Written on a whim for the Girl on Fire ficathon.

Prompt: you feel the burning in your body core, it's a yearning that you can't ignore.

Spoilers for Catching Fire

You were predisposed to hate her before you ever met.

Really. Where did she get off? Having a fucking fairy tale perfect ending. Managing to escape the Hunger Games almost untouched, with her childhood sweetheart intact even?

It wasn't fair.

No one ever gave you that chance. And the blood, the names (Adric, Morena, Kyle, Twister, Lightning,...) they haunt you still. Every night.

It wasn't fair.

But then you met her. Saw her. (Smelt her.) And you realised you'd forgotten the most basic rule of all.

They lie.

They lie and they lie and they lie until they wouldn't know the fucking truth if it bit them on the nose.

There was no perfect love and no fairytale ending.

Just a scared girl who'd managed to drag you back into the worst nightmare of your life.

But she'd done it by accomplishing the one thing you'd never even dreamed of doing - tweaking the nose of Capitol.

Making them look stupid. Like they weren't the masters of the game.

Giving people hope.

And you couldn't decide whether to call her a heroine or curse her for her success.

(Your failure.)

So you compromised.

Pushed her. Tried to make her uncomfortable.

Dared her to jump with you. (She didn't.)

And then it was too late, and the blood and the madness began again.

So here you are, according to the high and mighty plan of that prick Plutarch.

Getting into position so that the other's can do their job.

Bring down the forcefield, and escape.

Easy as pie.

Of course, the plan's gone to shit.

(Just like you always thought it would.)

The wire's been severed, and you're about to be attacked.

That's fine. Time to improvise.

She has to survive. You really don't.

(You don't know quite when you began to feel this way about her. Sometime since you've been in the arena, that's for sure.)

But, first, you need to get that transmitter out of her arm.

And you just don't have the time to sit down and explain nicely.

Even if she would listen, which you doubt.

(It's not that she's the Mockingjay.

That's just a lie like all the others.

But there's something there, something that you can't quite believe in any more, something that feels almost like hope.)

Luckily you have a heavy cylinder in your hands at the moment. Just the right size to club an unsuspecting team mate around the head.

The metal glimmers in the sunlight, thuds as it crashes into her skull.

And you feel... something.

(It feels a little like love, if you are even capable of feeling that anymore.

Something beyond the hate, the spite that's kept you going since your Games. Something worth killing for. Something even worth dying for.)

Your knife glitters in your hand. It's time to see how much you retained from your first aid lessons.

(And you realise...

This is the closest you're ever going to get to a kiss with her.

Despite all the lies, she has her prince.

And who would ever want a broken thing like you?)

The knife goes in, warm blood gushing out, coating your hand in her warmth, a heat that can no longer be contained within her body.

(If, somehow, you both survive this, maybe she'll understand.

Maybe she'll even thank you.)

And, as she stirs, you realise that you're out of time.

Brutus and Enorbaria are on you, and you've got to lead them away from her.

Curlee, curlew.

Follow the flapping bird.

(And maybe she won't forgive or forget.

Maybe she'll kiss you back exactly the same way.

And maybe you'd be good with that too.)