Chapter Eight
Finnick, Althea, Wesley and our stylists are already seated at the table, enjoying glasses of wine. The chair beside Wesley holds a neatly folded napkin, a bright smile gracing his face as his eyes land on me. His hair is still wet from our shower escapades. He flirtatiously winks at me, grasping the wine glass delicately with his hand and brings it to his lips. A deep blush flushes my skin, as I think about what his hands and lips were doing twenty minutes ago.
Slipping into the chair beside him, I settle in as inconspicuously as possible. Althea and Finnick make no remarks about our seating arrangement, but Silvarius's gaze pierces through me, her stare icy and unyielding. The nature of her scrutiny eludes me, but its intensity leaves me uncomfortable. Clearing my throat, I reach for a wine glass, only to remember the consequences of my last indulgence, and decide to stick with water. I'm already treading on thin ice—It's best not to push my luck.
"I was thinking, after dinner tonight we should go over some hand to hand combat. I want to see where you both stand," Finnick suggests, swirling the ruby liquid around thoughtfully. Wesley and I are not allowed to practice with each other, us both being tributes, but the rules say nothing about training with our mentors. Althea emits a strangled sound of protest.
"Finnick, one of your tributes already has a black eye! What will people think if both of your tributes go into the arena looking battered?" Althea exclaims. "Not to mention, where will you even practice? This apartment is quite elegant; I wouldn't want any accidents with…expensive items." she adds, eyeing a delicate crystal vase with apprehension.
"Relax, I won't hurt anyone and we won't damage anything. It's imperative that they are proficient in this skill, especially given recent events," Finnick asserts, his sea-green eyes flickering to my face. Underneath the table, Wesley's hand rests affectionately on my thigh, unseen by the others. I meet his eyes and find a small knowing smile playing at his lips.
"Well, I suppose you have a point. Anything that could aid them in the arena would be time well spent," Althea concedes at last. Just then, our meal arrives: plates of stuffed mushrooms, lemon chicken, pasta, and an assortment of vegetables adorn the table. Bowls of steaming broth are set before us, carrying the inviting scent of mint on its warm currents.
"How do you guys feel about your individual sessions tomorrow?" Anaria asks, casually popping a mushroom into her mouth. I watch her, wondering what it feels like to chew food with her gold-capped fangs.
"I'm feeling fairly confident. I've been itching to get my hands on a mace; Zane's been monopolizing it," Wesley remarks, a touch of irritation lacing his tone at the mention of Zane. His hand on my thigh tightens briefly.
"I'm hoping for a decent score, I haven't touched the spears so I imagine it will be good to finally be able to throw some before the arena, I'm nervous my throwing won't be as accurate as back home with my usual weapons" I reply, taking a bite of chicken. Anaria nods, still chewing her mushroom. I wonder if her surgically altered teeth are causing discomfort—a reminder of the Capitol's penchant for sacrificing functionality for fashion, which baffles me.
"Where's that confidence, Hale?" Wesley teases, his smirk tinged with amusement.
"Saving it for the arena, Greyson," I retort, my own smile spreading across my face. Wesley's grin widens, genuine joy reaching his eyes with the light-hearted banter.
Dinner proceeds with light conversation, Silvarius discussing the dress she's been diligently crafting for my upcoming interview with Caesar Flickerman. The night before we enter the arena, each tribute sits down with Caesar Flickerman, a flamboyant and relentlessly cheerful figure tasked with enhancing our public image during our televised interview. He's an integral part of the show that is the Hunger Games, responsible for keeping the audience engaged and interested in us.
To say that I am nervous for my airtime is an understatement. I only care what the people of the Capitol think of me to a certain degree. I want them to like me enough to keep me alive in the arena, but I couldn't care less if they actually favor me. It's difficult to think of them as real people, they're so brainwashed, and detached from reality.
I care more about what the people in the districts think of me. I'm already branded as a Career, someone who supports the Games, viewing them as honorable. This viewpoint couldn't be farther from what I actually think, but they don't know that, of course.
"I'm considering whether to let your bruise show during your interview. It could convey a message of toughness, showing you're already in the fray with the other tributes. We could spin it to portray you as fierce," Finnick muses aloud. "Though, it might affect your appeal…" He trails off, spooning a mouthful of vanilla ice cream, lost in thought as he gazes into the distance.
"I don't think you have to worry about lacking appeal," Wesley murmurs in my ear, his voice pitched for my ears only. His hand ventures higher up my thigh, daring into risky territory for our public setting. I feel heat rising to my cheeks, hastily scooping up a spoonful of ice cream in an attempt to quell the fire Wesley has kindled inside me.
When we are done with dessert, we see our stylists out the door. Silvarius stands before me, her height slightly intimidating. Her piercing silver eyes lock onto mine with a depth that unsettles me. It's as if she is peering into the depths of my soul searching for something.
"I hope you know what you're doing," she whispers in my ear, as she hugs me lightly. Puzzled, I watch as she disappears through the front door into the outer hallway. I have a strong suspicion she wasn't referring to my spear-throwing skills. Her warning causes a knot of anxiety to twist in my stomach.
Althea closes the door abruptly, her sigh loud as she turns to address us. Her navy hair is piled unnaturally high on top of her head, sparkling diamonds carefully placed throughout. She places her hands on her hips, her eyes darting between us.
"Please exercise caution when sparring with Finnick. We cannot afford any injuries before entering the arena, especially you, Amara," Althea admonishes, her gaze firm as she meets my eyes. I nod, acknowledging her concern.
"With that being said, pay attention and learn everything you can from Finnick," Althea says, her gaze softening, almost pleading. If I didn't know better, I would say Althea has formed an attachment to us. She watches every year as her tributes perish in the arena, a fate I don't wish on anyone, no matter where you come from. Perhaps this has softened her Capitol-hardened heart, but one can only hope.
I make my way to my room to change into more suitable attire. I dress in athletic pants and a tank top, clothes that stretch as I move. I want to give myself as much range of motion as I can.
Upon my return, the couches have been pushed aside, creating a large space for our practice. The coffee table rests against the far side of the room in front of the floor-length windows overlooking the city. The sun burns orange as it sets in the horizon, the glass buildings reflecting the fiery hue. Soft golden light fills the room, basking Welsey as he sits in the middle of the clearing, stretching.
Finnick joins us, clad in a sleeveless shirt, and loose shorts, revealing more skin than I've ever seen on him. It's a striking sight at first. As Finnick stretches, his shirt lifts slightly, revealing black writing on his hip bone—a tattoo. While tattoos are not uncommon in the Capitol, they're usually fashion statements. His tattoo seems to be more of a meaningful permanent alteration, not concerned with the latest trends.
Once stretched, Wesley and Finnick start circling each other. Wesley's agility is something to marvel at. While I once considered Kai the most skilled fighter in our grade, Wesley surpasses him effortlessly. His movements are swift yet powerful, executed with precision. Like a serpent, he strikes, ensnaring Finnick in his grasp with remarkable speed and control. They repeat their drills multiple times, while I look on from the edge of the couch, captivated by the display. Despite Finnick's muscular frame, Wesley's speed and technique leave him tapping the floor in defeat on several occasions.
Althea remains near the dining room table, her eyes fixed on the sparring match, gasping as Wesley slams Finnick to the ground.
"Okay, okay! You can handle yourself just fine," Finnick heaves, breathless from their exertions. Wesley grins triumphantly, shooting me a wink as he rises from the floor. Now, it's my turn, and suddenly, nerves flutter in my stomach.
Finnick advances, lunging towards me with determination. His right fist aims for my head, but I quickly block with my left forearm, seizing his wrist and twisting his arm over my shoulder. Squatting lower, I anchor my center of gravity, ensuring stability as I turn sharply, flipping Finnick over my hips and onto the ground. He springs back up immediately, taking hold of my leg and pulling hard, disrupting my balance. Before I can break my fall, I drop to the plush carpet, my butt taking most of the impact. Finnick is instantly on top of me, pinning me down.
Instinct kicks in as I plant my right foot against his hip, pushing him away, then threading my left leg between us to kick him off. As I roll forward, his hands dig into my hips, his fingers wrapping around the curve of my bone. He lifts me easily, falling backward with me on top of him. His arms wrap around my neck, his legs encircling and locking together over my thighs. His arms start constricting, the pressure compressing my air supply. I tap his arm in surrender, and he lets go.
Coughing lightly, I roll to the side, lying face down on the floor, catching my breath.
"Are you alright?" Finnick asks, reaching out and laying a hand on my upper back. I nod, sitting upright, and turning to face him.
"Remember, if your opponent knows how to fight, the best thing you can do is gain distance and finish them off with your spear," Finnick advises, his expression serious. "You should've backed away as far as possible when you threw me on the floor. Then I wouldn't have been able to grab your leg," he instructs, rising to his feet and wiping his face with the bottom of his shirt. My gaze lingers on his tattoo, and I discern only the words 'Only the dead have.' Finnick catches my stare and speedily covers his tattoo with his shirt, causing heat to creep up my neck in embarrassment.
"Let's go again," Finnick orders. This time, I was able to gain an advantage and trap Finnick in an arm bar, until he conceded, his arm twisted in an unnatural position.
"Ouch!" Finnick yelps, rubbing his shoulder. "That was…good," he breathlessly congratulates me. I glance over at Wesley who stands against the wall, tense. His brows furrowed, his arms tightly tucked across his chest, his stance strained as if he's fighting to hold himself in place.
"I'm impressed. I have no doubt you both will perform better than the others," Finnick says, smiling proudly at us. "I'm going to go take a really hot bath now. Good work," Finnick commends us before heading to his room.
I tuck my knees up to my chest, making myself as small as possible. Wesley walks over slowly, stopping in front of me. He sits on the floor, crossing his legs. I sit silently and admire him. He stares out the window, and we sit enjoying each other's presence. The sun has set completely, the sky a dark shade of navy blue.
I sneak a quick glance at Wesley, my eyes dropping to his perfect lips. I have a strong urge to kiss him, but I don't want to ruin the peaceful moment.
"What's wrong?" I inquire, resting my chin on my kneecaps. His eyes snap to mine, and he lets out a deep breath, the scent of wine blowing in my face.
"I don't know how I'm going to do it," Wesley says, shaking his head doubtfully.
"Do what?" I ask, watching him for clarification.
"Be in the arena with you. If I can barely watch Finnick put his hands on you, and he's not really trying to kill you, how am I going to watch someone who actually is?" he replies, looking at me, worry etched across his face.
"You have to trust that I will be able to defend myself," I say, scooting closer.
"I know you can defend yourself, I just don't want you to have to," he says, reaching out for me, pulling me against his side.
"Well there's no getting around that." I tell him, leaning my head against his shoulder. He wraps a strong protective arm around my shoulders, kissing the side of my head.
"I guess not," his voice barely audible, he whispers into the strands of my hair. I shut my eyes tightly, banishing the painful thoughts of losing what we have. Briefly, a reckless plan flits through my mind—to escape with Wesley. With Peacekeepers stationed on every floor, vigilant sentinels guarding the exits, and the numerous patrols outside, it's a labyrinth of surveillance and control. Running would be idiotic; capture definite. And then, the repercussions loom ominously—Seneca Crane orchestrating our demise with a cruelty only matched by the Capitol's unforgiving grip. Yet, in that dark scenario, a sliver of solace remains: at least we'd face our fate together.
"Why don't you miss your mother?" I venture cautiously, the question laden with layers of curiosity and empathy. Wesley's relationship with his mother is a fragile subject, a tapestry of silence and unspoken wounds. Davinia Greyson remains an enigma to me, a distant figure shrouded in mystery. She never spoke, always tight-lipped and silent whenever in public. Davinia sports fair skin, blonde hair and ocean blue eyes, opposite from her son's black hair and icy gaze. Wesley takes after his father, with strong features, and his dark hair.
"I'm not sure I ever bonded with her," Wesley says emotionlessly, stating a bitter truth as if it were mere fact. "She had to undergo an emergency cesarean section with me," he adds. I look at him clueless, as if he were speaking a different language. "To save both of our lives, my father had to surgically remove me from her uterus." Wesley explains, for my benefit.
"That must have been so scary," I comment, picturing Dr. Greyson slicing Davinia's swollen abdomen open. I shudder slightly, the grotesque image haunting.
"I know it was very traumatic for my mother. I'm not sure she ever got over it," Wesley continues, sliding me into his lap, wrapping his arms around me. "She never played with me as a child. I don't even remember the last time she hugged me, aside from when she said goodbye to me in the Justice Building. She was never an affectionate mother, I felt more like a burden to her more than anything."
His words reveal the wounds left by a mother's neglect. The absence of affection, the void of maternal warmth, it's a sorrowful tableau that speaks volumes of his upbringing.
My heart aches for him, a surge of anger coursing through my veins at Davinia's indifference. How could anyone know Welsey and not want to show him all the love in the world? The kind-hearted and compassionate soul in front of me didn't deserve the childhood he had, but he persevered. The man sitting before me is the picture of resiliency.
"Wesley, I'm so sorry," my voice trembles with emotion as I grasp his hand, a silent offering of solidarity and understanding. He smiles weakly, masking the scars of a childhood lost.
"It's alright, I've made peace with it, by now." he replies, his tone betraying a well-practiced acceptance of his reality. Beneath the surface, I sense the simmering embers of hurt and longing, a silent plea for the love he was denied.
When we climb into bed together, we snuggle close, our time with each other dwindling. We have two more nights with one another, and I am not ready to face that truth. I hold onto Welsey a little tighter, breathing in his scent. Eventually I fall asleep, the sound of his breathing lulling me into unconsciousness.
The next morning, I wake up in Wesley's embrace. His muscular arms wrap securely around me. I take a few moments to appreciate the feeling of safety and bliss I am experiencing in this moment, aware that it is fleeting.
"Good morning," Wesley's voice brushes against my ear, his breath gentle against my skin, eliciting a tingling sensation that dances down my spine. I turn towards him, greeted by the sight of his sleep-softened features, an aura of tranquility enveloping him.
"Good morning. How did you sleep?" I ask him, my voice laced with tenderness as I draw him closer, wrapping my arm around his waist in a loving embrace.
"Like a baby," he smirks. His response elicits a light chuckle from me, my fingers tracing delicate patterns across the contours of his sculpted chest and abdomen.
"What would it be like if we were together back in 4?" I ponder aloud the weight of nostalgia tinged with bittersweet longing. As Wesley shifts, positioning himself above me, the air crackles with unspoken desire, the space between us charged with anticipation.
"I have imagined that scenario more times than I care to admit," Wesley confesses. "Our first date, I planned to take you surfing by Lover's Cliff," he reveals, smiling shyly. Lover's Cliff is actually two cliffs that are separated by a trail in the middle, the legend being two lovers a long time ago had both jumped off the cliff together, and the earth split the cliffs in two when they plummeted to their death in the violent sea below.
"That would have been beautiful," I whisper, my voice thick with emotion, tears tracing silent paths down my cheeks. Wesley's expression darkens with concern, his touch gentle as he brushes them away, wordlessly acknowledging our shared sorrow for a life that could have been, but will never be.
Without a word, our bodies speak the language of longing and connection. His tongue enters my mouth, his hands grabbing my waist, then migrating to my chest. His hands roam everywhere, feeling every part of me. When he sinks himself deep into me, he covers my mouth, to keep us from being heard. Our love for each other shines through the sadness of the realization that our time is running out. Euphoria explodes within us as we both find our release in each other.
"Is it always like this?" Wesley's voice, tender and vulnerable, drifts to my ears as he enfolds me in his embrace, his warmth a comforting cocoon.
"Our sex?" I seek clarification, my voice soft, laced with curiosity. I feel his nod above me, a silent affirmation of his question's intent. With a sigh, I steel myself against the memories that threaten to surface, the echoes of a past tainted by darker memories.
"It wasn't with Kai." I confess, the bitterness of his memory lingering on my tongue like a sour aftertaste. Being with Kai was a journey marred by empty promises and fractured trust, a stark contrast to the depth of love and intimacy I find in Wesley.
I remember one time Kai had lost his temper. He brought me to the gym at school after hours to get some exercise in. He was boxing in the corner of the room, sweat drenching his clothes, and dripping off his brown hair. His eyes were laser focused on the punching bag, the outer layer rubbed away with overuse. He sent his fists flying into the middle of the bag with loud smacks echoing the empty gym.
I was seated on a bench in front of the mirror, with thirty pound dumbbells in my hands. I was on my second set of shoulder presses, when Kai decided to take a break and watch me. My muscles were vibrating with overexertion, as I struggled to get the dumbbells over my head.
"Come on!" Kai encouraged me, watching me through the mirror. I strained as hard as I could to complete the set, but my muscles were shot. I dropped the weights, resting my hands on my knees, my muscles sore. I looked up at Kai and his expression was one of disappointment.
"You could've finished that set. What are you going to do when someone is trying to kill you? Just give up?" Kai lectured me, coming to stand in front of me.
"Kai, please. I've been working out for over an hour, my muscles are just done," I breathed, still trying to regain my normal breathing pattern. He scoffed, and rolled his eyes.
"I didn't realize my girlfriend was so weak—my mistake," he muttered, walking away from me. I didn't feel weak until those words poured out of his mouth. I stared at myself in the mirror, assessing every inch of myself, every muscle that you could see through my skin. I was never going to be good enough for him. This wasn't the first time he's made me feel this way, either. There have always been times where he would comment on my training, telling me I wasn't pushing myself hard enough or commenting on my body weight.
"Did you love him?" Wesley asks me, thankfully pulling me out of the depressing memory. his hand runs absentmindedly up and down my arm.
"I thought I did, but it wasn't love. I think I was more afraid of failure, and being alone," I explain, burying my face deeper into his chest. His unique scent permeates my nose, my nerves instantly calmed. "He wasn't too nice to me. I always felt inferior to him," I add. Wesley doesn't say anything, so I pull back, and look up at him. His eyes flicker down, to watch me.
"Even though it's only for a short while, I'm glad I can make you feel loved and show you what you deserve to be treated like," Wesley says, running his fingers through my hair. I roll over on top of him, pushing his back into the bed. His hands rest comfortably on my thighs, as if they were made just for him. I bend down to kiss him, afraid my voice doesn't have the strength to convey my adoration for this man in front of me.