Part II.
"And that night, the angels came, and left me nothing but the sweet, tender memory of the really only one that ever mattered in my life."
—Leo Kerouac, 'A Sketch of Gerard' (1942) in The Haunted Life
His homecoming is a somber affair. The train station is quiet, the district plagued by a heavy morning fog. Sonnet thought returning to One would offer some kind of reprieve, but all he sees are ghosts.
He's haunted by memories.
Driving through the streets, head against the cool glass of the back window, Sonnet catches glimpses of his mother in the ruins of her favorite pastry shop. He sees his father taking a stroll in a bombed-out park. It's too much all at once.
Cracks spread across The Lover's Bridge, a place where couples would come to announce their engagement. Where people would be celebrating the arrival of the New Year. Sonnet wishes the sleek car would run the railing and crash into the dark canal below.
Sonnet knows where they're heading, can never forget the twists and turns of the familiar side streets, but he's wholly unprepared when the escort stops the car.
The door opens and a light mist kisses his cheeks, almost like the touch of a phantom, cold and refreshing. Sonnet steps out and is met with the half-ruined image of the Chandani manse.
Screams and the shattering of glass fills his ears.
"Welcome home," says his guard.
Welcome home, indeed.
x
Amongst the half-ruined manor he called home, Sonnet finds ash and desolation.
Most of the ceiling is missing, collapsed into charred remains scattered across the floor, a minefield of support beams and shingles. Sonnet traipses across the field of wreckage, searching.
Searching for what? He doesn't quite know. Anything at this point will do. Something that proves his parents actually lived here. That they loved within these now unstable walls. That they existed.
It's not long before Sonnet finds himself in the basement. Scorch marks cover almost everything, a reminder of the night his whole world began to fall apart. Now he's left to pick up the pieces.
He's about to move back towards the staircase, when something catches his eye. In the corner of the room, beneath a pile of rubble, Sonnet finds a strongbox. Though it's lost its luster, dulled from the fire, he only has to wiggle it a bit for the latch to open.
Inside, treasure awaits.
Trembling hands reach inside, unbelieving of the unexpected discovery. Miracles don't exist anymore—or at least they don't in Sonnet's new reality. He still can't shake the disbelief as he gently removes a silver jewelry box engraved with his mother's initials. Something shifts about, and as Sonnet lifts the lid, he finds another prized possession:
His mother's songbird pendant.
Peering his head further inside the metal trunk, Sonnet unearths one last gift from his parents.
He desperately clutches to his father's violin, squeezes as hard as he can, afraid to let go in case it's a hallucination. Scared that he's trapped in some drugged out daydream.
Sonnet feels his cheek grow wet and he knows it's not from the light drizzle drifting in from the broken egress window. He can feel the phantom embrace of two spirits wrap around his person.
He may be the last survivor of House Chandani, but Sonnet knows he'll never be alone.
In the graveyard of the Chandani estate, the song of a violin dances in the wind.
x
A wave of unease washes over Sonnet as he steps through the heavy iron gates of the Swanview Peacehome.
The grand building looms before him, its cold façade reflecting the dreariness he feels inside.
Sonnet clutches his small suitcase tightly, his gut heavy with uncertainty. His eyes scan the empty courtyard, observing lush grass and artistic fountains spraying water, any evidence of the war long since cleared away. Outside of the fence, the district is largely still in the process of picking up the pieces—will be for years to come.
Shops and homes and parks and cafes will be rebuilt. Infrastructure will be mended. Sonnet's heart, however, is a different story.
With each passing moment, his doubts grow stronger, whispers of insecurity echoing through his mind. Will he ever belong? Will anyone understand his fears and dreams? Does he really deserve a second chance?
Sonnet's hopes for the future wane. Even if someone wanted to adopt him, he doesn't know if he would even accept.
A gloved hand urges him forward. His escort from the Capitol, a hawk-ish looking man, shows no emotion as the pair march over cobblestones and towards the large mahogany doors.
It's his first step toward the unknown. While Sonnet may not know what the unfamiliar walls of the orphanage might have in store for him, he'll try to keep his chin held high. Dignity is the only thing he has left.
His parents would want him to stand tall. To stay strong. If Sonnet is to carry on, he'll do so in their honor. Carry the Chandani legacy.
The doors open and a new chapter begins.
x
"Sit."
Matron Fairfax is a woman made of harsh lines, almost as if cut from the marble they import from Two. Her entirely too symmetrical features only make Sonnet squirm more in his seat.
The next few minutes stretch into what seems like hours, the mistress of the orphanage switching between assessing Sonnet's person and writing in a leather-bound notebook. Throughout it all, he remains silent. He's learned it's best to be quiet—it usually means less attention. Less pain.
Matron Fairfax's office is barren except for a simple desk. No pictures of family or friends. Not even a bookshelf to behold. She doesn't look to be the nurturing type, but Sonnet expected a bit more…warmth. To be fair, a Capitol-sanctioned orphanage doesn't exactly inspire feelings of community.
A click and a soft hum pulls Sonnet's attention back to the woman sitting before him. Dark blue eyes meet his own deep brown—Sonnet can see her mind working. Analyzing. He knows the thoughts running through her head.
Weak. Sickly. Soft. A waste. Rebel.
Sonnet's heard it all before. Especially within the past year. What matters now is what Matron Fairfax plans to do with him. From her visage, she looks about ready to cut her losses and bury him out back. His mother always championed his insightful nature; the ability to understand the people around him.
"So," she clears her throat. "It seems they've handed me a special…project to handle." Muscular arms are kept at bay by way of a cashmere sweater, though the swells of biceps straining against the fabric suggests the past of a warrior. If she wants, Matron Fairfax could snap him in half.
Sonnet simply blinks in response. It would be a waste of energy to speak, especially when he can feel the scratch of the cravings begin at the back of his throat.
"I've been made aware of your situation. Your needs," blonde strands fall from the woman's severe bun as she smooths her hand over her notebook. "However, they will not be used as an excuse here. You'll be expected to perform just as the rest of the other cygnets."
Perform. The word catches Sonnet's interest. Music is the only thing he knows how to perform and the orphanage doesn't seem to be a school for prodigies. "Perform, ma'am?"
Matron Fairfax straightens a file on her desk, face stiff as stone as she delivers the next major surprise of Sonnet's life. "Ah, they didn't tell you."
"Tell me what, ma'am?"
"This isn't simply an orphanage, kid. If they wanted you to live a nice life, you would be over at Lakesong or Splendor Valley. You won't be adopted. You're here to pay a debt," she says. "You're here to train."
"I'm not sure what you mean, ma'am?" Sonnet pauses, mind not understanding the news. "Train for what?" In his state, he isn't the shining beacon of health. What use could the Capitol get out of forcing Sonnet to exert himself? Doctor Zaldivar made the consequences clear.
Matron Fairfax rubs the side of her temples—the first sign of emotion she's shown since he's walked into her office. "You'll be training with other hand-picked war orphans to eventually join the ranks of the Peacekeeper Corps."
"Wha—," Sonnet begins, but the woman across the desk puts up a hand, cutting off the question on his tongue. A brief pause settles in the air between them.
"Listen, kid," Matron Fairfax sighs. "I'm just as confused as to why they would send a ticking time bomb to train when it's set to go off in a few years time, but I don't make the rules."
Sonnet readjusts in the wooden chair, artfully-crafted cherubs and flora protruding into his spine. He tries to calm down the neurons firing off in his mind. Father always said his brain worked too hard—the curse of an intellect he would say.
The older woman continues, standing up from her chair, movements graceful and practiced, a mountain cat slinking through rocky highlands. "I'll be honest—I don't know how long you'll last here," she comes to stand before him, lower body balanced on the lip of the desk, arms crossed. "But let's make a deal. If you try your hardest, give me everything you got, I'll treat you fair. Help you out here and there. But you have to earn it."
An olive branch, then. It's the first form of kindness Sonnet's experienced since before the war. The act of decency knocks the air out of his chest. Tears well up in the corners of his eyes.
"I—I," he takes a deep breath. "I can do that."
x
His roommate tries to strangle him the first night.
"You filthy rebel! Your parents killed my family!"
He barely has enough time to realize what's happening before the pair tumble to the floor, items on the nightstand showering around them in the struggle. Sonnet claws at tiny hands, eyes bulging and mouth agape. All he can think of is the promise he made to his mother. Of his deal with Matron Fairfax.
Is it over already? Right when he started to get his bearings? Just as he finds the faith to try again?
Tired arms beat at his attacker's body. For a twelve year-old, Shaffron LaRoux has a surprising amount of muscle. Hate fuels his strength—Sonnet's learned that lesson intimately. All he can do is scream in silence.
He forgot carrying on the Chandani legacy means dealing with the vitriol that comes with it.
Just as darkness takes its hold, a large bang erupts from somewhere in the room. All at once, the weight on top of his body disappears, his body sagging back against the floorboards. The danger is gone, but Sonnet's body continues to die, already-weakened internal systems failing to recognize the ability to breathe again.
As the Heavens open up above him, the sweet sound of violins floating in the air, a golden shadow graces his vision. Sonnet weakly reaches up, shaky fingers cupping a smooth cheek. A warm palm returns the action, forcing his chin to the sky.
Before his lids shut, Sonnet feels the touch of a deity.
x
He's quarantined in the infirmary for the next two weeks.
If his body was normal, Sonnet would've been out in a few days, neck brace long abandoned. But it's not. As a result of the attack, Sonnet has to deal with the convulsions for three nights straight.
To help his organs rebound, he's administered two doses of Doctor Zalidvar's medicine. The rest of the time is spent recovering from the strangulation and the exhaustion of going through multiple craving episodes at once.
No one is allowed to see him except for the nurse and Matron Fairfax. She tells him Shaffron was moved to the main Peacehome in Two—the largest training camp in the country. Sonnet still doesn't feel at ease. There could be a dozen more Shaffrons waiting for their turn to finish the job.
Doctor Zaldivar is unable to make it out but sends his well wishes in the form of a dozen roses. Sonnet wonders how something so beautiful can be made so ugly.
Bedridden once again, Sonnet can only reminisce.
Instead of vicious hands or gunshots, though, his mind is filled with the vision of his savior. Golden light and a shining halo, seraphic wings magnificent and awe-inspiring. Sonnet forgot such things could exist in the world.
It's the only thing that brings him peace amidst the sorrow.
x
When Sonnet arrives at his new room, meager belongings rattling around his faded luggage, there's no one in sight. One side of the room is untouched while the other looks like the nest of a wild animal.
At least Shaffron kept tidy.
Once Matron Fairfax bids him a goodnight, reminding Sonnet his first official day of training starts tomorrow, he rests his back against the creaky door. Fatigue from the past fortnight threads between his bones, an invisible string finally beginning to slack.
He's not sure how long he stays like that, eyes closed, basking in the silence. Eventually, his aching muscles call for reprieve, not used to standing for an extended period of time.
Sonnet hates it. Rebukes his delicate body and its handicaps. His dreams offer the only escape, where he can run free in the mountain meadows once more, carefree and untouched by reality.
Of course, that's until dreams transform into nightmares.
The soft comforter of his bed beckons him forward, calling to the droop of tired eyelids. Sonnet doesn't even bother peeling back the blanket, unbothered by the slight draft of the room, too worn out to care.
His roommate might return in the middle of the night and turn out to be another Shaffron, Sonnet none the wiser. If cold hands meet bruised skin, then so be it.
Sonnet's only wish is that he doesn't wake from whatever fantasy the Sandman casts on his mind.
x
Sonnet wakes to his alarm and the other side of the room is still vacant.
Either his roommate is both a night owl and early bird, or they're a ghost. Sonnet finds the ghost option more believable.
He dresses in the drab gray uniform Matron Fairfax gave him during their initial meeting. A size small yet Sonnet still has to double tie the drawstring of his pants and cuff the arms of his jacket. Embarrassment floods his veins.
Before he opens the door to the hallway, Sonnet makes himself turn to the mirror hanging from the adjacent wall. He zips his collar all the way up to hide the bruising on his throat, the black and blue now fading to a pale green.
The less the others know, the better.
In the reflection, Sonnet lifts his chin, tightens his jaw, and puts on a mask of clam. His uncertainty needs to take a back seat today—can't let it be a distraction.
Everyone will be watching and Sonnet refuses to break.
x
In the bustling mess hall, Sonnet sits alone, his lunch largely untouched.
Groups of children sit at tables nearby, laughter filling the air, a foreign sound after so many months of silence. It's nice to know life has pressed on—that orphans can still find joy and friendship.
Sonnet looks around wistfully, calmly taking in the crowd of unfamiliar faces. It had been much of the same in the classrooms, sitting in the back corner, wondering if he would ever belong. Curious if companionship would be possible.
For the most part, he's been largely ignored. Probably by the orders of Matron Fairfax, but still, even the hectic hallways seem so…empty. As if there's a bubble surrounding his person, dispelling all sound and touch.
In theory, Sonnet can get up right now and introduce himself to the other kids eating alone. He feels for them, truly. They've been at the Peacehome much longer and no one seems to approach them with kindness.
Apparently war doesn't change everything. Cliques still exist and loners still shuffle through existence with no one by their side. Sonnet could be the one person that offers a hand, a friendly face that makes a person's day.
Instead, he stays rooted to the bench.
Because even if he does try to start up some kind of companionship with these children, it'll mean nothing in the long run. Sonnet isn't meant to be a lasting friend.
Doctor Zaldivar made sure of that.
Still, he can't help but be a little selfish sometimes, when he's observing a room like now, hoping for friendship and love. It's hard to believe he's even worthy of love anymore—unsure if it's in the cards of fate for himself.
And if by some chance it does happen, Sonnet knows guilt would eat him up inside. To put someone through growing to love him and eventually lose him would be his greatest sin, and Sonnet hates that thought.
So for now and in the immediate future, Sonnet will quietly observe. He'll eat lunch with his lonesome. Train without a partner. Study in his room. It'll be easier for everyone.
At least, that's what he tells himself.
x
Days pass and Sonnet falls into a steady routine.
Wake up. Eat breakfast. Go to class. Attend afternoon training sessions. Eat dinner. Study. Shower. Play the violin. Sleep.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
It's an easy repetition. Mindless at times, even. Matron Fairfax checks up on him every other day, but Sonnet assures her that he's fine. He doesn't need any special attention. Refuses anyone's pity.
There's only a few breaks in his newfound pattern. For one: the full-body shivers that catch him off-guard. It's still not a perfect science, but Sonnet has been trying to keep track of when the cravings begin. With more time, he's confident in nailing down a pretty spot-on timeframe.
Until then, he'll just have to deal with the sudden goosebumps and gnawing at his stomach.
Another variance in Sonnet's schedule is his roommate. Three weeks of living together and he still hasn't met the other boy. No face to place with the name Matron Fairfax supplied en route from the infirmary: Tristan.
While puzzling, Sonnet doesn't mind having the room to himself for most of the day. It's like having his own sanctuary, the ability to do as he pleases. Besides, one can't complain about his playing of the violin if they aren't around to hear it.
It might be better this way.
If Sonnet keeps telling himself that, then maybe he'll actually end up believing it.
x
In the dimly lit corridors of the Peacehome, Sonnet wanders aimlessly through the darkness.
The clock has long struck midnight, and all the other children are fast asleep, their dreams carrying them to far-off lands where love and warmth embraces them. At the very least, he hopes that's the case. Sonnet would hate it if his fellow cygnets were plagued by the past.
Sonnet knows about that all too well—it's the reason he's haunting the halls like a lonely wraith, running away from the night terrors. For Sonnet, sleep is elusive.
When the night's shadows grew too long, as flashes of war and syringes caused him to wake up in a cold sweat, Sonnet could no longer bear the suffocating thoughts.
The creaking floorboards beneath his socks echo softly as he roams from hallway to hallway, in and out of classrooms and through moonlit atriums. Silver light filters through the soft curtains, casting eerie shadows that seem to dance around him. The air is laden with the scent of dust and memories of bygone days.
As he ventures deeper into the heart of the orphanage, a soft glow flickers at the end of a narrow corridor. His heart skips a beat as he cautiously approaches the source of the light. The door to one of the training rooms is cracked open, revealing a warm and inviting glow that contrasts with the cold and silent ambiance of the manor. Surprise and relief fills his chest at the possibility of someone else awake in the night.
Sonnet gently pushes the door ajar and peers inside.
He hears the boy before he sees him. Thuds and smacks of skin against leather reverberates through the expansive space, mirrored walls and other training equipment scattered throughout. In the middle of the room, a boy blazes around a punching bag, a scowl reflecting in the mirror on the opposite wall.
Sweat glistens on his forehead, slick curls sticking out every which way, as he attacks the punching bag with relentless fury. Each thunderous blow releases pent-up anger in the room, his fists channeling a storm of emotions. With every strike, Sonnet sways his hand in the air. In his mind, the blows transform into a swelling composition.
It's breathtaking.
The other boy stops his movements after a vicious kick sends the leather bag swinging, his back to the door, bent over taking in deep breaths. If he squints, Sonnet thinks he can see his form shaking. Sonnet has the sudden urge to wrap his arms around the boy. He knows the look of someone in need of peace.
He sees it in his reflection each day.
Before he can decide whether or not to venture further into the room, luminous blue eyes catch Sonnet's gaze in the mirror. A light which Sonnet felt was missing for so long seems to click on inside him again.
When he was young, friends were a foreign concept—he'd been very shy and introspective as a child. His family name seemed more of a deterrent to companionship than anything. But now, Sonnet finds himself not only very intrigued by this stranger, but also longing for a distraction from everything that's happened in the past two years or so.
"What do you want?" the boy asks, turning to face Sonnet head-on. He finally gets a better look at his visage like this—can properly assess his curls and well-defined features. If Sonnet were to guess, he'd say the boy can't be more than a year or two older.
Sonnet's silence seems to piss the boy off even more, his fists curling at his sides. "Are you here just to creep? You a voyeur or something?" he huffs. "Fuckin' weirdo."
"Sorry, I—Well," Sonnet clears his throat and pulls his shoulders back. "I can't seem to fall asleep and then I saw the light on…apologies, I didn't mean to intrude."
The smaller boy moves his hands to his hips, stare intense and shrinking as he tracks up and down Sonnet's person. "Insomnia's a killer. Join the club."
"Indeed."
"Tristian," the boy offers. "Tristan DeVoce."
"Sonnet Chandani."
"Ah, so you're my new roommate. Haven't seen you around much. Seems we have inverted schedules."
"Or you have the internal clock of a nocturnal animal."
Matron Fairfax warned him about Tristan's behavior. Incredibly moody, that one. He's a little prick, so don't be surprised if he insults you mercilessly. Though, he's had a pretty rough go of it; something I'm sure you can understand. Behavioral issues aside, he's one of the best trainees we have, so I think he can teach you a thing or two.
And yet, Sonnet sees something in the other boy's face—a wound so deep that causes him to shut others out as a coping mechanism. Sonnet is familiar with sadness and demons, considers them intimate acquaintances. Looking at Tristan, he has the inexplicable desire to make the other boy smile, to chip away at his walls.
It's the least Sonnet can do. The clock may be ticking for him, but he can try to make sure to use what little time he has left helping those in need. It's what his parents would want him to do, he's sure of it.
Tristan grins sharply, seemingly amused. "Touché."
Sonnet feels his heart rate rise and cheeks flush. With each passing second of their standstill, the hairs on his arms begin to raise and an itch crawls up his legs.
Oh, Sonnet thinks suddenly. How unfortunate. He really needs to get a better handle on the timing of these things. His fingers begin to tremble as he begins to close the door inch by inch, trying to hide the way his body sings for moremoremore.
"I have to go."
Tristan calls after him, Sonnet's slim figure slipping through the closing wooden door. "Try not to get lost!"
x
"What is it then, hm? You want to train with me?" Tristan asks flippantly. "But you look so…"
Sonnet raises an eyebrow, arms crossed behind his back. Tristan sighs dramatically, hand motioning in the air as if trying to figure out the right word. He eventually settles on, "What could you possibly offer?"
The cruelty doesn't faze Sonnet in the slightest. He's grown accustomed to harsh words. By now, they simply glide off his skin like water off a duck's back. He would drown otherwise.
It's the third night Sonnet's found the other boy training and he's finally found the courage to cross the threshold of the doorway. He moves to show the violin hidden behind his back, weight heavy in his hands. Sonnet offers the instrument like a secret, choosing to trust this mercurial boy with his soul.
"I can teach you how to play," Sonnet says softly. "As for the other part, I look like this because I'm dying." He says the last bit with complete honesty, very simply, not even a flinch or pause in his voice.
It's the first time Sonnet's told someone about his condition. Freedom tastes sweet on his tongue, the ability to choose an intoxicating flavor over his taste buds.
In truth, he'd polished over those words a hundred times until they'd lost their sharp edges. He could not tell if he'd reached acceptance or if the words had simply begun to feel numb. Either way, he's come to terms with the situation.
This is about taking his power back. About making the little amount of time he has left finding joy—friendship, even. Sonnet is tired of hiding his ailment, constantly being dragged down by what feels like the weight of the world.
Tristan physically reels back at the mention of death. His eyes flick to the violin and then back to Sonnet's face, partially obscured by long lashes. "What do you mean…dying?" his features soften with apprehension, tone inquisitive and timid. It feels wrong coming out of Tristan's mouth.
"I won't live past eighteen."
"Oh—I'm sorry," the other boy shuffles from foot to foot, not quite meeting Sonnet's eyes. He quickly tacks on, "That blows."
Sonnet can't quite get a proper read on his roommate's expression, but he can feel the sincerity in his words. It feels like a very rare thing. Something to be cherished and protected.
A side that most don't have the permission to see.
"Don't," Sonnet says gently, moving to rest his elbow on one of the training dummies. Tristan stays still. It's the closest they've been near each other. It feels like a victory. "Everyone tells me that. I don't need you to treat me like broken glass. Just—please. Don't turn me away. Say you'll train with me."
When he stretches out his hand, Tristan takes it.
x
Rough fibers scratch at his back.
Sonnet doesn't mind—if anything, it feels grounding. Reminds him that he's alive and present. Rather than being curled up somewhere, senses overcome with pain, he's laid out on the floor of his room.
And he's not alone.
Blonde curls splay out next to his own onyx strands. Sonnet finds the contrast fascinating. Ever since that night in the training room, his roommate has been around the room much more. At normal operating hours to boot, too.
As they lay on the rug, side by side, the two share stories of their time in the Peacehome. It's become an everyday occurrence, getting to know each other. Tristan has been there longer than Sonnet, was dropped off right when the war began, so he's learned many secrets about the place.
He speaks of the laughter and tears of past children. Fills Sonnet in on training camp gossip and war stories that've been passed through the halls. Whispers about Matron Fairfax's history in the Corps and why she was supposedly sent to One in the first place.
He never speaks about his own tragedy, though. The past is off-limits. Sonnet can only assume Tristan has experienced something equally as dark and wicked.
There's a reason why he never lets anyone touch him.
His roommate didn't offer any similar memories when Sonnet told him about his parents' deaths and his own illness, but Sonnet didn't mind. Sonnet knows there are secrets that Tristan would always keep from him, and yet he accepts him anyway, hoping that someday he would be comfortable enough to reveal them and let Sonnet in.
As the night wears on, the two newfound friends find comfort in each other's company. Their shared room slowly becomes a sanctuary where they can escape the loneliness that has accompanied their circumstances.
They carve out their own Eden.
x
In the dimly lit room, the ceiling fan spins lazily, casting eerie shadows on the walls. White noise fills in every gap and crevice, the hum of the blades creating a never-ending frequency.
Sonnet lays in bed, trapped in the clutches of a feverish haze. His eyes wander, fixated on the hypnotic whirling of the fan's blades. Reality wavers as hot flashes take hold of his skin and visions of the past intermingle with fleeting glimpses of the waking world.
It feels like his mind is being torn in two.
Moments of clarity punctuate the delirium, where he glimpses his mother by his side, a gaping hole in the center of her forehead. Songbirds fly over his head, cooing sweet melodies until they begin to pluck at his body. A violin plays, seductive and alluring, until the strings become jarring and abrasive in his ears.
In and out he goes, a fragile soul navigating realms both surreal and real.
Sonnet is too caught up in the pendulum to notice a figure standing above his bed.
"Sonnet?"
Go away, a voice pleads. I don't want you to see me like this. All he can manage is a simple, "Tristan."
He waits for his roommate to back away in disgust. To run away, scared of becoming infected too. Sonnet wouldn't blame him. He despises the sight of himself too.
But because Tristan has decided to become the most surprising person in his life, he instead pulls up one of the desk chairs nearby and takes a seat, his eyes never leaving Sonnet's form. "Rest," Tristan says softly, his hand stroking through Sonnet's sweat-soaked hair. "I'll be right here."
A damn of emotions explodes, the floodwaters of relief and misery and adoration and pain overcoming his entire being. For the first time since being ripped away from his family, he feels safe.
Sonnet feels the faint touch of his lips against his forehead and then he drifts off into slumber.
x
Doctor Zaldivar visits on the six-month anniversary of Sonnet's arrival to the Peacehome.
Dread clings onto Sonnet's every nerve. He is reluctant to come face to face with the man that frequents his nightmares.
Once the man arrives with his band of merry aids, it takes less than an hour for him to deem that things are going well. Sonnet should feel relieved. Instead, all he wants is to be back in his room with Tristan.
Test vials and lab dishes are loaded into secure-looking crates while Sonnet changes back into his uniform. By the time he steps out of the folding divider in the corner of the infirmary, Doctor Zaldivar has a tray waiting for him on the counter.
"Your refill, Mr. Chandani."
Sonnet picks up his mother's jewelry box on the examination table and moves closer to the older man so he can transfer the golden tubes for storage. Somehow, he looks even more deranged than the last time they saw each other.
"Thank you, sir."
"Matron Fairfax says you've adjusted nicely to your new environment," the doctor pauses, an unkind smile creeping up his face. "Even heard you made a little friend."
At the mention of Tristan, Sonnet stiffens. Don't, he wants to say. Every horrible possibility runs through his mind all at once. Tristan strapped to a metal table, syringes poking and prodding. Veins turning green with poison—his screams bouncing off sterile walls.
Sonnet would spend the rest of his life as Doctor Zaldivar's personal test subject if it meant protecting Tristan.
The doctor hands off the last of his testing materials to one of his assistants as he continues. "It's a shame you won't be around much longer. A real tragedy if you ask me."
Fists clench at Sonnet's sides, nails digging into the meat of his palms. He knows his situation is helpless—long since accepted it as a fact of his new life. But right now, watching Doctor Zaldivar adjust his glasses, he wants more now than ever to get revenge.
Sonnet always thought revenge to not be in his nature. It simply wasn't something his parents ever taught him. He's seriously reconsidering.
"Until next time."
The group of white lab coats shuffle out the door and Sonnet is left to sit with the image of Doctor Zaldivar's blood on his hands.
It doesn't bother him nearly as much as he thought it would.
x
"Tristan?"
Through the darkness, Sonnet can make out a figure huddled in the corner next to the wardrobe.
"Are you alright?"
Heavy-eyed, he reaches over the nightstand to turn on the lamp. A soft glow illuminates the room, dispelling inky tendrils of night back into hiding.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Sonnet slowly pulls back his covers and ignores the icy chill of the floorboards beneath his bare feet.
Inching closer, a clearer picture brings understanding to the sight before him. He knows the look of being held in the clutches of a haunting nightmare. Without a second thought, he rushes to Tristan's side, desperate to help and protect him from whatever is tormenting his mind.
The other boy makes a noise that sounds like a dying animal, rising from the back of his throat, ugly and raw. Sonnet's shattered heart breaks a little more.
Kneeling beside his roommate, he gently shakes his shoulders, whispering soothing words. "Tristan. Wake up, it's just a bad dream. You're okay—come back to me."
Tristan's eyelids flutter, and Sonnet can feel his subconscious battling to break free from the dream's grip. He yearns to be his shield, to guide Tristan back to reality's safe embrace. He's helped Sonnet so much the past few years, allowing him to find hope again. It's the least he can do.
With unwavering determination, Sonnet decides to be bold for once. He cups Tristan's face in between his hands, channeling calm and reassurance. Lids slowly open, the fear dissolving, replaced by recognition.
Tristan's eyes lock with his, and before he knows it, Sonnet is wrapped in a tight embrace.
The two sit there, hands clasped together, creating their own light. They are each other's guardians, ready to chase away the darkness whenever it dares to approach.
Sonnet isn't sure how long they stay interwoven like that, but eventually, Tristan's tears dry and golden curls rest against his shoulder.
As Tristan's soft breaths paint his cheek, Sonnet understands with certainty that there is no coming back from this. They're on the precipice of something and instead of pulling away, choosing to safeguard what little remains of his heart, Sonnet wants to leap.
x
"Not now, Tris," Sonnet faceplants into his bed. "Matron Fairfax made me run sprints until I could hit the ninety meter target down at the range. I'm officially dead to the world."
"Tris?"
Sonnet shoots up, ears red and face flush with embarrassment. Afternoon light pours in from the window in between their beds, highlighting the gold flecks in Tristan's eyes. "Oh! Um," he stammers. "Sorry! It just slipped out. I didn't mean to—"
The other boy stifles a laugh, eyes bright, clearly entertained. "It's alright, Sonnet. I promise" he continues. "I actually quite like it. Has a nice ring to it."
"Okay…well, Tris it is then."
A pensive look takes over his roommate's face, chin resting on his knee and lips pursed. "You know…that just means I have to come up with a nickname for you now."
"You really don't have to do that."
"But I want to!" Tris pauses, thinking. "Sonny?"
"Gross. You can definitely do better than that,"
"Sonnetta?"
"You're just being an ass now."
"Fine, I'll brainstorm some more," Tris flops back onto his mattress, knees kicking out over the edge, feet swaying. "Gotta get it perfect for my best friend."
Sonnet almost cries hearing the blonde call him that. He never thought he'd have a best friend, let alone be called one so candidly. He wants to bottle the feeling so he can hold on to it forever.
"I like the sound of that."
x
Matron Fairfax puts little effort into decorating the Peacehome for the winter festivities. The gray of the building only darkens as the nights grow longer and the cold creeps into the mountains.
This time of year is always difficult. He can only imagine what his peers are going through—missing their loved ones, clutching tear-stained photos or old trinkets.
Outside of the gates, the storefronts that have been rebuilt in the two years since the war ended offer the only color in sight. Candles and wreaths of all shapes and sizes are displayed for all to see. Children skate on frozen lakes and ponds, blades cutting artistic patterns into the ice. Families play in the powdery snow. Lights decorate roofs and lampposts.
Finally, it seems like One is beginning to find its footing again.
Sonnet has to observe it all from the windows of Swanview. Memories of times celebrating with his parents burns in his mind. He spent the past two winters frozen in those souvenirs of the past, huddled up in bed, shaking with cravings or wiping away tears.
But now he has someone to keep him company. To promise of making new memories is what keeps Sonnet's grief at bay.
"Hey."
Sonnet turns slightly from the window, watching Tris carelessly drop his bag at the end of his bed, shucking off his boots and gloves with each step. He begins to fumble around his wardrobe.
"Hi," Sonnet greets. "How was the snow?"
"Cold," the other boy answers, elbows deep in whatever bomb went off inside the storage space. "You're lucky I can't throw a snowball at your head."
"Alas, Doctor's orders."
"Ugly bastard strikes again."
A genuine laugh bubbles out of his mouth. There's been a lot more of those ever since the two started their friendship. Sonnet doesn't want the laughs or smiles or banter to ever stop.
The doors to the wardrobe are snapped shut and Tris has a bit of a flush creeping up his neck. Sonnet really needs to tell him to organize his belongings—he'll overheat if he spends any more time sorting through the disheveled shelves.
He's just about to do that before Tris hesitantly steps forward, floorboards creeping underneath his feet, hands behind his back. The shy look on his face makes Sonnet lose his train of thought, confused and flustered by the shift in his features.
"Close your eyes."
"Huh?" Sonnet asks dumbly. Tris rolls his eyes.
"Haven't I told you already that you need to stop asking so many questions?"
"Tris—"
"For me?" the other boy's gaze moves from the floor to meet Sonnet's. A nervous energy pools in those blue eyes. He's never known Tris to be nervous.
Should he be concerned? Does he not want to be friends anymore? Is he moving rooms? Sonnet isn't sure what he said or did but he can't lose his only friend in this place. Maybe Doctor Zaldivar was right, it'll be better off—
"Stop with the intrusive thoughts, gemhead," Tris whispers, now standing right in front of Sonnet. "It's nothing bad, I promise. Or well…I hope it's not."
"Fine," Sonnet finally breathes, heart beating less rapidly than it was moments ago. He lets the black behind his eyes shadow his vision, still unsure of what Tris has planned.
An object is slipped into Sonnet's hands. "Okay, you can open your eyes now."
Sonnet slowly blinks away the void, the weight in his palms coming into clarity—it's a small, wrapped gift. His eyes widen with surprise, shock and words of refusal on his lips. "But I didn't get you—"
"Just open it, would you?"
He carefully unfolds the brown paper away. Inside, he finds a worn-out leather notebook, its pages filled with carefully binded music sheets. Some are weathered, burned, others marked by coffee stains. Most have rips and tears that are mended with tape. Sonnet doesn't care—they're all…beautiful.
The care that must've gone into compiling such a work isn't lost on him.
With tears glistening in his eyes, Sonnet launches himself at Tris, feeling an overwhelming sense of adoration and belonging. He feels seen.
"How?" he asks in wonder, pulling back to search the other boy's face.
"Took a while," Tris admits, cheeks red. "Thought Fairfax would've caught me sneaking out these past few weeks, but I was able to scavenge those sheets from an old theater that burned down nearby."
"You're crazy," Sonnet professes. "Crazy and unbelievable."
"In a good way, right?"
"In the best way, Tris."
As specks of white flutter by the window, the two boys stay like that, embracing each other, the twinkling lights from outside casting warmth on their shared form.
x
"Sani."
"Huh?" Tris asks sleepily. "What was that?"
Sonnet isn't sure what compels him to say it out loud, the urge to share something so dear. He stares up at the ceiling, head on his pillow, listening to Tris' soft breaths. "My parents used to call me Sani."
There's a brief silence, the stars twinkling outside the window, celestial and distant. "Sani…" the other boy says, rolling the name around on his tongue, trying it out. Sonnet hears a pleased hum from across the room where Tris is tucked into bed. "I like that."
"You can call me that, if you'd like."
"Alright," answers his roommate. Sonnet can't see him but he can hear the smile in his voice—can picture it clearly. "Well, sweet dreams, Sani."
x
"Jasper Fournier!"
The crowd of boys breathe a sigh of relief around him. The sun shines overhead and Death has made her claim once again, always on time.
She has been for the past two Reaping Days.
If the last two years are anything to go by, Jasper Fournier won't escape her clutches. His thirteen year old partner has even less of a chance.
Tris' grip on his hand is still tight, unwilling to let go despite being in the clear for another year. Sonnet doesn't mind—he's more than happy to offer a source of comfort for his roommate.
Last time they shuffled into the town square, Sonnet had stood right next to the velvet ropes cutting off the rest of the district from the sacrificial lambs being offered.
In the back of his mind, he found that he wouldn't mind if his name was ever called out. It didn't seem like he had much going for him back then—only the never ending uncertainty of when the poison would stop his heart.
Sonnet is glad it wasn't his name called today.
He finally has something—no, someone—he wouldn't want to leave behind.
x
In the days, weeks, months, and years that follow, the bond between Sonnet and Tris grows stronger. They become inseparable, finding solace in each other and the unspoken understanding that only they could provide for one another.
Life in the Peacehome remains difficult, but the discovery of their newfound friendship makes the journey more bearable. Classes become enjoyable with Tris by his side. Training lessons pass by with laughter and aching cheeks, muscles sore from smiling too much.
Matron Fairfax remains watchful, disciplinary at times, but Sonnet has a sneaking suspicion she's pleased seeing them together.
Sonnet knows no matter what the future holds for them, they'll have each other to lean on. Until the blood in his veins is replaced entirely by the poison, Sonnet will find peace in Tris' amity.
He likes to think his parents would be proud. Once a songbird with broken wings, Sonnet is beginning to learn how to fly again.
And it's all thanks to a boy with clever dimples and a smile that could eclipse the sun.
x
They've become inseparable.
So much so, that others eventually take notice. It's almost four years later when someone decides to ask.
"So are you two like, dating?"
"Excuse me?"
"I know, it's as shocking for the rest of us," the girl deadpans, her group of friends gathered at her back, snickering behind their hands. "Tristian DeVoce with…you."
Sonnet peers up from his favorite reading spot, back resting against the wisteria tree overlooking the lake, mind trying to compute the full meaning of the question being posed. "Uh? No."
"But you want to be," the girl—Sonnet thinks one of the instructors called her Angélique in class once upon a time—states plainly. As if it's an obvious answer. "We can all see it."
Dating? Sonnet never considered any romantic interest from anyone. Period. It's not like he's a hot commodity in the Peacehome. Besides Tris, his social life is pretty abysmal. Not that he cares about that sort of thing.
Besides offering a helping hand here and there, nobody has ever made the effort to return Sonnet's sympathetic nature. Always willing to lend an ear, but never offered one in return.
The only exception is Tris.
And now that he thinks about it…
"Ah," the girl grins, crooked teeth on display. He wonders if someone knocked them that way during the war or if she was born with predisposed genetics. "I can see those wheels turning. You totally have a big fat gay crush on him!"
The group of girls cackle together, finding Sonnet's impending crisis hysterical. He finds that he doesn't appreciate their giggles.
"I hadn't the slightest idea of what you're talking about," he says, dusting off his pants and tucking the corner of his page before standing up. "Now, I must go study for our Battle Tactics practical."
"Whatever, have fun daydreaming about sucking that DeVoce di—"
Sonnet cuts her off before she can finish that sentence. "I'll be in the library if you want to join. I remember you flunked our last test, so I'd be more than happy to tutor you."
He doesn't wait to watch her huff and puff. No, Sonnet's too preoccupied with his own thoughts. Thoughts that definitely do not include hugging Tris or laughing with Tris or holding hands with Tris and definitely not kissi—
Sonnet's walk to the library turns into a hurried jog. No studying will be accomplished tonight, that's for sure.
x
"What is that?"
"Oh, hey!" greets his roommate, a soft bundle wrapped in his arms. "I thought you would still be taking your exam."
Light mewls become more and more audible as Sonnet hangs up his scarf and moves toward Tris' bed. Sonnet steps forward apprehensively, unsure if it's yet another prank Tris has planned. He's still trying to get glitter out of his ears from his last surprise.
When he sits down next to Tris, bed dipping with his additional weight, he finally sees the source of the noise. "You didn't…"
"I did!"
"I told you not to—"
"I couldn't just let him starve out there, Sani!"
Sonnet rubs his face, at a loss for words. He should've seen this coming. Really, he wouldn't put it past Tris to pull this kind of mess. "How did you get him past Matron Fairfax?"
"Backpack," the blonde shrugs, nonchalant, continuing to feed the gray kitten milk via a baby bottle. Sonnet doesn't even want to ask how he was able to acquire that, much less sneak a baby kitten past a whole campus full of trainees and instructors alike.
"Did you even think how we can keep this a secret?" he asks tiredly.
"Thought it would be best to cross that bridge when we get there."
"Of course, how silly am I to assume you thought this through fully."
Tris looks away from the furball in his arms, puppy-dog eyes on display. Oh, no. Not this trick. Nope. Absolutely not. He won't fall for it this time. Sonnet pins Tris with an unamused stare, challenging him to break first.
Who is he kidding? He lost the second he stepped in the room—his heart no match against Tris' petitions. "Sannniii…" his roommate practically whimpers, bottom lip frowning. "You said we should help him just last week. Our dinner scraps wouldn't have saved him from the cold."
Sonnet can't believe it. He's really about to agree to this.
"Fine," he sighs. Tris instantly brightens, celebrating his victory. Bastard. "But you're taking the fall if Matron Fairfax finds out."
Tris puts down the bottle on the comforter and gives a mock salute. "Yes, sir!"
Sonnet laughs easily, his defenses long side eroded away. The kitten meows in objection to the milk being taken away, high-pitched and so…cute. Okay, yes. Sonnet has to admit—the little thing is cute. Big blue eyes and short gray fur.
"What's his name?"
"Allegro," Tris practically coos, rocking the kitten back and forth. Something stirs in Sonnet's chest, warm and comforting. Watching the other boy act so kind and tender is a gift itself. He's been on the receiving end of his compassion, but seeing Tris treat another creature the same way is even more special.
"Allegro," Sonnet says. "I can live with that."
x
"Make a wish, dummy."
The candle burns bright, beads of wax dripping down the stem, threatening the single cupcake held out in front of him. Sonnet knows he should be watching the flame in front of him, but all his attention is focused on the person holding out the birthday treat.
Tris' perfect, easy smile outshines any flame.
"So what did ya' wish for Mr. Sixteen?" Tris waggles his brows. Sonnet sets the dessert on his desk for later, trying to ignore his best friend's pestering and Allegro's begging. Though once Tris is determined, there's little that can be done until he gets what he wants.
As if Sonnet would willingly tell him about his birthday wish. "Don't you know that if you say your wish out loud, it won't come true?"
"Fine, fine," the blonde holds up his hands in surrender. "Be that way. I still hope you get whatever you wished for—you deserve it, Sani."
My wish is you, he thinks.
Maybe one day. But for now, he'll take whatever Tris is willing to give.
x
"At ease!"
Matron Fairfax regards the hushed assembly hall, a crowd of gray-swathed trainees standing in anxious silence.
Sonnet follows the command, knees relaxing, his left foot moving to the side while the right stays stationary. His chin remains raised, fingers now interlocked behind his back. When it was announced they would be having an emergency meeting in the assembly hall a few hours ago, Sonnet and Tris exchanged a glance, words unnecessary: What could that mean?
Sonnet's been pondering that question ever since. It's too early for graduation, the commencement ceremony always scheduled the day after the Games conclude. Too late for the Showcase at the beginning of the year. Fear lingers at the edges of his brain, a new thought forming.
Has the war resumed? Will death and destruction lay ruin once again?
In the hushed assembly hall, his gray uniform pressed immaculately, tension tingles in the air as the momentous figure of Matron Fairfax looms ahead at her podium. With his heart beating in sync with the soft murmurs around him, he tries to draw strength from the boy to his shoulder.
"I'm sure you all are wondering why you've been summoned here today," the woman's voice carries throughout the spacious room. "I have an announcement to make."
Sonnet feels a pressure on the side of his polished boot. He looks down to see Tris' right foot now against his left—an anchor. Sonnet spares a quick glance to his left to see the blonde sporting a smirk, eyebrows waggling.
Typical. Of course he would treat this whole thing as a joke.
He still has to suppress a smile.
"Last night, I received word from General Kesavan that there is a vacancy at the Peacehome in District Two," she scans the crowd of her students. "And I accepted his offer as Head Mistress."
It's so quiet you can hear a pin drop in the auditorium.
"I thank each and everyone one of you for your hard work, duty, and loyalty to this camp. I know you all will do well serving your country."
Sonnet keeps still like the statues in the gardens outside as his fear dissipates. They're fine. Everything is good—nothing to worry about. Sonnet isn't sure why she couldn't have had the instructors deliver the news, but Matron Fairfax has always been one for grand ceremonies.
Truthfully, he's happy for her. A promotion to Two of all places, the bedrock of the Capitol's armed forces, is a wonderful step for her career. The masonry district had a huge impact during the Dark Days for a reason.
"Though," Sonnet looks over to Tris and they exchange a smile. Despite the grueling nature of training and Matron Fairfax's own rough demeanor, they both know she's taken a liking to them. They've run more sprints than they can count as discipline for the antics, but it doesn't mean they like her any less. Appearances and all. "I do have some more exciting news to share."
Oh?
"With this move, I have been given permission to take a rising senior trainee who I think has the most promise."
Every muscle in Sonnet's body freezes. She wouldn't.
"It is with great honor and pride that I announce that this lucky student is…"
Please, he prays.
"Tristian DeVoce!"
Applause overwhelms the assembly. Other trainees pat Tris on the back, whooping and hollering. Others look at him with disdain. Tris pays no attention, eyelashes slowly blinking away shock. He's pulled out from their line, casting a final look back at Sonnet, an apology in his eyes.
Sonnet wants to pull him back. Run towards the doors at the back of the hall and escape the terrible future that awaits them.
Once on stage and shaking Matron Fairfax's hand, Tris' face transforms form into one of arrogance. It's the Tris everyone else knows—the star student. The guy with too many impenetrable walls.
Sonnet hates it all. It feels like a blow to the stomach, all the air knocked out of his lungs.
As the crowd continues to cheer, Sonnet stands alone, hands to his side, anguish heavy in his heart.
x
"I'm not going. They can't make me."
"It's already done."
"What do you mean!" Tris exclaims, incredulous. "We can still fight this!"
"There's nothing we can do. You heard her—they chose you. Backing out now would be a sign of disrespect," Sonnet bites gnaws at his lip. The walk back to their room was silent, awkward and filled with so much anger. Allegro is asleep on his lap, purring softly. "The Capitol won't like it."
"Fuck what they think," the other boy practically growls. "I don't give a damn! They've taken everything from me. From us, Sonnet."
Sonnet can't argue with his point. It's true. The Capitol destroys and sucks up anything that you love. Enough is never enough. But he knows what type of cruelty awaits those that defy orders.
They've been training to police the districts, not incite another war.
"Tris, you have to think about this logically."
"I won't let them separate us—they can't strip that away from me too."
Sonnet can feel the hurt in Tris' soul. He feels it too. They've been one and the same for so long, roots of a tree intertwined and knotted together, so he feels his pain intimately.
He won't let Tris get hurt. Half of his life has been spent at the whims of others. With this, at least he has a choice. And every single time, he'll choose Tris' safety. He can't let him sacrifice an opportunity like this just for him.
Guilt eats him raw.
Three years ago, Tris had confessed to Sonnet that he was searching for a cure for his ailment, with his usual bright recklessness. His heart was in the right place of course. It's something Sonnet loves about him.
Apparently he'd been scouring illegal records hidden in Matron Fairfax's office, digging into things he certainly wasn't supposed to. And Sonnet hadn't wanted him to get hurt.
He'd resigned himself to death at that point—it was written into his skin. So he put his hands on Tristan's shoulders and begged him to stop looking.
Eventually, he gave in.
Now he's overtaken by a similar feeling. And he knows that even though Tris might hate it, he'll resign to their situation once more.
"Go, Tris," he cries. "Promise me."
He can see his best friend—no, he's more than that—tightening his jaw, clearly holding back the rest of his argument. For as gentle as he can be, Sonnet has seen the vitriol as well.
If they only have weeks, for all they know, maybe even days, left together, he'd rather it be spent in bliss rather than bitterness.
And that's all there is to it.
x
The weight of impending separation burdens their young hearts, each second ticking away like an eternity.
Despair clings to their beings, a cancer they can't defeat.
Sonnet tries to make every moment count. Memorizes the way Tris' hand feels against his own. Files away his lopsided smirk for a rainy day. He tries to keep a brave face, but he can't help but think this is the last time.
The last time they'll chase the swans down by the lake. Or rig up Matron Fairfax's office with whatever they prank they've come up with. The last time Tris will tell off some prissy classmate.
The last time he'll stay by Sonnet's side when he's in the throes of cravings, gently petting his forehead with a wet cloth.
The last time they'll fall asleep together.
Sonnet cherishes the memories of endless adventures and secrets shared, knowing it will soon become a distant past.
The thought of the impending day gnaws at him. He thought the itch of addiction was bad—this is infinitely worse.
x
In his darkest hours, Sonnet would turn to the comfort of his violin. During a time with so many questions, music would always be able to offer an answer. A clear path forward.
Which is why he sits Tris down the night before the train leaves for Two.
"Just…sit there. I have something to show you."
Orders are followed and Tris sits on the edge of his soon-to-be vacant bed. Sonnet takes a deep breath before picking up his violin and bow. Sonnet's spent weeks perfecting each rise and fall, practicing each night in a far-off training room, channeling all his energy into crafting a song worthy of the person he calls his best friend.
The first notes begin to play.
Under the moonlight, his heartstrings echo a symphony of affection as Sonnet delicately moves the bow across the strings of his violin. The love song floats in the air between them, weaving a tender tale of emotions.
Grief. Despair. Longing.
In that moment, the violin becomes the messenger of his hidden love.
With each note, he pours his soul into the music, expressing feelings too profound for words. Nervous yet resolute, Sonnet moves the bow back and forth, playing his heart out, hoping the melody will convey what he can't say aloud.
As the last chord fades, he looks into Tris' eyes, hoping there's some sort of acknowledgment of the unspoken confession.
The other boy smiles hesitantly, his eyes a little dazed and misty with tears.
After so many years, they can have a conversation merely by looking at each other—knowing each other simply by their breaths or footsteps alone. It's their own unique language.
"You don't have to say anything," Sonnet whispers. "But just know that no matter what happens, or where life takes us, you'll always live in my heart."
They both know Tris means the world to him, so why is he so afraid to tell him? Deep down, Sonnet knows why—he sees it in the deepest, most sinister hallucinations that poison creates.
His biggest fear is that Tris will see Sonnet the way he sees himself.
"Sani."
"This isn't a goodbye, it's a see you later."
"Wait!"
Sonnet doesn't let him finish. He can't bear to hear the words he knows will fall from Tris' lips. He won't be able to survive the fall from the Elysium they've created here.
Tears flow freely as he runs to the door, leaving behind his only salvation.
x
Sonnet misses the departure from the train station the next morning.
Instead, he stays in the remnants of their sanctuary, cuddled up with Allegro—the only physical proof that his time with Tris wasn't a hallucination.
If he sent off Matron Fairfax and Tris, his golden halo swaying in the soft breeze, Sonnet knows he would've broken down right there.
So, he stays in bed, already longing for the day they'll reunite.
x
The monthly supply of antidotes from the Capitol begins to last shorter and the time spent in his bed, fighting off the cravings, lasts longer.
The new headmaster of the orphanage does little to help—essentially quarantining Sonnet in his room. At least Matron Fairfax tried to do what she could here and there. Not even the physicians in the infirmary are allowed to see him.
So he's left to writhe by himself. During the cool down, when the addiction loosens its hold, he can't stop staring at the neatly made bed on the other side of the room, a ghost of a boy looking back at him.
When Sonnet can finally stand after the poison is done tearing his insides apart, he only makes it as far as the mirror.
His skin is as pale as it's ever been, lips chapped and bleeding. His onyx hair, now ending slightly below his chin, shines with oil. But the thing that stops Sonnet in his tracks isn't the dark bags under his eyes or the way his shoulders hunch. No—it's the way red has replaced the whites of his scleras.
The red of his eyes scream in agony, a vivid manifestation of ruptured blood vessels. Pain etched into every crimson vein, the world mirroring the turmoil within him. Amid the scarlet haze, what resilience emerged during his time with Tris, is long gone. The torment that threatens to consume him entirely slithers closer and closer to success.
He looks like some kind of fallen angel.
No.
More like a demon.
x
During his year-end visit in December, almost eight years since Sonnet was dropped off at the Peacehome, Doctor Zaldivar notices his decline in health.
As if that's any news to Sonnet.
"You're in the end stage now, son," the bespeckled man pats his knee, almost sympathetic. Sonnet doesn't think the doctor has a sympathetic bone in his body. He's too tired to say anything—there's no use anymore. The weekly convulsions have wiped out most of his energy, the vials of ambrosia doing little to quench the hunger inside his body.
"A shame, really," he pauses in the door of the infirmary. "I really thought you'd exceed my expectations."
The door clicks shut and the man's shadow fades away from the glass.
Sonnet isn't sure how much time passes when he finally murmurs, "Me too."
x
He receives his final academic report at the end of June.
The grades and comments from his instructions are ignored for the single word at the bottom of the page:
Pass.
So there it is. He did it.
Honestly, Sonnet's not quite how, considering all that's occurred the past year. It seemed like he spent more time away from training than not.
If he has to hazard a guess, Sonnet's almost certain Matron Fairfax made a call or two. Once the Games end this year, he'll be fitted for his peacekeeper uniform and be expected to walk across the stage, the insignia of Panem on his chest.
He folds the paper back in its vanilla envelope and sighs, taking in his surroundings. Resting against his favorite tree overlooking the lake, he follows a pair of swans raise and lower their necks in a graceful, smooth fashion, creating the outline of heart between them.
His own heart arches.
He wonders if Tris has received his own congratulatory letter. Surely, he would've passed any tests with flying colors. There's been no contact since their final night together—no letters or phone calls. Sonnet isn't sure what to make of that. Tris might be happier without
him, forging a new life in Two. And if that's the case, then he's glad for him. If Sonnet keeps lying to himself, then eventually he'll have to believe it.
He's lost countless nights wondering if Tris hated his guts. If he never wanted to see him again. Maybe he forgot all about Sonnet—he can't fault him for it, if that's the case.
He's halfway between life and death anyways.
And that's why he's made a decision.
The idea first came to him watching the girl from Ten during the Reaping Recaps for the Sixth. He filed it away—too crazy of a thought. Plus, he still had Tris.
But now he's left with an empty lover's heart and no more tears left to cry. For once, he'd like to change his narrative, show that the poison doesn't determine his destiny.
Sonnet tried convincing himself it was the wrong move. Perhaps he could reunite with Tris eventually, if the stars aligned. They could potentially end up assigned to a squadron in the same district.
From how things have been going, he'll certainly be dead before then.
So he's made up his mind. Has come to peace with his choice. And though it seems out of the question, there's a slim chance he actually succeeds. He might be a science project gone wrong, but if he gets access to true Capitol medicine, then maybe he can be saved. Cured, even.
Most of all, the thought of winning the power to travel the country, the potential to see Tris again, is what's most addicting.
Sonnet thought the hope in his chest died the second Tris walked out the door. Death has set her sights on him…might as well give her what she wants. But he can't go out without trying.
Only a few more days until the beginning of the end.
x
Golden liquid pours out of the vial and onto his tongue.
It'll be the last time, unless the impossible happens.
Allegro watches from the bed, tired eyes blinking slowly. Sonnet has already made sure one of the younger orphans would watch after him. There's no way he would leave his only friend from the past year to wither away.
His mother's jewelry box is now empty, evidence that either way, this is it. No more re-stocks from Doctor Zaldivar in the future. The sand in his hourglass is running thinner and thinner. Soon, all the grains will fall to the bottom and nothing will be able to save him.
So, he might as well finish off the last of his supply before that happens. It's not like he'll have access to the medicine where he's going.
One more night. Just one more night.
x
Ghyslaine Darroze is shaking on the stage.
Icarus, their district's escort for the past eight years, pays her no mind, more concerned with avoiding getting his powdery blue suit dirty. His face screams of annoyance. One less chance of bringing home a victor. His chances of weaseling his way out of the job now cut in half.
Because there's no way a fourteen year old girl from the workshops can survive the Games. It's been proven over and over again.
She seems nice though, beneath the snot and trembling knees. At least he'll be dealing with a quiet, friendly face.
Icarus swishes his hand around the bowl filled with the names of boys eligible to be reaped. If he's to get anything out of this, then at least Sonnet will be able to save the life of the unlucky soul chosen today.
"Gilt Sturgis," is called out across the center plaza that hosts the Reaping. One had always been conscious of the image of things, even before the Dark Days. Arcadia, the capital, was no different given that its broadcasted across the nation each year.
Since the reconstruction, even more effort has gone into beautifying the district. Wouldn't want the Capitol's closest neighbor, the epitome of luxury, to look downtrodden for so long.
Sonnet remembers marveling with Tris as cranes and artisans rebuilt the aesthetic of the district in the years directly after the war. The graceful, soaring domes, spires, arches—they look almost old-fashioned compared to the Capitol's style, steel and glass and odd angles. It is a timeless sort of elegant beauty, the sort that would still provoke admiration centuries later.
The Justice Building, with its new copper-sheathed dome and the pale granite stonework courtesy of Two, is always something the Capitol announcers linger upon.
A brunette boy eventually walks out of the section for the Sixteens. His neat clothes and shiny wristwatch telegraphs wealth and an unfamiliarity with struggle. Probably a benefit from his family staying loyal to the Capitol during the rebellion.
The Games make no exceptions, though, and Gilt would surely die if he makes it to the Colosseum. Luckily for him, he won't even have to mount the stage.
"I volunteer as tribute!"
An audible gasp is released from the crowd of teenagers and onlookers alike. The district's first volunteer, the country's third ever. Sonnet extracts himself from his place in the area for the Eighteens, careful to follow his mother's etiquette lessons out in their garden.
Shoulders back, chin up, smile on.
He wonders what Tris will think when he sees him on screen. Would he know that Sonnet's doing this partly for him?
It takes a great deal of effort, especially with his failing body, but Sonnet makes it to the stage. Gilt makes no move to hurry back into the sea of boys, still stunned at being saved. As he mounts the steps, he sees another boy tug him back to safety.
Icarus looks like the cat that ate the canary. His eyebrow is raised, lips forming a smirk. "Well, it seems we have a volunteer…"
Sonnet doesn't like him already, and he tries his best to give everyone a fair shot. His demeanor reminds him of Tris' haughty and debonair persona—only with the escort, it's definitely real. Sonnet keeps his smile tight-lipped, aware of the cameras closing in on his face.
"…tell us, what is your name?"
"Sonnet," he answers into the microphone, a practiced calm. "Sonnet Chandani."
"Everyone, please give a round of applause for your tributes for the Ninth Annual Hunger Games!"
Hesitant claps begin, gaining volume as Icarus raises his hand. He might not have a violin in his hands, but at least he's able to give one last performance.
Now the fun (heartbreak) begins!