Disclaimer: No THG ownership.
Character: Cecelia
Prompt: we're closed
Author: ailes du neige
glowing remains
It starts with ashes.
They meet in the worst kind of messed-up way, but also the best kind of way; like most tragic stories, it started at a funeral. It's a strange one, located in the midst of the Buchart Gardens, where there's poinsettia thrown carelessly to the sides from the last party, hastily replaced by black ornaments. In hindsight, perhaps letting her mother's funeral be planned by a mad woman from the Capitol, who immediately insisted for "more color"; but, gosh, it's a funeral. Cecelia feels as though the party planner is insane, or that could just be her. There's the distant noises that make up the lyrics, muddled up from the tears and the laughs that just are side effects of a funeral, but she's able to make out faint sounds, symphonies of screams that remind her of those old days, the days in the arena. She smiles a little, laughing even more, hyenas attracting unwanted attention before it calms down, turning into a high giggle, one suitable for a funeral.
.
In a way, life is better after the Games.
Today isn't different than any other day, though, not really; it's just a typical Saturday, and life will carry on as though twenty-two people have not been isn't even the right word: brutally massacred, their blood washed away with the rain, their imprints, their whole lives erased; they're nothing anymore. In a way, life has never been good.
.
"—'lo," she coughs, clearing her throat.
His voice is rusty, almost cracking, "Didn't think that you would make it," his tone is easy-going, friendly almost, but she knows differently.
The picnic is in full swing by the time that they had arrived. Cecelia could hear the band playing as she takes his hand in hers, and walks towards the patchwork quilt of colorful blankets and temporary tents, gathered around the trees. It smells like barbecue sauce and, judging by a stain on a white shirt of one the men they pass, it most definitely is.
"I should hate you; you're disgusting," she spits.
He only laughs, "What the bloody 'ell's wrong with me—uumph."
Cut off by her lips, he presses his own lips to hers, pushing her against the gym's wall. The morning spun away. From somewhere in her mind, she heard her mother's reprimanding voice, her little sister's shriek of laughter, a person driving by in the distance through the wall. We're closed, sis. Leave us alone. All of that seems very far away and disconnected from reality. What feels real is his lips on hers —god, he's kissing her. He's seriously kissing her—, his tongue fighting with hers (she'd always be stronger), and after what feels like eternity, they break apart. They're somewhere else now. Panting, she falls to the floor, slipping at first, her foot and palms sweaty against the freshly cleaned gym floor until she lands on a practice mat.
When they're done, Cecelia stops for a moment, disgusted with herself, disgusted with this sweaty mess (even though it looks as if she has just trained for three consecutive hours), and promptly slaps his face, appreciating the slapping noise that echoes throughout the auditorium. She ponders on whether to stab the knife into his beating heart; after all, two can keep a secret, if one of them is dead. Instead, she sighs.
She extends a hand, picks up the smirking boy on the ground, and quickly throws him behind her bag in a sweeping hip toss, brushing her hands off as she walks out of the training center. There's a boy standing near the front of the training center, obviously a newbie by the look of surprise, confusion, and disgust permanently etched onto his childlike features, but she strides out of the door.