“I don't want him to have it,” Johanna said. Her teeth dug into her lower lip but she was a Victor, she had ripped a boy's heart from his chest and crushed it beneath her heel.
Haymitch shook his head. “He’ll take it.”
“I don't care,” she said, lightheaded with the truth of it. “There’s nothing I want. I’ll die before he can have it.” It's mine.
“Smart,” Haymitch said. “Selfish, but smart.”
She thought: isn't that how you win?
-
Annie had felt it when the President took her heart. She had been on the train and there had been a message from Finn, I’ll see you soon, I promise. She had been tracing the fingers of her left hand over the letters, the fingers of her right over the hilt of the dagger she wasn't supposed to have but she was Four, nobody cared.
It had been like - like a riptide, swallowing her whole.
Hearts are such delicate things.
She had whispered, you said you would keep it safe, but she had never been innocent. She had known what she was getting into.
He had said, please do this for me, and she loved him, of course she had said yes, of course she had taken his heart and placed it in her own chest. But she had known when she had pressed her own into his open, waiting hands that he was not capable of protecting anyone. Not even her.
It had been a case of waiting, really, until the escort said her name.
-
Cinna the stylist was lean and lithe and beautiful. He had never had to worry about the organ in his chest. He touched Finnick like Finnick was a real person and that was so, so rare out here; sometimes Finnick wanted to pull him aside and whisper get out while you can, to wrap him up somewhere safe where death would never touch him.
Finnick had first met him when they were both very, very young. He had been new to the Capitol and Cinna had been new to society; they had figured it out together, sort of. Cinna had always tried to keep him safe.
Finnick said, “I don't know what you want,” and Cinna looked at him, long and hard, gold shimmering around his eyes.
“I want to help you,” he said.
Finnick took a breath, aimed to wound, “you don't even know me.” He had never been able to protect anyone.
Cinna half-smiled. “You'd be surprised.”
-
“I can get it,” Cinna said. “I can - break in.” His mouth was a firm line; his eyes fierce, brilliant, like the fire he had made Twelve's dual victors. “I know where he keeps them.”
Katniss Everdeen's wedding dress designs were all over the entertainment channels, option after option after option, all with Cinna's distinctive stamp on them.
Haymitch closed his eyes. “You know what this means,” he said. “You know what it'll mean.”
“Heavensbee will get you out,” Cinna said. “That's the point of this quell. He'll do it, you know that, and -”
Haymitch had not cared about anyone in a very long time but it struck him, now. “He won't be kind to you,” he whispered, a nightmare of black gloves, red blood, white teeth flashing through his mind. “Cinna-”
“Haymitch,” Cinna said, gently. “You need Finnick more than you need me.”
They both knew that Haymitch could not dispute it.
Beetee gave her the little piece of steel, shrink-wrapped with a sticker marked sterile. “Muffles the effects,” he said. “Haymitch said you might need this.”
It was so dull in Johanna's palm. “Thank you,” she said. It wasn't like she had anything left to lose.
There is a thick, thick line under the bottom of Johanna's left ribs. If you touch it you can't feel anything.
-
Annie felt it, when Finnick put his hands around her heart again. Like a tidal wave crashing over her, the one that had brought her to shore.
He kissed her and she said, “Everything will be okay, real or not real?”
“Real,” he whispered, like victory.
She knew the way these things worked, by now. She was not surprised when the armed men came.
-
“Can you give us a moment?” Cinna asked.
Finnick's stylist looked at him, nodded. “Only a minute,” he said. “I have to get him drop-ready.” He didn't wait for a response, sweeping out in a cloud of black wings and green sea-serpent hair.
“Thank you,” Finnick said, hand on Annie's heart at his waist. The beat of it was intoxicating, like a dream.
Cinna was wearing black, like Finnick, like all the Victors. “Be careful in there,” he said.
“I'm sorry I couldn't take your heart,” Finnick said, sixteen years old for a moment, barely breathing with guilt. “You know it wouldn't be fair.”
Cinna laughed, wry, sad. “I know how the game is played, Mr. Odair,” he said. He walked a little closer and Finnick rose to meet him, to wrap his arms around that slender, wiry body. “You smell like hairspray,” Cinna whispered.
“Don't ruin the moment,” Finnick whispered back.
Cinna pulled back, for a moment. The press of his lips was dry, chaste. “Be careful,” he said.
Finnick swallowed, kissed him for real because he did not think it would be fair to say you too. There was no amount of care that could save you from the Capitol.
-
There was a black bag in Cinna's hands.
Haymitch's mouth was dry. There was a part of him that smelled the blood, that craved the pulse more than anything. He put his hands in his pockets. “You son of a bitch,” he said.
The corners of Cinna's mouth quirked up. “Thanks,” he said.
-
Johanna said, “Are you sure about this?”
Cinna shook his head. “Yes,” he said. “I’m just - I know it will hurt.”
“You don't have to,” she whispered. You don’t have to die like this.
“I do, though,” he shrugged. “You see, I was never in the arena.”
Haymitch shook his head. “He’ll take it.”
“I don't care,” she said, lightheaded with the truth of it. “There’s nothing I want. I’ll die before he can have it.” It's mine.
“Smart,” Haymitch said. “Selfish, but smart.”
She thought: isn't that how you win?
-
Annie had felt it when the President took her heart. She had been on the train and there had been a message from Finn, I’ll see you soon, I promise. She had been tracing the fingers of her left hand over the letters, the fingers of her right over the hilt of the dagger she wasn't supposed to have but she was Four, nobody cared.
It had been like -
like a riptide, swallowing her whole.
Hearts are such delicate things.
She had whispered, you said you would keep it safe, but she had never been innocent. She had known what she was getting into.
He had said, please do this for me, and she loved him, of course she had said yes, of course she had taken his heart and placed it in her own chest. But she had known when she had pressed her own into his open, waiting hands that he was not capable of protecting anyone. Not even her.
It had been a case of waiting, really, until the escort said her name.
-
Cinna the stylist was lean and lithe and beautiful. He had never had to worry about the organ in his chest. He touched Finnick like Finnick was a real person and that was so, so rare out here; sometimes Finnick wanted to pull him aside and whisper get out while you can, to wrap him up somewhere safe where death would never touch him.
Finnick had first met him when they were both very, very young. He had been new to the Capitol and Cinna had been new to society; they had figured it out together, sort of. Cinna had always tried to keep him safe.
Finnick said, “I don't know what you want,” and Cinna looked at him, long and hard, gold shimmering around his eyes.
“I want to help you,” he said.
Finnick took a breath, aimed to wound, “you don't even know me.” He had never been able to protect anyone.
Cinna half-smiled. “You'd be surprised.”
-
“I can get it,” Cinna said. “I can - break in.” His mouth was a firm line; his eyes fierce, brilliant, like the fire he had made Twelve's dual victors. “I know where he keeps them.”
Katniss Everdeen's wedding dress designs were all over the entertainment channels, option after option after option, all with Cinna's distinctive stamp on them.
Haymitch closed his eyes. “You know what this means,” he said. “You know what it'll mean.”
“Heavensbee will get you out,” Cinna said. “That's the point of this quell. He'll do it, you know that, and -”
Haymitch had not cared about anyone in a very long time but it struck him, now. “He won't be kind to you,” he whispered, a nightmare of black gloves, red blood, white teeth flashing through his mind. “Cinna-”
“Haymitch,” Cinna said, gently. “You need Finnick more than you need me.”
They both knew that Haymitch could not dispute it.
“Thank you,” Haymitch whispered, instead.
-
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Beetee gave her the little piece of steel, shrink-wrapped with a sticker marked sterile. “Muffles the effects,” he said. “Haymitch said you might need this.”
It was so dull in Johanna's palm. “Thank you,” she said. It wasn't like she had anything left to lose.
There is a thick, thick line under the bottom of Johanna's left ribs. If you touch it you can't feel anything.
-
Annie felt it, when Finnick put his hands around her heart again. Like a tidal wave crashing over her, the one that had brought her to shore.
He kissed her and she said, “Everything will be okay, real or not real?”
“Real,” he whispered, like victory.
She knew the way these things worked, by now. She was not surprised when the armed men came.
-
“Can you give us a moment?” Cinna asked.
Finnick's stylist looked at him, nodded. “Only a minute,” he said. “I have to get him drop-ready.” He didn't wait for a response, sweeping out in a cloud of black wings and green sea-serpent hair.
“Thank you,” Finnick said, hand on Annie's heart at his waist. The beat of it was intoxicating, like a dream.
Cinna was wearing black, like Finnick, like all the Victors. “Be careful in there,” he said.
“I'm sorry I couldn't take your heart,” Finnick said, sixteen years old for a moment, barely breathing with guilt. “You know it wouldn't be fair.”
Cinna laughed, wry, sad. “I know how the game is played, Mr. Odair,” he said. He walked a little closer and Finnick rose to meet him, to wrap his arms around that slender, wiry body. “You smell like hairspray,” Cinna whispered.
“Don't ruin the moment,” Finnick whispered back.
Cinna pulled back, for a moment. The press of his lips was dry, chaste. “Be careful,” he said.
Finnick swallowed, kissed him for real because he did not think it would be fair to say you too. There was no amount of care that could save you from the Capitol.
-
There was a black bag in Cinna's hands.
Haymitch's mouth was dry. There was a part of him that smelled the blood, that craved the pulse more than anything. He put his hands in his pockets. “You son of a bitch,” he said.
The corners of Cinna's mouth quirked up. “Thanks,” he said.
-
Johanna said, “Are you sure about this?”
Cinna shook his head. “Yes,” he said. “I’m just - I know it will hurt.”
“You don't have to,” she whispered. You don’t have to die like this.
“I do, though,” he shrugged. “You see, I was never in the arena.”
-
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“I do, though,” he shrugged. “You see, I was never in the arena.”
Cinna just gave me chills in this one. Great work! <3
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