thecanaryoftwelve

[thecanaryoftwelve]

freyamessere‌:

freya was truly, honestly confused her mentor breaking out in giggle in front of her. first, she was saying to be demure - something freya had no idea how to do - and then at the mention of illegal activities in twelve began to laugh. honestly, she wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not.

okay, so no mentioning capitol hate and illegal activities - noted. and dior’s advice was sound. “so, stick to the truth but be vague?” that could be done. hopefully. 

everything about this situation made freya’s skin crawl. she was playing exactly into the hands of the capitol and the young woman could only hope to retain some of herself through the process. or be stubborn as a mule and end up dead - or a victor hated by the capitol (if they let that happen). “they better not expect me to dance around like a performance animal, i may lose it.” 

“Mhm,” she mumbled as she lazily waved an avox over. “Would you get me some more tea, please?” Dior had gotten so used to living in the Capitol that she didn’t even make eye-contact with the avox. She knew that he would be well on his way by the time she looked up and offered him a smile, so she didn’t even bother. The act might have appeared cold to an outsider, but the songstress’ words were easy and peaceful to someone that was often commanded like an avox. A simple please really went a long way. 

It would have been plausible for Dior to feel like she was smacked in the face by Freya’s words. After all, the victor was the pinnacle of how Capitolite authority could completely control the lives of those with weak wills. Sure, Dior was strong, passionate, and had ambitions -- but when it came to controlling her?  The Capitol had it down to a tee. Thus, the whole of Freya’s words went over her head.

“You can’t just ‘lose it.’ They won’t expect you to, like, dance and twirl around like Katniss Everdeen. Although, I guess she sorta did that by herself. No, no... those days are over. The Capitol--” her breath caught in her throat as she pretended to take a sip of her tea. The Capitol expected lovely, beautiful, and friendly... Kaliope-esque tributes. Dior did, too, and she couldn’t seem to escape it.

“...The Capitol expects different things from us Twelve girls, now.”

[thecanaryoftwelve]

freyamessere‌:

freya silently thanked whatever powerful figure there was that dior wasn’t about to try and dress her up in frills and smiles and pretend that she was the most gracious tribute. but, she also had no idea how to be herself and not inspire hatred and disgust from capitolites. the woman in front of her better have a fool-proof plan to make sure freya didn’t get a death sentence from the moment she introduced herself to the sponsors.

“okay, what i’m hearing is that you don’t want me to smile. but to be a… louder version of myself?” freya let that sit for a moment, her confusion playing clearly across her features. “i’m assuming you don’t want me to talk about the fact that i work illegally in twelve, despise the fact that these games even exist, and generally dislike everything about the capitol? so, what exactly should i talk about?”

Was a louder version of Freya even possible? “No, not that. I mean, uh... how do I put this...” she fumbled for the words and with her hands. “I wouldn’t say louder -- being loud and obnoxious isn’t what the Capitol wants from someone like you--”

She paused at Freya’s harsh words. Then, after the initial shock faded, she let her hand cover her mouth gently as she let out a string of giggles. Oh, the memories were coming back. Some considered what Dior did illegal, too. District Twelve wasn’t technically supposed to have an errand girl but, come what may, there she was. Plus, she always went to the Hob, too, so she was guilty on that front as well.

“It wouldn’t be the best idea to go talking about that, yeah. Let’s keep that our little secret, okay? But... and I’ll be honest, you could probably allude to the fact that you have to do whatever it takes to survive. It’s morbid, I know, but that’s just the way it’ll have to be.”

[thecanaryoftwelve]

freyamessere‌:

freya would have felt bad for insulting dior, but her response was genuine and she meant what she said. the hurt in dior’s voice was surprising, she really did seem to believe what she was saying and her intent was nothing but positive. it still didn’t change what she was asking. her request would strip freya of what small amount of control and dignity she had in the situation she was placed in.

“i thought the odds of me coming out alive were already slim to none. i am the girl from twelve, after all.” the current victors from twelve were the exceptions, so many of their district’s tributes were some of the first to go in the games. and though some of them made it further than expected, it was even more rare for them to be the ones coming home. 

“so, what, you want me to put on a smile and convince them that i’m worth spending their money on? i don’t exactly inspire confidence.” freya knew that charisma wasn’t her strongsuit and she never pretended that it was. but, dior sounded like she wasn’t going to budge on her plan to parade freya around.

“I,” she interrupted Freya and placed a hand to her chest, “am a girl from Twelve. I know its cheesy, and it might even be dumb, but it’s not impossible. No District is without a victor... even District Twelve” The statement carried its own weight in truth, but both Dior and Freya knew that the odds were still slim to none. Even so, despite the fact that Freya most likely would not be coming out alive, Dior still believed. Her hope burned almost as bright as she did when on the stage. It was a foolish act -- to believe in a tribute from Twelve -- but Dior knew that anything was possible.

Dior’s false smile turned genuine. She let out a light, airy laugh and continued to stroke the back of her hand with her thumbs. “Freya, we don’t know each other very well -- but I think I know you well enough to know that you aren’t the type to put on a smiley front. No, no I don’t want you to do any of that.”  

“You have to be yourself -- plain and simple -- but an amplified, almost gimmicky version of yourself. Trust me,”  and here, though it rarely ever showed, a semblance of pride came through. Dior could never offer any of her tributes any advice on training, but she could show them how to be loved.

[thecanaryoftwelve]

freyamessere‌:

there was a silence settled over the two women, one that lacked the bubbling warmth that seemed to follow dior wherever she went. as annoying as it could sometimes be, the absence of it weighed heavily. so, freya kept drinking her tea and taking small bites of the food in front of her until her mentor decided to speak.

and when she did, freya was surprised to find out that people did, in fact, spit out liquids when given surprising news. thankfully, most of the tea stayed in her mouth. “no,” was her immediate response. and she let it sit for a second or two before continuing. “that is the absolute worst idea, i won’t talk to them like they’re doing me a favor. like i’m grateful for being here and for their money.” and, for some reason, freya thought that her refusal would be the end of the conversation. that it simply wouldn’t happen because she didn’t want it to.

Dior was visibly taken aback by the suddenness with which Freya denied her. Her blonde eyebrows rose into her hairline and her eyes widened to show her surprise. No? The absolute worst idea-- Kali would never have been so rude about it. Levi, even if he had disagreed, would have never been so outlandishly brazen. The attitude that had caused Dior to reminisce about home had now caused her to feel a twinge of annoyance at the comments.

“It’s not, actually,” Dior said with a voice that had shrunk to that of a hurt child. “The sponsors could mean the difference between life and death for you. They... they are doing you a favor, Freya. Without their money, the odds of you coming out alive are--” She stopped herself. No, she thought to herself as she folded her hands on the table and let her pinky scratch away at the back of her hand, I won’t let myself to back there. It can’t happen again.

“We’re going and that’s that.” Dior had put on another of her grand smiles. Though she was teetering close to being overwhelmed by thoughts of Kali and Levi again, she somehow managed to stay “strong” by putting on one of her many masks. Once she had put it on, no one, not even a girl with District Twelve spunk like Freya, could break it. 

[thecanaryoftwelve]

freyamessere‌:

freya couldn’t help but scoff a bit at the bed comment, “it felt like it was suffocating me, i couldn’t stand it.” if dior was supposed to be her mentor, then freya supposed she better not start pretending now. but once her effervescence faded away, freya knew she was about to be signed up for something she really, really did not want to do. 

so when she simply mentioned the training center, freya was surprised. “aren’t i supposed to be going down there anyway?” freya took a quick sip of her tea, feeling it hit her empty stomach before deciding to pick up one of the more plain breakfast options in front of her. it resembled a muffin, maybe. “why do i feel like this is going to be a nightmare, maybe for us both?”

She smiled through both of Freya’s comments. At first, it was genuine -- Freya had that attitude about her that was common in the slums of Twelve. Lots of kids talked to their friends like they were enemies, but that was just how they showed love. It definitely caused one to grow thick skin, too. Dior knew that Freya wasn’t exactly showing love to anyone, but still, she drew a bit of sentimental value from the harsh words about the bed. 

As she played with her food, the smile stuck to her face but the warmth behind it disappeared. Dior, the Capitol’s superstar, was now on full display. Oh, if only Freya knew. But, no matter, Dior’s personal life was none of her business. She wouldn’t want to know about it, anyway. Somewhere in the back of the victor’s throat she felt the familiar tingle of wanting to share secrets but, fortunately, kept the urge at bay. 

She pushed the empty cup away from her with the backs of her fingers and splayed them out in front of her on the table mat. Her nails, which were painted her signature color of gold, sparkled in the morning light that cascaded in through the windows. “It’ll be... interesting, that’s for sure. I’ve, um...” she trailed off and looked up with a more somber expression gracing her face. “I’m going to introduce you to some sponsors -- we’re going to get them to love you, Freya.”

[thecanaryoftwelve]

freyamessere‌:

freya had finally managed to get herself out of her arena ‘suit’ and ended up standing in the shower for what felt like hours hoping that the warm water would wash off the strange feeling left behind. she had been, quite literally, paraded around to be stared at and cheered for and simultaneously bet against because she was just the girl from twelve. and even the girl on fire had died in the arena–and freya was no girl on fire.

she had awoken on the floor next to the plush capitol bed, after tossing and turning amongst the pillows for hours she had fallen asleep more easily with a blanket on the floor. so even though she was slightly sore in the morning, the familiar smell of strong tea drove her to dress in her training uniform and head out into the common area of the district twelve suite.

“i slept, so i’ll count that as well.” freya picked up a mug and made herself a cup of tea, something her family was able to scrounge up from leftovers back home. “how did you sleep?” freya was met with such warmth, and it was too early to really be pissed off, so she tried to meet dior halfway.

As Freya gathered herself a cup of tea, Dior stared intently at the back of the girls head. In those minutes of silence -- save for the occasional clatter of silverware and pouring of tea -- she became lost in a reverie and imagined that it was Kali pouring the beverage. When Freya turned, Dior blinked hard and drained the rest of her tea. 

“The beds here are really soft -- softest thing in the world, I’d say. And I slept well, thank you...” It was as if liquid sunshine poured from Dior’s mouth. She possessed the talent to make anything sound nice, bubbly, and pleasant to the ear. However, those bright sparkles faded away with the following words: “So,” and here she gulped, “I was thinking of going with you to the training centre in a few minutes.” 

[thecanaryoftwelve]

After another in a series of restless sleeps filled with night terrors and one particularly sweaty body, Dior decided that there was too much on her mind to sleep. She had been sitting in the kitchen since 5 in the morning, sipping on a cup of tea and allowing her subconscious to dwell on the many problems she had encountered over the pasty year or so. Of all the worries and fears -- encountering President Snow again, returning to a lonely house void of her husband, and the concept of uprisings in the Districts -- the one she seemed to keep going back to was Birch--

Suddenly, the door to Freya’s room opened and Dior took one more big sip of tea. The boiling hot liquid poured down her throat and, for a moment, it felt like she was preparing to go on stage and sing her heart out for her adoring fans. That all faded away when she saw Freya emerge from the room. 

“Good morning, Freya,” she said with a warm smile, “did you sleep well?”

@freyamessere

[thecanaryoftwelve]

Traits

romantic: These Sims tend to be flirty and may become sad if they don't have any romantic social interactions for a period of time.

music lover: These Sims gain powerful moodlets and boost their fun need when listening to music and become happy when playing instruments.

outgoing: These Sims gain powerful moodlets from friendly socialization, have their social need decay quickly, and gain more negative moodlets when their social need is low.

Aspiration

soul-mates: This Sim wants to find and live a rewarding life with "the one"!

[thecanaryoftwelve]

freyamessere‌:

as soon as one of freya’s feet had passed the threshold of her district’s suite, she was ripping pins out of her hair and attempting to tear the lace from her body. her stylist team had held her down while they had, quite literally, sewn her into her parade outfit. after all, any zippers or buttons would take away from the aesthetic. she had about smacked the smirk off the face of her stylist.

her hair had finally fallen back against freya’s shoulders, leaving a pained scalp in its wake, when a striking amount of yellow and gold entered her vision. the only mentor that had been around since freya said goodbye to her family smelled of booze and human excrement, so as bright and cheerful as the woman was before her it was almost a welcome change.

continuing to tug at the thin lace and gems that were poking in places freya had nearly forgotten existed on her body, she looked up at the woman before her. “can you please make yourself useful and help me out of this thing?”

@thecanaryoftwelve

She had made a mental note to introduce herself to her tributes as soon as she could. A number of months had passed since the last games, the ball, her album drop, and... that one visit from President Snow that kept coming back to her in her dreams. Of course, her mind also drifted back to thoughts of Birch -- specifically his warmth, his laugh, and that kiss -- but enough time had flown by that she was finally beginning to heal. 

Dior tried not to compare the boy and girl of this year to Kali and Levi of yesteryear. However, try as she might, the comparisons just kept coming. The boy was nowhere near as charming, and the girl, though just as beautiful as Kali had been, lacked the same charm. She searched for pieces of them everywhere she went. Though she might have ‘moved on,’ the fact of the matter was that those two had touched Dior’s heart and left a piece of themselves there for all eternity. 

So, as one can imagine, it was slightly jarring to walk into the suite after the parade and hear those harsh words coming from Freya’s mouth. Kali wouldn’t have spoken to her like that, she thought as she rushed over anyway to help her.

“Oh, be careful,” she called as she walked. By the way the girl was ripping and tearing, she was bound to pull off some skin along with the garment. Once she got to her, she focused in on a piece of fabric that was attached to the small of her back.  “It’s okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you.”

[thecanaryoftwelve]

☼ the canary and the snake ☼ oneshot ☼ pt. 2 ☼

It was as if the silver-haired man was a puppeteer. With a simple flick of his wrist -- or choice of words, as it were -- he controlled every single aspect of Dior Dupuis. Without hesitation, her body crumpled and she slowly fell back onto her bed. Her hands clutched at the sides and her gaze fell towards her feet. She attempted to swallow the lump that had formed in her throat but, alas, she could not. No matter how hard she tried, the imaginary blockage stayed there and prevented her from breathing properly.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” he said coyly as he placed his hands behind his back. He took a long, dramatic step forward and began to walk around her room. The sights, smells, and essences of Dior Dupuis lingered in the air. Everything -- from the faint smell of perfume to the half-empty flute of champagne sitting on her dresser -- informed President Snow about the victor. Her life, as it now stood, was a shambles hidden behind a thin veil of perfection and stardom. He knew that all by looking around her room for a brief second or two. Dior, on the other hand, was stepped in a deep denial that prevented her from seeing that her life was truly, utterly falling apart. 

Standing at the window that overlooked the expanse of land that the Dupuis’ called a backyard, President Snow turned and sent a knowing glance at the back of Dior’s head. Whether or not she was aware of her own shortcomings did not matter anymore. An envoy of judgement and power had come to judge and inform her. 

“This is a beautiful home you have here, Dior. Who on earth architecturally designed it? Lilibet Serio?” His voice called from some unknown point. Having realized that the snake had escaped her vision, the canary perked up and let its eyes float towards the source. Dior sat with her neck and back twisted towards President Snow. Her eyes, which were as wide as dinner plates, desperately looked for a way out.

“Sir-- erm, President Snow--” 

“On second thought, I believe this could be the handiwork of one Jupiter Swanson. He has such pleasant tastes -- they’re quite easy on the eye.”

She silently stared at the man as he interrupted her. He was, at this moment, inspecting the fabric of the curtains that encompassed the windows. The surreality of the moment was not lost on her. Finally, after perhaps a few minutes too long, she was beginning to regain control of her senses and the use of her words. 

“What do you mean rebel--”

“Dior.” 

The finality of his tone caused Dior to stop in her tracks. The word she had begun to say froze on the tip of her tongue and she was left staring at the man who was now staring directly at her.

“I am under a very tight schedule -- this is something I am sure you will have empathy for, given your sensational status as a Capitol icon and celebrity -- so I will keep this simple and sweet. I am here because of the song you performed at the ball, Dior. One Simple Day, I think it was--”

“One Sweet Day,” she retorted without thinking. Goose-pimples were forming on the top of her skin at the defiance she had just shown. The words had left her mouth without a second thought. She watched him stare at her with a strange expression in his eyes -- oh, god, what now?

“One Sweet Day,” he repeated as if he were tasting each word for the first time. “Yes, well, I am here because of that song. The little... stunt you pulled when you sang that song. The lyrics, in particular, were a little strange. Did you write that song, Dior?”

“Y-Yes.” 

“It’s a beautiful song.”

“T-Thank Yo--”

“However, it was in poor taste. You may not be aware of this, but we broadcast the ball and all of the performances to each and every District. The camaraderie demonstrated by the victors of each District reminds the people of Panem that we are a united nation. However, we are a delicate and fragile nation. The stunt you pulled -- performing that song -- was akin to placing a wedge in the cogs of an overwhelmingly large machine. The lyrics in that song served as that wedge, Dior.”

“I won’t go into the details with you. But, as I leave here, I wish to impart upon you a certain bit of wisdom that I’ve learned as President of Panem: Sometimes... it is better to keep certain emotions in check whilst performing your duties. Your duty is exceptionally different than mine but, still, nonetheless, we all have our duties. Mine is to serve and protect this great nation while yours is to serve as a model citizen of it. Do you understand what I am saying, Dior?”

Her head violently shook up and down. It was a bold-faced lie. No, she did not understand why singing a song dedicated to Kali and Levi had sparked such a rebellion in the Districts. She did, however, understand very clearly the concept of ‘knowing one’s place.’

“It won’t happen again, President Snow, I promise,” she said shakily as she fumbled with the fingers in her lap. She watched his smile spread, give the curtains one last look-over, and began to walk towards the door. 

“Good. I figured you wouldn’t be difficult, Dior. My advisors told me you had been acting strangely as of late. I told them: ‘Oh, I don’t think she’ll pose a threat to me, gentlemen.’ Lo’ and behold, I was right. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to be somewhere.” The sound of his expensive shoes clapping against the surface of her hardwood floors invaded her senses. With each thump of his shoe, she felt her vision start to weaken. It was all too much for an already overwhelmed and emotionally battered woman. Just as he reached the door, the President stopped.

“Oh, and one last thing. I know about the kiss with Mr. Pembrooke. Remember that you are a model citizen, hmm? Ta-ta, Dior.” And, with that last sentence, two things happened. The first was simple -- President Snow walked out of the bedroom. The second was simple, too -- Dior, after letting out a sob that wrought havoc upon her body, fell backwards into the sea of pillows and silk sheets and passed out. 

[thecanaryoftwelve]

☼ the canary and the snake ☼ oneshot ☼ pt. 1 ☼

The week after the ball blew by like a leave traveling in a storm. Dior had been reproached by her management, of course, but she didn’t really care. Her assistant had been fired for being unable to keep Dior on task -- Dior, of course, didn’t know that that was the assistant’s true purpose -- and she didn’t really care about that, either. The moment she descended from that stage amidst the deafening applause, she took Apathy by the arm and allowed him to lead her into a safe, new place.

While performing the song had given her enough closure she needed over the deaths of Kali and Levi to finally move on, two new souls had taken refuge in Dior’s deepest anxieties. Birch and Mare, whom Dior had not spoken to since the Ball, were constantly present. When she was sleeping, they appeared in her dreams. When she was awake, their names appeared on the tip of her tongue. When she was singing, she heard their own voices mixed in with hers.

Birch, in particular, invaded her thoughts at all hours of the day. Once, two of the maids had found Dior staring out of a window from the middle of the room. They had described the situation to their co-workers as bizarre and indicative of professional help. According to them, Dior had been just standing there, with tears streaming down her eyes, whispering something under her breath. It was bad, one of the maids had said, something had to be done about their mistress.

If the maid had known how true her words were rang, she would not have said them. In fact, if any of the residents of the Dupuis manor were aware of the oncoming trials and tribulations that would await Dior, they would have let her stare out of the window a little longer. The perfect, albeit deeply and inherently, flawed world she had known for the last twenty years was about to come crashing down. 

It was a Tuesday -- or, wait, was it a Wednesday? No matter, Dior thought as she arose from bed and put on her gold-colored nightgown. She had specifically requested the servants to not awake her and for the maids to take messages from her management team. They, too, had been barred from the Dupuis homestead. Dior felt comfortable with her decision to do this. What were they going to do? They couldn’t replace her, and she knew that. She just needed time. 

Her hair, which was plopped up atop her head, bobbed as she made her way into the bathroom connected to the master suite. She took one look in the mirror, made a face, and then decided that she wanted to go back to bed. The sun, which she usually adored, was too bright on this chipper and peaceful morning. She looked at her array of beauty and basic hygiene supplies. Should she brush her teeth? Long and hard she stared at the automatic toothbrush until, well, she decided it wouldn’t hurt to just leave well enough alone. Dior had just wandered back into the bedroom when a voice startled her. 

“Miss Dupuis, you have a visitor,” chirped a maid. She stood there, arms folded neatly in front of her. The sight of her in Dior’s bedroom stirred up a slight anger within the victor. 

“Petunia, what are you doing here? Get out. I explicitly said no--”

“Ma’m, you have a visitor.”

What? What about Dior’s instructions were unclear? She normally didn’t lose her temper with the wait staff, but today was one of the days that she just couldn’t spare the energy. Before she could reply, Petunia bowed and swiftly excused herself from the room. Was that a bead of sweat on her forehead? None of this was making sense.

Sighing, Dior went to go and close the door that Petunia had haphazardly left open. There would be no visitors today, and that was the end of the discussion. She had just gotten to the door when she felt a bit of pressure pushing the door open. A man with slicked back hair the color of snow entered the room. His lips were huge and drawn back into what looked like a permanent smile. The scent of roses entered with him, causing the entire room to smell like a bittersweet garden.

Dior gasped. She couldn’t help it. There, standing in her bedroom, was President Snow. 

“Hello, Mrs. Dupuis -- or, should I say, Dior? Please, if you would, take a seat,” he said calmly as he gestured towards Dior’s bed, “I do believe it is time that we had a little chat.”

The victor stood there, mouth agape, as President Snow talked. The gravity of the situation had not sunk in -- she was too pre-occupied with the fact that the president of Panem was standing in her bedroom. She had just mustered enough strength to utter a greeting when he broke the pregnant silence once again.

“Oh, Dior, please take a seat. I know how tired you must be. After all, any woman who single-handedly manages to ignite rebellion not once, but twice, in the Districts must be a bit exhausted. Wouldn’t you say?” 

[thecanaryoftwelve]

☼ one sweet day ☼ oneshot ☼

“How’s everybody doing?” came a soft, delicate voice that somehow cut through the noises of the ball. Dior Dupuis, the Capitol’s superstar, stood on the same stage she had been on hours before. Instead of the golden, shimmering gown that she had worn previously, the Capitolites ooh’d and aww’d at her new attire. A simple -- perhaps too simple -- black, spaghetti-strap dress adorned her body. Under normal circumstances, Dior would never wear a dress like this. She hated the color black and preferred to wear bright, warm colors.

Her assistant had found her just in time. She had been found wandering one of the halls looking completely disheveled. Her hair had become frizzy, her face was blotchy and stained with tears, and she had been mumbling something under her breath. She reeked of champagne and a flute was perched gently between two fingers. It was... not necessarily the most ideal situation to find the celebrity in. Nevertheless, she was found and her assistant brought her to her prep team. They, too, were shocked but decided not to ask any questions. It was better that way. With the help of a can of hairspray, a bottle of water, and a a few suspicious pills, Dior Dupuis was back on her feet. 

Her mind, on the other hand, was still shrouded with a veil of doubt and gloom.

“Congratulations, again, to Jules Churchill, the victor of the 76th annual Hunger Games!” she said with a forceful attempt at enthusiasm. The lines were rehearsed -- all she had to do was remember them and deliver them with her usual level of bubbly delight. She sought out the newly crowned victor in the crowd and, upon seeing her, saw the faces of Kali and Levi behind her. It could have been either of them but, instead, it was her. Gulping, Dior hesitated for a small second.

“So, I’d like to dedicate a song to you... and to everyone, actually.” Though she could not see them, Dior’s assistant looked around with a troubled expression. To everyone? It was meant to be for Jules. It was just an anthem that was sung to hail in the coming of a new victor each year. What was Dior--

“The song, which I wrote, is from my upcoming album.”

Her assistant’s eyes widened. Dior was going rogue -- and she was. Dior had made up her mind in that moment as she looked at Jules. Of course, her current emotional state and mental cloudiness didn’t help the decision. She had written the song during one of those long, lonely nights where it was just her and a bottle of wine. After she had written it, she had cried herself to sleep. Now, it was going to be shared for one, and for all.

“It’s... It’s called One Sweet Day.”

Sorry I never told you all I wanted to say... And now it's too late to hold you 'Cause you've flown away so faraway ay-ay-ay-ay Never had I imagined your living without your smile...Feeling knowing you hear me it keeps me alive alive... And I know you're shining down on me from heaven Like so many friends we've lost along the way And I know eventually we'll be together

Together One sweet day... Loving you always and I'll wait patiently to see you in heaven Darlin' I never showed you...

Assumed you'd always be there (always be there) I thought you'd always be there And I... I... I take (taken for granted) your presence for granted But I always cared>

And I miss the love we shared And I know you're shining down on me from heaven Like so many friends we've lost along the way (lost along the way)And I know eventually (I know I know) we'll be together We'll be together One sweet day...And all that I know is I'll wait (w-h-o-a...) patiently to see you in heaven Although the sun will never shine the same I'll always look to a brighter day...Y-e-a-h... yeah Lord I know when I lay me down to sleep You will always listen as I pray... And I know you're shining down on me from heaven Like so many (like so many) friends we've lost along the wayAnd I know (yes I know) eventually (I know) we'll be together Together

(Y-e-a-h...) One sweet day (one sweet day one sweet day) Oh, yeah... And I know you're shining down on me from heaven I'll see you eventually Like so many friends we've lost along the way I know you're lookin' down from heaven And I know... I... know eventually we'll be together (ooh-ooh) Yes we will One sweet day... One sweet d-a-y... Patiently to see you in heaven Sorry I never told you (ooh-ooh) All I wanted to say...

By the end of the song, new tears had begun to flow down her face. Some of the Capitolites in the audience openly wept, too. Because she had performed a song she was not meant to, there was no backing music. As a result, Dior’s performance was entirely acapella -- only the sound of her sweet voice reverberating off the walls filled the ballroom. Once the last note had been sung, an eery silence filled the room. Nobody whispered, nobody moved, and, somehow, it felt as if nobody breathed, either. They just stood there, staring at Dior.

The applause started gradually. First, one, then two, then, eventually, the majority of the room was cheering and applauding the golden victor. As she stood there, taking in the applause, she looked out into the lights that adorned the room and stared into their brilliance. A small smile formed through the tears. She didn’t think about Birch, or Mare, or even the fact that she would probably be chewed out for not sticking to the schedule -- something that Dior always, always did. No, as she stared into the bright lights, her thoughts drifted to that of Kali and Levi once again.

“One sweet day, Kali and Levi. One sweet day.” 

[thecanaryoftwelve]

birchpembrooke·:

He couldn’t feel mad at Dior. It wasn’t something that made sense to Birch. But, he could feel devastated. And that he did feel. It felt devastating that she was still crying. It felt devastating that he couldn’t, wouldn’t reach out to wipe the tears from her face. It felt devastating that she was conflicted but it left Birch feeling a little hollow. It left him feeling with a little less hope.

His ears perked up at Mare’s name and he decided to slide that piece of information into a ‘to be dealt with later’ corner of his mind. He didn’t have the capacity at the moment to try and figure out that thread, but the main thing he wanted to know was: why hadn’t Mare told him?

Birch nodded at the words, barely registering them as they flew into his brain. It didn’t matter what her words were. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was married. She had pledged her love to someone else and Birch was here trying to take it away. It hurt though. It hurt that even if she hadn’t meant it, Birch had spent six months thinking about her and how he would make his big move and she probably didn’t think about him nearly as much.

The sobs that overtook Dior’s body pained Birch. He couldn’t just sit here and let her cry so hard. He was the one that was hurt, but Birch scooted closer, placing his prosthetic on her knee. Closing his eyes, Birch swallowed the hurt. He put it behind all of the other emotions that Dior was dealing with. It felt like the decision he had made all of those years ago that ended up with him losing his arm. He was going to be last on the list, even if it meant hurting himself.

“I’m not going to lie. It hurts. It hurts real bad,” he managed, still not able to look Dior in the eye. He stared over her shoulder at the door that led back into the building. It led back to the party and maybe a numbing glass or two of whiskey. “But, I care about you. I’m just going to need a little bit of time.” Each word felt like it got stuck in his throat. He wanted to leave, to sort out his broken heart, and probably just lie face down on his bed.

He thought back to the kiss only minutes before and it made his heart hurt. What a sweet memory that turned into poison. He wanted to give Dior a reassuring smile, but this time a smile couldn’t come to the surface.

With a pain in her heart that she could not describe in words, Dior simply sat and watched Birch take in her words. He refused to speak, move, or do anything that indicated that he was listening to her. So, after stuttering for a few seconds longer, Dior shut her mouth and let the pain overtake her. Her own eyes started to gloss over with tears and she just stared at her lap. The waves of gold spilled over her face, hiding it from sight. It mimicked her true feelings in the moment; all she wanted to do was disappear. 

Eventually, after a minute or two of silence -- save for the occasional sob and shudder from Dior -- Birch had scooted over and placed his prosthetic on Dior’s flesh. She jumped at the feeling, unsure of what was touching her. When she saw it, she stared long and hard at the false appendage. She had never focused on it before now. In no way did his weaknesses define who he was. So, why, then did Dior’s weakness seem to define her in his eyes? She hadn’t meant to lead him on. But, then again, she had kissed him. Why had she kissed him? It was so, so stupid -- no. She was so, so stupid.

When he finally spoke, it was Dior’s turn to dwell in silence. So, it was true. She had hurt him. The tears poured off her face and onto her hands. She watched as they landed like dew drops on morning flowers. They stuck there for a moment and washed away at the slightest provocation. In this case, the provocation was the incessant shaking of her hands. The color had started to drain from her a few minutes prior but, at this point, she was about as white as a silk sheet and as weak as a wilted rose. 

“Okay,” she croaked back. That was fine. He probably meant that he never wanted to see her again, but that was fine. “O-Okay. I, um... I’ll, um... I’ll go. I’m sorry, Birch. I’m sorry--” she got up with shaky knees and nearly fell back down. Pushing her body to its limits, she walked forward without a thought as to where she was going. All she knew was that she had to go. She walked to the door with a drooping head and, upon reaching the door, gave one last forlorn look back at Birch. Her eyes conveyed all the emotions she felt in that moment: hurt, sadness, confusion, and, above all else, regret. 

“I...” Then, before she could say anything else, she let out a sob, opened the door, and power-walked inside. 

[thecanaryoftwelve]

maredarrow·:

“he said that the two of you had spent like half of the last games flirting,” mare begins slowly, her intense look fixated on dior. “and that he r e a l l y, really, liked you.” she bites her lip absentmindedly. “and that he wanted to ask you out this games.” she sighs, rolling her eyes a little. “i have no idea how he managed to miss the memo that you were ‘ happily married ’, but,” mare uses air quotes when she says happily married. she suspects, really, that dior’s marriage is less than happy, but what’s she going to do about it? she’s just here to make sure birch doesn’t get his dumb, idealistic heart broken. nevermind the fact that that’s one of the things she loves really likes about him.

“and he’s like, really in love with you, or at least he really likes you, and he already got his heart broken once this games-season when kathryn passed, and it’s not fair that you’re pulling his heart around like this, when i would - ” she stops suddenly. why had she almost said ‘when i would keep it safe’? what, she doesn’t like birch, does she? 

and suddenly her head is spinning as she remembers the fuzzy warmth in her stomach as he’d placed his hand on her lower back when he’d taught her how to ride, and the way she laughs at his dumb jokes and - “oh, god,” she mutters.

What was happening?

Dior felt like her cheeks were on fire. Her mind raced at the possibility that she had been accidentally leading Birch on -- although, was it truly fair to say that she was ‘accidentally’ doing that? -- and she felt like she was going to faint. Her knees wobbled, her hands shook, and a gnawing pain could be felt at her chest. All she could do was stare slack-jawed at Mare as she roused herself up into a fit of passion. 

Then, suddenly, the feeling of numbness subsided and a slow, prickly sensation spread throughout her body. Had she put air quotes around the word marriage?  And--and had she accused her of causing the same kind of pain that Kathryn-- No, this was enough. Mare had gone too far. Already unsettled, Dior felt her eyes widen and the wrinkles in her forehead deepen. The face of the Capitol superstar had become marred with anger. 

“Mare--” she began but quickly stopped. Pulling his heart around like this, when she would what? She would what? As her anger rose and her hands began to shake uncontrollably, two things entered Dior’s head: First, she really wanted another flute -- or four -- of champagne. Second, Mare was in love with Birch. A feeling that she had not encountered in years ran through her. The green-eyed monster -- or jealousy as it is often called -- was taking ahold of the blonde victor. Now wasn’t the time to focus on why she felt jealous, though. 

“Okay,” she began quietly, “I see what’s going on now, Mare. You’re jealous. Yeah, that’s it.” Mare wasn’t the only victor who could lash out with a viper tongue, and she was about to find out the hard way. If she was thinking more clearly, if she wasn’t strapped into an emotional rollercoaster, if she hadn’t been so caught off guard... 

“That’s fine, but don’t stick your head in my business like this. Who do you think you are, huh? Do-- Do you think that you have any say in what happens in my life? No, you don’t. So, let’s get started right there. Stay out of my business. Whether or not B-Birch said that he was going to ask me out or not is none of your concern. But, no, I suppose it is considering you’re jealous. That’s what all of this is about, right? You being jealous?”

[thecanaryoftwelve]

harlowvale·:

“Most of us, anyway,” she replied. There were a small handful of Victors that took the risk of getting into trouble, mostly the ones who had already lost too much, or had nothing to lose. Most of the time, keeping in line was for the sake of keeping up decent reputations with sponsors for the Games the following year, and while Harlow was tempted to speak her mind, tell her honest opinion of The Capitiol and The Games, she knew for the sake of her own Tributes that she needed to behave if she wanted to help any of them get home.

“That’s one way to put it.” Trouble tended to follow Victors around no matter where they went. Depending on their popularity, they were shoved into the spotlight almost constantly, or forced to visit The Capitol for special visits with the elite citizens that requested certain Victors. She was all too familiar with the darker side of being a Victor, that cloud hanging over her head almost constantly.

She nodded in agreement, offering a sympathetic look. “Sounds like a lot. But at least it’s something you’re passionate about. Trying to find a silver lining.” Harlow knew that overwhelming feeling as well. Mentoring in itself was stressful enough without having to lump in other responsibilities as a Victor with it. “But I get it, it can be a lot sometimes��� hard to find time to take a breath, you know?”

“Yeah, a breather,” Dior said absent-mindedly, not really paying much attention to what Harlow was saying. Her mind kept traveling to Kali and Levi no matter how hard she tried to deter them from entering her thoughts. Suddenly, Dior pictured Kali with the wounds in her back and Levi being chomped by-- by...

“Y’know, I haven’t been to one of these balls in so long. I mean, I’ve been to other ones held in the Capitol, but not, uh... not this one,” she rambled in a desperate attempt to clear her mind. She purposefully focused on the brilliancy of the music, the outrageous costumes, and the flutes of champagne that kept calling her name. Dior, they would plea, drink us! Drink us and forget about everything. Look, we have bubbles!

“This was only my third time mentoring, though, so I guess that’s why -- Do you want some champagne?” 

[thecanaryoftwelve]

birchpembrooke·:

The smile on Birch’s face faded as his touch caused tears to fall out of her eyes. His expression turned from confusion to concern as Dior cried. What could he have possible have done wrong? Was he that out of practice? Did those other girls lie to him? He shook those dumb thoughts out of his mind and refocused on Dior. There had to be a reason. 

And then that reason smacked him square in the face. Married.

Birch retracted his hand quickly and held it in his prosthetic. He scooted a little bit away from Dior, turning to face the city rather than her. His eyes glossed over as he stared at the Captiol buildings. His thoughts were a jumbled mess, but the same word kept floating up to the surface. Married. It was as if fate thought it would be funny if they brought his soul high up into the sky and then just let it drop to the ground. This rollercoaster he was on was the worst one he had ever experienced. 

He looked down at his hands. The prosthetic one turned over, before his real one did the same thing. He was real, this was real. Birch had such hope that Dior would be a great love. He didn’t love her yet. But he was sure that it would have happened soon. His fluttered when he saw her, it jumped when he made her life, and it beat in tune with her whenever he comforted her. 

Birch turned back to Dior, hurt evident on his face. “Then why did you kiss me? Why didn’t you tell me?” 

It was instantaneous. The warmth provided by his hand left as he quickly snatched it back. Dior’s open palm clutched at the air for a moment, desperately looking for its companion. A cold chill ran through her veins as she watched him actually turn his head, too. Goose-pimples formed on her flesh and her heart shrieked in pain as if stabbed. As if to extinguish the raging fire in her chest, Dior’s shaking, cold hand reached up and clutched at where she felt the beat, beat, beating of her heart. 

What had she done?  

Her mouth sought to form words but, alas, all she could do was swallow the bile that threatened to rise up in her throat. He had scooted away from her, too. She felt the need to reach out, grab his hand, and pull him back to his original spot. But, sensing the heaviness in the air, she decided against her usual touchy-feely approach. Instead, she just let the tears continue to flow. 

The strength needed to cut through the silence in the air arrived only when Birch spoke first. Gasping for breath, Dior leaned forward as her nails dug into her palms. 

“I... I don’t know, Birch. I don’t know. I’m so confused--” she said quickly, her thoughts traveling faster than she could speak. “When Mare told me what she told me, I-- I don’t know, I just sort of froze. She told me that I was leading you on -- that you were my ‘boy-toy,’  and that I was this evil, cruel person. But, I...” her voice, unable to bear the burden of her emotions, broke here.

“I wasn’t doing any of that, I promise. Ever since I met you in that park, under that tree and that beautiful, starry night, I’ve been a better woman. You have-- you’ve given me kindness that I didn’t know someone could give to another person. Y-You’ve been there for me when nobody else was. You helped me through Levi, Kali, and everything else. I... I don’t know why this is happening!”

The sobs had begun to rack her body. Her fingers desperately clung to her face and covered her eyes. She wished upon the glowing city lights for this pain to go away. Had she been leading Birch along without realizing it? No, because she would have known. There had been boys in Twelve that she had led astray when she was young and immature. This was... this was different. But, then, what was this? Did she lov--

No. No, she couldn’t. She had Regulus. Regulus was her husband. He had chosen her all those years ago. He had given her all the love that she had ever wanted, right? Right, that’s right.

“I’m sorry, Birch. I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just... I care about you. I really do. But... I...”  

[thecanaryoftwelve]

linconway·:

The Capitol had always seemed loud. More people might live in District Four, but the utopian city always appeared more crowded. Capitolites crowded the street corners in their eccentric clothing. The lights illuminating the city never seemed to fade, which only added to its chaotic nature. Lincoln Conway grew overwhelmed by this NOISE at times. The constant photographs, autographs, and looks from the Capitol’s finest made him feel like less of a person and more of a mythical creature they all admired.

The 76th Victory Ball only added to the chaotic nature of the city. People shuffled toward him occasionally, asking about his thoughts on this year’s games or how generous the Capitol had been over the previous year. Lincoln answered each inquiry politely, but he yearned to become a wallflower for the rest of the evening.

A single voice seemed far more calming than the rest in the room. It easily belonged to Dior Dupuis, considering her talent for singing. Lincoln concentrated on her voice to soothe his nerves. He breathed deeply then nursed his drink, listening to her melodious voice to lessen his unease. Fortunately, this seemed to work in his favor.

Lincoln offered Dior a warm smile, as she approached him. She seemed more collected than their encounter during the bloodbath, but something still seemed amiss. Perhaps his institution was simply off. “It has. About six months, if we’re going to be exact.” He lowered his drink a tad, remembering her advice to stay clear of alcohol. “You were great up there. I understand why they’re so entranced by your music.” 

“Lincoln!” Dior said with genuine happiness as she pulled the young victor into a hug. She gave his back a few quick, good-natured pats and held him out before her. He looked different. She could easily recall the shadow of the young man she had met months ago in that small viewing room. His face was riddled with anxiety back then and now it looked like he had just found out the secret to life everlasting. This was surprising to Dior -- both of his tributes had died, so... -- but she didn’t want to focus on the negative. She couldn’t bare to have any more of that in her life right now.

“God, has it really been six months? Phew,” she said as she blew air out of her cheeks, “it feels like just yesterday to me, if I’m being honest. You look a lot better than the last time we met -- though I think we both know why that is.” She didn’t want to go into too much detail about it. He had just been replaced as the newest victor. Jules Churchill, the one from Seven, would be the next face that everybody would see in their dreams or nightmares.

She saw him lower his drink and a sense of knowing appeared in her eyes. She raised an eyebrow and provided the boy with a soft smirk. “Thanks,” she cooed with stretched out vowels before pointing to the drink he tried to conceal. “And are you trying to hide that from me? Oh, Lincoln, stop it. I know what I said. You don’t have to hide it from me. We’re at a party, right? It’s okay to, y’know, indulge every once in a while.”  

She raised her own concealed flute of champagne (her first of many) and let her false sternness fade away into a bubbling happiness. “Cheers!” How could she know that this was the beginning of a long, painful night?  She didn’t, and that was the point. Had she known then what she knew by the end of the night, she wouldn’t have given him that horrible piece of advice that she, herself, couldn’t follow.