Seafoam and Stars

▬▬ 𝟎𝟗 ∙ 𝝖❙𝘄𝗮𝘆𝘀

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽

˚✩ ⋆｡ ✩┊ 𝐒𝐞𝐚𝐟𝐨𝐚𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬 ┊✦ ˚ · .

▬▬ 09 ∙ 𝙰𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜

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NOVA HOLDS it together for the equivalent of the amount of time it takes to shove past the people, offer half-hearted smiles and greetings to everyone we missed when Finnick and I skipped out of the customary get-together in the mentor's lounge, and clamber in the elevator. The doors close just in time for District 1 to miss it and have to wait for the next one, which gives us complete privacy.

    More importantly, it gives Nova the privacy to completely break into tears.

    "12 wasn't supposed to be the one who stole the show," she says in between sobs. "I was ready for it to be 1 or 2, but 12? Well," she says, "we are truly screwed now, aren't we?" Before I can say anything that might console her, she turns to the wall and thuds her head against it.

    Brennan's by her side in a second, wrapping his arms around her waist. She's a full head taller than him, and she turns back around to hug him around his neck. It's sweet and it breaks my heart to think that I ever thought it was just for the cameras, that it is so real and has to last for so short of a time.

    Next to me, Moxie grumbles about how at least the Tribute Parade is over, so it won't matter that Nova is completely ruining and smudging her makeup. It infuriates but doesn't surprise me—only Moxie would have the audacity to say something so blatantly irrelevant when a fifteen-year-old girl in this position because of her is crying.

    "I feel like we're supposed to do something," I whisper to Finnick, but I can't blame Nova for being distressed. District 12 put all of us mentors—Haymitch excluded, who must be on cloud nine right now; unless he's sober, in that case, he's in hell—for a loop. Nova's right, District 12's not supposed to be the ones people care about, as terrible as that sounds. They're lucky to get one sponsor, let alone the many thinking about their fire before anyone else's flashy costumes.

    "Yeah, me too. Unfortunately I'm horrific at girl stuff and I'd probably make it worse. Oh look!" He gives me a weird look and raises his eyebrows. "Well, hello, dear friend, you seem to be a girl!"

    "Congratulations, Finnick, you have eyes. Not a brain, it seems, if it took you fourteen years to realize my gender."

    "I know, what I mean is that—"

    The elevator songs and the doors open to reveal our floor. Nova lets go of Brennan long enough to run to her room, Brennan following her. We hear her slam the door, and seconds later Brennan comes walking down the stairs, looking less sad and more disappointed at himself.

    "She told me to leave her alone and that she'll figure out dinner when she feels up to it," he reports.

    "Oh, dear," Moxie says, walking around the table to pat Brennan on the head. I exchange a look with Finnick—neither of us have seen Moxie act like this to a tribute in our combined nine years of mentoring. "I'm sure she's just going through a lot right now. Many tricky emotions to figure out"—I'm shocked that Moxie's being understanding for once—"since the Tribute Parade is so exciting. She's just upset that it's over so soon."

    Oh.

    Okay. I think I'm frowning, despite my attempts not to.

    So understanding Moxie was way too much to ask for.