A/N: This is an AU to They That Are Broken By The Night, due to popular demand (and by that I mean my own brainrot's). New readers, old readers - thank you for giving this a chance, and I hope you enjoy!
madeve mondays #1: roses [victor maddie.]
She drives down Avenue street.
Madison's used to the way that the fluorescent lights crest over her face. (It was too much, at first: with her eyes still too new. She'd stilled her wince, like Levine's taught her to. It comes too easy.)
The night's busy. It's never not busy. They pass by her in clumps and blurs. They're people that matter as much as the blurs they're made of.
(It's not like One. One is at least quiet, at night: only Peacekeepers romp about in the mangled backstreets and dim alleyways. There is never quietude in the Capitol. Never silence. Never darkness. All she sees is the world in lights.)
Her face is there. Upon their billboards; upon their screens, upon their buildings and upon the night skies and.
Her face is there.
Her scars are there.
It's so much.
(It's too much.)
They replay her Games, every day. It's the victory that they've been promised. It's the victory that they wanted. She's on their tapes: cutting past grime and earth and striking blades and spilling gore from throats.
Her only reprieve is that they don't show her victory.
It's by outside of the hotel that she stops. Levine's ordained her there. She's to do something she doesn't want to think about. She's to speak: about something she doesn't know what. It doesn't really matter: they can be perfunctory or morose or preposterous. They don't matter, anyway. Madison's never been loquacious. Maeve would've been better—
Don't think about Maeve.
Madison Saros gets out of her car. She looks at the hotel. She feels something buzz in her pocket. Her fingers grip on the fabric. She knows who it is. Levine. He'll ask: Are you there yet?
He asks: Are you there yet?
She replies: Yes.
What she does there doesn't matter. She is used to the act. She is made up of skin and bone and metal cybernetics. She is a husk stolen from the streets and malled into the person she is. She is beaten till she bleeds and she is carved from flesh to make a being.
She was born into a body, but it is they that have made her so. Her body is perfect, and it is not hers: it is Levine's, to do as he pleases. It is the world's, to do as they wish. It is the Capitol's, for their lasciviousness.
All Madison Saros is, is a name. It is not hers, either.
What she did have is dead.
Kiss me, Maddie.
Her giggle is quiet under the blankets.
If she lets herself imagine, then she's in a tent and not in a grandiose hotel. If she lets herself imagine, then the voice she hears is lilt and not a hoarse baritone. If she lets herself imagine, then the eyes she sees are blue.
If she lets herself.
Her phone flashes when she is done. His messages show up.
Received the money.
Another.
She wanted to tell you that you did a good job.
Madison slips her phone back into her pocket. She closes her eyes and presses her head against the seat. The burr of the car sounds behind her. Her hands move to the steering wheel.
Her phone buzzes.
Your next appointment is on Wednesday. One-thirty on the dot.
Okay. She replies.
A pause. Her fingers curl.
She adds: Thank you.
It is in the streets that Madison Saros sees her face again.
Mingled among the traffic. Between the blitz of red-blue-yellow lights that glaze by on the road. Her breaths halt.
Her blonde hair curves in the light. Her grin gleams golden.
No. She can't be here. She isn't here. No, it's not her, it's reflected from a screen somewhere, refracted from Games replays on the skyscrapers, something—
Nothing.
Only an empty street meets her eyes.
Madison's heart stutters. She turns back to the traffic lights.
Please go away.
Her image is present. Her mirage is incandescent. It dangles amid starlight that shafts down upon the ground, that cuts past the traffic and fosters her appearance there.
She's so real.
(She's not real.)
She tilts her head. Her mouth parts, half a rueful smile stuck between her lips.
Can I draw... a rose, Maddie?
Madison's breaths are shaky.
She should look away. She needs to look away. But her eyes stay fixated on the figure.
Please go away.
Her grin only widens. She steps forward, as the cars screech like sirens, as the lights mangle and dance around her in environs.
A rose, Maddie. Like what you... did. For me.
Go away!
Madison squeezes her eyes shut.
When she opens them again, she is alone on the street once more.
The image ebbs back into the aether.
(To somewhere nowhere but forever.)
"Maddie?"
(She... would care, before. She'd flinch at the name: at the hazy breath in her ear, at the sad grin that curls by that name, at the lilting voice saturated in delirium. But she's too tired to now.)
"What is it?" she asks, quietly.
Levine cocks his head at her. "Two more interviews today, Maddie," he drawls. "They want to ask you about your Games."
(She would care, too. She does care. Because a lilt laugh pained breath half-smile putrid roses would invade her senses. But Madison Saros is tired.)
"Okay," she says, her words automatic. "Thank you."
"Hmph," Levine says. He leans back against his chair and turns his head towards her from his desk. "Leave me now, will you? I'm busy today."
"With what?"
His laugh is the only sound that echoes in the office. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
It's still. Madison stays quiet.
"Let's just say I was inspired." He waves a hand aside. I'll bring you there tomorrow. You'll remember the place."
Something grips her stomach. It is as if roses churn in her gut. Their roots grip her stomach. Their petals proliferate in her throat. They choke her.
Levine's eyes rivet on Madison's. Amusement tugs his mouth apart.
"Oh, don't forget to talk about your little lover. They want to hear all about her on her anniversary today."
She sits and waits.
There is always that question. After they ask her about what it's like, to be Panem's newest Victor, most perfect, most adored.
(It is as if they forget about what she's done. Their rebellion.)
After they ask about what it's like, getting fixed by the Capitol. How well was their benevolence. Bestowing her their medicine.
(It's as if she'd asked them to be fixed. She'd rather be dead and blind and up in heaven. Not here.)
After they ask her what's it like, her childhood with Levine. Conditioned by the Capitol's Scientist. Engineered for victory.
(It's as if they want her to relive her worst memories. Of being shanked by redwood and metal. Of the splinters that itch underneath her skin. Of being strangled by a crown of thorns. Of their fetid poison tinging her skin black. Of rancid roses she gags on. Of their foam forming in her mouth.)
It's only after then that they ask.
"So the finale. That was one hell of an end. You and Maeve Alcraiz. Can you tell us a little bit? What was it like, falling in love in the Games?"
It's only then when she replies.
"It's been a year. I don't remember. Do you have another question?"
Maddie.
Her heart pounds against her ribcage. Her breath is tight in her rose-worn lungs.
Please leave me.
Her hands find the knife next to her bed. She would have it with her, in her pocket, at all times. But she's never needed it when sleeping. It's dark: so dark she can't see. She grips and she winces. Silver slices through her skin, and it doesn't hurt. Not as much as she'd believed.
Really? Mkay, why?
She feels the knife tip against her trembling thumb.
You're dead.
Not reaaally.
You are.
The silver tip inches into her skin. A red ruby slips through.
I'm talkin' to ya. Maddie.
You're in my head.
I'm always. In your head.
I know.
So?
She closes her eyes. Pain leaks from her thumb. It is a splinter. It is nothing more than a splinter Levine's carved in her body. That he left there and patched. It's nothing more than a wound. Stitched up with a meshwork of skin. Her knife's just training again.
So w-what. Maddie?
She feels the knife cut deeper. She feels her lips tremble. You're there.
I am! I miss you, Maddie.
I—
She feels something stick in her throat.
I miss you too.
'S okay. I'm here now.
…
Wouldja let me draw a rose?
Her yell clatters through the room. "Go away!"
The image ebbs back into the aether.
Madison Saros breathes again.
(We will kiss, Maeve whispers. Till the end.)
She kisses her.
It's the end. They're amidst the cold forests. They're in the spotlight centre.
She kisses her. That's all that matters now. They're kissing and they're breathing and they're together. It's the end. Despite all the odds against them.
They're together.
Maeve's fingers tug on her sleeve. As she pulls Maddie closer. She can feel Maeve's kisses as they trail past her lips, to her cheeks and to her eyes. Each a peck and each a smile. Each so energised.
(To make the Arena their reckoning. To raze the other to her gruesome death? Was this what they wanted of them?)
There's steel digging into her stomach. Drawing blood. Madison is weaponless. She doesn't think Maeve notices that the blade's there - and truth to be told, Madison doesn't care.
Maeve breaks apart. Her abashed smile's still twining her lips. It's then when Maddie nods at the knife in Maeve's hand. Realisation jumps in her eyes. And Maeve's grin becomes so incandescent.
(Maddie. Can I draw a rose?)
(Yes, was what Madison said. Please.)
Maeve captures her lips again. And Maeve's tugging at her arm with one hand, the other poised with the knife like it's a paintbrush, and Maddie feels something trace her stomach - silver metal, thin strokes of red, brimming upon the canvas, not yet spilling. Maddie exhales because it isn't - it isn't as painful as she'd thought.
And they kiss and they kiss and it's ethereal, almost, she's always thought about dying, but she's never thought that dying would be this nice, and it's so damn romanticised, but it's oddly nice, to kiss and die, to kiss and—
"Die. You don't want to die, now, do you?"
She's with Levine. In a warehouse.
(It's not a warehouse. It's the warehouse. The one that he'd kept her in, when she was a child, after he'd taken her out from the streets. He's brought her here, now, with a call that broke her out of her dream. Remember? he'd chuckled to her, through the line. I promised you. I'll bring you to the place.)
And she's standing. Stock-still. Back at the place where her torture began. She's listening. To him berate a child.
"—do you want to die? Then you'll know better than take a break next time. Tt. The Games don't wait until you're ready."
The girl crumples under his gaze. But her frame holds. It's like she's a walking corpse already. Madison feels roses slosh in her stomach.
"What's this?"
Levine's eyes remain on the girl. The gleam of a smile plays by his lips.
"Look at her. She's following in your footsteps."
"Why?"
His laugh echoes through the hollow warehouse. "Why? Why not, Madison?"
It's then when his eyes rivet on hers. Levine's shrug is so casual. "You're my success. I'm doing it again."
"What?"
("What?")
"A rose," Maeve says again, shrugging. "Like that one I. Did for you."
That's when Madison realises.
Her stomach's a bleeding mess. But she isn't dead yet. Maeve's strokes are so shallow. Not enough to kill. Barely enough to injure. It's just a meshwork of red lines: curling and twirling, a child's play at art.
"Draw a… rose?" Maeve repeats. "For… me?"
Madison's breath hitches in her breath. Her limbs freeze.
But Maeve doesn't wait. Maeve's arm tugs on her arm. Maeve's fingers tug on her hand. They wrap her fingers around the hilt. And Maeve leads the silver point to meet her stomach. It's unnatural: she's impervious, she's supposed to be immortal, she's not—
Maeve Alcraiz is supposed to be untouchable.
"Whaat?" Levine laughs. It sears the warehouse through. It's enough to make the girl next to him flinch, even though she immediately stills her shake.
But his next words are sardonic. "Oh come on, Madison, don't play the fool. I want you to train her."
The girl doesn't react. Madison feels her stomach plummet.
Blades. Knives shearing her skin. Shooting. Mercury bullets into flesh. Red roses. After he's done. He stuffs them in her mouth to shut her up.
But all that coaxes out of her throat is—
"Why me?"
Levine crosses his arms. He studies her face. "You're the Victor. The Victor that conquered the 55th Arena. Why not you?"
(She hasn't. She hasn't conquered the Games. She hasn't killed. Not in the finale. She isn't their perfect Victor, she isn't their anything. All she remembers is Maeve's smile. When Madison's hands won't move.)
(A tilt of Maeve's head. No? That's okay. And she'd taken the knife from Madison's fingers and Maeve Alcraiz is supposed to be untouchable, she is, that is, unless—)
"No more suicides," Levine scoffs. "Your District won't be notorious for that anymore. We'll have a line of Victors. We'll have a succession."
No. No's in her mouth already. But he won't let her say no. Madison Saros is Levine Saros's. She is his.
All she can do is stall.
"Can you let me think about it?"
She doesn't expect him to entertain her. But his brow raises. Something curls by his lips. "Fine. You have three days, Madison."
His eyes turn away to the girl. His crude grin shows his teeth.
"Now, where did we leave off again?"
It's difficult to think. Through the replays. Through the Games. Through the sex. Through the ceremony.
(They put the crown on her head again. It's a reminder. Here is your crown. Woven of twenty-three corpses. You're here at their expense.)
It's a flurry. Madison would typically like that it is. Her days float by. Her days blend in together. It's a bit more bearable that way.
But every day only gets her closer to the last day she has left.
If only she could wait forever.
(She remembers what Maeve's said to her, the night before the Games. She was in front of the mirror. The figure in the reflection had tears beading by her eyes. There's a choke in her breath. We'll die. Maeve tucked her head on her shoulder. She'd smiled. She thumbed the wetness away. It's okay, Maddie. Forever isn't for everyone.)
So much for forever.
They're at the warehouse again.
It's just them there. He stands on the other side. His back to the windows. She's near the door. But Madison hasn't felt more trapped.
"So? Have you decided?"
"Yes," Madison says. She meets his eyes. "I won't."
"Aw. I wouldn't've expected," Levine chuckles. "You don't get a choice."
Madison's words are no less hollow. "I know."
It's quiet, then. And then.
Really?
Maddie?
Her whisper is there. It raises the hairs on her neck. It is her lips, gliding across her skin. A kiss not-quite.
(It's always kisses, not-quite, with Maeve. She's too ecstatic—too frenzied— to stay in a space, to stay and kiss deeply. Her kisses are messy, because they're imbued with too much energy.)
But this one creeps over her skin. A kiss not-quite, a touch not-quite, a breath not-quite. A laugh not-quite, a grin not-quite, a dig of fingers into her skin and a spurt of red spiralling down her skin not-quite. Her heart jumps.
Maeve, Maeve—are you here?
All she gets in response is a flash of red-yellow splayed upon the floorboards from the window outside. A flash: a pass of a truck: and then it is gone.
Levine cocks his head. Madison's breaths are in her throat.
She's never wanted to believe before. She's never wanted to think before. They're illusions. They're mockeries of her mind. Maeve isn't real. And yet.
There is a flash.
I miss the real you.
"Madison," Levine drawls. But she doesn't hear him. Her whispers drift next to her ear: I miss the real you and it shivers her skin, it sows goosebumps down her limbs, but it's lilt-soft it's quiet-loud it's her.
That's... not. Your name.
Maddie.
Is it?
Her breath is erratic in her throat. Her eyes dart around, wild: to the floorboards, to the bulbs and to the ceiling and to the wooden planks barring up the windows, as if she can find an apparition somewhere.
All that is present is the shimmering lights, glinting upon windowpanes, swathing them in yellow-red.
Is it, Maddie? Is Madison Saros your name?
She lets out an exhale. It's not.
Maeve's grin is practically in the air.
Then. Show them.
A breath; a pause; a moment.
D'ya remember what I said?
Another breath; another pause. And she's back in the tent again: Maeve, next to her, her breaths quietly erratic, a soft smile twirling her lips. It's too soft—Maeve never smiles softly, only with vitality, only with chaos, only too wide—but it's soft this time.
Maddie. Live for yourself.
"Madison? Are you even listening? I said, you don't have a choice. The next session's in thirty. Run along, now, will you?"
Maddie looks back at him.
That gleam of Levine's smile in his eyes narrow. A frown touches his lips. "What are you—"
It is instinctive. It is with a smile. It is with victory. It is with Maeve.
Live for yourself, Maddie. It's been too… long.
Hasn't it?
She draws the knife in her pocket. His eyes widen. From a smirk to surprise.
A blade to the neck.
He is dead.
His gargles are the symphony that she doesn't know she'd needed to hear. Her laughs, floating by her ear, make up the bass. Something empty prods by her lips.
Something bitter resides in her lungs.
Maddie sits next to his corpse, and waits for the sirens to blare.
end.
A/N: Hi all! Madeve Mondays collection right here. Now me not going to SYOT jail is no longer a technicality!
Okay, so, if you're not from Discord... Thank you for reading! And for bearing with what would probably seem to be quite a wack fic if you haven't read TTABBTN. Let me know what you thought.
Love, Dawn.