The last message

chapter nine, love and loss

This a more light-hearted filler chapter while I think of how to post and plot the events of mocking Jay.

I'm on the train to go clubbing later and bored if staring aimlessly out the window, this popped into my mind.

I hope it's okay, considering I finish it while I'm sloshed.

***

Sleep came slowly, and dreams came readily. The mixing of truth and fact, spinning stories that Theo could only ever dream of. Only his subconscious, unaffected clearly by the games could think such amazing things up.

At first, waking was disorientating, leaving a fantastical world of freedom and love behind to rejoin reality, the cold, harsh reality of the world. The world that breaks more than it mends that cuts more than it heals. That kills children who only wanted to live. Caused them to kill each other when they only wanted to survive.

Waking up is hard. Rejoining the cruel reality is awful. Ghat is until the lazy arm draped over him moved, reminding Theo of its presence. Finnick Odair, to his initial surprise, is a cuddler. He has to be hugging you at all times, the language he prefers is touch, always needing to be in contact. Awake or asleep, it seemed. Hand holding, hugging, cuddling, kissing or the more intimate actions that are finally theirs to do as they please, no longer governed by Snow and his tyranny.

It's nice, he supposed, to have something for himself, to have the person he fought so deeply for, the person he's loved since he was a child, watching him interact with Rowell after her games. The great big smile, the large hands, the dimple on his left cheek, those stunningly kind eyes that can sharpen in a millisecond, ready for the kill. It amazes him how this person is a person who sleeps next to him, sharing a bed, sharing breath, sharing all their space in the world.

Rowell hasn't seemed to grasp the concept of allowing yourself to be vulnerable, that there no longer in the capital, that they can allow themselves ways of healing they used to dream of.

She instead shut off from the world. Ignoring anything that breaths that's not Cashmere or that stupid ginger cat, the cat Theo is allergic to. He hates that cat.

When he approached it initially, full of excitement, he learnt two things. One that it was the devil incarnate, rapidly swiping at his face leaving two bloody claw marks behind, and two. That his face puffs up whenever it's too close. He could have sworn the cat Kearny that as well, choosing to sneak into his new room just to antagonise its latest victim. Finnick says he's just parodied; he's not, je would swear. He hates that stupid cat; it's the one thing Katniss, and he can agree on. Can bond with the ugly ginger cat with matted fur, and it's definitely evil soul.

"You're staring, darlin'" Gods, his morning voice does things to him. The low drawl of district four melting into Theo's being the sleepy, drowsy lint that makes Fin's voice even better than before. Not to even get him started on Darling, the fact alone that he can be called this finally, finally with endearment, makes his heart warm.

"I know" He doesn't stop, though; he simply learns over the other to press their mouths together in that perfectly fitting way that they only have with each other.

***

Pain.

Every day, every night, all hours. The body hasn't healed the mind in pieces. Rowell wants a break. Wants the world to simply stop fucking her over, simple as that.

She no longer wants to wake up alone, she wants the love of her life next to her, but she can't.

She doesn't want to wake up in fear, clutching. Clawing, grasping at herself, looking for signs of damage, she might have been taken in her sleep somewhere. To check for injuries and to see where the bleeding is. She wants to finally wake with a smile and roll over and kiss Johanna, as they used to. She wants the simple mornings spent in each other's company, ignoring the world around them until its needs get too demanding and call them back away from their solace. Their sage haven within their arms, legs intertwined, hands joined lazily between them. The simple pleasure of doing nothing, if relaxing with a person. Rowell wants that.

She can't have it, can't have any of it. If she takes it, someone else will suffer. She knows someone will. Johanna is mad at her, so there's no point in hoping and wishing.

She will daydream, oh she will daydream.

Instead of the pleasant awakening she dreams of, it's with a start that Rowell wakes these days. Shivering from the imaginary cold, still feeling the cell beneath her, her senses bombarded with smells that were not even there, blood mostly. Although that might just be her own from biting her lips in her sleep, a habit so ingrained with her it won't ever leave.

***

He has a ring.

He has a ring, made by himself in the bunker of District 13, the first time he allowed himself to hope. Hope that Theo, who he now realised, was utterly in love. He doesn't know when it happened, going from using either as a barrier for memories, making a solid friendship, and helping each other heal wounds that only a select few know to love.

He supposed there was always love; it just changed into something more. More love. No, a different kind of love. The kind that consumes completely fills thoughts with hope and longing instead of fear and hate.

So yeah, he had a ring. A small significant thing is weighing down his pocket with every item of clothing he has, for he won't go without it.

It's made out of the small rope pendant he wore in the games, the rope he repeatedly tries in anxiety and worry. Now for a new purpose. Woven tightly into an intricate design, a little ring, just big enough to slip onto a ring finger. Hopefully.

Ironically the cause of his recent ever-present anxiety is also the purpose of the rope, the reason he has the rope as well.

All he has to do is ask.

He's thought about it every morning when Theo wakes from his dreams, the relief on his face evident when he realises that Finnick is actually there and that He is out of the capital. As its this time that his face loses all the guard that has been there for years, the unguarded expression of absolute joy, those small smiles that look less but feel more natural.

All he has to do is ask.

All he has to do is ask.

****

A/N I am hungover rn, but I remembered this being written, so yay? My head feels like a barn of chickens released in there, all loudly clucking YK? Probably not... maybe it makes sense for you?

I haven't proofread, other than the fundamental mistakes I could see at a glance. Hopefully, it's happier??? 

i did in fact finish this when i was smashed, so i do guess if you can tell, please ignore that.