TRIPLE UPDATE! - 3

Chapter One-Hundred-and-Sixty-Eight; Capitol & District

"…I know what it is to feel like I'm dying. I've felt that way since my name was called at the Reaping…"

It was a slight jolt to Stephanie's system as she spoke the words. But with the sense of rightness that filled her as she said them, Stephanie realised they were the truth. It was the reason why she wasn't breaking down in hysterics or having a mild panic attack at being told she was quite bluntly…"dying." Because ever since she had been reaped for the Hunger Games, she had had to face her impending death every day.

It was something every tribute had to face, even those as young and innocent as Frenkin who shouldn't have to ever consider something so grim as their own death so young. She had already cried brokenly, bitterly and angrily over the idea she would be dying soon. She had already gone through all the emotional stages of crippling fear, drowning despair and hardening resignation. Quite simply now, she had no more tears or fear to spare for the fact. It was something she had said to herself enough times in the mirror each morning, that hearing similar words of her fast-approaching death from Seneca's mouth inspired nothing but a curious twinge within her. She was mildly proud and surprised at her calm composure, especially since it was evident that Seneca had expected her to break down so weakly in front of him.

"Don't."

Stephanie blinked, shocked at the sheer venom Seneca had managed to instil in a single syllable.

Before she could even formulate words to ask what he meant, Seneca spoke again.

"Don't speak about yourself like that."

Stephanie frowned. "Seneca, it's the truth, I – "

"Stephanie. Don't. I can't listen to it." He interrupted her. His voice was sharp, almost cutting as though rebuking her and Stephanie felt a bubble of irritation rise within her. So he can't listen to the brutal truth of what his Games do? Well, that's just tough! I should tell how it feels to walk about, feeling like you're already dead! Maybe then he'd understand…

But then Seneca raised her hand, he smoothed out her rigid fingers and he pressed her palm against his cheek. He held her hand there, cradled against his face, and Stephanie swallowed tightly as she saw his eyes fixed on her.

His blue eyes were burningly intense. There was a definite pleading undercurrent in them, but their main emotion reminded Stephanie undeniably of something she had seen before. It reminded her of the look she had saw in Tain's eyes as he spoke of Astara, the sister he would so soon lose forever one way or another. It was a tortured, anguished look and Stephanie knew irrefutably then that Seneca had changed without a shadow of a doubt. He understood; not as a tribute heading for their death would, but as someone who loved a tribute for the Games only could.

Stephanie realised that was how the horror of the Games and the damage they caused was truly captured. Not in the tributes who died in the arena needlessly, but in their loved ones that were left behind. Having to face your own death brought anger and bitterness and fear. But the overwhelming emotions for those left behind watching their loved ones die was the utter heartbreak. It was the utter heartbreak that had broken the districts over a century of watching their children die in the Games. And it was the utter heartbreak that Seneca now understood.

Stephanie nodded jerkily then at Seneca, not daring to utter another syllable, as she wordlessly made her promise.

She realised she couldn't hurt Seneca…not like that. And Stephanie could almost laugh scornfully at the thought.

Once, when Seneca had just been a Head Gamemaker that tortured Haymitch, she could have easily dreamt up a thousand ways to inflict pain on Seneca. Her imaginings had almost been worthy of the most blood-curdling Gamemaker. She never imagined that the surest way to hurt the blue-eyed Gamemaker would become to hurt herself.

But she couldn't hurt him like that.

Because the anguished look in his eyes when she did was too painfully familiar. It brought memories rushing to the surface; of her sister Weisna's tear-filled eyes as she had hugged her with her pregnant bump, of how her big brother Fen who had always stepped up to protect his family ever since their father lost his arm, looked so tortured when he had to release his little sister to go and fight in the Games. It was the same anguish in Seneca's voice now that had been in her family's as they had each said goodbye, tactfully avoiding mentioning the distinct likelihood that she wouldn't come home again. It was the same anguish in Haymitch's voice when he had pleaded with her not to speak of dying, before his lips had crashed upon hers…

If I die in the arena…I'll leave you behind too, won't I?

The thought startled Stephanie as she looked at Seneca anew. He loved her too. Before, even when she had accepted that Seneca had loved her, she had never thought of him collectively with her family, friends, Frenkin…Haymitch, as someone she would possibly leave behind hurt if she died in the arena. Now she couldn't escape the idea.

Stephanie's fingers twitched slightly against his cheek. Seneca, accepting her silent promise released his hold on her hand. Stephanie didn't tear her hand away immediately though. Her fingertips traced lightly down the slope of his tensed jaw as she lowered her arm.

"So," Stephanie began hesitantly, voice little more than a breathy whisper, "What's the cure then?"

Seneca blinked his brilliant blue eyes once, swiftly regaining his equilibrium. He cleared his throat.

"Pills," Seneca replied, before a slight smirk touched his lips. He leaned forward, slipping his hand boldly around her waist and Stephanie gasped sharply, sending him a meaningful frown. "Seneca!"

"Apologies," he murmured with the most decidedly unapologetic expression on his face. "It is necessary," he added with a suppressed smirk as his fingers glided up the sensitive stretch of her side. Stephanie blushed heavily and was about to make a sardonic retort when Seneca withdrew his hand and leaned back in his own chair. He held up the little pill bottle in his hand with a rakish grin, the white pills rattling inside. "It was in my inside pocket," he explained innocently, "And as you have once more commandeered my jacket…" He trailed off meaningfully, grin remaining firmly in place. She scowled at him, even as she dug her fingers more firmly into the ebony jacket still draped around her shoulders.

"The pills, Seneca" Stephanie prompted him gruffly, because when he grinned like that at her it really was damn well infuriating.

Seneca's expression sobered slightly. "One a day. It's vital you remember," he replied. "Here, start now and take one."

Seneca deftly unscrewed the cap and Stephanie outstretched her hand expectedly. The little unsuspecting white pill tumbled into her palm. She popped it into her mouth, wrinkling her nose distastefully as the tablet immediately began to dissolve and fizz on her tongue like bitter champagne bubbles. She swallowed quickly to get rid of the melting tablet and horrid taste.

Seneca chuckled lightly seeing her look of disgust, as he replaced the cap to the small bottle. "Taste not agree with you, dear?" he teased. Stephanie's eyes sharpened to smouldering points as she recognised his words as the same ones he had said to her at her first dinner date he hijacked.

He leaned forward to replace the pill bottle to his inner pocket once more before Stephanie could think up a sharp retort. His hand lingered, sliding possessively into the dip of her waist, tugging her forward slightly.

"I think I can come up with some way to get rid of the unpleasant taste?" he offered in that familiar silken murmur that raced down Stephanie's spine each time. His eyes drifted meaningfully to her lips.

Stephanie glared at him as she deliberately shifted in her chair to shift his hand. He smirked slightly, but conceding, relinquished his hold and leaned back leisurely in his seat, crossing his legs.

"So, how long do I have to take these pills once a day for?" she asked. The idea that one day she could be completely rid of her troublesome fainting was something she found definitely attractive. She hoped it would be before…

"Until after the Games," Seneca answered, cancelling out her hopes. Stephanie frowned disappointedly, pouting stubbornly and Seneca grinned at her petulant look. "Then you will undergo a procedure – "

"Procedure?!"

"Yes, a medical operation. It will be straightforward – "

"I've never had an operation in my life!"

"It's nothing to become excited over – "

"I'm meant to feel perfectly at ease willingly letting a Capitolite cut me open?!" Stephanie declared shrilly.

Seneca frowned. "There's no need to be quite so dramatic. No one will be cutting you open. My uncle – "

"Your uncle?" Stephanie interrupted Seneca, unable to help it as she looked curiously towards the Gamemaker. The only member of Seneca's family she had ever seen was President Snow; and claiming someone like President Snow as your father was completely disconcerting to say the least.

"Yes, my uncle Vash," Seneca replied patiently. "He is not my uncle by blood, but he is completely trustworthy. He will be the one performing the procedure after the Games, and then you shall be cured completely."

Stephanie's thoughts whirred rapidly for a few moments as her mind connected the dots. Not my uncle by blood…

"Vash is Lark's brother?" she asked quietly, not quite knowing what possessed her to say it at all.

She just recalled Haymitch telling her that Lark had been as close as a surrogate father to Seneca.

Something flared in Seneca's eyes for a moment. "Yes. He is," Seneca answered, perfectly calmly, watching Stephanie intently as though awaiting her next move.

"A pill every day, a procedure and then I'm cured?" Stephanie asked briskly, swiftly refocusing the subject. The topic of Lark was inevitably too contentious to bring up. For Stephanie would start to passionately defend Haymitch with everything she had. And then she would remember what Seneca had done to avenge his surrogate father's death, and…Stephanie took a deep breath. Hadn't she suspended overanalysing every little thing for the time being at least? Stephanie reminded herself.

"Not quite," Seneca replied to her question, dragging Stephanie from her thoughts.

"And what does that mean?"

Seneca took a deep breath, arching a cool brow. "It means that you can't faint from now until you get the procedure."

Stephanie fixed Seneca with a withering look. "That's not a cure Seneca. That's an impossibility," Stephanie replied dryly.

Seneca frowned sharply. "All you have to do is stop yourself fainting for a while longer."

Stephanie scoffed incredulously. "Would you like me to try flying or anything else equally as impossible while I'm at it?" she shot back sarcastically.

Seneca growled in exasperation, smoothing an agitated hand through his hair as he leaned forward to fix Stephanie with a candid look. "Stephanie, it's crucial that you don't faint. The pills you'll be taking will be reversing the damage your detrimental fainting has been wrecking on you. But, if you keep fainting in the meantime then the pills won't ever get to do what they are supposed to and heal the damage. And for the procedure to have the highest chance of success, as much of the damage needs to be reversed as possible."

Stephanie shook her head disbelieving. "Seneca, in the ten years plus, that I have been fainting, I have only ever been able to hold off fainting a handful of times. And since coming to the Capitol only once or twice with Haymitch…"

Seneca's upper lip curled bitterly at the mention of Haymitch, but Stephanie ignored him.

"Well then, what is it that makes you faint?" Seneca demanded.

Stephanie resisted the urge to throw her arms up in the air. "Seneca, it's the bloody Hunger Games. I AM going to faint!"

Seneca's eyes were bright with annoyance, his fingers tapping an impatient, erratic rhythm on his knee.

"Stephanie, with your body having endured ten years' worth of internal damage from your fainting, you are already living on borrowed time. The next time you faint could be the last time," Seneca stated starkly.

Stephanie sighed heavily, running an exhausted hand across her throbbing brow.

"Seneca, I know that. I'm not being difficult, I'm being honest."

"Tell me what I can do then, to make it so you don't faint," Seneca ordered impatiently.

Stephanie arched a brow incredulously, eyes wide as she gaped at him speechlessly.

"Damn it Stephanie! If me kissing you makes you faint then I'll stop it," Seneca said, deadly serious. "Until after you're cured at least," he added in the next moment, as a half-smirk tugged at his lips briefly.

Stephanie regained movement over her stunned facial features as she scowled at the Gamemaker.

"Seneca, you're not listening to me – "

"No, I'm not," Seneca agreed dismissively, "What was it that made you faint at the party?"

Stephanie's look darkened as she glared stonily at the Gamemaker.

Seneca glared back at her. "Humour me," he said coolly.

Stephanie sighed, rolling her eyes. "I had just been accused of having orchestrated Fas Clearwater's murder."

Seneca frowned. "You didn't," Seneca replied flippantly. "And I didn't kill Fas Clearwater. Do you need irrefutable proof before you'll believe me?"

"I do believe you!"

"Then why would you faint when someone accused you of something you know you didn't do?"

"Argh! Because it's the damn principle of the point! That he could actually suspect me of something like that!"

"Fine then. Who was it that accused you?" Seneca demanded.

Stephanie's eyes widened. "No! I'm not telling you!"

Seneca scoffed, rolling his eyes. "I'm not going to kill him. I'm just going to make sure he thoroughly understands the concept of 'innocent until proven guilty'."

Stephanie shot Seneca an unamused look. "No," she refused adamantly.

Seneca scowled. "Fine. What about me then?"

"What?"

"Does kissing me making you faint?" he asked, a smug smirk curving his lips, as he arched a brow complacently.

Stephanie blushed furiously as she gasped indignantly.

"No, it damn well doesn't!" she shot back.

Seneca hummed contemplatively, not at all intimidated by her murderous glare. "The evidence is rather limited though. Perhaps I should test the theory more?"

"No, you shouldn't!" Stephanie squeaked defiantly, pulling Seneca's blazer tighter about herself.

Seneca grinned unrepentantly. "Well, I'm very glad to hear that there is no need for me to stop kissing you until after you're cured now."

Stephanie scowled moodily at the Gamemaker. She hated when he so effortlessly twisted her words like that.

"If you want to do something to help me stop fainting, get Ficen to stop forcing me into these damn straitjacket dresses that are so tight I can't breathe properly!"

Seneca's eyes fired with determination and Stephanie had barely a second to regret her words before Seneca had grasped her hand and hauled her to her feet with him.

"I didn't mean right now!" Stephanie exclaimed shrilly, but Seneca ignored her.

He glanced about him distractedly, frowning. "What is this place anyway? Your styling…room?" he said contemptuously.

"How can you not know where you bloody are?" she exclaimed incredulously, looking at him wide-eyed.

Seneca rolled his eyes. "I do know where I am," he replied drolly. "However I don't make it a habit to visit tributes in the penthouses," he added sardonically.

Spotting the rail of clothes in the far corner, Seneca wasted no time in dragging her over to it. He eyed the long, hanging garments swathed in their protective plastic bags distastefully.

"Well Miss Trindlesworth, you've reduced the President's son and Head Gamemaker to a mere apprentice stylist," he muttered sarcastically and despite everything Stephanie couldn't help sniggering at the thought of Seneca Crane as a stylist.

He smirked even as he irritably flicked through a few outfits, raising an eyebrow at some of Ficen's more inventive designs. Stephanie groaned inwardly as she caught glimpses of some of the clothing she was going to have to endure.

"I don't even think it is physically possible for me to remove this dress," Stephanie grumbled, frowning distractedly as she noticed an outfit flash past so bright green it rivalled Isa's luminous eyes.

"Is that an invitation for me to remove it for you?" Seneca asked lightly, without missing a beat.

"No, it's not!" Stephanie replied hotly, holding Seneca's blazer protectively close to her.

"Pity. I rather liked that idea," Seneca mused casually as Stephanie frowned steadily at his back. She could see the curve of his smirk even from the side.

Seneca discarded his search swiftly with an exasperated scoff. He opened the door to the nearest storage cupboard impatiently and Stephanie gasped sharply as she saw it.

Seneca drew up short at her sudden sound. He looked immediately at her, silently expectant.

But Stephanie couldn't speak. She unlaced her fingers from Seneca's and Seneca let her hand slip from his as she knelt down gingerly. She reached out a shaking hand timidly towards one of the shelves, feeling tears prick at her eyes.

The material was still as soft as she remembered it. The clothes she wore the day she was reaped. She hadn't seen them since Isa (she had since learned) on the train had peeled them off her body before even arriving in the Capitol. She had thought for sure they had been destroyed or incinerated. Why would they keep them? Yet here they were. The same swinging black skirt that brushed her knees, the same greying blouse that had once been Weisna's, and the same sturdy boots made of strong, supple leather that reached her knees and laced up the front. Her brother had bought them for her when she had caught pneumonia the year before walking to the factory during the winter mornings, when the snow would soak through her normal flimsy shoes. She hadn't meant to wear them the day of the Reaping. But she had been late getting back from the factory and hadn't the time to laboriously unlace and tug them off for her more proper shoes. They were lovingly scuffed and worn, from tirelessly chasing Eldi, from tussling with her brother Fen, from spending all day on the factory floor working beside her sister.

She closed her fast blurring eyes and reverently hugged the bundle of memories and home close to her heart. She buried her nose in the familiar garments, inhaling the familiar scents. The clean scent of floral soap and starch as her mother always meticulously washed all their clothes the night before the Reaping. The slightly bitter, metallic tang that forever hung in the air in District 3 from the billowing chimneys of the factories. Stephanie opened her eyes, watching as a few of her tears splashed onto the fabric of her blouse. A watery laugh choked its way out of her throat as she saw the small inky blotch on the collar. She must have missed that patch of oil on her skin when she was getting cleaned up before the Reaping.

Stephanie stood shakily once more, clutching her precious bundle protectively to her.

She jolted slightly when she saw Seneca standing silently beside her. She had almost forgotten he was there at all, as she had become lost in memories of home.

She cleared her throat difficultly. The lump that was lodged there refused to budge initially. "They're my clothes from the day of the Reaping," Stephanie croaked feebly in explanation. She didn't know exactly why she had said it. But some part of her wanted Seneca to know that these were her clothes, from her district, from her home.

Seneca's gaze drifted down accordingly to the scruffy bundle of clothing in her arms. Stephanie was sure that Seneca, the President's son who had grown up in the Capitol with every luxury at hand, must think her clothes pitiful and not worthy of rags. But the rustic feel of the worn linen beneath her fingertips felt a hundred times more comforting than the silky slide of Seneca's blazer across her bare shoulders.

It was bitterly ironic. Back home in District 3 she never had enough to eat, she had to work exhaustingly long shifts at the factory and life was a constant strife. And yet she missed it all terribly; despite the fact she had never been fed so well here in the Capitol or never had such luxury. She just wanted to go home to District 3.

"I recognised them," Seneca said quietly. Stephanie's brow creased with confusion.

"From the Reaping videos," he explained, eyes flickering to hers.

Stephanie swallowed, nodding once minutely before her brows furrowed again.

"Why do they have them here?" she asked timorously.

"Would you trust me if I said it's better not knowing?" he murmured.

She looked up at him frowning, immediately wary.

"Why?"

Seneca stepped forward slightly closer to her. "Because it will only hurt you, Stephanie. And I don't want to hurt you anymore."

A brittle silence crept up on them; a minefield stretched between them fraught with hidden dangers for them both. One wrong look or misconstrued word from Seneca and Stephanie would snap. The looming differences between the Capitol and the Districts seemingly impassable.

Stephanie swallowed thickly, shaking her head and raising her chin defiantly. "Why do they have my clothes here?" she repeated adamantly.

Seneca sighed lightly. "They keep all the tributes' clothing, until after the Games when they're sold. Some people…collect those sorts of things; a reminder of their favourite tribute or a Victor's Reaping clothes always sell well," he answered her reluctantly, yet truthfully like she had asked of him.

Stephanie scoffed bitterly, a harsh laugh being ripped from her throat that almost made Seneca, the imperturbable Gamemaker, flinch.

Twin silent tears slid down her cheeks as she grinned mockingly. A smile of lush scarlet lips and Capitol pearly white, perfect teeth. Her smile should have been beautiful then, but it was cold and twisted like barbed wire. A Capitol smile. He hated seeing it on Stephanie's lips. Even before he loved her, he had thought innately how such a smile didn't belong on her lips.

"Would you buy my Reaping clothes, Seneca – "

"Don't – " Seneca cut over her words harshly, a quiet desperation in his eyes. "Don't do this Stephanie."

"Why not?! It's a simple question!" Her voice rose shrilly, as fragile as her false smile.

"Stephanie - " Seneca gritted his teeth angrily.

"Well Seneca, how much would you pay? They're not worth a lot I'm sure, but maybe the Scandalous Stephanie Trindlesworth's Reaping clothes would fetch a small amount!"

"Stephanie, stop it!" He couldn't bear listening to her like this. It was torture.

"Though you'll have to tell me how it works Seneca. If I died in the bloodbath would that increase or decrease their value, I mean – "

His lips were on hers before she could utter another hateful word. Her bundle of clothes from her home and district fell forgotten to the ground. He didn't give her time to raise her barriers between them as he crushed her to him. He grasped her face firmly, feeling the wet of her tears underneath his hands against her cheeks.

He kissed her until that hateful, bitter, Capitolite persona was gone. He kissed her until he was sure the lips beneath his could never twist into such a cold, mocking smile ever again. He kissed her until he felt her hands rise and clutch fiercely at his sides, nails biting through his shirt as she kissed him back.

His blazer slipped from her shoulders to fall to their feet and land beside her clothes.

A mix of Capitol and District lying forgotten on the floor.

Thanks to girlworthfightingfor for the review; I'm glad Seneca turning up was a good unexpected for you; though I had a feeling it would be :P

Thanks to Silver Fletcher for the review; Well, I make no promises about how it will all turn out eventually...*devious grin*