orange.
He saw the rest of his life in those split seconds, when metal pierced his flesh. The unforgiving glint in Sword Boy's eyes gave way to a stolen tapestry of life, patches of moments he'd taken from others and superimposed himself in. He saw himself grown up and grown old, spending his last days with those he loved in his home district. He saw an alternate universe where she was also alive, his gentle little Rue whose life he'd tried to avenge. He saw the myriads of moments they could've had, the situations that could have been if only the Hunger Games had never existed.
But of course that was wistful thinking, and wistful thinking evaporated faster than smoke.
Thunder rolled in the sky as she watched the struggle between the giants of the arena, her heart beating wildly within her ribs. She winced as the dark-skinned boy ducked a second too late, bearing the brunt of the blond's gleaming sword. It was a painful end to a painfully long battle, the hulking giant of District Eleven collapsing like a ragdoll onto the churned ground. The rain pelted down harder, mixing his blood into the earth until they became one.
An ear-splitting rumble of thunder made her jump in her hiding spot, but out on the field neither boy moved. The blond Career leaned on his sword as he waited for his victim's cannon, but all he got was another round of thunder. The fallen tribute from Eleven remained limp, and so the drenched victor finally accepted that the thunder had masked death's cannon. Kicking his opponent one last time, he swung his sword over his shoulder and walked away.
She ran through the rain when she was sure that Sword Boy was gone. She was so hungry and so tired, and the sight of the abandoned backpack lying near the defeated boy was too much to resist. Trust the Career boy to leave his opponent's pack. She would've taken it in a heartbeat, because she knew another bag could be the difference between life and death. But that was only because she had never gotten a sponsor. Where the Careers lived, it must be raining silver parachutes.
The dark bag was surprisingly heavy in her grip, although she suspected that may have been the rain. Slinging it over her shoulder, she began her way back towards her hiding space. The downpour blinded her sight, making everything rounded and blurry, just another haze of grey nothingness. She stumbled over clumps of overturned earth, her boots squelching and sliding in the mud.
Her hair had fallen out of its plait, tendrils of orange shielding her eyes. She couldn't see, but she kept running. It felt like sprinting blindfolded in a field of quicksand. She was getting nowhere.
Finally, inevitably, she tripped. Her palms sank into the soft ground as she tried to break the fall. But she needn't have tried. His body had broken her fall.
And as she flicked her dripping hair from her face, she found herself staring straight into the brown eyes of the fallen giant from District Eleven.
Brown eyes that were very much alive.
Everything was tinted orange in his feverish eyes. The girl, with her halo of fire, was more than just a pleasant surprise. His slipping spirit gave her wings of angels, even though he knew that she was just another tribute. Probably here to finish him off, like Sword Boy was. Just another tribute in the never ending Hunger Games.
Which was why it shocked him to find his hands moving, his shaking fingers grasping at her thin shoulders as she lay shell-shocked over him. He pressed her lips to his own in a burning desperation, not because he loved her but because he wanted to live the rest of his life in these short seconds he had left. Hell, he didn't even know her. But they were tributes together, and so they were destined to grow old together, earning years in a few moments' passion.
He had never kissed a girl before, not on the lips. With his little sister and with Rue it had been the soft brush of the mouth over the forehead. He half expected her to push away, to slap him or stab him and end his misery.
But to his surprise, she kissed him back.
If anyone told her that her first kiss would be shared with a dying boy, she would've laughed. But there she was, her hands around his shoulders as she lose herself. The primal need within her had taken control before she could push away, and she found herself clinging on, trying to prolong this moment of growing up. She didn't know a thing about him, but he was here and so was she. And they were united by the fact that they were both about to die. Granted, he'll be gone much sooner than her. But she already knew that she'll never last in this Hunger Games.
She kissed him harder.
It burned like the stolen taste of whisky from Chaff's cabinet, like something illegal, something that was so wrong it was right. Her lips tasted of rain and berry juice, of desperation and condensed time. The world could've stopped spinning for all the care they gave. They were wrapped up in each other, seeing and feeling and knowing nothing more than the other's warmth.
Two strangers, clinging onto each other as they awaited salvation.
Two almost-adults, holding on desperately as their lives slipped by.
In the stormy grey, her hair shone like a beacon. She ran her hand through the slick strands as the aircraft came, masking her shaking fingers in the fiery tendrils made limp by rain. He meant nothing to her, this hulking stranger lying at her feet, yet at the same time he meant the world. She couldn't explain it; there were no words to describe those moments.
He had understood. He had known what it was that she needed, and given her the one thing that would make her inevitable death less terrifying. And he had taken something from her as well, in those last selfish moments. But she didn't mind. Her grave had been dug the day she stepped on that stage. She was dead anyway.
She watched as his gray body rose through the air, supported by dull silver prongs. The fire, the blood, the very essence that was this boy from the agriculture district had given way to nothingness. Without life, he was as monotonous as the landscape around them, colourless and bleak by the Capitol's design. And she was slowly becoming the same.
The rain tasted like seawater on her lips, salty and spiked with regret. She wasn't sure how long she stood there, in the abandoned battlefield of the giants of the arena. Her fingers grew stiff and blue as she braved the raging storm, unable to move. Around her fingers twined long strands of brilliant orange, her own hair and her own spirit. In her mind she could feel his lips on her mouth, demanding and giving and taking all too much. And yet she never knew him.
When the rain stopped pouring and miracle sunlight pooled around her feet, she raised her head to the sky. The warmth of the sun on her skin reminded her of his touch, scalding and gentle at the same time. Was he eighteen? Or did she only think that because of his huge physique? She realised she knew absolutely nothing, save a handful of measly facts.
Her name was Gwendolyn Hart, and she turned sixteen yesterday.
Her home was District Five, before the Capitol claimed her soul.
She had experienced the rest of her life in the rain with that boy, the one whose name eluded her.
And he had given her his spirit in exchange for all that condensed time.
It was enough to get her moving, one plodding foot at a time out of the muddy field. Holding onto her handful of hair, the tangible evidence of the fire within her, she ran.
He had given her the baton, after all. His spirit, his hopes, the unspoken emotions and desire to grow old. And even though she was tired, so tired, she kept running. Perhaps the fire he passed on to her will last just another day, but it was another day to see and feel and experience everything that he would never be able to. It was the unspoken link that she had never understood until this moment, the fact that each and every tribute was somehow inextricably connected to each other. He had given her his soul in those last moments, and she owed him that much.
Her almost-stranger.