She was so beautiful. It wasn't just the custom designed dresses, the artful hairstyles, the hours spent on her makeup. She had been beautiful when she'd walked in here. She had been beautiful when they showed her at the reaping, the just-barely longer than normal flash of District 12 because of the unusual circumstances.
The way she'd volunteered for her sister had been what initially made her stand out. His heart had ached when Prim had stepped away from the crowd, even as his mind began designing costumes, black lace and ash-gray tule. With Katniss's yell, loud and defiant, his designs were shattered from his mind, along with every coherent thought. This girl, had been the first thing to cross his mind, this girl is something special.
He had known then that her costume had to be remarkable. The flickering ideas, brief glimpses of burning coal, had immediately coalesced into a single design, one concept. The Girl on Fire. He had seen it in her eyes.
And now he was looking into those eyes again, carefully adjusting her jecket, tucking pieces of hair back into place. Trying not to look up, sure she would read his feelings in his gaze. Willing himself not to get too attached, telling himself (but not believing it, because she was too remarkable not to win) this is the last time he'll ever see her. Knowing that even if he does, he still will never be with her.
At the same time, though, even as he tried to deny his feelings, he knew he was drinking in every inch of her, devouring her with his eyes, trying to soak in her spirit.
He finally stepped back, taking a deep breath. A thousand things ran through his mind, all those things he wanted to say. They pressed at the tip of his tongue, wanting out. This was the last time he would see her, they argued; he should say them while he could. But he knew she had what it took to win, and if they did meet again on the other side, speaking up now could only make things worse.
The words came anyway.
"I'm not - allowed to bet." He changed it at the last secon, hoping she didn't notice his hesitation. "But if I could, I'd bet on you." He touched the mockingjay pin once - so fitting, so perfect for her - and then folded the collar of her jacket back over it. She stepped into the cylinder; he watched her as it ascended, praying she didn't know what he was thinking, praying she would win.
And then she was gone. The countdown continued, but all he could hear was the sound of the words he hadn't said. He could still feel the shape of them, taste them, bitter and tangy.
I'm not allowed to fall in love with a tribute.
There was no written law against it, but he'd heard of it happening before and it had never ended well. It was why he'd tried so long to deny his felings, until he knew he couldn't any longer.
But if I was, it would be with you.