Small mercies get even smaller.
[Or, not Katniss and Peeta.]
"Hey." shards of glass drag across his tongue, shiny sparkly skin preened to perfection.
Hollow.
His eyes are dilated, bloodshot. Lips puffy. She dangles her legs off the side of the hammock. She hesitates. Keeps slow, deliberate movements, as if they were playing hide and seek. As if he will spook and flee. He pauses in the doorframe, eyes on the worn beams. He will not look at her, but he will not move into the house until she shows him it is all right. He never wants to bring that in here.
(She would let him a thousand times over if it helps him heal.)
Dusky sunset drips across windowpanes, dashes the cobblestone of Four's Victor's Circle in varied shades and shadows. Taking a deep breath, she lets her bare feet pad across the sandy porch. Slides her hand into his. He lets her lead him inside, nudges the front door shut with a touch of his heel. She guides him up to his bathroom. He watches as if in a trance while she flips the switch for the hot-water heater, gathers mineral oils and salts.
When the light on the heater turns green, she slides the faucet knobs into place, checking and rechecking the temperature until a soothing stream is filling up his large tub. It is designed for more than one couple's pleasure. Jet speeds. Massage settings.
She is in a fuss of movements, and he catches her off guard when he slides his arms around her waist. She wants to kiss him, wants him to tell her what has happened; instead, she slides her hands around him, rubbing circles on his back.
"I can't do this." his voice is barely a whisper, husky and raw and breaking at the seams. He pulls away, and she lets him. He settles on the edge of the tub, head dropping into his hands. "I should just turn them all in."
She reaches around him, pours the lavender into the flowing water, waits until the waves are just lapping a few inches to the edge before turning the water off.
"What if I—"
She kneels down in front of him, cups his face in her hands. She presses her thumbs to his forehead, kneads tension from his temples. He releases a sigh, eyes slipping shut.
"It's asking for us to all to die."
She smoothes sloppy locks from his face. He has never been good with alliances that he cannot trust bone-deep.
"I'm on your side," she tells him. "Toutan."
"What if it's the wrong side?"
She pauses, his eyes locking onto hers. He is looking for confirmation, for strength- for instruction. She knows what he is really asking: what if I get us both killed? What if I turn the rebels in, in hopes that Snow grants us some semblance of a reward? Could you forgive me either way? But he should know the answer- what the answer has always been.
"We'll be wrong together."
His hand slides down, smoothes across her belly. He swallows heavily, his eyes raking back up to meet hers.
We'll all go down together, then.
"I'm on your side, Finnick," she repeats. "Lanfè oswa dlo segondè."
She is halfway to sleeping when the screech followed by percussion rings out across the water. House shakes. Sky lights red. A dimly-starred night is now choked by smoke. Hands find hers; large palms, sweating just as badly, gripping her just as desperately.
She just manages to calm her breathing.
(We're fine, we're not bombed, they didn't try to burn us, we're all right, everything's-)
Blue now rips itself apart.
(At least blue isn't so ugly.)
Applause echo from somewhere, somewhere.
Window sheers will not stop bombs.
(Shame the valances aren't made of sturdier stuff.)
They do diffuse the colours, though.
(Small mercies get even smaller.)
"What is that?" she manages, feeling her throat beginning to constrict.
Breathing strains.
Foggy eyes.
He does not respond, his eyes wide, reflecting black pools in a colorless darkness.
An onslaught berates them, endless bursts of sound, of color, until tears appear between lashes from squeezing eyes shut. He is in his senses enough to pull her to his chest. There, she can hear his own heart pounding, feel his skin is sweaty in both the humidity and anxiety.
"Whatisit?" it comes out wrong, like her mouth is on the other end of a fraying line.
Whatisit?Whatisit?Whatisit?WhatisitMakeitstoppleasethankyou?
A hand slides up, covering her ear.
She gains courage, gulping and following his line of sight.
She can hear the explosion, now muffled, but cannot make sense of its beauty compared to its noise.
Pyrotechnics, she thinks he says. His chest moves, apple in his throat bobs. Light-show. For their service, in their honor.
She squeezes her eyes shut and pretends it is just a bad dream.
(You've seen light-shows before, honey, why so scared?)
"It's supposed to be nice."
He does not sound like he thinks it is all that nice. His eyes are studying the continuing bursts of varied colour as if he can track them down and spear them.
"Let me close the windows."
She wants to say, 'I'll turn on the central air.' But it doesn't make it out.
Instead, she is keeping to the bed with hands pressed her ears. She wonders, if she could press her ears into her skull whether that would solve anything.
He does not come back to bed. He flips the air on, letting the rattling of the house be a silent affair. Dilutes the sound. A pretty, silent picture. He stands at the window, hand parting the curtain.
"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Mellark," his murmur is slick with sarcasm.
She cannot bring herself to stand, or even to respond. Instead, they watch the light-show and try to pretend that what they have been quietly hoping for has not been forced on someone else.
"You're supposed to come with me."
The dawn bell in Town rings out to tell everyone curfew has ended.
She should have seen this coming, and yet-
"If Snow hadn't insisted-"
"Hush," she murmurs, rolling onto her side and forcing a smile. She can feel the goosebumps up her arms, and she is sure if he were holding her he could feel her heart picking up speed. "I've always wanted to go to that resort."
He does not look convinced, but nods.
"They have good… food, you said."
He leans closer, his voice as faint as he can make it in her ear.
"Plutarch said this way you come with us."
Annie feels her stomach twist, breath short.
(Just in case, right? No audio-visuals of- no no, it's just in case.)
"Okay," she manages.
"I can't..."
"I know."
He can't say any more.
(What else is new?)
"I'll try not to outshine you," she quips.
He tosses his hair, and pulls that grin that normally makes her insides hurt from laughing too much.
"You can try."
She keeps her lips in that happy-laughing-ah-hah-hah face.
Pretending for a pretender.
Stylists do not knock.
They just call out from the foyer.
Here goes nothing.
thank you for reading, and for your patience. here is hoping #summerfromhell is treating you okay xoxo