Chapter Text
JANUARY 74ADD
DAYS TURNED INTO WEEKS, weeks turned into months, and yet, Tsireya’s hope remained; that Crassus would realise this was deranged, even for him, and set her free. But then January rolled around – apprised only by the fireworks over the wide, metropolitan skyline, and the newspaper issue that Crassus left a week later with the date in the corner – and in the absence of any word, any inkling as to when he’d be letting her go home: she realised he wasn’t going to. Not anytime soon.
Despite how Crassus had said he’d given her ‘free-reign’ of the whole penthouse, he hadn’t. The chain only extended so far.
She could walk around the guest bedroom on the first-floor comfortably, and the ensuite, but when it came to anything beyond that, her chain halted her. The kitchen and the living room were a stretch, but she could manage so long as she didn’t get caught on anything (though the former was a useless amenity considering the cupboards were empty and he usually just stopped by every few days with a scarce meal, of kinds.) She could go into the hallway, but she couldn’t access the door, or the staircase up to the rooftop. Even the windows in the living room were too far away. Most days, Tsireya took to sitting as close to them as she could, mulling over three things on cyclical repeat: Tadgh, and if he blamed himself, and the others, and if they were okay – before her thoughts always circled back to Finnick. At which point, she’d always start to cry.
She would never know the answer – would never see him again: hear him laughing at her deprecative jokes, feel his arms wrapping around her in bed, taste his kiss after he’d spent a day at sea. She would not be free from this place, this gilded cage shaped like a snowflake, unless there was no one to prevent her from leaving. Unless he was dead.
With little else to do, and needing an escape from her thoughts, she debated the logistics of it tirelessly. Only Crassus had the key for her chain, which he liked to flash at her sometimes, (as if it’d help his case…) But he kept it on him, usually, rarely coming without it.
In the instance she managed to do it on one of those days he didn’t; Tsireya figured she’d just have to stay with his body for a few days till someone was inevitably notified of his disappearance and searched every possible place he’d be. Wherein, they’d find him, lying in a puddle of his own coagulated blood, with several stab-wounds patterning his chest, and arrest her, the weapon still held in her grasp like a trophy. Then, she’d be imprisoned again, or perhaps her tongue would be cut out and she’d be sent home to live out the rest of her days in exile. More than likely, she’d be executed.
Still, Tsireya didn’t care so much for the aftermath. At least he’d be dead, too, and she’d be able to leave the world in peace knowing he could not hurt anyone else.
She tried countless times to kill him. At the beginning – when he’d slip into bed beside her and try his luck (to which he’d always fall asleep because she’d never let-up) she’d held a pillow over his face and tried to smother him. But he’d awoken, easily fought her off (to her chagrin) and locked her in the bedroom itself. When he’d come around, a few days later, she’d tried to hit him around the back of his skull with a blunt object, but all it’d done was give him a concussion, and then he’d removed all decor. He didn’t give her the opportunity to try a third time.
Eventually, Crassus realised he was not safe in her company. He scarcely visited anymore, leaving her completely and utterly alone with her thoughts and comparisons; captivity making her delusional enough to think of herself as some kind of prophet – that her dreams of that pit had all been leading up to this.
THERE WAS A SPOT IN THE SQUARE WHERE YOU COULD SEE THE TRAINS PULLING INTO THE STATION; the same rooftop Finnick took her to, at Tadgh’s Victory Party. The first one, the one she did not miss.
He used to wait there all day at the beginning – till the others came and found him, anyway. Till they staged an intervention of kinds: their exact words of which he could not recall, for all he’d done was scream in their pitiful faces and blockade himself in his house full of her.
It’d been Annie who sold out his spot. He knew it, even though she hadn’t said it, because she was the only other person who knew of his sentiment towards the place. He had not yet fully forgiven her for it.
Finnick couldn’t wrap his head around it, cursing himself in hindsight for letting the train leave without her, when she hadn’t shown up in the morning. But she and Crassus had plenty of arguments; often, she’d be days ‘late’ home. It was a week later when the Capitol papers began being published in the Districts that he realised something was seriously wrong – beyond the scandal of their secret having come to light.
It wasn’t hard for him to deduce that she was being kept, and that it was Crassus, keeping her. Tsireya despised the Capitol, and she’d never opt to stay there longer than she needed to, willingly.
Nothing else came punishment-wise for that imprudence; nothing but the torment of her disappearance. That was punishment enough, for him – despite the fact most of it was self-inflicted. Still, Finnick thought that was purposeful.
Love was not without its trials. There were things she did that used to irritate him, (as he was sure he irritated her, sometimes) like how she’d use every single pan and pot she could possibly find to cook one dish and how he’d always wake up in the middle of the night with her leg over his entire body and the quilts wrapped only around herself. Still, it was those very annoyances he found he missed the most, now. He was plagued with regret over the small things: mostly how he’d upset her, on her birthday – when they’d been in District 3 and he’d slinked off with Beetee to talk about the secrets he’d gathered over the course of the Games, and afterwards.
He’d always had mixed feelings about telling her what he did. She knew he kept secrets, but she thought it was because he wanted to one day write an exposé – not that he was actively feeding private information to some covert, rebellious force.
Her opinions on rebellion had always been ambiguous, because she was frightened of the fallout, he thought. Something he couldn’t blame her for, knowing what had happened to her father. She wouldn’t be pleased with him, and he knew that. Then, there was the matter of Crassus Snow – the main reason people dissuaded him from telling her. Finnick didn’t believe she’d tell anyone, especially him, under torture or not. So, he’d said he’d tell her, when they got home. He’d prepared himself to do so, but that day never came. His secrets remained sealed, and her present sat in his bedside drawer, untouched and unopened.
Between his trips to the Capitol, there was little to live for. There was no relief when he came home. He couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep – he lay awake at night until he cried himself into a slight unconsciousness; his dreams revolving around that last moment he’d seen her, and losing her over and over again. He didn’t leave the house. He didn’t clean it, either. Finnick refused to wipe away any trace of her: the walking boots she’d kicked off and left beside the cabinet, one of his jumpers she’d stolen and strewn over the back of the sofa, the pomade she used to tame her hair uncapped on her vanity from the rush they’d been in the morning they left.
It made him physically sick, every time he so much as thought about her: where she was, if she was safe, if she was even alive. He’d had to quell that thought, fast; believe he would’ve known somehow. That the papers he obsessed over to get snippets of information on her whereabouts would’ve mentioned it. That the Capitol would’ve sent her body back, as they should’ve done. That he would have felt it, in his heart, his soul.
No one – not even Mags – could get through to him. It wasn’t until Caoimhe showed up on his doorstep one day, demanding she be let in, that he cracked.
Finnick wasn’t sure how she figured it out – if it was the sheer fact that Tsireya hadn’t come to visit her in a while, or if it’d been something she’d heard from someone else – but it didn’t matter. She’d come for information he could not give, but did not turn away in its absence. Caoimhe stayed for hours, theorising with him over tea. She was, perhaps, the only person who could truly share his pain.
She offered little clarity, but an immense comfort, that came in knowing how happy Tsireya would be to see them together. Talking, on good-terms.
SNOW LANDS ON TOP! TSIREYA FISCHER MAKES SHOCK MOVE TO THE CAPITOL.
FEBRUARY 74ADD
CRASSUS HAD GIVEN TSIREYA AN OLD, transmitter radio on the cause of ‘good behaviour’ (which meant only that she’d given up trying to attack him every time he so much as walked through the door) under the impression that conceding to her wants would help him weasel his way back into her heart. Which, she was still adamant would not happen; even more confident nowadays that he’d had little place in there, to begin with.
She did not used to find Capitol music at all comforting – but it was the first time she’d heard another human speak in months – and so, she figured, it would have to do. No one ever tells you how your own voice begins to jade you, after a while.
That had been over a week ago, and with little else to do, Tsireya had been stationed on the parquet floor beside it, her ear pressed up against the speaker, for the majority of the time. She hadn't gotten bored of it yet, but she was tiring of hearing the same songs, over and over again. So, mindlessly, she’d begun to fiddle with the frequency – wondering if, perhaps, she’d be able to reach home: send some kind of signal. It wasn’t as if she had anything better to do, no matter how futile she knew, logically, it was.
Every now and again some muted song would come through from a nearby-station not quite in tune, but for the most part it was just static. It was only as she was about to abandon ship, retire for the night (for sleep was the only thing that seemed to make time pass, now) that she struck upon something; a low, smooth, distinctly female voice channelling through.
“Citizens of–” The audio jumped with a grating, pitchy crackle. Tsireya winced, twisting the dial, trying to settle the frequency. “As the Capitol once again prepares to parade their cruelty–”
She sat up, intrigued. This was quite possibly the most exciting thing that’d happened in months. Tsireya had no idea who she was listening to, only that it must’ve been someone, somewhere – a leader of some kind – addressing another civilisation. One outside of the Districts, perhaps; in some faraway country the Capitol claimed had been eradicated long before the Dark Days, or somewhere far north where her daydreams often tended to lead her, nowadays. Was this another one of those?
“We do not turn away–” The radio crackled again. “A system that kills its own people to maintain control–” And again. “We must remain patient, we must remain united–”
Tsireya had travelled all the Districts, she had spoken to people from each and every one, and she did not recognise that accent. It almost seemed like a coagulation of them all.
She’d always wondered what happened to those who escaped, if they eventually succumbed to the wilderness in the cases they were not caught and taken here for the elites to have as slaves; perhaps, it truly was possible that they’d congregated somewhere. That they spoke to others, outsiders, of the oppression they faced and one, altruistic person had decided they should do something about it.
There was another word for that. A word she did not fear as much, anymore.
Rebels.
“One day, the people of Panem will look to you all as liberators, saviours who delivered them from this tyranny–” the woman bellowed through the speakers. “The future will be ours thi–”
The chain on the door jangled, the key twisting in the lock. Panicked, (knowing full-well she shouldn’t be hearing what she was, anyway – and knowing even more so, in her bones, that someone like him shouldn’t be, either) she turned the dial all the way to the left; shunning whatever she’d discovered into static oblivion as Crassus stepped in from the foyer.
He narrowed his eyes at her, his lips curling into a wobbly sneer.
He was drunk. Again. Something which used to indicate she was in for a horrible night. Though he seemed hesitant to touch her, nowadays. All she was to him now was a prisoner. It was a classic case of, ‘if I can’t have you, then no one can.’ Tsireya knew he was likely only here now because Medea had kicked him out.
“What are you doing?”
She didn’t respond; both because she didn’t want to divulge anything to him, and because she couldn’t be certain what she’d heard was even true. Still, like most things she did (or rather, didn’t) he was unhappy with it; his rage stirred by the alcohol he’d undoubtedly consumed.
Crassus stormed over, picking the radio up in his hands and raising it above his head before he threw it on the ground by her feet. Tsireya winced, her knees tucked up to her chest: her eyes squinted shut, her hands slammed over her ears – preempting what she had come to expect. But no other impact came. It never did, now.
She opened her eyes as he began to stalk away, to see the only thing that’d been damaged was the radio, (or its mangled remains) beside her – the shell split, exposing the wires inside, and the glass of the display shattered into a spiderweb.
“‘Good behaviour’ includes speaking when spoken to.”
LOVE BUBBLE OR CAUSE FOR CONCERN? TSIREYA FISCHER'S TEAM RELEASE STATEMENT OVER DISAPPEARANCE FROM PUBLIC-EYE.
MARCH 74ADD
“WHAT WILL IT BE FOR YOU THIS TIME, my darling?” Finnick’s client, Euthymia, asked, rising from the bed: stepping into her dress, discarded on the floor, her slim, skin-sewn arms reaching around her back to zip it up again. “Something about my father-in-law? Or my husband, perhaps?”
Finnick hummed, glancing down at the silk sheets he laid beneath.
One secret before and another after was the only fair payment he could fathom. Before this, she’d told him how a few months ago, the Capitol’s military had intercepted a group of rebels just outside of District 2. She liked to save the things that’d intrigue him most for last. Which, Finnick didn’t mind so much. It made what he had to do in-between seem a little more worthwhile, in comparison to those who’d start with a ‘shocker’ and end on something mundane.
It would’ve usually interested him: there were few secrets worth more than the ones about President Snow, or his family. But it wasn’t what he had in mind, today.
“While that is tempting, I thought you might tell me something else…”
With Tsireya gone, all his other secrets seemed trivial. There was nothing more he wanted than to know where she was, and there was no one else he thought besides Crassus himself who would.
“Your step-son. Where’s he keeping her?”
Finnick figured if he could find out where she was, then he could find a way to see her: break her out, and then the two of them could run away. Perhaps it wasn’t very well-planned out, but he was desperate, and desperation made people do foolish things.
“I know she’s not dead, I've seen the papers.”
Of course, they could’ve been old pictures, but Finnick doubted that this had been that well-planned out.
“So it’s true, is it?” Euthymia sighed; not wallowing as much as she was revelling in the drama of it all. “What they’re all saying?”
There were few of his clientele he could speak so directly to, but what he had with Euthymia Snow (a name it seemed all the women who married into that family rebuked) was not a staged love affair like it was with the others; all of whom had been outraged when they’d seen the papers, and all of whom he’d had to tell despite himself that that ‘thing’ he had with Tsireya was just something to pass the time when he was home, parted from them. It hadn’t been ordered of him, but he’d said it regardless, out of fear that it would make this worse. That Tsireya, wherever she was, would be returned to him in the same state he’d found his mother in.
It was purely physical with Euthymia; something to please her in a department that her husband could not. Honesty would do no harm. If anything, Finnick thought it might build a trust he could use to his advantage.
“You know the deal, no questions.”
He could get away with being a little pushy with her. She liked it when he took control.
“I…” Euthymia sighed, poising herself on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know. We do not speak of her.”
“Could you find out?” Finnick asked, laying it on thick, his voice purposely languid and honeyed; a sultriness he knew would work on her, as it did with most women. “Tell me next time?”
“I doubt he’d tell us. He’s very… Astute.”
“And why aren’t you questioning it? That he’s keeping her somewhere?”
“Because I know what he’s like,” her voice took on a sullen tone. “Just like his father.”
It wasn’t much; just confirmed what he already thought. But that in itself was something.
“It could be anywhere,” she said. “There are rooms in the mansion that not even the sound of a stampede could penetrate. No one would hear her screaming.”
Finnick’s stomach churned, sickened by the thought; not to mention the equanimity of her delivery. Still, he swallowed it down, dancing his fingers up and down her spine, urging her to keep talking.
“It could be his second home, it’s… expansive, but–” she ticked her head to the side, kissing her teeth. “I doubt Medea would allow it. She’s always had a… strange fondness, for the girl.”
Finnick could only assume that by ‘second home’ she meant the home Crassus shared with his wife, and hence where Ronan would be residing, too. He discredited it immediately. There was no chance he’d let Tsireya anywhere near him. “Where else?”
“The penthouse, perhaps?” Euthymia huffed, smacking her hands on her knees, at a loss. “Though I doubt that, most of all. It’s too central. When Xanthos and I resided there, we had two break-ins–” She scrunched her nose up, shooting him a wry, sideways look. “Rebels.”
Finnick let out a laugh. He highly doubted rebels would waste their time robbing anyone, even if their victims were linked to President Snow, but he allowed himself the humour regardless; imagining what she’d think if she discovered she was lying with one. Still, it was quickly quelled with the thought of Tsireya. How little she had known, how angry she’d be with him if he ever got the chance to tell her, now, his regrets of never doing so when he’d had the chance.
“Are you satisfied?” She purred, turning to him.
No, in every sense of the word, but it was let her go now or lounge around listening to some kind of predictable family secret that he likely already knew about while she petted his chest. Finnick turned away, rolling onto his back. “You may go.”
The mattress dipped as she stood. He listened out for the sound of her heels clicking along the laminate; exhaling a ragged sigh, only as the door shut behind her, leaving him alone, hollow and at another loose-end.
TSIREYA FISCHER’S TEAM ANNOUNCES NEW MUSIC TO RELEASE AUGUST THIS YEAR!
CAPITOL CELEBRATES SNOW HEIRS 1ST BIRTHDAY!
APRIL 74ADD
WITH THE ANNOUNCEMENT OF HER NEW MUSIC – the songs having been ghost-written and scheduled to be sung – there were talks of press junkets and promotional appearances that she supposedly had to be present for.
Crassus sat in on the meetings, of course (because she never went anywhere without him, nowadays, and scarcely still.) He called it ‘enrichment,’ another sick, twisted way of trying to prove to her he was not who she knew him to be.
Tsireya knew why he was really allowing it – not because he felt at all bad for her, but because he would not let her escape him. Because he could not torment her, in death.
She wasn’t proud to admit it, (and a part of her was glad no one else had been there, to see it) but she’d fallen into a rut when she’d seen the paper about Ronan. Coryo, as they nicknamed him. It wasn’t bad news by any means, just the acknowledgement of his first birthday – but she punished herself for not realising (even though she had no access to a calendar, of any kind) and in that self-deprecation her thoughts began to stew.
She and Finnick had talked about how they’d celebrate: they’d planned to take a cake down to the beach they’d brought him to, and blow out the candle as they watched the sun rise over the horizon. There was no chance of that now. No chance she’d see Ronan. No chance she’d see Finnick. And it was that thought, as she wailed on the bathroom floor for no one to hear, that made her think her life as it was now truly was not worth living.
Crassus had locked the kitchen cupboards, and all the drawers, but the wardrobe in the bedroom was still full of his suits. She’d taken a tie, the closest thing she could find to rope, and hung it over the edge of the door. It was bad luck, she thought, that Crassus returned at that exact moment. Afterwhich, all the doors were removed from their hinges, and all his clothes were packaged up; every precaution he could possibly think of was taken to prevent her from trying again.
“I think, given the rumours, it could be interesting to have the two of you in the video together. With Mr. Odair as the love interest, perhaps–”
Tsireya’s head snapped up, at that.
“No,” Crassus interrupted, his voice stern, silencing the room. The mere mention of Finnick enraged him; she was helpless but to notice the way his hand twitched, tapping the table restlessly. “He doesn’t act. It’d be awful for her image.”
Blandus, the production manager, let out a nervous chuckle, raising their pen. “But–”
“He doesn’t represent the narrative we want to portray,” Crassus snapped. “Tsireya’s music is refined, she’s a sophisticated artist–”
In short, it was a hard no.
After Crassus vetoed their suggestions about Finnick, her team then proposed they pick another male celebrity. It didn’t even have to be another Victor! But he’d said no to that, too: to any man coming close to her. They eventually decided the plot should be amended to simply feature her, and she was herded to the car soon afterwards.
Tsireya zoned out Crassus’ incessant comments about how she needn’t even be involved, that he might tell them, in the future, not to bother her at all. All decisions should be made through him, as her self-acclaimed ‘manager’ (the only title he could award himself to earn a seat in that room.) She fixed her gaze out of the window, at the buildings they passed, committing it all to memory in hopes that one day she’d know the routes of the Capitol so well – if she ever did manage to escape – she’d know exactly how to navigate it.
Tsireya had no concept of what day it was; the newspapers Crassus would leave on the side to update her on where she stood were the only things she had to go off, and they were already worn and tea-stained by the time she received them. Even her cycle was no tell. Before she’d had Ronan, she’d usually get her period the second Thursday of every month. Afterwards, they’d been irregular, but eventually sorted themselves out, and came on the third Monday instead. But they had since stopped.
She wasn’t sure why – only that it couldn’t be pregnancy because the last time she’d been with anyone, it’d been Finnick, just before the Victory Tour four months ago, and she’d be showing by now. Plus, she’d had one since then, in January. She thought perhaps it was something in the water, or the food he scarcely gave her.
All she knew was that it was April, and that it was past Ronan’s birthday by, at least, a couple of weeks. If she had to guess, she’d say they were nearing the end of the month. Back home, the hills would be painted with wildflowers and the whales would be crossing the seas. Tadgh would’ve turned eighteen. If things kept on like this, she’d miss Finnick’s birthday entirely.
“I’ve been thinking about what Blandus said,” Crassus hummed, initiating the conversation, as always.
“You think he should be in the video?”
Tsireya cursed herself for how hopeful she sounded, flinching preemptively.
“No.” Crassus scoffed. “It truly is pathetic how hard you’re clinging on.”
She didn’t allow him the satisfaction of a reaction.
It was not as easy as he thought it’d be: she could not just turn it off, nor did she want to. All Tsireya had left these days was love, or, rather, memories of it. Memories of words whispered underneath the sanctuary of soft, linen-sheets: strong arms looping around her shoulders and tender kisses to her temple: a constant presence beside her, in bed. It was these small comforts Tsireya clung onto, to make the nights feel warmer, even when they were not. She refused to rebuke it.
“Tell me.” Crassus licked his lips, smiling as he leant forwards. “If he loves you as much as you think he does, why has he not come to save you?”
Tsireya turned back to the window, a searing heat flaring her cheeks. He knew exactly what to say.
“It’s not as if I’m keeping you in some underground location. Surely he knows where you are, of the times we’ve spent here together.”
“We don’t speak of you,” she mumbled, flat-toned and bored.
“There’s that present tense again.” Crassus tutted. “Didn’t.”
It annoyed her, because he had a point. She wanted out, desperately – but to ‘be saved’ felt a little pathetic. She was in distress – great distress – but she was no damsel in some fairytale. None of this was remotely fairytale-esque. Still, she found it hard to believe Finnick wouldn’t be looking for her, that he’d’ve let her go as easily as Crassus liked to tell her he had. Besides, it was true what she said: they didn’t speak of Crassus much, only when he’d done something that warranted a conversation. She did not think she’d ever mentioned where she stayed when she was in the Capitol, and even if she had, that he’d ever think he’d keep her somewhere so obvious.
She had to believe he had not given up on her, because then what would be the point in seeing this through? If she one day did get to return home, would there be anyone to go back to?
“It’s just something to think about,” Crassus said. “I just hope you realise who is, and who is not, constant. I have always been here, Tsireya, and I always will be. The sooner you realise that the better.”
She ignored him, turning back to the task she’d set herself – her fickle escape-plan. She would not waste time thinking about why no one had found her, or why no one had bothered to look; she’d just dig herself into a deep, dark pit of despair wallowing over it, and wondering if perhaps she was not meant to be found.
In Tsireya’s eyes, currently – she was the only person who could fix this. One way or another. And she also, currently, had no interest in pleasing him. All she could do was memorise the routes they ever took in hopes she’d know the way off-by-heart by the time she managed to get out of the actual building in of itself. Still, Crassus took every measure possible to ensure she could not; the syringe filled with a strange, blue liquid in his pocket being one, that he dug out as soon as they parked up in the undercroft.
“Are you going to try to run again?”
“Now you mention it…”
“What was that?”
His threats were baseless, but his control over her was still prominent in spite of it.
Tsireya had been led to think that the lack of violent consequences meant less restriction. She’d been wrong.
She’d tried, the first time they’d ‘gone out,’ all but a few weeks prior, to run: but she hadn’t thought it through in her panic, and she hadn’t expected it to be as secure down here as it was. He’d caught her, seconds later, and plunged that syringe into her neck. When she woke, God-knows how long later, she was in the penthouse: lying in bed with the chain attached to her ankle, back at the very start.
She figured there was no point in trying again until she figured out how to do it without him catching her. Until she figured out what was worth more, too: going home, or true escape.
“No.”
Crassus smiled, unbuckling her seatbelt and grabbing her forearm, to ensure she would not, regardless; deeming her complacence progress. “Good.”
TSIREYA FISCHER SPOTTED LEAVING RECORDING STUDIO, ARM-IN-ARM WITH CRASSUS SNOW.
MAY 74ADD
“WHY DOESN’T REY VISIT ANYMORE?”
It was only months later that Finnick began to reintegrate himself, stopped ignoring Mags whenever she came to check-up on him and started going to Scida’s for dinner, again.
It’d been Caoimhe who’d said he should: that Tsireya, wherever she was, wouldn’t want to see him sitting around and sulking all the time.
He’d said it was hypocritical: she’d’ve done it too. At which, Caoimhe told him that he needed to pull himself together. She wasn’t dead, and he needed to stop acting like she was.
As callous as her words had been, they seemed to kick-start him.
He liked spending time with Salila. She was, perhaps, the only person who did not look at him with pity – whether they meant to or not – purely because she was too young to understand what was really going on. Some days it was easier to distract himself. Others? Not so much. It depended entirely on what Salila wanted to talk about, and Tsireya had been a hot-topic recently.
“Mama said she was sick again, but Rey said she was all better before.”
“She…” How do you explain it to a child? How do you explain, when you do not even know yourself? “She has to stay in the Capitol for a little while.”
Salila pouted, tossing her spade down in a huff. “But why?”
It was that same lack of comprehension that used to comfort him that frustrated him, now. Had it been anyone else, Finnick would’ve shouted to the high-heavens about how she’d clearly had no choice in the matter – but he would not do that to Salila. All he could do was try his best to calm himself, the rope in his hand more withered than ever these days. “I don’t know, Salila.”
“Does it make you sad?”
“It makes me very sad,” Finnick choked out, holding himself together by the thin threads of his bowline knot. There was no need to lie about that. Children were more observant than people gave them credit for. “I miss her a lot.”
Salila tilted her head at him, her shoulders slumping before she heaved herself up, walked forwards a little, and wrapped her arms around him. Finnick didn’t know how to react to it, at first, and there wasn’t much time to do so before she pulled away.
“It’s okay, don’t be sad,” said Salila. “She always comes back.”
Finnick sniffled, shunning the tears threatening to spill; swallowing thickly as he watched Salila turn back to the sandcastle she was building – wishing he could forget about his woes so easily, wishing he could believe she would. “Yeah.”
FISCHER’S FANS IN UPROAR AFTER TEAM ANNOUNCES NO TOUR TO COMMENCE THE RELEASE OF HER NEWEST ALBUM!
JUNE 74ADD
THERE WAS NO USE TRYING TO TRACK THE SUN IN THE CAPITOL. Crassus’ penthouse was in a particularly industrious part, shrouded by other buildings. It was shaded for most of the day and pitch-black at night without the lights.
Tsireya sat hunched on the floor, as close as she could get to the window, with a rose-scented candle warming between her hands that the avoxes used to light in the hallway so the place would be ‘rid of their rebel stench’ when Crassus returned home. She couldn’t stand the smell of it, but it was the only source of light she’d had since the power-cut.
His position amongst the researchers had been sealed, months ago. He shouldn't've been going on any more trips, what with it being so close to the Games; but one of the muttations they’d been planning to use had ‘fell through’ (whatever that meant) and so they’d been sent back out to harvest some other poor creature they could weaponise. Tsireya knew, when he returned, he’d tell her off for this – for using something without asking first – and she could only ruminate over what punishment he’d choose: what ‘privilege’ he’d take away. But she despised the dark too much to care. It was too easy to see faces in it. Ghosts, rather. The penthouse was hollow enough as is, every creak of the floorboards and tick within the pipes setting her further on edge.
She thought nothing of it when she heard the front-door open, at first; till she remembered Crassus was not here. Then, she wondered if perhaps some technician had been notified of the cut and had come to fix it.
Tsireya wasn’t sure anyone would have a positive reaction to seeing her, like this. She let herself fantasise, for a moment, that whoever they were might take pity on her and try to help her escape.
She did not expect them to actually do so, or for said person to be his wife.
Medea gasped, horrified by the sight before her. Tsireya did not like to look in the mirrors; the last time she had, she’d been so disturbed by the reflection staring back at her that she did not bother, again. She could only assume she looked even worse than how she had, then. Still, she watched Medea shake the dismay off her face, before she began to storm over.
Tsireya scowled. “What are you–?”
“Come on.” Medea ushered her up. “I haven’t got much time.”
“I can’t leave without him, he’s the only one who has the key–”
She pulled a small, silver key out of her pocket. “No trouble there.”
Tsireya debated – as Medea crouched on the ground by her feet and twisted the key in the clamp around her ankle, wincing at the sores dappling her skin – killing her, somehow: stealing the key from her still-warm grasp and saving herself. But she was not violent in nature, even if she sometimes wished she was, and it wasn’t Medea of whom her fury was directed towards. Besides, Crassus was a rather absent father. Medea, from what she knew, from what she’d seen in the pictures she’d given her, loved her child. Without her, Tsireya wasn’t sure how Ronan’s life would turn out.
She was beginning to think, from this, from the other kindnesses Medea had shown her, that she was not entirely corrupt; just naive, and sheltered, and in too deep to rectify her mistakes now. Just like she was.
She led Tsireya down to the car-store. The whole building was out, the faint, flickering of the overhead electrical chandeliers indicated to her that, perhaps, the cameras were out too. Either this was purely opportunist, or planned. Though Tsireya didn’t count herself that important in anyone’s eyes, (besides, perhaps, maybe, Finnick) to warrant such an undercover rescue-mission.
She didn’t bother to memorise the route. Tsireya had walked through her countless times before. Still, she drew her attention to the code Medea jammed into the garage door – 76X9C5 – before she ushered her into the car. Romulus’ car. He wasted no time before driving out and up onto the street, the top nearly skimming the garage door.
“What are you doing?” Tsireya asked; her question before, interrupted, still gone unanswered. One might’ve thought captivity would’ve dulled her spark, but her curiosity remained unperturbed.
“I wish I could say I’m breaking you out, but… I’d call this more of a brief furlough.” Medea sighed, her head bowed, perpetually ashamed. “I’m no saviour, Tsireya. I’ll have to bring you back after this. You know what he’ll do if he finds out.”
The truth was, she didn’t. Tsireya thought she knew him, knew what he’d do; but now, she wasn’t so sure.
That wasn’t to say she thought he was good. God, no. Crassus Snow was quite possibly the worst person she’d ever had the displeasure of meeting. But she’d been certain he’d kill her, over something like this, and yet, he had not.
Perhaps it was because in some sick and twisted way – he did love her, and he did not want her dead. Perhaps the same couldn’t be said for Medea.
It was against every bone in her body to care for the woman. Years ago, perhaps she’d have no qualms hurting her to save herself, but there was too much at risk now. If something happened to Medea, what would happen to Ronan? If he re-married someone who could give him legitimate heirs, what was to say they wouldn’t cast him out into the streets, or stage his death and send him to some orphanage in the Districts? Would Crassus opt to keep him, like he kept her, as a burden he could not bear to part with at risk of someone discovering the truth?
All Tsireya wanted was him, safe and sound. If Medea could ensure that, then fine. So be it. She’d sit tight, and listen, and do as told. Nothing was worth more than him.
“Is he–” Tsireya gulped; nervous, despite how logically she knew, Medea wouldn’t return the question with vitriol. “Is he okay?”
They both knew who she was talking about; somewhat in-tune, in the way mothers were.
“He’s perfect.”
Tsireya was helpless but to sigh, relieved.
“He’s… He’s walking, now?” Medea spoke, tentatively – almost as if questioning if she wanted to know. “In fact, he’s been walking for a couple months. He never crawled, just… stood up one day and he was off. There’s no stopping him. I spend half my time nowadays chasing him around.”
Tsireya laughed along with her, briefly humoured by the image.
She’d thought of him a lot, over the last few months; clinging onto a thin strand of hope that perhaps she might see him again one day – if she was to live here, forevermore. A part of her wondered whether if she told Crassus of her wants, he’d use it as a way to win her over. Which wouldn’t work, but it’d be beneficial to her, and Tsireya wasn’t above a little bit of manipulation.
Her thoughts always stalled, though. The memories she had of him were distant; glimpses of a life she was only aware of via a quarter-filled picture book. He’d’ve out-aged that, now, and she wasn’t sure if it was per request or not, but the papers had stopped showing his face. He remained stunted in her imagination. She found it hard to hear, if only because she couldn’t picture him as the same pink-faced, balled-fist baby she’d once held in her arms.
“He loves to read,” Medea told her. “Well, he can’t read, but he likes being read to.”
Tsireya could barely muster a smile, in response; glad for the knowledge, but equally as saddened by the conversation. It briefly crossed her mind that perhaps Medea was taking her to see him – that perhaps Crassus had told her what she’d tried to do, and she’d taken it upon herself to give her something to keep her going – but the turns Romulus was taking lead nowhere near to the suburbs where they lived. Instead, they seemed to be driving out of the city centre, and towards the outskirts.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To a hotel,” the woman divulged. “I may be… Incapable, of romantic love, but that doesn’t mean I’m blind to it. And I know, from the way he rages when he’s home, that it’s true. About you and him.”
Tsireya didn’t want to think of his rages, and what they meant, knowing ‘home’ was where her son was, too. She’d been foolish in hindsight, to say what she had to him. She wasn’t so sure that if she kept disobeying him, hurting Ronan wouldn’t be his next move. She directed her attention to him, instead.
“Thank you, Romulus,” Medea bid the man as they pulled up in-front of a scaffolded, concrete building; six floors high with small, square windows and an unmanned turnstile door. “The place is so decrepit not even the surveillance works, from what I’ve heard.”
It was easy to decipher what she was really trying to say. No one will see you go in, or come out.
“Crassus will get back from his trip at noon, and you’ll be his first port of call. We’ll come back at sunrise. I’m sorry. All I can give you is the night.” Medea handed her a key-card. “Third floor. Room Four. He’s in there.”
The car doors unlocked with a small tick. Still, Tsireya waited; unable to believe that this wasn’t some kind of joke. That as soon as she reached for the handle, Romulus would lock it again, and Medea would laugh in her face. Or worse: that she’d peel back her skin and reveal that beneath, it’d been Crassus all along.
Her heart pounding in her chest, she tested how far they’d let her go: reaching out, and trying not to get her hopes up when the door opened. She even stepped outside, her bare-feet meeting the cold, damp pavement, to no consequence.
It was only when Medea leant over the seats to shut the door, before Romulus sped back off into the night, leaving Tsireya on the street, that she jumped into action; bolting inside.
There was no receptionist, just a bell with a card that read, ‘call for assistance,’ which she didn’t need nor want. Propelled by a strange surge of strength, Tsireya sprinted up three flights of stairs, stalling in-front of the door – the keycard trembling in her hand, hovering over the lock.
It might not be him. It could be a test. Something of Crassus’ doing – to see how she was progressing. And even if he was in there, would he want to see her? Crassus’ words had wormed their way into her skull more than she cared to admit. But that’s all they were – words, lies, maggots – a disease she had to repent.
The smart decision probably would’ve been to take this time, this brief moment of freedom, to run. She had hours at her expense, and the shroud of night to aid her. She could make it to the outskirts from here – or the train station, which was not too far away. She could smuggle herself onto one of the cargo trains and head North, in hopes of finding that civilization she’d discovered over the radio. But oh, love made people stupid. And in the case Finnick was in there, and he did want to see her, she could not leave without seeing him one last time.
And so, her decision was sealed, as was her fate, with one swift swipe of the key-card.
THE WAITING WAS ALWAYS THE WORST PART. Finnick sat on the edge of the bed: the garish floral sheets disgusting him far less than the thought of what this encounter would lead to, staring at what looked like, at a glance, to be a simple glass of water. If one looked closer, they’d see it was slightly cloudy: see the crushed, blue sediment at the bottom, sense that something had been dissolved inside. Something that enabled him to be able to do this, courtesy of President Snow.
He tried to self-soothe: tried to tell himself this would all be over, soon – but it did not ease him. It never did, when his client was someone he’d never had before. It was the not-knowing that troubled him; the relentless wondering of what they’d be like, if it’d leave him simply empty or physically maimed. He tried to think of Euthymia’s words, of Medea’s so-called ‘strange fondness’ for Tsireya, and hoped she would hence not be like her friend, Anais, who had a taste for pain. Above all else, he hoped something good would come of this, that perhaps she would have some intel on where Tsireya was.
When he heard the door open, Finnick stood: crossed towards the table and picked up the glass. Not to drink it, not yet, but as a prop to give his trembling hands something to do. He’d learned the hard way not to use it until the last moment. Sometimes, they liked to talk before. Plus, he preferred to be in a clear-headspace to retrieve whatever secret they had to offer him. Then he’d down it, and get the job done.
He scowled at the sound of footsteps padding the carpet. He was attuned to the click of a woman’s heels in the way a horse was to the crack of a whip, and that was distinctly barefoot. It was then that he turned, the glass slipping out of his grasp: falling to the floor with a thud, its contents spilling out, seeping beneath the bed where it rolled, and stayed.
Finnick had spent so long imagining a moment like this: imagining her walking through the front-door or strolling up behind him on the beach, of seeing her face in dreams. She looked different than he remembered, different than how she did in the papers, her face layered with makeup meant to fatten her up. She’d lost weight, a dangerous amount, considering there was little of her anyway – the rose, silk slip-dress she adorned draping off her frame far too loosely, even for the style. Her rich, tanned skin had paled, turned an almost greyish shade, and her hair – her lovely, thick, auburn curls – had thinned so much she could sweep it all over one shoulder.
She was beautiful. She’d always be beautiful to him. It was not something that he thought would ever fade. But even Finnick could admit, she did not look well.
She didn’t look shocked to see him as much as she did relieved, her face contorted with restrained sobs, breathless as she spoke. “Hi.”
He couldn’t hold himself back a second longer – barrelling at her, wrapping his arms around her and burrowing his face into the crook of her neck. The usual herbal scent of her skin overwhelmed by musk and roses. “Tsi–”
A sob tore from her as she melted against him, all the tension she’d been holding in her shoulders dissolving; her forehead pressed against his chest, encumbered.
“What is this? What–” Finnick fumbled over his words, unable to wrap his head around it: this, her, being here. “The name on the card was– Medea–”
“She arranged it,” Tsireya whispered. “She’s on our side.”
He had never thought so, before; had never believed how someone so wound up in the web of a problem could provide anyone any kind of salvation from it. But he could believe it now, now she was here, with him, in his arms.
“I have to go back in the morning, but we have tonight.”
“Where have you been?” He jerked back, clutching her face in his trembling hands; her cheeks hollowed, the bones sharp enough to cut. The deep-set, purple bags underneath her eyes were even more apparent up-close, and her once supple lips were swollen, bitten, cracked. “I’ve been so worried, I– I tried to find you, I–”
There was something in the way her face twisted that told him she needed to hear that. Tsireya reached up, caressing his face with a fragile smile. “I knew you would.”
She seemed reluctant to let go, but equally too weak to keep standing – her hands slipping off of his shoulders as she slumped down on the edge of the bed, with a weary sigh. Tsireya stared at the ground, flexing her foot, rolling her ankle. A strange tic she seemed to have developed. Finnick wasn’t even sure she knew she was doing it.
“He’s been keeping me at the penthouse.”
Finnick thought back to that conversation he’d shared with Euthymia, cursing himself more than he did her. She’d claimed the place was ‘too central’ and insecure; but he should’ve known better, he thought, than to take those words at face-value. It was exactly in Crassus’ character, to have hidden her in plain sight. “What’s the address–?”
She shook her head, a lone tear slipping from her eye. “Finnick–”
He dropped to his knees before her, stealing her hands in his like a beggar. “Tell me, please–”
“You won’t be able to get in,” Tsireya lamented. “There’s a doorman who’s very good at his job, and so many cameras, and a lock, and a chain.” She tilted her face, turning away from him to wipe her eyes. “Not to mention he keeps me chained–”
Finnick stood at that, helpless but to scoff. Not because he found it at all funny, no – it enraged him to hear. It was beyond dehumanising: to treat her like she was some kind of vicious animal. But again, he should’ve expected as much. Was that not how most of the people in the Capitol saw them?
“I’m only here now because Medea found the key–”
“Tell me anyway,” he pleaded. “I know people.”
It was an empty threat. Finnick wasn’t so deep into the undertow of rebellion to know anyone important, he was just a gatherer of information; most of which he relayed to Beetee, who then relayed it to someone else. To whom? He wasn’t so sure. Beetee wouldn’t tell him anything identifiable – only that they were Capitol. They were an elusive creature, so much so, Finnick hadn’t heard anything from his clientele of anything awry. Still, he was sure if he asked, for all that he gave, he’d be owed a favour or two.
He watched her debate it; watched the clogs turning in her brilliant brain. He noticed the exact moment she decided against it, in the dimming of her eyes, before she glanced at the arabesque, carpeted floor.
“You know what he’ll do,” she seethed; the quietude of her voice making no difference to how assured she sounded. “It’s not worth it.”
“Everything is worth your freedom–”
“And if he hurts him?” Tsireya retorted, a sudden fire emblazoning her eyes. “What then? Do you think I’ll be able to live with myself?”
Finnick knew who she was talking about, he couldn’t not. And while he missed Ronan, it would’ve been a great injustice to say he missed him in the same way she did; that the love he felt was anywhere near comparable to what she felt. It was different. Perhaps because logically, he knew Ronan was not his child. Perhaps it was because he had not carried him inside of him for nine months, and there was a lack of a bond, as a result. Still, he did care. And so he understood where she was coming from – and why she did not want to do anything to sabotage his wellbeing.
“I just… I have to wait, I have to be patient, and let things run their course,” Tsireya rambled. She had a tendency to do so, when she was trying to navigate something: speaking her scattered thoughts aloud in hope they’d make more sense to someone else. “I just need time, till I can convince him again, or he gets bored, I don’t know–”
“Convince him of what?” Finnick asked, sitting down beside her, trying to get her to slow down.
“That I love him.” She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “That’s why he’s doing this.” Bowing her head, she sighed, wringing her hands together. “And maybe because I said some things I shouldn’t’ve…”
“No,” Finnick snapped, unabashed in his fury. “We both know whose fault this was.”
Perhaps it was just bitterness that’d led him to that conclusion, but it was what angered him most about all of this: that Tadgh faced no consequence for what he’d done. That he was able to sit at home and waste his days away on the very dock they used to sit at, while Tsireya was trapped and chained and (evidently) starved.
Finnick blamed him. Of course he did. He was sure Tadgh blamed himself too, or, at least, Finnick hoped he did. What kind of imbecile does something like that? Regardless of what they do or do not know? There was no excuse.
To his surprise, Tsireya didn’t jump to Tadgh’s defence. Perhaps, because she knew it too.
“It’s some psychological theory he’s been– obsessing over.” Tsireya sighed. “That in situations of extreme dependency people can form… attachments.” She turned away, grumbling, bitterly, “Fat chance of that…”
“Are you–” Safe? Was the first word that came to mind, but it would’ve been a pointless question. “Does he–?”
“No,” She blurted, knowing exactly what he was asking. She shut her eyes, exhaling a small sigh; just as relieved as he was, to hear it. “Not like he used to.”
As much as it did mitigate him to know she was not being beaten, and abused, in countless other ways, he was sure being trapped in that penthouse with that monster could be classified as another unique form of torture.
“It’s just me most of the time,” she said. “He doesn’t stop by very often, and he doesn’t come close if he does.”
Finnick could only torment himself over how she’d been faring.
There was no way Crassus could’ve known it – likely, he was only doing this so he could keep her all to himself – but she craved connection. While she was content to do things herself, to take her long walks along the cliffside in the mornings, she found it especially painful to be alone. It killed her, slowly. Provoked the melancholy she was so prone to.
“He might let me come home for the reaping,” she said, with a crooked smile; a futile attempt to cheer him up, lighten the mood.
“Might?”
It was mandatory for all Victors to be present in their District and on-stage the day of the Reaping – regardless of whether they were mentoring or not. If it wasn’t, then no one would show up. Even Venn came home for it, though, that was in part because he enjoyed it when the younger children would cry… Still, Finnick expected Crassus, as influential as his Godforsaken family was, would figure out a way around that.
“If I’m good.”
“And what does that entail?”
“Not what you think,” she muttered, with a long, drawn-out huff. “Just the bare minimum. Speaking when spoken to, trying not to kill him…”
“Have you… tried?”
Finnick would’ve been lying if he said he hadn’t fantasied about it. Tsireya was not much of a fighter, in that sense. Violence didn’t come naturally to her. It was born from a paradox: from calculated reason, or spur of the moment madness. The mere thought that she had tried filled him with an immense sense of pride, regardless of whether it’d worked or not.
“To no avail.” The muscles in her face hardly moved, when she spoke; a familiar impassivity clouding her eyes before she bowed her head. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
She shook whatever memory was plaguing her away, grabbing his hands in hers. She had nice hands; small, feminine hands, with long fingers. They looked almost skeletal now. Finnick forced himself to look up at her face as she pleaded, “Tell me about home.”
“It’s not the same without you,” he mumbled, tracing his thumb over the back of her palm; the skin still as soft as it used to be, overly moisturised to combat the aridity of the herbs she was constantly handling. Sometimes, in the air, there’d be faint hints of sage and chamomile. There was none of that, now. “Doesn’t feel like home.”
“How have you been?” She sniffled, trying to push through; desperate for an answer, something good to inundate her troubled head.
He could’ve lied, told her what she so obviously wanted to hear – that he’d been keeping well, that he had not shut himself away to the rest of the world – but he couldn’t. It wasn’t true. Sometimes, it felt as if the second he’d opened his heart to her, he’d become incapable of not saying exactly how he felt.
“A wreck.”
The corner of her mouth quirked slightly, into a weary smile, then fell flat; her eyes averted to their hands, intertwined. Finnick got the feeling from how she didn’t say anything, that she hadn’t been faring much better. “And what about the others?”
“They miss you,” Finnick croaked. “Nearly as much as I do.”
Her amber-green eyes blew wide, as doe-like as he’d ever seen them, glistening in the headlights of fear. “But they’re… They’re okay, right?”
He realised what she was really asking. Finnick had no idea what she’d been thinking of, all this time, or what Crassus had told her. Probably that they were all dead, and it was all her fault, knowing him, knowing her.
“They’re fine,” he assured her, changing the subject slightly. “Caoimhe stops by every now and again. We have tea, we talk.”
Tsireya chuckled, wetly. “This is what it took?”
“Trust me, I wish it were under different circumstances.”
They had never gone so long without talking to one another. Finnick wished, in a way, there was more to catch her up on. She wanted to know how life had been; longing to live vicariously through him. But Finnick found himself incapable of saying much. It was only when he realised she wanted to know about ‘the mundane’ that he found the ability to: the two of them talking all through the night.
In turn, Finnick wanted to know how she had been, but every time he so much as broached the question, she asked him again about if he’d been tending to the weeds in the garden or if Niall had yet managed to convince the tavern-manager to stock his moonshine; unwilling to talk about herself, about it.
“You know, I’ve had a lot of time to think,” she mumbled, her fingertips gently tracing along his hairline as they laid side-by-side on the mottled covers. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I don’t know how much hope I have left. I’m tired, Finnick. Sometimes I think it’ll always be this way.”
He grabbed her hand, holding it to his mouth; kissing it, and taking in the fresh scent of her skin.
Finnick couldn’t blame her for feeling as she did, when there’d been no sign of positive change – when she had been led down nothing but a slippery slope. He wished he’d told her what he knew when he had the chance to, but even still, he had no way of knowing the rebels would actually one day prevail. And he always had been more hopeful than she had, that things would work out. That life would not just be full of violent suffering and wandering hands.
“And in three years time, when you’re free–” Her voice cracked, as she rolled onto her back, away from him, staring up at the ceiling. “I guess what I’m saying is, I… I want you to be happy. And if you ever meet someone, if there’s someone else that can do that, then I–”
“Tsireya–”
It scared him when she said things like this, but Finnick knew she wouldn’t let him go. All she’d do was try and plant the idea in his head, that he’d be better off without her. She wouldn’t leave. She wanted to be left. And perhaps it was selfish, but he didn’t have the strength to do that.
“I don’t know if we’ll ever get this again,” she said, welling up as she turned to him, her voice almost pleading. “Will it be enough?”
“I would take one day a year with you for the rest of my life over anything with anyone else.”
He meant it. Moving on was out of the question.
Before his Games, Finnick had been too young to fantasise about having much of a ‘life’ beyond insignificant wants; like how he wanted to be a fisherman instead of taking over his father’s business, and own his own sail-boat, and have dessert before dinner everyday. After, when he won, when President Snow propositioned him, ‘life’ became a means to an end: his entire purpose revolved around doing what he needed to do to keep the rest of those he loved alive. It was when Tsireya came back into his life that everything changed, that he began to think there was more to it.
When Finnick thought of the future now, he thought only of her. Of waking up beside her every-morning and seeing her smile when he came back through the door, in the evening: of growing old with her, spending their remaining days on the dock and taking to the sea when they came to an end. He’d’ve liked to be a father, to have a family – but that’d be impossible with the way the world was. Impossible for him, with her. But it wasn’t as if it wasn’t something he wasn't willing to sacrifice.
He couldn’t picture himself doing any of those things with anyone else. There was no one else who knew him as she did: who knew exactly when he no longer wanted to be touched, without ever saying a word: who knew what to say to soothe him from his panics, and when to just hand him his rope: who truly, completely understood him.
Life, love, was full of learning. But the simple fact was: Finnick did not want to learn how to love another, nor did he think he could. He had been damaged, irreparably - broken in ways no person should ever break. His heart had been shattered, his soul crushed. Her love, Tsireya, as jagged and difficult as she could sometimes be, was the only thing that made him feel whole. Alive.
Her lip quivered, her words catching in her throat, her voice wavering. “I don’t want to hold you back–”
“A lot can change in three years, Tsi,” he whispered, swiping a tear from her cheek. “You said it yourself, it’s a waiting game.”
Tsireya sniffled, giving him a slight nod; committing herself to the words.
He shuffled closer, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her towards him; kissing the crown of her head as he murmured into her hair, “I’m not wasting time talking about something that’s never going to happen.”
They didn’t sleep, despite how exhausted they both were. They spent the rest of their time together talking – and when there was nothing left to say (or nothing left that they wanted to speak of) they just laid beside one another and looked; exchanging tender words, here and there. I’ve missed you’s and I love you’s. They seemed more important to profess, than they ever had before.
Neither of them uttered a word about running. Though, Finnick would’ve been lying if he didn’t admit he’d considered it. There were too many people he couldn’t bear to leave, back home, and someone she could not bear to put at risk, here.
At one point, Tsireya leant forwards and touched his face; her fingertips trailing along every contour and every edge. Finnick had laughed, in spite of himself, and asked what she was doing. All she’d said, tears in her eyes, was that she wanted to remember this. Him.
He was too terrified to ask what she truly meant, as if she would ever forget.
The sun rose quicker than they wanted it to. They did not exchange goodbye’s, for it felt too finalising. Just a kiss, and an embrace that stretched a minute longer than it should’ve.
Finnick did not cry until she left; falling apart, as the clock turned to 5:35am.