hair.
She never wears her hair down. From the time he first met her, she's kept her dark locks pulled tightly away from her face, whether it be a sleek ponytail or an intricate braid. He supposes it's easier for her that way—less to worry about while she's throwing her knives or fighting another trainee. He's never seen her hair down, but he likes to imagine it's soft, unlike the rest of her, which is made entirely of sharp, rigid edges.
Her hair comes down on the night of the interviews, and it's the first time he's ever seen it this way. She storms into her room as soon as they reach their floor, growling about star-crossed lovers and dresses on fire. Something compels him to follow her, and when he pushes open the door to her room she has already changed out of her delicate dress and into softer, more comfortable Capitol clothing. Her hair is down, spilling past her shoulders in an ebony veil. It's wavy, he observes. He never noticed.
lips.
She's always smiling. But not in a sweet way. Never sweet. Her lips, thin and pink and slightly chapped, are always pulled into a sneer. It can be small, nearly invisible, but he always notices. He sees it when she watches a particularly captivating fight, when she lands a perfect bullseye, and most of all when it's directed at him. Most other trainees cower under her wicked smirk, terrified at the implications behind it. He never does.
Her lips taste metallic when he kisses her for the first time, a hungry, stolen moment away from the cameras after the rule change is announced. He realizes he's always wanted to do it as those lips move against his own, covered in old blood and dried out from dehydration. It's less than romantic and far from gentle, but it's them. It's her. Briefly, he wonders why he never did it before.
hands.
She has small hands. They're surprisingly dainty, too; all dexterous fingers and split knuckles. Her palms are permanently calloused from a lifetime of wielding weaponry, and on days where she works too hard they'll be bandaged tightly with splotches of red staining the stark white. She keeps her nails long, a substitute for her daggers, and he often finds himself mesmerized by their delicate, deliberate movements.
Her hands shake as he crouches beside her on the ground, a spear in his grasp and a dent in her skull. He reaches for one of her hands with his own, and he is still surprised at just how small it is. How small she is. He grips her tightly, running a thumb over her scab-covered knuckles as pleading words tumble past his lips. But he knows it's futile, and she does too, if the slight tug of her hand from his is anything to go by. The second it hits the ground it goes limp. He fights the urge to hold it again.
skin.
She has the palest skin of anyone he knows, a stark contrast to her hair. It stretches over her tiny, bony frame, spattered with freckles arranged similarly to the stars that shine on clear summer nights. Often, he'll notice that her skin will flush pink from a particularly exerting workout, glistening under the cool fluorescent lighting as sweat gathers on her forehead. Usually her skin is covered in scars and bruises, white and black and blue and red and yellow, and he likes it better when he's the one responsible for it all.
Her skin looks even lighter than usual as she lies motionless on the grass. He can feel it growing colder as he finally reaches for her hand again, and the freckles stand out even more now. Strangely enough, she's crying. Water splashes down onto her cheeks, sliding downward to the ground, but he realizes with a start that the tears staining her skin are his own.
eyes.
She's got cold eyes. They're a strange shade of hazel, he thinks, more brown on some days, more green on others, but always dark and calculating. Shrouded by thick lashes, they gleam wickedly under the lights of the training center, her pupils blown wide with passion and drive as she takes down yet another target. He thinks her eyes might be his favorite feature about her, the way they sweep across a room and seem to look directly through him every time her steely gaze is trained in his direction. They're dangerous, but he thinks they're beautiful.
Her eyes are dull and unfocused as she dies, unblinking even as the cannon fires. They've lost their predatory glint, their vicious edge. He fights a chill at the realization that moments ago, she of course was looking at him, but she was not seeing him. He didn't love her, at least he doesn't think so. It's not who he is. And she didn't love him. Still, he finds himself thinking about her eyes as he lies bloody and broken on the ground himself, torn apart by the mutts, and finds solace in the thought of how beautiful he found them. Ironic, he thinks as the arrow flies toward his skull, that her eyes are still the last thing he sees as a dark-haired mutt goes in for the kill.