↳ i don't rise from the ashes, i make them...
oc x finnick odair
catching fire - mockingjay pt. 2 (flashbacks included)
TW: Depression, thoughts of suicide, use of drugs/alcohol, use of tobacco, detailed gore, use of weapons, death, and mentions/sug...
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I sit at the chair in the dining room, crossing my arms over my chest. I don't know what else to do, besides letting the looming frown curl onto my lips and remain there for as long as it'd like to, which, from the outlook of today, will surely be a considerable amount of time. I wish I could push it away, along with all of the other emotions riding tightly on my shoulders at the moment, but I know that would be impossible.
At this point in my life, I feel like I'd rather prepare to die numb than feel everything at all.
Belisama sits daintily across from me, carefully lifting the lid to the ceramic sugar bowl in front of her and scooping a few white, overflowing lumps of sugar onto her spoon and pouring them into her murky tea, cautious not to spill any of the fine grains anywhere. She doesn't say anything to me, and I'm sure she feels like she's in an awkward position as it is. I guess she has reasoning to, and I probably would, as well, if I were in her position. There's not much to say to me, and whatever she could muster up wouldn't end very well, no matter how she could try to phrase it.
That's when I remember that for the last few years, ever since winning my Games and being forced to mentor, I've sat on her side of the table, watching as someone I recognized from around the District slowly came to terms with the fact that they had been sentenced to death, so I suppose I understand. I've spent years offering tissues or clutching hands to calm children that were not much younger than me, trying to put a poorly positive spin on their predicament, even though I saw no good in my own words. The only difference between Belisama and I is that, usually, she has no emotional attachment to those tributes, unlike she does to me.
I hear the car door to my right hiss open. I turn my head at the sudden noise, just in time to see Finnick walking in, a lingering confidence still gripping to his stride and posture. I want to let my eyes hold onto him, but I force myself to look away and back down to the wooden table in front of me. He doesn't stop his movement, however, and continues forward, where he stands behind me and brushes my shoulder with his warm hand. I lift my head once more, turning to look at him with my lips pressed together tersely. I hear Belisama loudly sipping her tea from across the table, but only watch as Finnick nods his head in the direction of the door that leads to the next car, where our rooms are located.
I stand from my chair on cue, listening to it make a sound against the carpet, before I push it back under the table. I glance back at Belisama, who minds me no further attention, but then follow Finnick, letting him lead me to our sleeping quarters. I don't know which one is mine, because I haven't taken the chance to look since we've boarded the train. After I was practically shoved up the steps and forced into the dining car before the doors shut behind us, I parked myself in the same chair at the dining table while the others minded their way around the limited refines of the train.
