Trust was something Venus learnt early on in life, and just as quickly, she longed to forget it. It was something she seldom possessed and even more scarcely endowed upon others, and the frequency with which it was betrayed left her weary of it.
Trust is a tricky concept, one infested with lies and suffused with treachery. One does not seek trust without selfishness, just as one does not seek money without greed.
Which is why, when the screech of wheels and accompanied hiss of steam perforates the rusted stuffy compartments the tributes are crammed haphazardly into, she decides there is no one to trust in the Capitol.
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A slight pinch between her brows.
A vague softening in her eyes. An almost imperceptible nod is he needs to lightly pluck the rose between her fingers, impatiently twist the stem off and reach to tuck it behind her ear, buried in her dark hair.
Then, unconsciously, as though a movement his body deems so necessary it disregards his mind, his hand is stretching out for Venus to take.