had– I didn’t mean to shout.”

She watches you fondly as your pacing ceases and you perch at the foot of the bed. A small smile tugs at her lips, endeared by how hastily you’d caught notice of your own harshness. She comes forward, inching across the mattress until she’s sitting right beside you. “I wouldn’t blame you even if you had meant to shout, you know.”

“Yeah.” Your voice is a whisper when you meet her gaze with a softened one of your own. Your mouth tugs upward, though only slightly. “Yeah, I know.”

She supposes you would know, considering how obvious she’s made it. Of course you know she wouldn’t blame you because she wouldn’t blame you for anything. Even if you’d caused the world to burn to ash, she’d react only by basking in your warmth. It’s an issue, probably, how deeply she reveres you. And, as this Tour passes by, Ellie has grown curious as to whether or not she’s faking at all. She’d never dare to point this out to you, though, considering all of which you’ve endured of late. Mister Alden was killed, you were forced to speak on two fallen children, and you bore witness to a massacre. Yeah, she does not exactly expect her personal turmoil to weigh heaviest on your mind.

While you were pacing the room for twenty minutes, Ellie watched you. She knew the war of which was being battled within your mind and, still, she watched you—awestruck. Her pupils traced the lines of your body, committing them to memory despite knowing you weren’t going anywhere.

She watched the way your knees bent and the way your arms swung and the way your brow creased. And, when she was able to do so, she uttered a suggestion to you—that, perhaps, the time would pass faster if you were to read your novel or take a nap or watch a film. Her words were ignored, but she knew it hadn’t been your intent to ignore them. You were simply too caught up in your own mind to recognize that she’d been speaking. She doesn’t blame you, of course, she never does.

So now, as she watches the inner workings of your mind begin to slow, she repeats her former offering. Her tone is soft in a way that would typically be reserved for prayer. “D’you want me to grab your book? We can lie down for a bit while we wait.”

You turn to her and your eyes—oh, your eyes—are gentle with a semblance of fond appreciation behind them. She swears she could stare into them all day, counting each crypt until she’s wrung dry of numbers to surmise. Then you’re nodding, slow and unsure, in response.

To this, Ellie wastes no time in crawling across the bed toward her nightstand and removing your book from upon up. You follow suit, moving down the bed until your spine is rested against the pillows. She hands you the book, watching as you scoot down into the mattress and open the novel to the page you’d last read from. Your eyes dart around the parchment for a moment before landing on the coveted line.

She sits there for a few minutes, cherishing the reposeful quietude of the bedroom. That, and the sight of you focusing on something aside from the terrible thoughts that swarm your head. She doesn’t blame you for that, either, considering all of which recently occurred. She knows, from footage and from yourself, that you’d been the one to end Cooper’s life. She also knows, from watching you toss and turn at night, that the guilt of it eats you alive. You hadn’t meant to do it; Ellie doesn’t need proof of that fact. And Dahlia—oh, she’d been so young. And you’d been so appreciative of her kindness toward Remy.

Ellie wonders, sometimes, if there’s a cell within your body that genuinely viewed Remy as your own son. Surely, among the immeasurably quantity of cells that materialize you, one of them loved him as your own. Thus causing love beyond comprehension and grief beyond repair. The day this train stops at Four for speeches is the day your composure is certain to fall like sand between your fingers. And Ellie intends to be there for you to pick up the scraps.

After a few minutes of tranquil silence, Ellie stands from the bed. You instantly turn, startled by the sudden movement. And when you speak, asking where she’s goin, your voice is so small. So curious that her entire chest caves in at the very sound. She assures you that she’ll return shortly and that she only covets to use the restroom. You accept this, nodding before turning back to your book.

She walks toward the door, opening it with a slight creak, then closes it with a soft thud. The hall is quiet but, from its mouth, she can hear the furtive voices of Birdie and Cat speaking lowly about an impending rebellion. Ellie pauses for a moment, straining to hear the details of the conversation. But she’s too far to make sense of their words. So, honing that innate hunter ability to walk without noise, she makes her way to the end of the hall.

“This has been inevitable since the beginning, Catalina.” Birdie is saying in a voice that sends a chill down Ellie’s spine. She’d never heard her speak so firmly. Not necessarily harsh, just firm. As if Cat hasn’t been listening to her.

“I understand that, okay? I simply do not want anything to happen that does not need to happen. Nobody should die that does not absolutely have to.” Cat responds. Her voice is equally pleading in terms of comprehension. “There are so many lives at stake here and, for once, I yearn for someone to acknowledge the gravity of such a thing as war.”

“I get it, Cat. I do.” Birdie exhales a fatigued sigh. “But there are casualties in war. Good people will die, it’s inescapable. The sooner you come to terms with that, the better.”

“Casualties in war?” She scoffs. “It’s nothing aside from murder without punishment.”

“Cat, don’t–”

“I’m serious! Even when the entire country is up in flames, people’s lives aren’t disposable. You know what is disposable? The match that started the fire in the first place.”

“And I am not disagreeing with that.” Birdie is attempting to speak with patience now. “All I’m saying is that it’d be best to accept the painful truths sooner rather than later. And the truth is, people die. People have died, people are dying, and people will die. Find something to fight for, or don’t fight at all.”

Ellie doesn’t hear the rest of that conversation because, then, the door of the train car is sliding open with a deafening creak. Cold winter air pours inside before Joel, Ruben, Dina, and Jesse ascend into the space. Peeking around the corner, Ellie attempts to read their expressions and thereby read the rebellion as a whole.

Joel looks as unfazed and stoic as ever, arms crossed and lips frowning. Ruben is speaking with Jesse, your name passing his lips more than once. Jesse is listening to Ruben, nodding along as he processes the man’s words. Dina is out of breath and mused all around, blinking rapidly as she scowls at nothing. There’s a stain of blood on the toe of her boot.

A pair of footsteps comes patting down the hall. Ellie knows it's you before she turns, all too familiar with the feel of your body approaching hers. When you reach her, though, you don’t pause to peer around the corner. Instead, you’re walking straight into the living area and up to your brother. Ellie doesn’t hesitate to follow behind you.

“What happened?” You’re asking frantically. “Did the mayor calm everyone down?”

“We did our best.” Dina says from across the room. She’s shaking her head, a tinge of disappointment residing behind the movement. “Fuck those Peacekeepers, honestly. And fuck their prejudices. They’re kept in the Districts to protect the citizens, not kill them.”

“How many died?” You ask her.

“Over a hundred, if I were to guess.” Dina shrugs. “We’ll be given an actual number tomorrow once the bodies are counted, but I’m certain it’ll be drastically below the true toll. They’re never honest about things like–”

“Dina.” Joel cuts in. “D’you have t’be such a pessimist?”

“About the deaths of my people?” She inquires with a roll of her eyes. “Yeah, I think I will be a fucking pessimist, Joel.”

“Just–” He pinches his nose, visibly exhausted by the trials of today. “Complain ‘bout it later, alright? I’m sick of stressin’ over it.”

“I’m not complaining, I’m simply being honest.” She snaps. “Hundreds of innocent people died—Fathers, mothers, children, and siblings. Dead. And you can bet your ass that the Capitol will be doing nothing to help rebuild Eleven’s community.”

As opinionated as Dina is, she’s right. The Capitol has never given aid to the struggling Districts. Not when Twelve faces starvation, nor when Seven faces illness, nor, in the case, when Eleven faces massacre from their law enforcement. It’s terrible and difficult to face, but it’s the truth. Like Birdie said: people will die, it’s inescapable. But it didn’t have to happen like this.

Ellie takes one look at you and can tell you’re seething with anger toward the Capitol. She has no idea what you went through during these past six months in her absence, but she knows you attended their parties frequently and therefore have a better read on their habits than she does. She also knows that, during this time, they had no issue with promoting your addiction to Morphling. She also knows, based on how Riley died within the arena, that the Capitol is aware of the rebellion and intends to snuff it out.

But they won’t. Not if everyone joins Eleven in their strive toward change.

“Why don’t we all just– calm down?” Jesse suggests with a concerned flick of his gaze toward the corner of the room. Ellie doesn’t need to turn in order to understand what he’s gesturing to��a security camera; one of which she’d completely forgotten the existence of. “While the Peacekeepers work alongside the mayor to bring tensions down in Eleven, Dina and I will have lunch with you all. If that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay.” Joel nudges his shoulder, rolling his eyes at Jesse’s audacity to assume—in any world—it would not be okay for them to join for lunch.

“The Avoxes shall have it ready within the hour.” Cat says. “Until then, we can all take this time to relax; to ease a bit of that stress from our shoulders.”

And that’s what they all do.

While the Avoxes prepare lunch for the entire group, everyone utilises this time to rest both their bodies and their minds.

Dina collapses with Joel on the couch, speaking lowly as though unwilling to strain her voice. Ellie supposes she cannot blame her seeing as she was the one aiding the mayor in efforts to calm the District.

On the other sofa within the same room, Tilly and Alice watch the television coverage of what happened today. The media, of course, was swift to cut the cameras when things grew out of control. But they were unable to cover it all—thus revealing to everyone in the country the truth of what’s happening within Eleven.

Cat and Birdie, however, have disappeared alongside Jesse. If Ellie were to guess, she’d assume they went into the bathroom so as to speak in solitude about the rebellion and its details. Now more than ever, Ellie wishes they were all able to speak freely. Because, what with everything that’s just been revealed, honesty is of utmost importance.

In the other room, you whisper furtively to Ruben. Ellie is standing at your side, though she doesn’t dare to speak considering the rigidity in the air between you two. Ruben is attempting to assure you that everything will be taken care of but, still, you’re insistent on the idea that something more must be done.

Ellie agrees with you, of course she does. She just wishes you weren’t so adamant on declaring such things right now. The cameras are across the room, but she hasn’t a doubt in her mind that your words are being traced by the Capitol. Judging by your enraged expression, however, there’s uncertainty regarding whether you give a shit what the Capitol does or does not hear. Your heart is in the correct place, as it oftentimes is, but your mind isn’t quite so.

“I understand your frustration!” Ruben whisper-shouts. “I do! But, as we have said countless times before, this is a fragile situation to be meddling with. And if you–”

“Wanting justice for the Capitol’s martyrs is not meddling, Ruben!” You whisper-yell in return. “Those people in the crowd who died today did so under the impression that their retaliation would mean something! They sacrificed their lives for–”

“For stupidity!” He cuts in. You snap your mouth shut, visibly aghast by his words. He heaves a heavy sigh, squeezing his eyes shut in annoyance. “Those people were brought up in the same world as you and I. They knew damn well the Capitol wouldn’t collapse under the heretic of a couple citizens of Eleven.”

“They may have been born into the same world, Ruben, but they were not raised by the same family.” You point out in a tone so harsh that Ellie wonders how you manage to remain in a whisper. “Our family has roots in the Capitol and our voices are thereby far louder than any of theirs combined. We have a responsibility to them; to anyone who’s brave enough to stand against Fedra’s tyranny. To do what they did today? That takes strength. But standing around like this takes only ignorance.”

Ruben opens and closes his mouth a few times, clearly in search of a reply that would justify his decision to not entwine himself in the affairs of Eleven’s fallen crowd. All the while, you remain as you were—staring him down like a predator with narrowed eyes, a clenched jaw, and a heaving chest.

Luckily for Ruben, the announcement of lunch’s preparation frees him from your conversation. Alice is the once to proclaim it, beckoning everyone toward the dining table. Ruben is the first to arrive, hasty in his rush toward an escape from you.

You watch him leave, still infuriated beyond Ellie’s comprehension. But then she notices that your hands are balled into fists that are shaking at your sides. She reaches forward, lightly grazing one of those tightly coiled hands. You recognize her touch in an instant, turning to her with an expression of residual irritation.

“I just– I don’t understand how anyone could ever stomach the thought of such cruelty.” You begin ranting to her. All the while, she slowly uncoils your fist, thus removing your nails from your pierced and bloodied palm. You hardly notice as you’re so caught up in your own fury to care much for what she’s doing. “And the worst part is that they’ve all known! For god-knows-how-long, they’ve all been aware of this impending horridity and they’ve done nothing! They didn’t even tell us! We’re the ones with shit on the line, here.”

Ellie is unsure what you need to hear at the moment. Do you want someone to argue with, thus draining you of your desire for a fight? Or do you want someone to understand you and to agree with you? She’s more convinced of the former, though she opts for the ladder because– well, she doesn’t quite enjoy the act of arguing with you.

“No, I agree.” She nods, still working to wrench your hands open. You finally notice her movements, glancing down at where she’s fumbling with your clenched fingers.

You blink, appearing to not have even noticed you’d been doing it. Then, when you open your palm to find four red, crescent-shaped indentations, you glance back up at her with a frown. Ellie brings your hand to her lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of your palm. You watch her closely, the tension in your muscles easing a tad.

“I’m with you.” She whispers. “No matter what, I’m with you.”

01:56.

DISTRICT SEVEN’S TRAIN.

Darkness swallows you whole. You can hear them, though, in the distance, calling your name. They’re all here, somewhere within the void of blackness that shields your vision. Perhaps you’ve gone blind, or perhaps the sun has been stolen from the sky. Whichever the case, you loathe it vehemently for depriving you of your senses and slowly easing your mind into a state of insanity.

Your thighs are burning and your lungs are aching. You’re unsure how long you’ve been running—seconds, maybe, or years. But you’re determined to reach them, even if you’re unable to see their youthful faces. Because they’re all here with you, wherever that may be. And they’re alive and they’re calling for you.

A stabbing pain is suddenly felt within your torso. A cramp, or maybe a dagger. Regardless, you ignore it and continue onward. You press your hand to the segment of your body that’s in agony, hoping to soothe it via pressure. You glance down at your hand, only to remember you cannot see whether or not it’s soaked in blood.

Your gait staggers as time wears on, teasing in his ability to hide himself from you. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, years, lifetimes pass as you run through this darkness that embodies you.

Then your feet collide with something and you’re toppling toward the ground. The something groans in pain at the impact of your foot’s collison. You whip around, blinking through nothingness, in hopes of seeing who it is that you’ve met. They don’t reveal themself to you, or perhaps you truly have gone blind. In the absence of your sight, your hearing works rather splendidly.

“There you are!” The cheery voice belongs to Dahlia, tinged in youth and marinated in innocence. Oh how you wish you could see her face—that coily head of hair, those bright brown eyes. Alas, you’re punished by blindness. Then you feel her hand grabbing yours as she begins to tug you to your feet. “Come on, the others are waiting!”

You grin, opening your mouth so as to ask ‘others? what others?’ only to find that your voice doesn’t work. The chords which reside within your neck are negligent in their job to formulate words.

Dahlia continues to pull you forward, vehement in her endeavor to lead you toward these others. You stumble over your own feet, though the ground feels solid and smooth like marble. All the while, Dahlia is giggling and pulling and giggling some more.

“There you are!” Calls out another voice. Cooper.

“Oh, I haven’t seen you both in so long!” Remy.

Your sightless eyes are suddenly being lined with tears. Dahlia releases your hand as you fall to your knees, reaching forward blindly until you feel the familiarity of Remy’s warm skin beneath your palm. He’s smiling, causing his cheeks to feel full and healthy. He leans into your hand, still smiling widely. His face is warm and solid and alive under your touch.

“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” Cooper asks.

“Yes.” Replies Dahlia. “How long, exactly, Remy?”

His head turns toward the sound of her voice, though you don’t dare remove your hands from him. Oh, you wish you could see him like this: happy and youthful and young. His hair must be unmatted and his clothes mustn’t be stained. Like this, clean and safe, he’d be foreign to you.

“Seven years, I believe.” Remy responds.

‘Seven years?’ You yearn to ask. ‘Seven years since what?’

The children continue to speak of things you know nothing about: time and space and sight. Through it all, you continue to hold Remy and he continues to bask in your adulation. You hardly even care for the lack of sight or voice so long as you can remain here forever. As time wears on, you’re certain to grow used to it. Perhaps, one day, you’ll even forget what it was like to see and speak.

“Come on, now.” Cooper is saying. “He’s waiting.”

Remy turns, but chooses to hold your hand so as to not release you so soon. You stand from the floor, listening as the children speak of this nameless person. Another child, you presume, having sensed the pattern here. They begin to walk and Remy leads you through the darkness. You trust him, though, never once doubting his intentions. Why would you?

Your collective footsteps all clack against the ground, echoing off of walls that you hadn’t known existed prior to this moment. Seeing as you just ran for an immeasurable amount of time and never once collided with a wall, you’d simply assumed they ceased to exist. And yet, there is echoing.

“There you are!” Calls out another voice. But this one isn’t airy with youth, nor is it bubbly with childish laughter. It’s gruff and deep and terrifyingly recognizable. President Fedra is here, within the darkness and among the children.

You’re instantly yanking Remy behind you, blocking him with your body as you rely solely on your hearing to defend him. But Remy tugs away from you. When he speaks next, his voice is thin and robotic. “It’s been a long time, Y/n. Has it not?”

You turn around to stare through the void toward where you assume he is standing. You open your mouth, but no words come out. Cooper laughs, loudly, as you struggle to formulate words with your hollowed-out throat. Soon, Dahlia is joining in as she laughs at your misfortune. Then, before long, so is Remy.

“I knew you kids would like her better like this.” Says Fedra as his heels clack against the sleek flooring beneath him. He’s coming closer, though you cannot tell where from. His footsteps are echoing off of a million different walls, masked translucently by the barking laughter of children. He tuts and you can feel his breath caress the shell of your ear. You cringe away from him. “She always spoke too much, didn’t she?”

“She did!” Cackles Cooper.

“Oh, yes, she did!” Giggles Dahlia.

“She really, really did!” Laughs Remy.

You feel as vulnerable as a raw nerve, standing in the void of darkness as four people join together to taunt you for your lack of purpose as a being. You cannot see, rendering you unable to protect yourself. You cannot speak, rendering you unable to defend yourself. You can hear, though, rendering you capable of registering the loathing of others. This was strategic; a plan in which you assume to have been concocted by someone malicious—Fedra.

“Eight years, children, since my reign became absolute! Everyone who has once been aligned with the rebellion is now dead!” The children cheer. “Do you wish to be told the list, again?”

“Yes!” They all reply in unison.

Their voices ricochet off the walls, causing it to sound as though there are millions of people urging to hear the name of the fallen. And, as Fedra reads out the list of names, you’re certain another eon has passed. Each name, you know keenly. Your loved ones, all, have perished. And Fedra goes on to explain how. Birdie was mutilated, Catalina was drowned, Joel was stabbed, Ruben was beheaded, and Ellie was burned alive.

“Nine years!” Proclaims the president. “It has been ten years since all of these names have become obsolete! All… except one.”

You don’t need your eyes in order to know all of theirs have been turned toward you. Their steps echo against the floor, coming from every direction. You stumble backward, breathing heavily, as the four of you cage you between their bodies.

You wake with a scream, still trying to evade your fate.

Your spine hits something hard as you scramble in the darkness to get away.

There’s a click and light pours across the space. For a moment, you don’t quite process what you see—you’re in bed, on the train, beside Ellie. She turned on her bedside lamp and is now turning to you, blinking the sleep from her eyes. You breathe hard, eyes scanning her body for burn marks. But she’s okay. She’s okay.

Ellie scoots forward, brow creased, as she watches you. You’re certain you look like a maniac considering how panicked you are. The dream wasn’t even that bad, compared to those of which have come before. You didn’t watch anyone die, you didn’t get eaten alive by mutts, you weren’t drowned limb by limb, etc.

“What happened?” She asks, as she always does.

She always wants to hear what your nightmares consist of, listening patiently as you struggle to recall them. Then, one detail at a time, she assures you none of it was real. It calms you. So you’ve begun doing the same for her when she’s the one waking up like this.

“I was blind. And mute.” You shake your head, looking down at your lap as you try to puzzle out how to explain the content of which occurred without sounding insane. “Dahlia and Cooper were there. So was Remy and– And Fedra was there, too. It had been seven years since– no, it was nine. Or was it ten? Eight?”

“Since what?” Ellie asks gently.

“Since he slaughtered everyone who was related to the rebellion efforts.”

notes ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ "no matter what, i'm with you" GOD WHEN IS IT MY TURNNNN anyway, aside from my plenary jealousy for a love that i created, how are we feeling ab this chapter ??? yn has made a few controversial statements & there is now a clear divide between the group. & yes, i caused an argument between yn and ruben as SOON as they rekindled their relationship because love is never easy, platonic or otherwise 💔 also YES i know cat & birdie were having a veryyyy political convo in front of a ton of cameras. this was not a plot hole, it will indeed come back (horribly)

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 perm. taglist @luvsturniolo. @ilovewomenfr. @zzombiegirl. @elliessweetheart. @shawangel. @defnoteleonor. @fatbootymuncher. @autisticintr0vert. @ellieslittleslutt. @sawaagyapong. @firefly-ace

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 series taglist @kirammanss. @dsybouquet. @serraphinm. @smellovie. @sakiigami. @opt1mistic. @spacecinnamonbuns. @clouded-whispers. @sappicarribean. @corpsebridenightmare. @jaliyah-s. @pixiec4t. @chappellroankisser. @mxquelo. @vahnilla. @moshuka. @cupidluvzz. @elliewilliamssrealgf. @monki-nat. @tmbpyv. @prwttiestbunnies. @jinxtheplanet. @sevslover @iheartclairo66. @rxreaqia. @abby-anderson-wifey. @imdeletingthisaccount1. @sillyloafff. @d1psht. @chappellroankisser. @aphrodyk3. @lovececillie. @fleurdels. @avalovesmus1c. @201sweetgiverface. @lovestay-woozi17

53 notes · View notes

firefly-ace · 10 days ago

Text

Mornings with Ellie 💕

48 notes · View notes

firefly-ace · 11 days ago

Text

glove compartment weed.

(drug dealer!ellie x reader smut)

———————

ellie lynn williams was quiet.

she never spoke to anybody around campus—yet everyone knew her. everyone called her “ew.”

not out of disrespect. that was her dealer name.

she chose it on a whim, when someone once asked her name and she didn’t want to give them the real one. said it like a joke.

“ew,” she’d smirked, flicking a lighter with one hand, paper rolled between her lips.

but it stuck.

ellie lynn williams was stealthy.

she’d been selling weed all four years she’d been at this college and somehow — somehow — no one important had ever found out. not a single strike. not a single whisper to admin.

she didn’t move in loud groups. didn’t party. didn’t stay too long in one place.

she was a shadow in a hoodie, and a half-laugh behind a smoke cloud.

ellie lynn williams was secretive.

when people bought from her, they didn’t just meet in a parking lot. she took people to places — weird, out-of-the-way spots no one else thought to look.

a locked maintenance stairwell. the second floor of the campus chapel, where no one ever went. a boarded-up dorm room where she kept a beanbag chair and a single red lamp.

each place was different. each place was just for them.

but ellie had run out of places.

so when you got her number from someone — scribbled onto a folded napkin with a wink and a “tell her you know tasha” — ellie got to thinking.

who the fuck is this one gonna be?

and more importantly:

where the fuck am i gonna take them?

you end up meeting ellie in her car. not as discreet as she probably wanted — parked on the far edge of the science building lot, half-tucked behind a line of shitty trees — but it would have to do.

you’d texted her sweetly. kindly. no emojis, no slang.

“hi… i got your number from tasha? no rush but i’d love to buy if you’re still selling.”

you even signed your name. she liked that. it made her feel like you weren’t gonna fuck her over. and so, she agreed.

when you get there, she’s already waiting.

car idling. music low. windows cracked.

you knock gently on the passenger side window.

it rolls down, and smoke curls out like it had been waiting.

the first thing you see is the joint between her fingers — then her face. she’s got these cheekbones that could cut glass and this mouth that looks like it doesn’t smile much. but her hair — god. short, grungy, messed up from her fingers probably running through it all day.

dark brown at the roots, but there’s sun in the ends.

“come in,” she says, voice low. casual. like it’s no big deal.

you slide into the passenger seat. her car’s small. beat-up red honda civic with no hubcaps — but the inside’s pristine.

black leather seats. no air fresheners. no stuffed animals. not even a damn keychain.

you think about how your car’s got little charms and gum wrappers and a sticker on the dash.

this is the opposite.

cold. sleek. a little intimidating.

you hand her the folded bills, and she pulls open the glove compartment without looking at you.

inside, there’s exactly what you asked for — plus a little extra, tucked under the flap of the baggie.

she hands it to you without ceremony.

you murmur a thank you. and she doesn’t answer — just takes another drag and looks out the windshield. you think she’s done with you.

you start to reach for the door handle.

then:

“you can stay. if you want.”

you pause. look back at her.

“you wanna smoke with me?” you ask, voice a little quieter.

she shrugs. “i already lit it.”

you smile. “okay.”

you settle in. she passes the joint to you, and you take a hit, let it burn slow and warm in your chest. the silence between you two is weirdly comfortable.

you glance at her again.

and because the weed’s making you soft — or brave — you say it.

“your hair’s really fucking cool. it’s the first thing i noticed when i walked up.”

ellie scoffs softly. half a laugh.

like it caught her off guard.

“it’s not that nice,” she mutters, eyes flicking to you. “i cut it myself.”

you pass the joint back and your fingers touch — soft, lingering. she doesn’t pull away right away. neither do you.

then she takes the joint and leans back against the window, flicking ash out of the cracked glass.

“hot punk ghost, huh?” she mutters, smoke curling out of her mouth like a sigh.

“yeah,” you say, grinning again.

ellie smirks, eyes half-lidded. “that’s flattering.”

you shrug, eyes on her. “i mean it!”

she snorts and it’s the first real sound of amusement she’s made since you got in the car. you take another hit. the smoke slides down smooth now.

you exhale slow. watch it dissipate into the fading light outside.

“how long you been doing this?” you ask quietly.

“selling?”

you nod. ellie taps ash into a tiny glass tray in the cup holder. “since freshman year. started out just for fun. little extra cash. then people started asking for me by name.”

“ew,” you say, with a smile tugging at your mouth. she rolls her eyes. “god, i hate that that stuck.”

“you named yourself.”

“i was high,” she says, deadpan. “and someone had just asked my name in the middle of a buy, and i panicked. so i said ‘ew.’ and they laughed. and then they told people.”

“could’ve been worse,” you say. “but whats your real name?” ellie paused. should she tell you? she hasn’t told anybody.

“ellie.”

“ellie,” you smile, tasting the name on your tongue. you realize you haven’t really stopped smiling since you got in. she hands the joint back, and your fingers brush again.

this time it’s on purpose.

you’re both quieter now. high in that sleepy way — where everything feels just like a little slowed down.

“so,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “what do you study? or is selling weed your full-time major?”

ellie huffs out a laugh. “nah. i’m not that cool. environmental science.”

you blink. that surprises you.

“seriously?”

“yeah.” she shrugs. “figured if i’m gonna be a burnout, might as well be one that gives a shit about the planet.”

you smile. “okay. i like that.”

she glances over at you. “what about you?”

you tell her. she nods like she already kinda knew.

you pass the joint again. it’s almost done now — a little crooked, the paper burned uneven — and when she pulls from it this time, she closes her eyes just for a second.

you watch her jaw flex. watch the smoke leave her mouth like it’s alive. your heart’s starting to do this weird thing. a little faster. a little softer.

you’re both stoned now. properly.

and everything feels… quieter. heavier.

the kind of high that makes you lean toward each other without realizing. makes you brave. or maybe just honest.

you look at her again, and say it without thinking.

“you’re really interesting.”

she opens one eye, amused. “interesting?”

“yeah,” you murmur. “like… i don’t know. i didn’t expect you to actually talk to me.” ellie’s mouth twitches. “did you think i’d just hand you the weed and grunt or something?”

you laugh. “kinda.”

“well,” she says, dropping the roach in the tray, “normally, yeah. but you were nice. and you didn’t act weird. and…”

she trails off. looks at you.

her gaze lingers this time. longer than before.

“…you’ve got a good vibe,” she finishes, a little quieter.

you bite your lip.

look away.

your cheeks are warm. it’s the weed. it’s gotta be the weed.

ellie reaches up to adjust the rearview mirror. doesn’t need to — it’s a stupid, automatic move — but it breaks the moment. softens it.

“you wanna go somewhere?” she asks, not looking at you.

“like where?”

“i dunno. anywhere. a walk. the roof of the library. i just… don’t feel like dropping you off yet.”

you smile. “okay.”

just that quiet buzz of two people orbiting each other — the smoke, the warmth, the possibility building slow and real.

you ride in silence. her veiny hand drums the steering wheel at stoplights. yours rest on your thighs, buzzed and fidgety. you’re not nervous. not really. just excited.

she parks behind the library — half off the pavement, next to a little loading dock — and cuts the engine.

then she glances at you, grin barely there.

“come on.”

you follow her. up a rusted metal ladder, through a creaky maintenance door she clearly didn’t find by accident. and then — you’re up.

the roof is wide and dark and covered in gravel.

windy, but not too bad. you can see the whole campus from here — glowing dorm windows, streetlamps flickering, the glow of far-off headlights slicing through the trees.

quiet. open. above everything.

“do you come up here a lot?” you ask. ellie shrugs, pulling out another joint. “eh.” she lights it, takes a hit, and passes it to you.

you both sit on the edge. legs dangling over.

the silence now is better. not awkward. not even charged. just… easy.

“you always take buyers to secret spots?” you ask, voice a little fuzzy around the edges. ellie exhales slow. nods. “yeah. makes it feel less like a transaction. more like… something else.”

“like what?”

she looks at you.

eyes steady.

mouth soft.

“personal,” she says simply.

you look away first. you have to. she’s too much when she looks at you like that — stoned and open and calm.

you talk for a while. about classes. about old roommates. about shitty cafeteria food and what songs feel like fall. you get dizzy high. the kind that makes you feel like you’re glowing a little.

you’re laughing about something stupid when you realize her knee is against yours again.

you don’t move away this time.

neither does she.

“it’s cold,” you say eventually, voice hushed.

“yeah,” ellie says. “i’ll drive you back.”

the walk to the car was different now.

the silence has teeth now.

her hand is clenched loosely around the gear shift. your mouth feels too full of words you haven’t said yet.

she pulls into the same lot she picked you up from. puts the car in park. doesn’t move.

you don’t move either.

you just… sit there.

heat on low.

radio still playing something soft.

and your heart is fucking pounding.

you turn toward her — just barely.

her eyes meet yours.

and this time — she doesn’t ask.

her hand slides to the side of your neck.

her thumb traces your jaw.

and her mouth is on yours — slow and sure and aching like it’s earned.

warm. certain. unhurried.

not messy or wild — not yet.

just close.

you tilt your head and she follows, thumb still on your jaw, guiding you gently.

her lips part, and you kiss her back open-mouthed — slow, almost lazy, like you’ve got all night to memorize the way she tastes.

and maybe you do.

the car’s quiet, save for the low hum of the heater and the rhythm of your breaths shifting.

ellie pulls back slightly. her eyes are dark and a little glassy, but focused on you like she’s never wanted anything more than what’s right in front of her.

“c’mere,” she mumbles, voice rough with smoke and heat.

you move closer, sliding across the seat. she reaches down and tugs your leg over hers, pulling you into her lap like it’s second nature.

her hands settle at your hips. one thumb brushes under your shirt — warm against your skin — while the other grips you tighter, grounding you there.

you kiss her again, and this time it’s deeper.

more deliberate.

your hips shift without thinking, just the lightest roll, and you feel her exhale sharply into your mouth.

“fuck,” she mutters, low. “you feel good.”

your fingers find her hair — tug just a little — and she groans. tilts her head back to give you more.

you mouth along her jaw. down her neck.

she tastes like weed and heat and the cold air she just left behind.

her hand slides up your back under your shirt, fingertips tracing your spine slow.

you press down again, harder this time — just enough to make her bite her lip. her hands tighten. her hips move up to meet you, and it’s like something clicks.

“backseat,” she whispers, already breathless. “now.”

you don’t think — just climb.

knees on leather. bodies shifting.

she follows you, pulling the seat forward, slamming the door shut behind you both.

suddenly you’re straddling her again, this time in the back — tighter space, darker, hotter somehow.

her hands are on your thighs now. sliding up, thumbs dragging slow.

she tugs at your waistband — not rushing, just wanting.

“can i?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

you nod. “please.”

she slips her hand beneath the fabric — just low enough to touch where you’re already aching.

you gasp, forehead dropping to her shoulder.

“shit,” she breathes. “you’re—fuck.”

her mouth finds your throat, kissing along the edge of your jaw as her fingers circle slow.

you grind down against her hand, breath shaky, skin buzzing.

your hands are in her hair again, her hoodie bunched up between your fingers.

your body’s still trembling when you feel her shift beneath you — her fingers sliding out slow, glistening. she drags them up across your hip like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. you blink, dizzy, the windows fogged up, your thighs still spread open across her lap.

then ellie brings her hand to her mouth.

sucks the fingers clean.

your breath stutters. her eyes flick up to meet yours, and it’s filthy, the way she watches you while she does it — lazy and cocky and a little stunned. like she can’t believe how good you taste.

“fuck,” she mutters, voice scraped raw. “you’re insane.”

you pull her in before she can say anything else — kiss her hard, messy, open-mouthed. your hands slip under her hoodie, tug at her shirt, push until she gets the hint and pulls both off in one smooth motion. her skin’s hot under your palms. smooth and freckled and tense with how much she’s holding back.

“take your pants off,” you whisper against her mouth.

she groans like you’ve hit a nerve. “jesus—”

you help her, fumbling together, pushing denim down over her thighs, underwear with it. it’s awkward in the tight space, your knees bumping, your backs hitting the car door — but it doesn’t matter.

you’re both high enough to not care.

she grabs your hips, pulls you forward again, and you straddle her — bare to bare now, slick and pulsing. her hands grip your ass, guiding you down, and when you press against her, you both gasp.

you rock against her — slow, unsteady, desperate. your hips grind together, her thigh flexing under you, and the friction is everything. wet, warm, sticky. your skin slaps. the windows are fogged. your breath catches on every thrust.

“fuck, baby—” ellie’s voice cracks. she’s holding on like she’s trying not to fall apart.

you lean in, mouth on her neck, teeth scraping just a little. “you like this?”

“i’m gonna fucking die,” she hisses.

your hand slips between you, finds where you’re both soaked, and you rub — just enough to make her twitch, to make her hips jerk up into yours. she’s groaning now, low and broken and unfiltered, face flushed and mouth slack.

“please,” she pants. “don’t stop—fuck, don’t stop—”

you don’t.

you keep grinding, rubbing, your forehead pressed to hers, her hands bruising your waist. it’s sloppy and soaked and perfect. heat spirals in your belly again. your thighs shake. you moan into her mouth, and she swallows it whole.

you both come like that — together, clinging, shaking, teeth sinking into each other’s skin just to keep quiet.

after, you collapse against her. sweaty. breathless. wrecked.

but she keeps going.

you whisper her name once — just once — and she groans like it does something to her.

“say it again,” she says, lips pressed to your neck.

“ellie—” you whisper.

she slips a finger inside you. then another.

you break. silently. fully.

rocking against her hand, your mouth pressed to her shoulder to muffle the sounds spilling out.

her other hand cradles the back of your head.

holds you close while she fucks you slow — steady — deep.

not fast. not rough.

just right.

you squirt with a soft, stuttering cry, body going still in her lap.

she kisses you through it — slow and tender, hand never leaving your waist.

you stay like that for a long time. breathing hard. legs still shaking.

and then her voice, quiet against your temple:

“you staying the night?”

you nod into her neck. “yeah.”

she kisses your cheek. “good, mama.”

1K notes · View notes

firefly-ace · 14 days ago

Text

‧₊˚┊simple living things !

❛ LOVE UNDETERRED ❜⌇𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭 𝔵𝔵𝔦𝔵

summary. The first day of the 74th Victory Tour is rather uneventful for viewers at home. That's okay, though, because the following day makes up for it tenfold.

warnings. mentions of severe poverty & starvation, heavy implications of drug (morphing) addiction, mentions of past death, depictions of grief/loss, descriptions of survivors guilt, mentions of homophobia & torture & execution, brief mentions of past cannibalism (david), mentions of rebellion, descriptions of death via gunshot

wc. 11 104

⊹ series masterlist ⊹ playlist ⊹ ao3 ⊹

05:22.

DISTRICT TWELVE.

If Ellie thought District Seven had it bad, Twelve just gave a brand new definition to the word. Here, the residents don’t even have running water nor electricity. Their homes are little more than wooden sheds and there’s a rather morbid lack of children—likely caused by the harsh winter and lack of food.

It’s been over an hour since the train arrived and almost all of this time was spent in the company of the District’s mayor and mentor, both of which were on a heavy dosage of Morphling. Ellie noticed the way your eyes lingered on the gauze wrapped around their elbows, likely covering the syringe markings. There are multiple ways to ingest Morphling, created malleable so as to be used with utmost convenience. Some drink it, some inhale it, some inject it, etc.

The mentor, Stephen Lawrence, is better off than the mayor. Not by much, but at least he is capable of walking around and talking intelligibly. His hair is streaked with gray—evidence of having been a mentor for the past thirty-six years. Nobody has won since his games and, quite frankly, nobody is expected to. Many Capitolites were shocked by how far David got in these last Games, having expected him to meet his demise as hastily as James had.

Stephen is walking around the Justice Building, giving the group an exaggerated tour of each and every room. He goes on and on about how nice it is that the mayor has been given a bathtub—which is apparently a luxury of which nobody else in Twelve has access to. Ellie raises her brow at how well Stephen knows his way around this place and how fondly he speaks of the mayor.

“Stephen,” Joel cuts into his long dialogue with a gruff calling of his name. “We’re running late to the speech.”

The man turns, brows raising with an intoxicated twitch. “Wha– How late?”

“Mm.” Alice glances at her golden watch before announcing, “Twenty-two minutes.”

It doesn’t take long, after that, before you and Ellie are being shoved out of the Justice Building and onto a makeshift wooden stage that feels like it’s about to collapse under your weight. It happened so fast that Ellie’s eyes haven’t yet adjusted to the sudden brightness of the sun. When they do, though, she’s rather taken aback by the thinness of Twelve’s crowd. Most of them are middle-aged men, their bones poking through their skin with sunken eyes and hollowed cheeks. It’s pitiful, really, the state that they’re in.

In the very back of the crowd, though, there are two stages withholding the families of the fallen tributes. Behind them are banners imprinted with their dead kin’s face. On James’ side, there is a frail blonde woman holding a small toddler on her bony hip. The child stares at you and Ellie as though she knows what you did. On David’s stage is… nobody.

There’s a script that the two of you were given and thus expected to read aloud. You’re holding it between your hands as you approach the rusted microphone. Ellie stands beside you as you read it in a rather monotonous voice.

It speaks of the tributes’ bravery and their accomplishments. It reflects on the scores they received during their evaluations as well as how long they managed to survive within the arena. It’s all very emotionless, honestly, and makes Ellie feel disgusted with herself. David had nothing to live for, had nobody to return home to. And, still, he fought for his life as though it held more worth than anyone else’s. She can’t blame him for that, she supposes, but he hurt Remy—which she has no problem with blaming him for.

The speech ends and the audience just sort of stands there, blank and unreactive. Then, as though they’re all puppets on a string of obedience, they give an applause—albiet a disingenuous one.

Then you and Ellie are being escorted back into the Justice Building. Easy as that. As if the losses of David and James meant nothing to anyone aside from another miserably fallen tribute Reaped from Twelve. James had a wife and a daughter to return to, yet was killed within the first hour of the Games. And, when given one final opportunity to make right all of which has gone wrong, the Capitol does naught aside from shove a script into your hands and a microphone into your face.

She should have said something. She should have mentioned how their lives, despite having ended, were no less significant. They deserved to live just as much as any other tribute, regardless of what District they originated from. She should have apologized for killing David, even though she doesn't regret it. She should have–

“Ellie.” Your hand is brushing the inside of her wrist, quietly grabbing her attention.

She lifts her head to find that everyone else has already left to go into the other room, Stephen leading the group like some sort of tour guide. She blinks at you and, within your eyes, she sees that you’re feeling the same as she—guilt for having not spoken up.

With a small nod, she begins walking with you to the dining room where everyone else is already seated with a plate in front of them. It’s a breakfast meal, considering it’s still five in the morning. She wonders how the hell this schedule will work, considering you’re expected to spend an entire day in each District. But the speeches go by so fast, and then what? The rest of the day is spent with Stephen and the mayor, talking about random things none of you actually care about?

Though, as it turns out, Stephen is rather good at filling the time. It’s noon when he’s still talking about the wonders of Twelve and all it has to offer. Everyone else has long since finished their breakfasts and are now hungry for lunch.

“—But then there’s the coal mines, though they’re not as flashy as what y’all have up in Seven, or down in Four.” He’s saying fervently, his hands waving around with his words. “The mountains here provide good terrain for mining. And then there’s the—”

Ellie stops listening. Even the Avoxes appear rather bored with his incessant prattle. Joel has fallen asleep a few times and Ruben has been nodding along monotonously for the past hour. Alice and Tilly have struck up their own conversation, speaking to one another about how excited they are to arrive in the Capitol by the end of next week. You’re beside Ellie, your eyelids heavy from lack of sleep. She has a hand on your thigh—something she’s pretending not to care about.

The only person at this table who has any idea what Stephen is talking about is the mayor, Cecil Bowe, who sits at the head with a smile on his lips as he watches the mentor blabber on and on. Ellie has been watching the two of them rather closely, trying to puzzle out the nature of their bond. It’s far too fond to be considered a mere workplace relationship. But it’s not quite paternal enough to be considered familial.

Then she remembers what the lady on the hill said—about love residing within the eyes. Ellie looks at Mayor Bowe, paying close attention to the way he looks at Stephen. Then, sure enough, she notices a pattern. The way his gaze darts from Stephen’s eyes to his lips with a steady repetition; the way his pupils widen whenever they make eye contact; the way he watches Stephen’s entire body so as to memorize it.

She taps your thigh with her index finger, grabbing your attention subtly. You turn, blinking a few times so as to rid the fatigue from your eyes. She leans forward, whispering into your ear, “I think Stephen and Cecil are lovers.”

Almost instantly, you suck in a gasp that results in a coughing fit. Ruben—who is sitting on the other side of you—pats your back, asking what’s wrong. You wave him off, clearing your throat roughly. Ellie tries not to laugh, especially when Alice and Tilly begin to fret.

“Ah, what time is it?” Stephen asks, peering at the dusty grandfather clock across the room. He narrows his eyes, struggling to read it from this distance. In a quiet whisper, Mayor Bowe tells him that it’s an hour past noon—which only further proves Ellie’s theory. They’re so familiar with one another’s company that the mayor knows of Stephen’s poor eyesight and knows when to step in with aid. “I suppose you ought’a get going, huh?”

Joel is quick to stand from his chair before the offer is revoked. He reaches out to shake Mayor Bowe’s hand, saying, “Thank ya for your hospitality.”

“Yes, of course.” Replies Bowe with a crooked smile—likely caused by the Morphling in his system. “I hope you lot have a wonderful visit, followed by a nice trip home.”

“Thank you,” Ruben smiles.

Then everyone is standing from their chairs and heading toward the exit. Alice and Tilly’s hands are interlocked, swaying slightly as they walk side-by-side. Ruben is holding the bouquets and plaques that you and Ellie had been gifted with. Joel is holding the door open, hoping to speed up the process as much as possible.

But when Ellie looks over her shoulder and finds Stephen whispering something in Mayor Bowe’s ear, causing them both to laugh, she can’t help but turn around. She tells Joel she needs to discuss something with the mayor and he groans, telling her to be quick. Then you’re hurrying after her, causing him to groan even louder before shutting the door and leaving.

“Miss Williams, Miss L/n.” Mayor Bowe says, startled, as he notices your guys’ sudden presence. “What a, uh, what a wonderful surprise.”

“Sorry,” She tells them, “But may I speak to you both privately?”

Stephen’s gaze flicks over to you, a brow raising. “Away from your girlfriend? Is a lover not meant to be with you through highs, lows, and all of which resides between? Why would you wish to speak in her absence–”

“No.” She’s quick to say. “I didn’t mean her, I meant away from the Avoxes.”

“While that does makes more sense, I don’t quite–”

“Yes.” Mayor Bowe interrupts Stephen to give Ellie a reply that won’t last four more hours. With a small smile, he says, “My office is just upstairs.”

You and Ellie follow behind as you’re led up the rotted staircase to a narrow hallway with three doors on either side. The ceiling is stained and has a few leaks—which are fixed with duct tape and buckets. Mayor Bowe opens one of the doors. Its rusted hinges creak before he holds it for the three of you to enter first.

Inside is a small wooden desk with torn books and stained papers. The only light is a small lamp, which flickers and buzzes when turned on. The rest of the room is empty for lack of belongings to fill it with. Stephen leans against the edge of the desk like it’s the most natural thing in the world and, if Ellie’s proven correct, it probably is.

“What did you wish to talk about, dear?” Mayor Bowe asks her kindly.

“Well, I wanted to ask–”

“If it’s related to David’s cannibalism,” Stephen butts in, “No, we do not feed human flesh to our citizens.”

“No, it’s not–”

“His actions during the Games have caused a terrible amount of stereotypes to arise regarding the impoverished people of District Twelve.” Stephen continues. “We do not support what he did or anything else that–”

“It’s not about David.” You snap, voice raising. “Let her fucking speak.”

Stephen goes silent, his mouth snapping shut. Mayor Bowe lets out a small chuckle under his breath, clearly amused by your outburst. Ellie clears her throat a bit awkwardly before saying, “No, it’s not about David or anything that happened during the Games. It’s about the two of you.”

Mayor Bowe blinks a few times, brows furrowing in confusion. Stephen also appears interested and, for once, doesn’t interrupt to say something on the topic. Ellie suddenly wonders if announcing her theory would be offensive. What if they’re related? What if she’s completely incorrect? With an inhale, Ellie decides to just blurt it out.

“Are the two of you dating?”

The men, in unison, both freeze. Stephen turns to Mayor Bowe, clearly looking for some kind of communication that would tell him how to respond. But Mayor Bowe is just standing there, his eyes widened slightly. Not in offense, but in shock.

“We’re not dating, Miss Williams.” Mayor Bowe tells her calmly. “We’re married.”

Stephen then grabs one of the dusty books from his husband’s desk, opening it to a random page. Then, from within, he pulls out two wedding rings. They’re old and cracked, but, somehow, they’re perfect. They symbolize the ruination of District Twelve while simultaneously representing all of which they went through in order to be together.

“In the Capitol,” Stephen says while placing the rings back into the book before closing it neatly, “Queer people are treated like dogs. Unless, however, they provide the Captiolites with some form of entertainment. Roland and Archie gave the Capitol something to talk about and thus were cherished. That is, until the two of you came along and gave them an even better show, which led the Gamemakers to kill them off with ease.” Ellie tenses at that, not having thought your guys’ romance was what led to their deaths. Stephen continues. “There are countless Diamonds whose sexualities are accepted solely because they’re already loved by the Capitol. Some notable names you might be familiar with are Thea Thatcher, Dina Woodward, and Ruben L/n. All of these people are queer in some way and are supported. Here in the Districts, though, the Capitol has no problem with torturing and killing us for simply loving the same gender.”

Ellie doesn't know how to respond. She’s heard of this before, of course she has. She lives in Seven—a District for which the Capitol cares very little. When she was nine, she knew of a gay couple that lived a block from her home that randomly disappeared. Nobody ever mentioned them or spoke of their disappearance. When she asked Marlene what had happened, the only response she received was a scowl and an order to not talk about stuff like that.

But after taking one look at you, Ellie can tell you don’t feel the same. You were raised in Four, never having left your home to see the atrocities of the government. Your brother, a notable person within the queer community, was accepted without question and your parents thus didn’t care. He was a Diamond, so nothing else mattered. Due to this, you likely never saw a difference between how different people love one another. If a woman is dating another woman or a man is dating another man, what does it matter so long as they’re in love? Ruben paved the way so you’d never have to face such prejudices.

“Is that not hypocrisy?” You ask, clearly infuriated. “How can they adore some people for doing something, then hate others for doing that same exact thing?”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” Mayor Bowe says with a sigh. He then turns to Ellie with a softened expression. “How could you tell?”

“It’s– Uh,” Her flicks to you. “It’s all in the eyes.”

“That’s good to know, too.” Stephen says. “Nobody else, aside from my sister, has been made aware of our marriage. She officiated it, actually. It feels like yesterday when we exchanged vows in the dusty old living room of my house. It was thirty-six years ago, though. He proposed the day after I returned home from my Games.”

Something in Ellie’s chest breaks at that mental image. They were together before Stephen was Reaped, their love disclosed to only one person. And, considering how seldom victors come back home from the Games, Cecil Bowe most likely believed he’d never see his lover again. But he had to hide it, the grief. He couldn’t show how much he cared. So of course he would propose the moment he saw Stephen again. Because he never thought he would. Because, surely, he cried every night wishing he’d married him sooner.

And even now—even thirty six years later—their eyes are able to tell the story for them. All the love and awe and adoration resides within them, watching from afar as their other half grows older. But the eyes remain the same, unaged and unchanged.

“Enough sad talk.” Mayor Bowe says, waving a hand as though to wipe all the sorrow from the air. “Would you two like some lunch before you leave? I promise to not let Steph ramble for five hours again.”

Stephen chuckles, nudging his husband lightly. “You can try.”

22:37.

DISTRICT SEVEN’S TRAIN.

You’re back on the train, the gentle hum of its motion adding a domestic sort of ambiance to the atmosphere. Beneath you, the red duvet is soft as you lie on your stomach, Dante’s Inferno clasped between your hands. Ellie is beside you, rubbing your calf as she watches the TV—the existence of which was only discovered ten minutes ago.

You try to focus on reading, but the words on the page become jumbled as your mind strays from the plot. It’s been two hours and you’ve only gotten through four pages, unable to concentrate on anything aside from the memory of Stephen Lawrence and Cecil Bowe. You didn’t even know homosexuality was a thing. People live and people love; whatever happens in between matters naught to anyone aside from themself. You happened to kiss a girl on that rooftop instead of a guy. So what? There’s no difference. Except, apparently, there is a difference. Just not for you, a L/n and thus an inherent Diamond.

After the weighty discussion held within Cecil’s office, the four of you continued to chat over lunch—albeit regarding vastly different topics. Stephen had a plethora of things to discuss, his mind always sprinting in circles around his skull. The only person who can calm that haste is Cecil, who is able to bring him back to Earth whenever he strays too far. Cecil explained that, after his Games, Stephen lost his ability to read social cues and gained his ability to talk endlessly. He said that it was a trauma response, something he did when his thoughts became too much to handle so as to distract himself from them.

Cecil reminded you of Ellie, the way she’s able to read you without needing assistance. Last night, for example, she knew almost instantly that you’d been drinking and knew exactly how to put a stop to it without causing a fuss. She was gentle and kind and—more than all else—understanding. You could never put into words how much that means to you. Stephen, however, responds to his lover’s same trait with an abundance of words. He knows exactly how to tell Cecil of his appreciation. And, had they not had guests present, you’re certain Cecil would never quiet Stephen’s words.

After lunch concluded, they bid you both farewell, telling you of all the best places to visit before your departure to Eleven.

The coal mines were the first place on their list. You’ve read about them in the books from your mother’s study. The mountains they’re built into were once called Appalachia—the oldest mountain range in the country. They’ve since lost their title, because President Fedra now deems them hills. You think it’s insensitive of him to say that, considering they’re more sensible than he despite being inanimate. They may be rounded and lower than other ranges, but they’re no less significant to this country’s history.

When you and Ellie arrived, it wasn’t an extravagant event. You liked that better, though, you think. The workers didn’t stop doing their jobs to ogle, they simply moved out of your way and carried on with their labor. Soot covered their faces and hands, pickaxes clutched within whitened knuckles. It was better like this, for you were able to see the rawness of Twelve without any flowery attempts at ostentation.

Although you were enjoying yourself, you were still unable to pull your mind away from thoughts of Stephen and Cecil. How have they made it this far without being noticed? What challenges have they faced together? Has the president ever showed up at their door demanding to be convinced of their romance? Were they raised to believe their way of loving was wrong? Did they still fall in love despite all of which they were told? Or were they just as painfully oblivious as you?

“You’ve been staring at that page for half an hour.”

“Hm?” You blink as your mind is suddenly pulled back to the present. You look down to find that Ellie’s correct—you’re on the same damn page you were on forty minutes ago. At the foot of the bed, the TV displays a random film laced with Capitolistic themes. Ellie clicks the remote, pausing the screen.

“What’re you thinking about?” She asks softly, the mattress shifting beneath her weight as she moves to lie on her stomach beside you. She reaches forward, plucking the novel from your hands before placing it face-down on the duvet. “I can tell there’s something on your mind. What is it?”

You turn to her, trying to puzzle out what’s fake and what’s not about her. The gentility is surely falsified, to an extent at least, though you like to think her words are genuine. With a huff, you admit, “Lawrence and Bowe.”

“I had a feeling that’s what it was.” She says amusedly, resting her chin in her palm. Her pale green eyes peer at you, narrowed in interest. “What about them?”

“Everything.” You sigh. “What does their domestic life look like? Who washes the dirty dishes, who complains when the laundry hamper is overflowing? Or what about their professional life? Does Stephen pretend not to know every inch of Cecil's mind when he’s giving speeches? Does Cecil feel the cold emptiness of their bed when Stephen is in the Capitol as a mentor? There’s just– There’s so much I want to ask them.”

“Well,” Ellie muses thoughtfully, “I’m sure Stephen would have no problem answering your questions. You could ask every question known to man, and I’m quite certain he’d be happy to reply.”

“I guess so.” You grumble.

She tilts her head, staring at you fondly. “Why didn’t you ask these things during lunch?”

“It just didn’t feel right.” You admit. “Like, I don’t feel worthy of being in on their secret. Because now I know the pain they go through for something that you and I are–”

You cut yourself off. You both know where that was going, anyway. Stephen and Cecil are forced to not show their love while you and Ellie are forced into the opposite. Their romance, very much real and passionate, is punishable by death. Your guys’ romance, very much fake and plastic, is rewarded with country-wide adoration. It’s not right.

“You know who might have connections to them?”

You groan into the mattress, “I don’t want to talk to Ruben right now.”

“No, not him,” She chuckles. “I meant Joel. He’s been a mentor for nineteen years now, he’s sure to have spoken to Stephen at some point.”

You lift your head, peering at her with a glint of hope in your eyes. “Do you think he’s still awake?”

“Only one way to find out.”

A sly grin works its way onto Ellie’s lips before she’s standing from the bed, aware of how imperative it is to ‘stay on schedule’ according to Alice—who made a huge deal about everyone being in bed by a certain time and thus staying there. Leaving right now to go speak with Joel is harmless to most people, yes, but Alice Reymond is not most people. You’d never hear the end of it if you guys were caught. But, then again, when else will the two of you experience a sense of mischief (that isn’t punishable by execution)?

You reach for your book, but Ellie swipes it from the duvet before you’re able to grab it. You lift your head, frowning at her. She responds by walking over to her nightstand and lifting her lamp. Underneath it is a folded piece of paper—the size of a bookmark—decorated with small doodles. She sticks it between the pages, closing your book with a snap.

Your gaze softens slightly. “You made me a bookmark?”

“There’s not much else to do around here.” She shrugs, though the redness of her ears doesn’t go unnoticed. She drops the book onto her nightstand, but you’re still staring at her with narrowed eyes. Her cheeks become hued with rogue as she huffs, “Shut up.”

“Didn’t say anything.” You tell her.

She frowns at you before walking away from the bed and toward the door, holding it open for you despite the flush to her face. It’s endearing, really, because you know it’s not fake. With a small smile, you stand from the bed and follow her to Joel’s room. The hallway is dark and unlit, which reminds you vaguely of your dream from last night. You try not to think of that, instead focusing on the back of Ellie’s head.

Ellie doesn’t knock before entering. She pushes Joel’s door open, barging in like she owns the place. Inside, Joel can be seen reclined on his bed watching the TV. He turns at the sound of the door opening, though he doesn't appear shocked to see Ellie walking in. What does shock him is that she brought you along with her. He pauses the TV, sitting up instantly, brows furrowed in concern.

“What’re you two doin’?”

“She had a question.” Ellie says simply, plopping down on the bed beside him. The mattress creaks under her weight, causing Joel to frown at her. Then they’re both turning to you, waiting. You suddenly feel awkward, unsure what to even ask. You want to know more about Stephen and Cecil but Joel isn’t aware of their relationship, so how are you meant to–

“Ellie, are you bein’ an asshole?” Joel turns to her with a heavy frown. “She doesn’t look comfortable. Are you forcin’ her t’do this?”

“What? No!”

Joel turns back to you, “Is she?”

“No, don’t worry.” You assure him a breathy laugh. “She’s not forcing me.”

Ellie scowls at Joel, “See?”

He ignores her antics, watching you carefully. His gaze is soft and his room is warm. The atmosphere is welcoming and homely but, still, something about it is throwing you off. Joel’s voice is gentle when he asks you, “What’s up, Kiddo?”

You inhale deeply. “I just– I wanted to ask you about Stephen Lawrence.”

“Twelve’s mentor?”

“Yeah.”

“I mean,” He scratches the back of his neck, “There ain’t much t’say. He’s a good guy ‘n’ all, but most people don’t talk t’him. ‘Cause once he starts talkin’, he won’t stop.”

“Have you ever spoken to him?”

“Only once or twice.” Joel says with a sigh. “Tess gets along with ‘im way better than I do. She said he talks very cryptically, though, like he’s holdin’ somethin’ back every time he mentions home. She said he talks ‘bout his older sister a lot. And his girlfriend, but he never says her name or anythin’ descriptive. Tess thinks it’s some secret fling he’s tryin’ t’hide.”

Your gaze lowers to the floor as your mind reels. Stephen, despite knowing of the threat it provides, talks about his husband while in the Capitol. He talks and talks and talks about him, enough to ease the ache in his heart placed there by distance, while simultaneously making sure not to give away Cecil’s identity. That, you think, is true love—undeterred in the face of death. It’s what drove Orpheus to the underworld and it’s what drove Eurydice to forgive him for turning.

When you lift your head and level your gaze onto Joel once more, Ellie has already distracted him with a new conversation. You’re grateful for that, not wanting to explain yourself to him. She’d somehow managed to get him on a tangent about Tilly’s inability to keep things to herself. Ellie nods along, though it’s apparent that she isn’t paying complete attention. Her eyes meet yours, narrowing slightly in inquiry.

“I’m going to go back to bed.” You tell her once there’s a break in Joel’s rambling. “Join me whenever you want, I’m just getting a bit tired.”

“M’kay,” She nods softly. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Joel turns, giving a halfhearted, “G’night,” Before returning right back to his complaints.

You leave his room, shutting the door silently behind yourself—a mistake, you realize, once the hallway is flooded with darkness. You swallow harshly before heading down the hall toward your room. Thankfully, it’s at the very end so it’s easy to find despite the lack of light.

Inside, you’re quick to turn on Ellie’s bedside lamp before slipping under the duvet. You curl up on your side, staring at the wall blankly as you recall Joel’s words. “He never says her name or anythin’ descriptive.” How could Tess possibly deem that to be a fling when Stephen is clearly protecting someone he loves? You can’t fathom it, the pain the two men must feel whenever they’re apart.

Your parents don’t much love one another so, growing up, you didn’t have good role models in terms of relationships. Come to think of it, you’re not sure you’ve ever seen true love in the face until you met Roland and Archie. Even then, you hadn’t spoken to them enough to formulate your own opinion on the topic. But, still, you saw it. The way they’d cling to one another, the way they protected the other’s privacy during the interviews, the way their faces flashed in the sky the same night. Love—undeterred by death itself.

Then, only just today, you feel like you were able to see love for yourself. Stephen and Cecil love one another with every bone in their body and every atom of their soul; wholeheartedly and undeniably. It’s beautiful, you think, the way they’d give everything for the other despite knowing tragedy is inevitable.

Just then, you hear the bedroom door creak open.

You don’t lift your head, continuing to stare at the wall without moving. You can hear her footsteps, though, as Ellie approaches the bed as quietly as possible despite knowing you’re not sleeping. Then the mattress is dipping under her weight and you feel the warmth radiating off of her body. She scoots forward until her chest is pressed against your back.

“What’re you thinking about?” She whispers into your hair.

You sigh, allowing your eyes to slide shut as you lean back into her. She accepts this because, really, she didn’t need a response. She already knows what you’re thinking about; rather, who.

Ellie pushes up on her elbow, reaching over you to click the lamp off. Instantly, the room goes black. You tense slightly, squeezing your eyes shut. She lies back down, snaking an arm around your torso to draw you closer. At the feel of her heart breathing against your shoulder blade, you relax. She does too.

See, sometimes it’s hard to decipher the difference between what’s real and what isn’t between the two of you. For example: her words, her gentility, and her touch are all real; her love, however, is fake. It has to be.

05:23.

DISTRICT ELEVEN.

The sun rises with her, dousing the crimson strands of her hair in hues of light. Not gold necessarily, for that color was curated solely for you. Not gold, but light. A symbol unreserved for only one soul because it withholds enough space to stretch all across the globe. Its brilliance brightens more than just you; it brightens everyone you encounter.

“Decaf?”

The corners of Ruben’s lips tug upward as his gaze sets onto the back of Birdie’s hair, brightened. It’s grown out since the end of last year’s Games, now reaching the bolt of her jaw. Its vibrancy had also faded, though she made sure to redye it two weeks prior to the Victory Tour, asking for Ruben’s help with reaching the backside. His fingers were light and delicate as he coaxed the thick substance through her strands. He only just rid his skin of the redness that stained them afterward.

“Mhm,” he hums, stepping behind her.

He places his chin on her shoulder, watching quietly as she stirs a spoon through his coffee, mixing whatever ingredients she put in it. The utensil taps against the glass mug lightly as the room is slowly filled with the warm scent of the drink. She tips her head to the side, allowing Ruben to press a soft kiss to her skin.

This is his favorite part of the day—spending time with his lover before anyone else has yet woken. In the wee hours of morning, they live a life of private domesticity. Birdie makes him coffee, aware of his incapability to make any sort of sustenance himself. She knows how much sugar he likes in it; she knows which temperatures burn his tongue; she knows that he likes a handle on his mugs. She knows him better than he knows himself.

Birdie turns, her nose brushing against Ruben’s. She smiles, breathing out an airy laugh that makes his heart flip. She hands him his coffee, making sure to have wrapped a cloth around the mug due to its torridity. He takes a small step backward, taking it from her with a grin.

Ruben leans the small of his back against the island, blowing on his coffee as he watches Birdie begin to brew her own. He’s, time and time again, told her not to feel obligated to making his prior to hers, though she insists she prefers it this way. He cannot fathom why.

Her hands move with eased precision caused by years spent sewing and stitching without room for fault nor flaw. Her eyes do the same, tracing her own movements like a leaf would trace the wind. Ruben watches her with the reverence of a devotee. The slight bump in her nose, the gentle plunge of her cupid’s bow, the freckle on the knuckle of her thumb—he eulogizes her entire being within his mind, though he’s long since committed her to memory. He adores all of which she hates. From the crookedness of her left ear to the marks of growth on the insides of her thighs, he adores her.

“You’re prettiest like this.” He whispers into the quietude of the soft morning.

“Quit it.” She breathes a laugh, glancing at him over her shoulder. “I have morbid morning breath and haven’t yet brushed my hair. You know damn well I’ve looked better.”

“I’m not talking about looks. I’m talking about you.”

Birdie turns around fully, narrowing her eyes at him as though to ask for his indulgence. Her following words are as soft as her gaze. “What about me?”

“You’re wholly yourself like this.” He says. “Here, you’re kind and you’re smart and you’re soft-spoken. Out there, where you’re forced into playing a role, you’re harsh and you’re calculated and you’re sharp.”

“They’re both me, Ru,” she tells him softly, “because they’re both in love with you.”

Silence washes over them in a wave of gentility once more, basking the room in ardor. Ruben sips on his coffee, lightly as Birdie finishes making hers. They remain in the kitchen for a few moments longer, though, allowing the weight of their conversation to settle upon their shoulders. The heaviness is not burdensome, but comforting. Like the weight of a child in a mother’s arms or the weight of a heart within one’s chest. It’s meant to be there.

The thing is, neither of them have spoken the word love aloud despite their collective awareness of its presence. Birdie didn’t just say it outright, though. She didn’t spit it from her lips like a curse the way Ruben’s parents did to one another. She didn’t conceal it from him like something horrid to be shunned from sight the way you and Ellie did in the arena. They both hid it, yes, but not because they deemed it unworthy of acknowledgement. They hid it because it didn’t need to be spoken. And, when it finally was spoken, it was done so as though it’d been there all along, waiting to be called upon.

Birdie’s proclamation of love for Ruben was perfect for the two of them because it was done so easily. Both halves of her being are welded together because they’re both segments of herself. And what makes them so is not a biological explanation such as her brain’s tissue, but a metaphorical explanation such as her devotion for Ruben.

It’s perfect because it’s her.

Time passes without the presence of words because, with them, they’re unneeded.

When the rest of the team begins to wake, they’ve both settled into the living room. Ruben is sitting at one end of the couch, one arm draped across the back cushion. Birdie is sitting at the other end, her knees pulled to her chest as she nurses a half-empty mug of coffee. In front of them, the TV screen shows Abner Balandin yammering about the speech you gave in Twelve the day prior.

He speaks of its perfection despite knowing nothing of its nature. Balandin dissects the speech, explaining how your grammar reflects your relationship with James and David. Ruben thinks he’s a fool for even thinking these are your own words. You’re monotone and very clearly reading from a script. If anyone knows about that, it’d be the man who reads from scripts every time he hosts the interviews. Perhaps he’s reading from one right now. Still, Ruben loathes him.

“Mornin’.” Joel grunts as he enters the living room with a head of mussed hair and fatigue. He rubs a hand down his face as he plops into the armchair. He turns to the TV and immediately groans with annoyance. “Ugh. Can we change the channel? I hate this guy.”

“Me too,” Birdie says, “but I’m curious to hear what he has to say about the speech.”

“Fine.” Joel huffs.

The three of them continue to watch the screen, equally irritated by each word that leaves Balandin’s mouth. Ruben wonders how much of what he says are his own words. Ruben has spoken with many interviewers in his life, so he thinks himself to be rather experienced on the topic. And, admittedly, there are worse interviewers than he, though none of them are so passionate about their careers within the Capitol.

Years ago, in fact, Ruben had been interviewed by a rather terrible lady who wouldn’t stop asking him about his love life. He was single at the time, yes, but he’d just turned eighteen. President Fedra has begun using him for his body among Capitolites only a few months prior to the interview. The woman must have gotten word of it because, somehow, she knew exactly which names would irk him. She listed a few people and asked who was the best kisser; she asked what kinds of people he was into; she asked which parties were best to have sex at. Then she, with a boisterous laugh on her lips, asked if he’d ever dated a tribute. That was the blade that severed his last thread of patience. He snapped at her, lashing out in a way that the media later deemed to be a ‘classic L/n reaction’.

So, when compared to her, Abner Balandin is a saint. But there have also been wonderful interviewers who would never speculate about dead peoples’ relationships. Really, it's just perspective that makes a person appear less moral than others.

It’s fifteen minutes after Joel’s arrival that Tilly and Alice saunter into the living room, their hair already braided into intricate updos and their faces already coated in elaborate makeup designs. They look ready for the paparazzi to show up at any given moment. Alice pokes her head into the living area and instantly wears an expression of disapproval. She places her hands on her hips as a frown settles onto her face.

“All three of you are awake and the Avoxes still haven’t made breakfast?” She asks in a tone laced with ire. She’s about to storm off to lecture the staff when Cat pops out of nowhere and averts her attention with ease via mentioning a hair that’s out of place on her sister’s head. This creates an argument between the two escorts, as they argue about Tilly’s chagrin.

“When will we arrive in Eleven?” Cat asks as she sits on the couch beside Birdie.

“Two hours.” She responds. “Our arrival was delayed in the night, which I’m assuming is because the engineer stopped for fuel.”

Ruben turns away from them, instead focusing his attention back onto the avid face of Abner Balandin. His hands move frantically as he speaks of his excitement to watch the rest of this year’s Tour play out. He’s just begun to theorize about what you’ll say in Eleven when Ruben feels a tap on his arm.

“Hey,” Joel is whispering, “would y’mind wakin’ up the kiddos? I’d love to let ‘em sleep in, but they need to start gettin’ ready.”

Seeing as communication hasn’t been Ruben’s strong suit of late, he’s unsure whether this is a good idea. With you, he lacks the understanding that’s necessary in helping you through your grief. With Ellie, he simply has no clue where to start.

As he exits the living area, he notes the small smile on Birdie’s lips as she discusses scheduling with Cat—a smile which perfectly opposes the expression of disdain that adorns Alice’s face as she argues with her sister about their hairstyles. He squeezes past them as they take up most of the space within the doorway.

Then, on his way down the hall, he makes sure to poke his head into the kitchen to suggest to the Avoxes that they should start making breakfast. They nod with obedience, though he hadn’t meant to give an order.

Knock, knock, knock.

Ruben waits for a moment outside of your bedroom door. It’s silent on the other side. He knocks again then, with a huff, Ellie calls out, “Quit knocking!” Her footsteps thud against the floor before the door swings open to reveal her deepened scowl. When she sets her eyes on Ruben, they widen instantly. “Shit– I didn’t mean to–”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” He assures her gently.

“I thought you were Joel,” she frowns, “or Cat.”

Just then, your voice is heard from inside the room, groggy with sleep. “Who’s it?”

Ellie doesn’t respond. Instead, she hangs her head with chagrin and opens the door wider, stepping aside to allow Ruben entry. He walks inside, feeling a bit unsure in the space. It’s a nice room, that much is undeniable. And, though it’s shrouded with Capitolistic designs, there’s a certain air to it that makes the room yours and Ellie’s. Perhaps it’s the people inside of it, or perhaps it’s the smaller details—your book on her nightstand, her clothes strung across the floor, your shoes placed neatly at the foot of the bed, her corner of the duvet pulled back.

Your gaze meets Ruben’s and, for a second, everything is normal. It’s as if, in the blur of the morning rush, you’d forgotten about what he’d said to you back in Seven and what you’d said to him in the bathroom. You both regret it and you both know that the other regrets it equally as much. But, still, there’s a distinct inability to admit such a thing that’s rooted deep within your shared heritage.

“Good morning.” He says with a rather stilted tone.

“Morning.” Your response is just as strained.

You rub at your eyes with one hand as the other pushes on the bed. You sit upright, blinking through your lethargy. The duvet, red in color, falls to your waist to reveal one of Ellie’s shirts covering your torso. He knows it’s hers because she removed the neckline so it hangs off one shoulder. That, and the stains of paint embedded within the fabric where she’d wiped her hands clean.

You don’t seem to care, though Ellie appears rather embarrassed. Probably because she knows what such a thing would imply—though the three of you have been made painfully aware that this romance is completely falsified. However, upon taking only one look at Ellie’s reddened cheeks, Ruben wonders if her awareness of this has faltered.

The two of you compliment one another perfectly, fitting together like a puzzle. The issue isn’t whether or not you work; it’s whether or not there will ever be a good time to slot the pieces together. Ellie, even if she’s finally had a moment of cognizance, isn’t able to admit such a thing to you. Not now, at least, while you’re both grieving and under the watchful eye of the Capitol. And, if she hasn’t yet come to acknowledge her growing feelings, she will soon. And when she does, it’ll be unrequited. For the time being, at least.

Ruben knows you love Ellie; you know you love Ellie. What’s uncertain—in your mind—is whether that love is romantic or not. And, if it is romantic, who’s to say it isn’t some weird take on the placebo effect that’s caused by having faked this romance for so long? It’s a weighty question and a horrible burden to place within your mind. But Ruben knows you’re not thinking of it. You won’t allow yourself to because, for now, you just need to get through Tour without fucking up your deal with President Fedra. You can worry about your love life later. Right now, you’re worried about Mister Alden and Remy and making sure that their deaths are restful.

“So, uh…” Ruben clears his throat before flicking his gaze to the book resting on Ellie’s bedside table. “What’re you reading?”

You frown at him, unamused by his attempt at small talk. Which– Yeah, that’s understandable. Small talk is for people who don’t know enough about one another to formulate a conversation based on relation. But the two of you do know one another. He changed your diapers for fuck’s sake.

Still, you indulge. “Dante’s Inferno.”

“Ah.” He muses. “Nine rings of Hell, right?”

You nod. “Something like that, yeah.”

Silence falls over the room but, unlike this morning with Birdie, it’s not laced with familiarity. It’s laced with mutual discomfort. Ruben taps his finger on his thigh, his eyes darting around the room as he looks anywhere aside from you. He looks at the bookshelf that’s overflowing with old novels, albeit likely censored by the Capitol. He looks at the floorboards atop which your shoes lie and, a few feet away, Ellie’s loafers have been discarded in two completely different places.

“Is breakfast ready?” Ellie asks, as though on cue. She’s still standing by the door, glancing between the two siblings with thinned lips, likely feeling out of place.

“Not yet.” He tells her. “I came to wake you because Joel thought you should begin getting ready with your stylists soon. We’ll be arriving in Eleven in two hours.”

“Okay.” She nods, taking a slow step backward. “I’ll just… give you two a moment.”

With that, Ellie slips into the hallway before shutting the bedroom door lightly behind her. Instantly, the space is thick with unspoken words and unaddressed tension.

Ruben exhales a sigh before stepping toward the bed. His feet pat against the floor as he approaches you. Then he’s sitting down on the edge of the mattress, gaze pinned to his lap despite knowing yours is pinned to the side of his face. There’s so much he wants to say, yet so little he’s capable of speaking aloud.

“Sorry,” you murmur before he has the chance to beat you to it. His head snaps up at the sound of your voice, turning to you with furrowed brows. You give him a small smile, one fabricated by remorse. “And, for what it’s worth, you never ruin my night, Ru.”

“Thanks.” Ruben huffs a laugh, shaking his head. He turns back to look at his lap. “We both said things we shouldn’t have. For starters, I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard to talk to Ellie knowing you weren’t ready. It was wrong.”

“I’m glad you did.” You admit. “Because, right after fighting so hard against talking to her, I went downstairs and did exactly that. Not on purpose, of course. I wanted some hair and she just so happened to have the same idea. Honestly, I’d probably have turned around as soon as I saw her on the porch. But, since you’d urged me to speak with her, I decided to give it a shot. Thank God I did, too, because it ended up making our current sleeping arrangement far less awkward than it would have been if it was our first time speaking properly in six months.”

“How is it, by the way? The sleeping arrangement, I mean.”

“Well,” You straighten your back a bit, “I could tell you more after I use the bathroom.”

It takes a moment before the hidden message within that statement clicks in Ruben’s head. Fuck, he forgot all about the cameras and, apparently, you did too. Or maybe you simply didn’t care when it came to rekindling a bond with your brother. Either way, this conversation will have given the Capitol much more insight than it should have.

He nods, shielding his discomfort behind a small smile. You stand from the bed, tugging at the torn hem of Ellie’s shirt so as to make it less uncharacteristic. It doesn't work, of course, though it’d been a valiant effort.

You enter the bathroom and he walks in right behind you, saying something about needing to brush his teeth anyway. He already did, but saying otherwise will give the cameras a reason behind his entry—though it’d likely still appear a bit odd.

Ruben leans against the door, crossing his arms. You lean against the counter a few feet away, your expression much more emotional now that the stakes have been lowered a bit. He knows now that you’d been aware of the cameras. Otherwise, there’d be no difference in your personality upon being without them.

“Do you think he killed him?” Your voice is a whisper, though your words have never rung louder in Ruben’s ears. You lift your head, brows furrowed. “Do you think the president personally killed Mister Alden?”

“Do I think the president himself took a trip to Four, knocked on little old Doris’ door, and shot him in the head?” Ruben asks. “No. I don’t. What I do think is this: Fedra likely showed up in the Victor’s Village expecting to find you and Ellie at home together. Upon being proven wrong, he was enraged enough to send a Peacekeeper after the person you care most about. He likely ordered them to Mister Alden’s house so as to not coat his own hands in the blood of the senile.”

Your jaw tightens. “That’s worse.”

“And yet it’s more realistic.”

A breath passes your lips in an annoyed huff. You push off the counter, visibly irritated. Ruben steps away from the door to allow you egress from the stuffy bathroom. He doesn’t much wish to vex you further. Not when you’re already pissed off. Still, he walks close behind as you head toward the dining area where everyone else is being served by the Avoxes.

Two seats have been left vacant, the seating arrangement having not changed from yesterday’s. You sit at the head of the table across from Ellie while Ruben sits to your left and thereby across from Birdie. She smiles at him as he sits.

An Avox comes from behind, reaching over his shoulder to set a polished glass plate in front of him. On it are servings of eggs, bacon, sausage, and any other breakfast foods he could possibly imagine. Then, only a few moments later, the Avox returns with a glass of orange juice to add to his dishes.

“So,” Joel says so as to stir a conversation from Ellie, “How’d ya sleep?”

Her cheeks are full of eggs when she looks up at him. She blinks once before swallowing harshly, clearing her throat. She glances around the table, clearly feeling as though she’s been put on the spot. Everyone is listening.

“Uh,” she scratches her neck, “I slept…fine?”

“Lovely!” Alice chimes in with a sickeningly bright smile. “Because Eleven is known for being a rather lively crew. I suppose you’ll need energy to put up with them.” She laughs.

“Put up with them?” Ruben repeats, turning to her with a narrowed gaze. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh. Nothing impertinent, of course.” Alice is still smiling as though there’s nothing wrong with what she’s implying. “I’m just saying: people from Eleven are known for being disobedient and rowdy.” She then turns to her sister, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I’ve been told they eat animals there. Raw.”

Ruben’s patience snaps. “I have friends in Eleven. And I’ll have you know they’re both far more polite than you could ever be.”

Alice’s smile evanescences, quickly replaced by an expression of ignominy. She places a hand to her chest, shocked by Ruben’s outburst—though, if you were to ask him, there’s far worse he could have said to her in that moment. “My. Aren’t you just–”

“Alice.” Birdie cuts in. “Take a walk.”

For a moment, Alice doesn’t move. She glances around the table, waiting for someone to speak on her behalf. But nobody does. She huffs a heavy breath, tosses her handkerchief onto the table, and pushes to her feet. The birch chair screeches loudly against the floorboards as she stands. She doesn’t seem to mind, though, as she walks away from the table and vanishes down the dimly lit hall.

The room is silent for a few minutes. Then Tilly sighs and says, “I’ll go speak with her.”

Two chairs are now rendered vacant and the food on everyone’s plate is nearing that same semblance of emptiness. All except yours. Upon noticing the untouched food, Ruben turns to you. But you’re not looking at him. You’re staring blankly at the tabletop in front of you, eyes naked of any readable sentiment.

Ruben already knows what’s weighing on your mind. You’re thinking about Mister Alden and his oversized family. You’re thinking about his life and his death and all of which occurred between the two. You’re thinking about his elderly wife and his children and his grandchildren. You’re thinking about his skiff and whether it’ll be left to rust in his yard or if it’ll be passed down the family. You’re thinking about all of this and Ruben knows you are because it’s been burning in his mind as well.

What was his last thought? Did he know his death had something to do with you? Did he, in his final moments, regret ever having grown close to the L/n family? Did he feel any pain? Did his family hear the gunshot, or was it silenced? Was he planning to visit his grandkids later that day? Was his wife in the next room?

Ruben lifts his head and takes one look at Ellie because he can tell she’s just as concerned about you. Because, while she may not know exactly what you’re thinking about, she knows you well enough to recognize this as a bad sign. You spaced out like this when Fedra brought Remy into the kitchen. It’s a tell-tale indication of mental deprecation.

“Come on,” Birdie says as she pushes to her feet. “Time to get ready.”

06:35.

DISTRICT ELEVEN.

Ellie doesn’t know much about Dina nor Jesse but, from what she’s gathered thus far, she can tell that they’re very lovely people who care about you and Ruben very deeply. They’re kind, funny, and hospitable—which is all anyone can wish for in a host. Because, though they don’t live in the Justice Building, they’ve been picking up most of the slack left by Eleven’s senile mayor. A lady so old she can hardly walk on her own.

Jesse is leading the group through the building. It’s better than the one in Twelve, albeit not by much. The floors are mouldy and the ceilings are cracked, but there’s less dust and more decoration. There’s a painting on one wall and a mirror on the other. This place is lived in rather than just occupied.

“So,” Dina turns while clasping her hands together. “After the speech, you guys are more than welcome to explore the District. We won’t hold you hostage in the Justice Building if you’d prefer to wander.”

Ellie likes Dina. She knows how to balance humor with kindness, while also making sure to be punctual enough to stay on schedule. Especially considering your group has already been delayed by two hours. Dina is flexible enough, however, to adjust to this abrupt change without much tarry.

“But it’s customary to dine with each of the Districts’ mayors and victors.” Alice points out, her tone sounding a bit snobby. She tuts at Dina’s disregard for the initially established tradition, looking down at her condescendingly.

“It was a simple offer.” Jesse says. His voice is soft though, judging by his haste to defend his fellow victor, Ellie thinks he’s much more irritated than he’s willing to show.

“Simple, yes.” Alice says. “But rebellious.”

Ellie tenses at the insinuation despite it not being directed toward her. Because defiance, even the mere accusation of such, is punishable by death. And Alice is throwing the term around as though it’s sand in the wind that’ll brush away without repercussion. Not only that, but Ellie currently has a very personal relationship with the notion—what with Fedra’s recent visit and Riley’s connection to the Fireflies.

It doesn't take long, after that, for chaos to ensue within the living space. Jesse is suddenly lashing out at Alice, shouting and lunging for her. Joel grabs him before he’s able to lay a hand on her, though, tugging him out of the room. But his anger can be heard all the way down the hall, boisterous and protective. Ruben is then yanking harshly at Alice’s arm and demanding for her to take—another—walk. With a huff, she obliges.

“Well.” Dina clears her throat. She tries to hide it, but Ellie notices the way her hands are shaking slightly by her thighs. She blinks a few times, wiping her hands on the denim of her jeans. “Why don’t we just get started with the speeches?”

“Miss Woodward,” Tilly steps forward, “I am so–”

“Not now.” Dina sighs, holding a hand up to silence her.

“My sister means well, she’s just–”

“Reymond!” Dina snaps. “I said not now.”

Tilly goes quiet, nodding with an uncharacteristic sense of docility. Dina runs a hand through her thick black hair, inhaling deeply. She then turns to you and Ellie with a frown. She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn't need to. It’s a wordless apology, though none of which occurred was a fault of hers.

From there, everyone tries to ignore what has happened. Jesse remains in the other room until Joel manages to calm him down enough to reappear with civility. Alongside them, Alice remains absent. Hopefully for the rest of the afternoon. Nobody mentions what she said or what it implied, though the atmosphere has been altered drastically. Tilly is dead silent, Ruben is naught aside from irate, and Dina is a bit stilted. The only person who’s unfazed is you—who has been oddly quiet since this morning.

Ellie wonders if Ruben said something to anger you. Or perhaps she did something wrong. Though, judging by the expression on your face, she’s not sure she wants to find out if it was she who caused this. But, less than five minutes later, you’re both being escorted out of the building and onto the stage.

Joel and Ruben both gave you pieces of parchment to read a script from. But, in her sweaty hands, they weigh heavy with dishonesty. Across the square, two stages are set up for Eleven’s fallen tributes. One of them harbors Dahlia’s family—her mother, teary-eyed and small, stands with a stuffed bear against her chest; beside her is her husband, a burly man with the same coiled hair as his daughter. On the other stage resides Cooper’s family—a sorrowful mother, and two girls that look exactly like their younger brother.

You don’t move, standing in place upon the stage with that same faraway look in your eyes. Ellie decides to take the initiative with this one, stepping toward the microphone with shaky hands and a pounding heart.

“Uh– Hi.” Her voice comes through the speakers as crackly and disjointed. She clears her throat, glancing down at the paper. She reads from it, though the words don’t quite fit inside her mouth. “Miss Hart and Mister Whitlock were two inexplicably brave tributes whose lives were…uh– whose lives were merely the price paid by Eleven to the Capitol. Their deaths were a pain, yes, though a necessary one in order for the Districts to repay the Capitol for their…misdeeds?”

This is all wrong. The script doesn’t address the pain of their families nor the loss they’re experiencing. It’s stiff and it’s insensitive and it’s all wrong. She continues to read from the paper, despite the ache it puts into her heart. Ellie’s throat closes up as though her body is repulsed by the words leaving her own lips. The speech concludes with a solemn: “May the odds be ever in our favor.”

It’s terrible. That entire speech was just terrible. Ellie lifts her head, swallowing harshly as her gaze falls onto the grieving families across from her. Cooper’s father is whispering something to his wife, who is patting one of her sons on the shoulder as he cries. They look upset, though not surprised. They didn’t expect their son’s death to be acknowledged. Ellie turns to where Dahlia’s parents are standing. Her mother’s hands are clutching the teddy bear tightly, the hem of her dress swaying slightly in the wind. But, other than that, she looks like a statue. Her expression is completely blank and it– it reminds her of you.

That thought is what drives Ellie to speak her next words into the microphone.

“It can in no way replace your losses,” she says, “but as a token of our thanks, we’d like for each of the tributes’ families from District Eleven to receive one month of our winnings every year for the duration of our lives.”

The crowd—which has reacted with naught aside from blank stares and deep frowns—is now erupting with gasps and murmurs. One month of a victor’s money is enough to flip a family from poverty to wealth. They’ll never go hungry, they’ll never worry about paying their debts, they’ll never be unable to afford clothing. Their lives will never be the same.

Ellie turns, allowing her gaze to fall onto you in hopes that you’ll not deem this decision to be a poor one. But, after taking one look at your expression, she can tell you agree with her irrefutably. It’s in the eyes; it’s in your eyes. Then you’re stepping forward, grabbing her by the hand, and leaning forward to speak into the mic.

“I want to give my thanks to the tributes of Eleven.” You say before raising your eyes to the lonesome pair standing on Dahlia’s side. “I didn’t get to know Dahlia very well and, for each remaining day of my life, I will regret that. From what I could tell, she was smart and she was strong and anyone would have been lucky to know her.” Then you’re speaking directly to the woman on the stage. “Your daughter will forever inspire me to be as wonderful a person as she’d been.”

Her mother’s tears have long since fallen, now tracing down her cheeks in thin stripes of sorrow. But her eyes aren’t blank anymore. Instead, they’re newly filled with gratitude and remembrance. She squeezes the dull bear in her arms, inhaling its fabric deeply for it reminds her of the girl she’d once raised to be so wonderful. Dahlia’s father is crying as well, squeezing his wife’s shoulders tightly as he struggles to hold his chin high.

You turn to Cooper’s family and your body goes a bit rigid. “Your son was equally as strong as any other tribute within the 74th Hunger Games. He spoke lovingly of his family during his interviews, forever in awe of your resilience. And, when he entered the arena, he was unafraid to join the Careers. And– and when he died, he did so with that same valiance he referred to seeing in his family. He shouldn’t have been there. Not in the arena, nor that night in the rain. He was scared and he was just trying to survive like everyone else. What happened was–” You voice cracks. You swallow harshly to regain yourself. Ellie squeezes your hand. “I carry the guilt and the regret of his death with me every single day. I know it pales in comparison to your grief, I know it does. And I am sorry. He never should have been there.”

Your hand is now squeezing Ellie’s so tightly that it hurts. She doesn’t let go, though, as the crowd sits with your words hanging over them all. There’s a long pause of silence; of processing. Then, from within the crowd, a man in plaid cups his hands around his mouth and shouts two words, three syllables.

“Fuck Fedra!”

It doesn’t take long before the entire crowd is chanting it. In unison, they repeat these two words with fervor. Ellie is barely able to process the weight of such an outward display of rebellion. That is, until two Peacekeepers are yanking the man in plaid from the audience and forcing him to his knees. Ellie stands there, frozen, as one of the Peacekeepers raises their gun to his head.

While she’s staring uselessly, a man is killed in front of his entire District.

notes ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ idk ab u guys, but i absolutely ADORE stephen and cecil. their relationship embodies everything i hope to have when i'm old and married (minus the hardcore trauma ofc) they love each other So Much. && lmk how u guys feel abt the mention of homophobia's existence in panem. i was considering just removing it from the world as a whole so i could js pretend it just doesn't exist. but that felt insensitive considering suzanne collins puts SO much effort into making her stories realistic in a political sense when it comes to hatred and inequality. if she added a queer mc, i know damn well she wouldn't erase the challenges they face in their day-to-day lives. and nor will i but, on a less serious note, YES i rambled for a paragraph or two about appalachia because my girl deserves more recognition for how beautiful she is,, and honestly? i could have talked abt her for an entire fucking chapter (i held myself back) (ure welcome for that btw bc u def would've been sick of my ass) also !! the ruben & birdie scene ☹️🤍 oh they deserve the entire world

60 notes · View notes

firefly-ace · 16 days ago

Text

Manuela (1884) by Conrad Kiesel

1K notes · View notes

firefly-ace · 18 days ago

Text

our love story could be kinda gory - e.w

pairing: ellie williams x reader

content: crying, character death, suggestive suicide, no happy ending.

a/n: i just wanna make people sad

"fuck, god. if i had just-" she chokes on her own words with a sob.

you can see she's trying to hold back tears. she doesn't want to show you how terrified she is.

"els, please, don't blame yourself."

you can't control your own tears. you knew your whole life was about to be taken from you. an infected had bit you, there was no coming back from that.

"i can't lose you. please, i can't, not now." she begs, her lip quivering and tears pooling in her eyes.

her begs make your heart shatter. you want to comfort her, but what are you meant to say? she's about to lose the love of her life.

'c'mere, sweet girl." you use what little strength you have left to pull ellie into you.

she immediately buries her face in your neck and lets out a loud sob. her arms wrap around you, clinging onto you tightly. her tears and spit soak your shirt.

"i-i can't do this without you. you're all i have left, please, please."

you can feel yourself slipping. it's a weird sensation. you aren't dying yet, but you can feel yourself losing control over yourself, poisoning your brain with violent thoughts.

"ellie, baby. i love you so, so much, okay?" you whisper, kissing the side of her face softly.

ellie shakes her head, clinging onto you tighter, already knowing what you're going to say.

"you need to leave, please. i don't want to hurt you."

your words cause her to break down in more tears, "i don't wanna leave you, please don't make me go" she's crying so hard that she can barely get any words out.

"i love you, baby." you start to push her off you, struggling to do so, "my perfect little angel. you go back and look after everyone, okay?"

ellie pulls you in for one last kiss, savoring the way your mouth feels against hers.

she doesn't say anything as she walks away, but that's okay, she doesn't have to. you watch as she disappears into the forest. you wait until she's out of your sight before slipping your gun out from your belt and holding it to your temple.

you didn't deserve to die like this.

204 notes · View notes

firefly-ace · 19 days ago

Note

HEYYY??? HAPPY NATIONAL GIRLFRIEND DAY!!!!

CAN'T SEND A PICTURE OF FLOWERS 😨 BUT HERE ARE FLOWERS FOR YOU BABY!

💐💐💐

🌸🌸🌸

🌷🌷🌷

🌹🌹🌹

🌺🌺🌺

AWW THANK YOU SM MAMA 💕💐💐 HOPE YOU HAVE A GOOD GIRLFIREND’S DAY TOO

3 notes · View notes

firefly-ace · 19 days ago

Text

alex vause save me

im literally in love

why is oitnb such a dead fandom I wanna cry

456 notes · View notes

firefly-ace · 20 days ago

Text

i love smaus sm

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ ♯ DEVOTEE ┆ chap ix

⌞ streamer!ellie x youtuber!reader ⸝⸝ smau ⌝

synopsis ⌇you'd never been spent too much time watching content creators. if you had free time, it was often allocated to making your own videos. that is, until a new streamer gained traction on social media. despite being faceless, she blew up within a few months, gaining millions of fans—including yourself.

masterlist !!

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 perm. taglist @luvsturniolo. @ilovewomenfr. @zzombiegirl. @elliessweetheart. @shawangel. @defnoteleonor. @fatbootymuncher. @autisticintr0vert. @ellieslittleslutt

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 series taglist @ellieslefttit. @vahnilla. @danilvsellie. @bunchogravie. @twopeoplee. @mxquelo. @liztreez. @bleepwobblenobblegnarnap. @mascspleasegetmepregnant. @iheartclairo66. @ansceno. @marvelwomenarehot0. @livvietalks. @firefly-ace. @elliewilliamskisser2000. @liv0nzi

62 notes · View notes

firefly-ace · 21 days ago

Text

‧₊˚┊simple living things !

❛ MORTUUS EST ILLE ❜⌇𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭 𝔵𝔵𝔳𝔦𝔦𝔦

summary. The Victory Tour weighs heavy on the minds of everyone involved, placed as a burden upon their shoulders or tied as a noose around their necks. Still, peace can be found between the moments of pain and grievance.

warnings. mentions of past death, depictions of PTSD and trauma, fluff (for once), mentions of addiction, descriptions of alcohol, mentions of past child abuse, allusions to drowning & blood, descriptions of vomiting, mentions of homophobia

wc. 8 223

⊹ series masterlist ⊹ playlist ⊹ ao3 ⊹

09:22.

DISTRICT SEVEN.

Every way in which yesterday had been relaxing, today is the very opposite.

Yesterday, after you told Ruben of your plans with Ellie, he spent the whole day in leisure. Not because you were gone, but because he knew you were with her. He knew you couldn’t be in better hands. And, as the hours passed by, he occupied his lone time through cleaning. Because he knew the styling teams were scheduled to arrive early today.

Through this act of service, he learned a few interesting things about Ellie. One of which being she doesn’t use her living spaces very often. All her cooking ware appeared untouched, as though she’d never eaten in her own home. On top of that, the shelves in her living room were coated in dust. Ruben assumes she must spend the majority of her time either at Joel’s house or in her art studio.

It was nice, though, to be able to live and breathe without having to worry about what you were doing. Because, even if things might be a bit awkward between him and Ellie, he still trusts her with something he’d never trusted anyone else with—your life.

When the two of you got back to the house, Ruben could instantly tell how positively her presence influenced you. Your eyes were brighter, your movements were less stilted. You were more you.

Later on, Joel came over with some leftover chicken pot pie. The four of you sat around Ellie’s dining table, talking gently among one another. Ruben could tell you were uncomfortable by the tranquility of it all—like you were waiting for a bomb to go off—but he caught you staring across the table at Ellie, thus calming your nerves in an instant. She did the same.

Today, however, there’s barely any room to breathe.

Mentors and stylists and designers all swept into the house at five in the fucking morning. Ruben was the only one awake at the time, having left you in bed to sleep in despite knowing of their impending arrival. He told them that you and Ellie were still sleeping, but they didn’t care much to preserve that.

Alice and Tilly were shouting at everyone, ordering the group around with sharp demands and shrill voices. At the ruckus, you and Ellie were both roused from sleep, descending the stairs together so as to make it seem like you slept in the same bed—which you did not. At the sight of you guys’ states, the styling teams instantly got to work.

You’re both now in the living room, standing on two circular metal plates that face one another. They’re elevated a foot high, much like a pedestal. The designers thought it would be suitable for the two of you to get ready in the same room considering you’ve been living together since the Games. A lie, of course, albeit one that’s impossible to admit. You were getting your makeup done, though, when Ellie was getting dressed—which allowed you to close your eyes while she was nude without drawing any skepticism. Then the two of you switched and she did the same thing.

“How does that feel, darling?” Birdie asks you kindly as she adjusts the corset around your waist, the golden strings wrapped around her knuckles. “Too tight? Too loose?”

Ruben watches the two of you, standing off to the side with his arms crossed over his chest. He and Birdie keep making eye contact, though they’ve yet to have the chance to speak in private. She’s dressed in violet today, her lips painted purple to match the blazer she wears over her black dress. He thinks she looks stunning and wishes he were able to tell her that. But he can’t. Not with how many people are here.

“It feels fine.” You respond with a shrug. “Maybe a little loose? I could be terribly wrong, though. I’m not exactly sure how a corset is meant to feel.”

She nods once before pulling hard on the strings, causing the fabric to cinch your ribs and waist. You inhale sharply, your spine instantly straightening. Birdie lets out a knowing laugh, “There we go. That’s much better!”

“This is better?” You ask incredulously.

“Corsets were invented as a form of torture for women, my dear.” Birdie says while walking around the plate to stand in front of you. She straightens your top, a small smile on her violet lips. “If you feel like you’re dying, you’re doing it right.”

You lift your head, narrowing your eyes distastefully at the woman across the room. Ellie looks up, meeting your gaze with a startled expression, clearly confused as to why she’s being glared at. You look back to Birdie with a frown. “Why the fuck doesn’t she have to go through this agony, then?”

Birdie shakes her head fondly, though she doesn’t seem to have an answer. Likely because it’s obvious. You’re wearing a gown of sleek gold, hanging like a satin tunic over your body; the straps are thin as hair and the neckline dips down your chest rather deeply. Ellie is wearing a pair of burgundy slacks and a matching burgundy blazer, nothing underneath. To some, it’ll seem as though you’re simply dressed in complimentary colors to accentuate your partnership. To others, however, the message is rather clear: you’re in gold, thus symbolizing the sun; Ellie is in burgundy, a shade in which resembles moths, thus symbolizing her devotion to you and your light.

It’s clever, on Birdie and Cat’s part, to design two outfits so subtle yet simultaneously so apparent. It’s dangerous, though. This blatantly shows President Fedra that Birdie and Cat are both aware of the rebellion and unafraid to publicly showcase their support.

“Thirty-eight minutes!” Alice calls out.

“Add your final touches!” Adds Tilly.

Birdie takes a step back from your pedestal, taking in the sight of your outfit. It’s stunning, admittedly, though Ruben isn’t a fan of the neckline nor the corset. They’re a bit too showy, though nobody asks his opinion—likely for that very reason. Ruben takes one look at Joel’s face and can tell he feels the same about Ellie’s outfit. Her blazer has the top three buttons undone, showing the bareness of her chest just enough to make the Capitol want more. Joel hates it, though, and has made that rather known through his continuous insults at Cat and her design.

“She’s gonna be freezing!” He’s saying. “How the fuck is this convenient at all!?”

“Just– Calm down, alright?” Cat tells him.

She shoots him a look that says we can talk about it later. But he doesn’t seem to gather that message as he continues to complain very loudly. Eventually Clay has to ask him to leave the room so they can finish their work. With a grumble, Joel storms out of the room.

“I’ll go talk to him.” Ruben says shortly before excusing himself into the hallway where he finds Joel pacing back and forth. His jaw is clenched tightly, his expression twisted into a deepened scowl. When he sees Ruben, he lets out a heavy sigh.

“Why the fuck are they wearin’ clothes like that when it’s snowin’ outside!?”

“I don’t know.” Ruben replies calmly. “But I’m sure Cat and Birdie wouldn’t have chosen those outfits without a good reason.”

“Those girls don’t know shit about–”

“Joel.” Ruben snaps, drawing his attention. “Have you been drinking?”

He scoffs, waving a dismissive hand. “Doesn’t fuckin’ matter.”

“How much have you had?”

“Jus’ a couple beers.” He huffs. “I didn’t go chasin’ ‘em, though, okay? They were offered t’me.”

“By who?”

“I dunno, one of the designers?”

“Basil or Clay?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know.” He grounds out. “But he was jus’ tryin’ t’be nice. He saw I was stressed ‘n’ offered me a drink. It’s my fault for takin’ it.”

Just then, you and Ellie are being ushered out of the living room into the hall. You’re now wearing a fuzzy white jacket to keep your arms warm and, knowing Birdie, you’ve likely been given thick stockings to wear under your dress. Ellie is beside you, being drowned in a heavy black scarf and given black leather gloves to pull over her hands.

Alice and Tilly are continuously announcing how much time is left before you’re both expected to be on the train to Twelve.

Birdie crouches in front of you, lifting one of your feet to slide a shoe on. You instantly wince at the feel of weight being added to your other ankle, your hand coming to grip Ellie’s shoulder for stability. She turns instantly, green eyes narrowing at your expression. She then meets Ruben’s gaze, giving him a look that says I’ll tell you later. He nods. Birdie, unaware of everything, places your foot back onto the floor before lifting your other one.

The rest of the styling team is rushing around, adding a few final details. They slip a bracelet onto your wrist and a pair of studded earrings into Ellie’s ears. Then Alice and Tilly are instructing them to leave, needing only the stylists, mentors, and escorts present. Birdie pushes to her feet, pulling a small silver chain from her pocket. She holds it out in front of you, showing the pearl pendant in the center.

“I found it in the kitchen.” She says, reaching behind your neck to clasp it on.

Your eyes instantly fill with sorrow, your shoulders tensing. Then you whisper, “I completely forgot that I’d left it there.”

“That’s partly my fault,” Ellie says. “I told you to take it off before we went hunting.”

“That’s not your fault at all.” You turn to her, frowning. “You know how much it means to me and you didn't want anything to happen to it. If anything, I should thank you.”

Ellie doesn’t say anything, but she looks at you with all the delicacy in the world. She doesn’t need to say anything because her eyes are saying it all. Ruben suddenly feels like he’s intruding on something private and intimate.

“Well,” Birdie says softly, drawing your guys’ attention away from each other. She takes a step back, admiring you. “It’s here now. And it pulls the entire outfit together.”

The following few minutes are spent in haste, Alice and Tilly shouting at everyone to pick up the pace and get to the damn train station already—though they say it with much more eloquence.

When you arrive, the train is already waiting. Inside, everything is decorated in deep hues of brown and maroon. It’s a stark difference from Four’s train which is decorated in hues of beige and baby blues. Ruben thinks he likes this design better, actually, it feels more homely and comforting.

Almost instantly, Birdie is walking past him and making sure to brush the knuckle of her pinky across his wrist. Then she’s heading down the hall toward the bathroom. He knows, by that, he’s meant to follow her. He waits a few minutes, though, just to be sure he won’t draw any attention.

Throughout those minutes, he watches as everyone settles in for the next two weeks. Because, although you’ll be spending the day in each District, nights will be spent on the train—an eight-hour trip in between for sleep.

Avoxes help everyone settle in, revealing there to be only seven rooms despite there being eight of you present. Two people are meant to share a room and it’s rather obvious who those people are. Ellie’s eyes meet yours, both of you having gone a bit stiff. Alice doesn’t notice the wordless panic you’re both feeling, though, as she walks into the room with a wide smile, going on and on about how lucky you are to have been given such a large room.

While everyone is distracted by that, Ruben slowly backs away from the group until he’s in the hall. Then he slips into the bathroom unnoticed. He barely has any time to turn around before Birdie is flinging her arms around his neck and pulling him into a deep kiss. He returns it, of course, though he’s a bit confused.

Ruben pulls back, breathing heavy. “You’re not mad?”

“What could I possibly be mad about?” She asks, eyes flicking all around his face.

“I promised you dinner, then I ran off to Seven.” He frowns. “I should have–”

“Oh, shut up,” She lets out a fond laugh. “I could never blame you for that, Ru, you were taking care of your sister. I’d have done the same for my siblings in a heartbeat.”

The mention of Birdie’s brothers—Avner and Noam—makes Ruben’s chest ache. She told him about her past only a month ago, having kept the story of her family close to her chest for as long as possible. Her father’s illness that led to his death; her mother’s candor that led to her execution. But the thing that made Birdie most emotional was the memory of her brothers, twins, who she thought would be protected within District Thirteen, only to learn that Marlene has no issue with threatening them.

When she speaks of Avner, she first mentions how his independence reminds her of their mom, then how he always keeps his hair long enough to reach his waist. She only brushes across the fact that he’s half-blind because she believes it to be unimportant to his character. The same thing goes for Noam and the fact that he’s in a wheelchair. She hardly mentions it, instead focusing on his love for reading and the way he only ever talks when he’s asked about something he’s passionate about.

“I don’t blame you, darling.” She tells him in a whisper, leaning forward to peck a small kiss on his nose. “Plus, now that we’re to be on this train for the next two weeks, we’ll be having many dinners together.”

He huffs a laugh, nodding. “Yeah, okay.”

13:05.

DISTRICT SEVEN’S TRAIN.

“—And you even have two walk-in closets!” Beams Alice as she ogles enviously at the room that you and Ellie have been given. If only she knew the truth: you’ll likely be sleeping with Ruben, for Ellie doesn’t believe there to be a world in which you’d share a bed with her unless you’re forced into it.

“Why not give the couple some time to settle in?” Tilly suggests as she places a tender hand on her sister’s shoulder.

Alice turns, teal eyebrows raised. “Hm? Oh! Oh, yes, that would be courteous, would it not? Come on, Tilly, let us leave.”

With that, the two sisters turn on their heels and vacate the room. Everyone else has long since left, wanting to grow comfortable in their own private spaces. The train is set up quite cleanly; logically. At the very end of the hall is your guys’ shared room and, on either side, your teams face their co-worker. For example: Ruben, Birdie, and Alice reside on one side, facing Joel, Cat, and Tilly respectively.

The door shuts with a gentle click, the room suddenly going deafeningly quiet. Ellie turns around to find you in front of the bookshelf, running your finger along the spines of the dusty novels. She walks over to you, peering over your shoulder to read the titles.

“Macbeth.” You say, pulling a thick paperback from the shelf. You flip through the pages, allowing your eyes to scan the words. Then you lift your head, gaze meeting Ellie’s. “Have you ever read it?”

“Shakespeare? No thanks.”

You roll your eyes, slotting the book back into place. “He’s not necessarily a bad author, but he does have an obsession with killing off all his characters. Over time, you learn to not grow attached to anyone in his stories.”

“Well who dies in that one?” She asks, pointing to where you’d just discarded Macbeth.

“Everyone.”

She huffs a laugh, turning away from the shelving and continuing to examine the rest of the room. The walls are painted bole, lined with intricate edging that makes it feel like some sort of castle. The bed is huge, taking most of the space, with a thick red duvet atop it. Even the pillows are fancy, their cases soft and silky.

Ellie wastes no time before she flops backward onto it, the mattress sinking like quicksand under her weight. Her eyes slide shut as a relieved sigh passes her lips. It’s mitigating to finally lie down after spending hours atop that pedestal thing. She rolls her head to the side, watching as you examine the buttons on the wall. You press one, curious, and the walls suddenly turn neon green. You frown, frantically trying to undo your mistake.

Ellie groans dramatically. “Turn it off, my eyes are burning.”

“One second.” You say, pressing a few more buttons that end up doing more damage than good. Somehow, you’ve changed the floor from hardwood to checkered tile and turned the closet into a window. Then, after five—hilarious—minutes of struggling, you find the button that undoes everything, successfully reverting the room back to its original state.

With a heavy exhale, you sit on the edge of the bed right beside Ellie’s hip. The mattress dips and her body leans into you. Neither of you say anything, but neither of you move either, so Ellie supposes that’s a good sign. Then you’re lying back, staring up at the vaulted ceiling, your head less than a foot away from Ellie’s. She wonders if you feel the same gentle familiarity that she does.

“You don’t need to stay in here, if you don’t want to.” She says, hoping you don’t feel obligated to keep her company. “I’m sure Ruben’s room is much less ornate.

You roll your head toward her and she can feel you staring at the side of her face. “Who says I don’t want to?”

That grabs her attention.

Ellie blinks, her head snapping to the side. You meet her confused gaze with a calm one, holding the contact placidly. Her brows furrow in confusion, trying to read through whatever facade you’ve just raised. Are you serious? You want to stay here with her? But then your eyes flick to the side and back. She, cautiously, follows your gaze. There, in the corner of the room, is a security camera. Oh.

This isn’t you. She should have guessed. Because you would have told her to fuck off when she said her eyes were burning; you would have called her an idiot for not reading Shakespeare; you would have scooted away when her body leaned into you. You would have left by now. But you haven’t, and this isn’t you—it’s the pawn she survived the arena with.

Ellie turns back forward, staring up at the ceiling. She has nothing to say to that. What can she say? She hardly even knows how she feels herself. Part of her wants to shrug it off because she should have expected this. But another part of her feels a twinge of disappointment in her chest to know that your words hadn’t been genuine. Is this how Odysseus felt when Penelope hadn’t run to hug him the moment she saw him even though he knew, deep in his heart, that he should have expected it? That he shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up?

“Ellie.” You call out. She turns, not having noticed that you’re now sitting upright on the edge of the bed, your fingers fumbling with the strings of your golden corset. “Will you help loosen this? I can hardly breathe.”

Ellie can’t tell if this is another ploy for the camera or if you genuinely need her help. In any case, something like this is certainly intimate—the act of removing an article of clothing, regardless of how small. Whatever. It doesn’t matter.

“Sure,” she replies while sitting up. You drop your hands to your lap, moving your hair to your shoulder. Ellie begins to pull at the thin strings, hoping to god she’s doing this correctly. Then, just to fill the silence, she asks, “Will Birdie be mad?”

“She shouldn’t be, considering we’ll be on this damn train for the next nine hours.” You respond grimly. “Did Cat explain anything to you? Birdie was acting a bit odd today, like she’s hiding something.”

“Cat seemed fine to me.” Ellie shrugs, still struggling with the corset lacing. “I told her that I thought today’s whole schedule seemed shitty and she said they had no control over it; that it came straight from the Capitol.”

“Well, if we’re going to be on the train for so long anyway, why couldn’t we have just gotten ready here?”

“I asked that, actually.” She tells you. “Cat said having both styling teams would be way too overwhelming on such a small portion of the train.”

“Well we could have gotten ready after we got there.”

“I mentioned that, too. She said the moment we get to Twelve, we’ll be forced into interviews and dinners and all that other prodigal shit.”

You open your mouth, ready to come up with another solution that’d make this schedule less miserable, but you end up closing it again due to lack of ideas. Just a moment later, Ellie announces that she’s successfully loosened that godforsaken corset. You laugh, thanking her. Then you roll your shoulders and do a little stretch that makes Ellie’s face suddenly feel hot. She ignores it.

The following three hours are spent in the same eventless fashion.

For a while, you lie on the bed on your stomach, reading through the first three acts of Macbeth. You eventually tire of Shakespeare, though, and decide to begin Dante’s Infero—which you’ve been binging ever since.

Ellie, on the other hand, has much more trouble finding something to do. For the first half hour, she tries taking a nap—curling into your side for the sake of the cameras—though she eventually wakes from a nightmare. After that, she changes into a more comfortable outfit that she’d found in the closet. She’s aware of Cat’s inevitable complaining and you even warn her against this, but she doesn't care. Her comfort is much more important to her than Cat’s precious time. Then, after you discard it, she tries reading Macbeth but it ends up being far too wordy for her taste. Then she tries taking another nap—which lasts fifty minutes before she is woken by the sight of Riley’s split skull.

She just rose from that terror, your hand still gently placed on her shoulder as she attempts to even out her breathing, when there’s a rapid knock at the door.

“I can tell them to leave.” You offer softly.

She shakes her head, chest still heaving. “It’s– No, it’s fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, they can come in.”

You nod, your hand lingering on her shoulder for only a moment before pushing to your feet. She remains on the bed, eyes squeezed shut as she listens to your bare feet pat lightly across the floor. She hears the door open and she opens her eyes, curious to see who it is. A head of vibrant teal gives it away rather quickly.

“Alice?” You question.

“Hi, yes, can I come in?” She asks. Then, before you’re able to reply, she’s strutting into the room with wide eyes and an even wider smile. Ellie knows she means no ill intent by this—Capitolites aren’t exactly mindful of personal space—but it still irritates her. Alice’s gaze is filled with awe as she looks around the room. She exhales a breathy sigh, “This room is just so stunning, I cannot get over it.”

She walks over to the bookshelf, eyeing the novels before moving onto the next exhibit for her to ogle at. She peers out the window, running her fingers along the thin fabric of the curtain. Then she turns around, suddenly halting at the sight of Ellie’s discarded clothes. Her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline, her gaze flicking between you and Ellie, clearly having gotten the wrong idea.

Ellie rolls her eyes. “Do you need something?”

Alice clears her throat before clasping her hands behind her back awkwardly. “Uh– Yes. It’s, um– It’s dinner time. The Avoxes cooked up something nice for our first night.”

Then, with a stilted gait and a horrified expression, Alice hurries out of the room. You shut the door behind her, the latch clicking quietly. Then you’re heaving a sigh and facing Ellie, hands on your hip unamusedly.

“What? It’s not my fault.” She frowns. “If she didn’t snoop through people’s shit, she wouldn’t be mortified by what she finds.”

You try to hide it, but Ellie catches the corner of your lip twitching upward. Then, with a fond scoff, you change the topic. “Will you find a bookmark for my book? I don’t want to crease the spine by leaving it open like that.”

Ellie turns to find your copy of Dante’s Inferno lying face-down on the bed, having been quickly abandoned when you noticed she’d been roused by a nightmare. She picks it up and folds over the corner of your page before placing it neatly on your pillow. Almost instantly, you’re reprimanding her for it.

“What are you doing?” You blurt out. “Don’t dog-ear it! You’ll get the paper all folded!”

She rolls her eyes. “Books are meant to be loved.”

“That is not love.” You tut. “That’s atrocious.”

She groans before picking the book back up and unfolding the corner of the page, flattening the crease as best as possible. She looks around for something to use, quickly spotting an empty notepad on her nightstand. She tears a piece of paper from it before sticking it between the pages as a makeshift bookmark. Then she lifts her gaze, wordlessly asking if that’s good enough for you. With a content nod, you confirm that it is.

Ellie swings her legs over the side of the bed, the soles of her feet suddenly chilled by the cold floorboards, even through the fabric of her socks. She shivers, walking to where you’re waiting by the door. Then, like the happy couple you are, you walk to dinner hand-in-hand.

She wonders why it’s such a big deal for you to not dog-ear your pages. When she was a kid, Marlene always wore her books out to the point that they were barely hanging on. Ellie, honestly, liked that look. She thought it revealed how much the reader cared for the novel, having brought it everywhere with them and left the imprint of their love via its creased spine and stained pages.

But, if her indifference is caused by how she was raised, that would mean your vigilance would be due to your childhood. This theory would make sense, wouldn’t it? Seeing as your parents are such outward perfectionists, it would make sense. Ellie finds herself wishing that she and Ruben weren’t in the midst of an awkward juncture so she could ask if he refuses to dog-ear his pages as well.

“There you two are!” Tilly grins as you enter the dining area.

The table is long, made of mahogany. Surrounding it are birch chairs, all filled except two that are on opposite sides of the table facing one another. You take one seat, at the head between Ruben and Birdie—who are thereby across from each other. Ellie takes the other chair, between Joel and Cat.

Moments later, the Avoxes are coming forward with eight plates of food. A redheaded woman places Ellie’s in front of her and, for a second, she thinks it’s Kayce. Until she sees her brown eyes and lack of an infant in her arms.

“Ooh, I love steak.” Birdie smiles before picking up her fork and knife. It’s subtle, but Ellie knows that comment was a way to thank the Avoxes without saying it outright.

Alice, however, does the opposite. She wears a grimace as she pokes at her broccoli. “I don’t much like greens.”

“Quit complaining.” Tilly tells her. “You sound like a whiny child.”

“I sound like a child?” Alice snaps back.

The two siblings then continue to argue back and forth about the other’s childlike habits. Everyone else ignores them, engaging in conversation about anything else. Joel and Birdie talk about tomorrow’s schedule and how District Twelve is set up. Meanwhile, you and Ruben are speaking—a bit awkwardly—about your respective rooms and the differences between how they’re set up.

Ellie is cutting her steak when Cat frowns at her. “You changed out of your outfit?”

“Calm down, I have six hours to put it back on.”

“And it took me four hours to get you ready this morning.” She points out, crossing her arms as she leans back in her seat. Ellie responds with a careless shrug, stuffing her face with the first meal she’s eaten all day. Cat heaves a sigh, shaking her head fondly. “You’re such a pain in the ass, you know that, right?”

“Yeah I know.” Ellie grins, her cheeks full of food like a chickmunk.

Cat rolls her eyes at Ellie’s antics, turning away from her to face the rest of the table. Ruben, Birdie, and Joel are now enveloped into one big conversation, arguing over something small. In the center of them all, you’re sitting back and listening while doing the same thing Ellie is—stuffing your face. You don’t notice that she’s staring, too busy darting your eyes between everyone else. But she is. And she can’t seem to look away. Even when you lean back in your chair to whisper something to an Avox.

Wait, what? Ellie pretends not to notice, subtly taking a sip from her glass of water. But, over the rim, she’s trying to read your lips as the Avox leans forward to hear you. Then you’re handing him your empty glass and, with a courteous nod, he turns on his heel and heads for the kitchen. As he walks off, you look around to the table to be certain nobody saw you. Ellie looks away before you spot her.

She places her glass on the table, pretending to be enveloped on the same petty argument that everyone else—excluding Alice and Tilly, who are still fighting their own private battle—is solely focused on. She nods along when Joel says something, though she has no idea what his point even was. Somehow, though, he notices and uses her agreement as a means to back up his idea. Whoops.

But then the Avox has returned and Ellie suddenly no longer cares for Joel nor this random argument. She hunches over, poking a piece of broccoli with her fork to hide the fact that she’s watching you through her lashes. You whisper something to the Avox, who simply nods and walks away. The glass looks untouched and, for a moment, Ellie wonders if she’d been overreacting. Perhaps you were simply asking for a refill. But then you’re drinking it. And you’re not sipping it like water, you’re knocking it back like alcohol—like vodka. God damn it.

She should have guessed, considering you’re still recovering from an addiction to Morphling. It’s been three days since you last had it and, fuck, she should have thought of this. She looks down at her food, poking at it as she attempts to ground herself. She asks herself a few questions, trying to answer them as best as possible. First, how has nobody else noticed? Well, that’s obvious by looking around that table. They’re too invested in their futile debate to pay attention to anything else. Second, should she tell them? Another look around the table answers that for her. No, they’re far too happy; happier than she’s seen them in a long time. Third, how much have you drank up until this point? That, Ellie realizes, she doesn’t know.

She watches you for a few minutes, waiting for you to slip up. But you don’t. It makes sense that you don’t, though, considering the arena gave you good practice with acting. Which would also explain why Ellie was the first one to read through it. You finish your drink and begin whispering to the Avox again. When he walks away and you look around the table to see if anyone noticed, Ellie doesn’t care to hide the fact that she saw. When your eyes meet, you freeze. She knows, and now you know she does.

Ellie pushes to her feet, her expression stony. At the sudden movement, Cat turns to her and raises a brow in inquiry. She doesn’t meet her gaze, standing perfectly still while staring at you until, eventually, you heave a sigh and stand up as well. Then, without an explanation to anyone—though only Cat and Tilly seemed to notice—the two of you leave.

You enter your shared bedroom, gait already staggered. She’s only a few steps behind you, shutting the door gently despite the irritation in her chest. When she turns around, you’re sitting at the foot of the bed with your head in your hands.

She crosses her arms, trying not to feel any pity. “You’re drinking now?”

“I can’t–” You shake your head, eyes squeezing shut. Your hands tighten in your hair, tugging lightly. “Ellie, I can’t stop thinking about him.”

She doesn’t know if you’re talking about Remy or Mister Alden. Perhaps you don’t, either.

She takes a cautious step forward before sitting beside you, careful to not touch. She’s all too familiar with how that can startle people in such a state as this. She’s experienced this same exact feeling—being in a good mood all day, only for everything to come crashing down at once to ruin all of which was finally starting to feel normal. It’s terrible, the feeling of despair that comes crashing down with it. That’s when drinking comes into the picture as a solution. It’s not particularly the crash itself but the feeling it elicits.

“I’m not blaming you, I’m worried about you.” She assures you softly. “This isn’t a confrontation, it’s just a conversation.”

“I just– I can’t get him out of my head.” You whisper.

“And that’s normal; that’s okay.” She replies, also dropping her voice to a whisper in case quietude is what you need right now. “What’s not okay if keeping this to yourself and abusing substances as a way to cope. You need to talk to us. That’s what we’re here for.”

You lift your head and, honestly, Ellie expected to see tears. Instead, she just sees defeat—which, in a way, is worse. Your eyes are lidded; your skin is flushed. You must have been drinking vodka neat, nothing mixed into it. That’s the only way she can imagine you’d gotten this drunk this fast. That, or it’d been some weird Capitol-made drink that she’d never seen before. Which she doesn’t doubt.

“I just want to sleep.” You murmur.

Then you’re leaning forward, pressing your forehead into her shoulder. Ellie tenses as you relax. Her heart speeds in her chest, eyes widening. But then she remembers the cameras and can’t decide if you’re doing this for them or due to your inebriation. Whatever the case, she wishes you’d explain yourself more often—not like that’s even an option, what with the creepily watchful security.

She brings a hand to your back, rubbing it in a way she hopes isn’t awkward. She can feel your breath on her chest, tickling the skin with its foreign gentility.

For a few minutes, you remain like that. You, leaning on her silently; her, stiffened while her thoughts run laps around her skull. After a while, though, she helps you lie down. She removes your white coat, discarding it alongside her clothes, and pulls the duvet up to your chin. Then she turns—not to leave, but to turn the lights off—and you catch her wrist. Ellie looks at you over her shoulder, swallowing.

“Don’t go.”

Ellie really wishes those lights were already off so you can’t see how red her face is. She, awkward as ever, nods curtly. “Uh– Yeah, no. Of course not. I’m just– I was gonna turn the lights off. I mean, I could leave them on, if you want. I just–”

You release her wrist, letting an airy laugh pass through your lips. Your voice is barely above a breath as you utter, “Go ahead, Els.”

Oh.

She likes that.

Way too much, probably.

Ellie turns, walking over to the light switch before flicking it off. Instantly, the room is bathed in darkness, thus shielding her from your sight—thank the lord. She remains in that spot for a moment, just long enough to collect herself, then walks back over to where the bed is. Well, where she thought it was. That is, until she stubs her toe on something hard and solid.

“Shit!” She curses.

There’s shuffling from the bed. Then your fingers are grazing her skin, searching for her in the dark. Every muscle in her body tenses as your hand brushes the small of her stomach, right where her waistband rests. It hadn’t been on purpose. Of course it hadn’t—you’re on the bed, reaching blindly for someone who is also blind. But, still, Ellie’s face grows hotter. If that’s even possible, at this point.

“What happened?” You ask, frantic. “Are you alright? What–”

“I’m fine,” She assures you softly, stepping toward the sound of your voice—much more carefully this time—until she reaches the mattress. Then she’s blindly scooting onto it, a bit overwhelmed by the combined feeling of the jumbled blankets and her twisted pants. But, the moment her skin brushes yours, she’s calmed.

She feels around for the hem of the blanket before lifting it and scooting under. The sheets are warm and clean, welcoming her with their comfort. She lies back until her spine rests against the fancy silk pillows. Her entire body relaxes. Well, until you scoot toward her, curling up into her side. Again, she should have expected this. She had to do the same thing when you were reading. And yet, despite any prior knowledge, Ellie reacts like a snail in salt. Her muscles go taut, her breathing ceasing.

She really needs to get a hold of herself.

24:33.

DISTRICT SEVEN’S TRAIN.

Remy is no longer in a field because, for once, you’ve fallen asleep with a substance aside from Morphling in your body.

When you’re asleep sober, your dreams are naught aside from replayed memories of your worst experiences—watching from the doorway as your father bruises Ruben from head to toe; sobbing and saying goodbye to Ruben, knowing that your guys’ relationship will never be the same; holding Ellie’s face in your hands while trying to calm her down after Sam and Henry’s deaths; losing Remy due to your own negligence and inability to protect him; hearing the president deliver the news of Mister Alden’s death, knowing that, had you been there, you could have prevented it.

While on Morphling, however, you know what to expect. And it’s far less painful because nobody is being abused, nobody is crying, and nobody has died. Instead, it’s just you and Remy, running through a field of overgrowth as he laughs with serendipity. It always ends the same way, though—he looks over his shoulder, brutally reminding you of his death.

You’ve very seldom been drunk while sleeping. And, as it turns out, the nightmares are just as horrifying.

“Mortuus est ille!”

The foreign words rattle throughout your skull, deafening and gruff.

Your eyes shoot open to find yourself surrounded by water—but it’s not clear, it’s dark. It’s nothing.

You can’t see, you can’t hear, you can’t breathe. You open your mouth to scream only for it to be filled by liquid. It tastes of metal, thick and saline. You try to swim, but your body doesn’t move. That’s when you notice that you’re sinking, slowly, as though there are weights tied to each of your limbs.

Again, despite awareness of its vanity, you try to scream. And, again, you’re drowned by metallic fluid. It’s in your mouth, between your teeth and under your tongue. It’s in your nose, filling your lungs with its repugnance. You scream again, well, you try to. And, this time, you’re rewarded with a response—albiet a malicious one.

Just as you tip your head back, a hand clasps around your ankle, tugging your body downward. You jolt, sucking in another breath that drowns you. You look down, squinting against the darkness, willing yourself to see clearly despite the stinging it brings to your eyes. At the sight of the perpetrator, you shudder, beginning to thrash around to get away from her—away from your mother. Her hair floats overhead, her body evanescing into the endless depth beneath you. Her grip around your ankle tightens, tugging you farther toward the abyss.

Then a second hand is closing around your other ankle. Ruben, though it’s not quite him. His eyes are darkened with a cruelty you’ve never before seen him hone. His nails are digging into your skin, enough so to draw blood. Your mouth opens, lips shaping around his name. But your desperation only results in more choking. You yank your legs against their violently familial grips, struggling to get away.

A third hand then grabs at your wrist, tugging your body sideways. Birdie, this time, is who pulls you toward the darkness below. She’s looking at you, her eyes filled with the same sense of dishonesty you saw within them when she was getting you ready. She’s hiding something. Perhaps she knows what resides at the bottom. Or perhaps she just doesn’t care for you enough to be honest. She looks away, almost guiltily.

Just then, a fourth hand wraps around your other wrist, forcing your body upright once more. You yelp, causing more water to fill your lungs before you look down at the face of Remy—uncharacteristically vicious in the way he glares at you. He’d never do that, would he? Not unless he blamed you for his death; for your uselessness in protecting him. Not unless–

A hand suddenly closes around your throat. Your head snaps backward as the other four hands vanish into nothingness. You blink, dazed, as Ellie’s face comes into focus before you. Her eyes are dark and loathing, jaw clenched with the same rage she held for you during the interviews. Her mouth opens but she doesn't choke. Instead, she utters three words, rough with inhumanism.

“Mortuus est ille!”

She tightens her fingers around your windpipe, repeating these words over and over until they’re burned into your skull. You desperately try to breathe, sucking in a deep breath of liquid. It’s thick, metallic, and salty. Then it hits you. This isn’t water. It’s blood. You’re choking on the deaths of all the people you’d killed. Your lungs are filled with blood, not water. Blood.

With a gasp, you shoot awake.

You still feel like you can’t breathe despite the lack of water that surrounds you. Still, you’re shrouded in darkness, reminding you of the bloody sea you’d drank dry. Your stomach lurches and you suddenly feel the urge to puke.

Throwing your legs over the side of the bed, you rush toward the door. It slams open, revealing a dimly lit hallway. You reach the bathroom just in time, hunching over the toilet as you vomit into the porcelain bowl. Tears fill your eyes, though you’re unsure whether it’s due to the dream or due to the rawness of your throat.

Then there’s a pair of hands brushing the back of your neck. You flinch away from the touch, instantly on edge. You turn to find Ellie, her hands now in the air as a sign of surrender. Her expression isn’t enraged, though. It’s gentle; understanding.

“I was just gonna hold your hair back.” She says softly. “I won’t hurt you.”

You sigh, whispering, “I know you won’t.”

Then, as soon as you begin to get comfortable, a wave of remembrance washes over you—reminding your stomach of how blood feels within your lungs. You lurch forward, vomiting once more. Ellie reaches forward, cautiously, and this time you don’t flinch away. Because you do know she’d never hurt you.

You’ve just leaned away from the toilet when the bathroom door slams open. Ruben, brows furrowed in perturb, takes in the sight before him. It looks concerning, you’re sure. Ellie, crouched beside you as you throw up into the empty toilet bowl in the middle of the night. You turn your head to the side, your throat burning and your stomach convulsing.

“Bad dream?” Ruben asks, stepping into the room. He braces his hands on the edge of the counter, leaning against it. Ellie nods in confirmation as you gag again, turning back to the toilet to vomit for the—fourth?—time. You can hear the frown in your brother’s voice as he asks, “Is this why you guys left the table early? Because you were drinking?”

Ellie doesn’t respond, not wanting to say the wrong thing. But that ends up being an answer in itself.

“Is that why you’re puking?” He asks, disappointed.

You turn to him, irritable and exhausted. “At least I didn’t allow myself to ruin everyone else’s night.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, you wish you could take them back. Not because they were untrue, but because you can tell how much they hurt Ruben. You’re not only referring to your own experiences with him, you’re referring to what you’ve heard from other people—Joel, reminding him to pace himself; Dina, keeping him from getting in fights with rich Capitolites; Jesse, taking him to bed so as to not cause any more damage.

“Sorry.” You say, wincing at your own ignorance. “I didn’t mean–”

“It’s fine,” He assures you, “Don’t worry about it.”

Ruben tries to hide the hurt in his heart but, after only a few minutes, he excuses himself back to his room, muttering something about needing rest. The moment the door shuts behind him, you close the toilet seat and flush the toilet. You’re honestly a bit disgusted with yourself—for both puking and talking to Ruben the way you did.

Ellie pushes to her feet, offering you a hand. You don’t take it, using the counter to pull yourself up. Not because of anything related to her, but because you don’t want to ruin someone else’s night. You’ve done enough.

“You can go to sleep, Ellie.” You tell her quietly. “I need to brush my teeth anyway.”

She hesitates but, after a second, nods and leaves. Perhaps she blames you for what you’d said. Or perhaps you’re overthinking and she doesn't care at all. You’re not sure which option is worse.

With a sigh, you pull open the mirror cabinet. Within it are five shelves containing six unused, untouched toothbrushes. Two people—most likely Alice and Tilly—have already claimed theirs. You grab one, uncaring for the color, and coat it in minty toothpaste. You end up brushing your teeth for over ten minutes, scrubbing roughly at every corner of your mouth in an attempt to rid it of the metallic, bloody taste. But it won’t go away.

Every time you blink, you see it again. Remy grabs your wrist, naught aside from pure hatred on his little face as he scowls at you. Birdie grips the other one, feeling guilty for something you’re unaware of. Ruben and your mother tug at your ankles, wearing mirrored expressions of violence, though, honestly, your mother doesn't look much different. Then there’s Ellie, so pertinent that everyone else is drowned out. She’s not tugging you downward, though. Because she doesn’t care to hide the fact that she’s trying to kill you. She strangles you while repeating those two words over and over.

You spit in the sink. It’s tinted pink with blood and, for a moment, you wonder if your dream actually did happen. But then you look in the mirror and find that you’d simply rubbed your gums raw until they bled. With a dissatisfied huff, you rinse your toothbrush and put it back in the cabinet.

You open the bathroom door, almost instantly bumping into Ellie—who had apparently been waiting outside the whole time. She blinks through the darkness at you, mossy eyes narrowed. “What took so long? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” You respond, trying to keep your tone soft because now there are cameras watching and listening to your every move. You reach for her hand, squeezing it gently. “Don’t worry about me, m‘kay? I’m just tired.”

Ellie frowns but has no choice aside from accepting this because she, too, is aware of the cameras. She nods before leading you back to the bedroom. She leaves the light on until you’re situated. Then she turns it off, walking with much more chary than she had the first time.

You’re not comfortable exactly, considering you’re still in your dress and the darkness causes your mind to replay images from your dream over and over. Ellie climbs under the duvet beside you, her bare leg grazing the silk of your gown—which might wrinkle it, but you hardly care. She snakes an arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer. You’re stiff at first, her loathsome face still imprinted into your mind. But, after a few minutes, you relax into her and shut your eyes.

It’s fine. It has to be.

notes ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ first of all, i love birdie & ruben So Much that it hurts. like wdym they love one another with every single bone in their body but have to hide it ??? wdym they're literally perfect for one another but spent ALL this time without acknowledging it ??? anyway. let's move on bc i could talk ab them all day (literally) ik i wrote it butttt i LOOOOVED the scene of yn and ellie moving into their new room #DomesticLove. when ellie, for a split second, thought yn was going to stay with her bc she chose to,,,, my silly baby, u guys don't ever have the right to choose 💔💔 anyway. i need to reread macbeth bc i def could've yapped abt that story more if my memory of it was more recent. smh my head.

67 notes · View notes