Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Warnings: Spoilers for Mockingjay as well as suicidal tendencies and femslash.
There was a part of me that was so overwhelmed in the few moments that we had spent together. Her harsh nature was the kind of beauty that you couldn't see in the faces of the people in this place, who were afraid all of time. I didn't doubt that she was just as afraid as everyone else was, but she wasn't one to show it very easily.
She had a kindness and caring that threatened to overflow and drown her facade, but only in the moments when we were alone. She had her own unique way of expressing her feelings. It was a dark and bitter canvas that she wrapped herself in, but I could see the cracks in it, and the colour flowing out of her centre.
"What are you staring at?" Her face was annoyed. I pulled myself out of my musings and shook my head. She climbed under the covers of her bed, turning her back to me. it had been days since I had observed any hint of kindness or humour in the under tones of her voice. She felt abandoned as her newly acquired friends shipped off to fulfil a purpose while she stayed in the relative safety of this underground prison.
A stolen syringe rolled onto the floor from her hand that was dangling off the end of her bed. I couldn't blame her for her momentary weakness but I would be lying if I said it didn't sting. Getting clean was no easy task for her and it would be worse the second time round. Although a part of me wasn't sure she wanted to be clean.
Getting out of bed and sneaking out of the room was simple with her being in the sedated state she was in. Having to see her face when her friends go out and try to rewrite history while she stayed under lock and key was too painful for both of us. I'd go and sleep alongside my sister tonight.
My feet refused to step through the door without turning back and looking at her face for possibly the last time. Her 'mentally unstable' band that hung off of her bony wrist reflected the few rays of light coming in from the space under the door.
My feet were carrying me closer to where she slept. As if some external force was controlling my body, my hand reached out and stroked her cheek, confident that the morphling would prevent her from waking. She had no one to care about, and no one that cared about her. Or so she thought.
My lips touched hers, lingering briefly. Images of her smile and fighting spirit flashed through my mind. The way her eyes would meet mine when no one was looking and the way I had held her when she had woken from a particularly terrifying dream. I would never know the things that haunted her. I would never again see that mischievous smile pull at the corners of her mouth. She would never know how I felt.
Forcing myself out of the door was one of the hardest things I had ever done. If I faltered for a moment, and returned to see her face one last time, I knew I could never leave. Had I given myself half the chance, the want would have overthrown the need and I would have slid into her bed and stayed behind instead of going off to fight in a revolution that would change the course of history. Her face would fade from my mind; her scent would disappear; the sound of her voice would dissipate.
When I saw her next, I was as empty as she was when I had left. Her face was cold and stern as it had always been, but it lacked the fire that had been there previously. Her eyes were fixed to the floor as the next steps were discussed. The weight of everything that had happened was too overwhelming for me. I agreed to acts that I would never have agreed to only weeks before. I had adopted her anger and it sank right into the heart of me.
The death of my sister was my breaking point and I may as well have been dead along with her. The floor of my bathroom was cold, but the steel of the needle in my hand was icy and weighed a ton. The point was pressed to the crook of my elbow but my courage had decided that fleeing was the best option. I should have fled when I had seen the opportunity. There were many things I should have done.
Footsteps echoed through the empty mansion that the survivors had taken temporary refuge in. I had stared at the needle that grazed the surface of my skin for hours, waiting for the will and strength to plunge it into my veins. The creaking of the bathroom door didn't even divert my attention.
Her warm hand, however, did bring me back and my face turned slowly to meet her eyes. The needle left my hand and was placed on the floor next to her. Arms encircled me and I was pulled between her legs, my back resting against her chest. Her slight height advantage allowed the back of my head to rest comfortably on her shoulder. Not a single word left either of our lips, and not a single tear trailed down my cheek.
I opened my eyes but the surface I was on was soft and warm. The covers were pulled up to my chin and the emptiness of the room should have matched the current state of my heart, but I only felt the intensity of her absence. I strained to hear her voice in my head; feel the ghost of her touch on my hand; see the fire in her eyes. All that remained was the taste of her lips that will never fade.