▎𝗪𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗡 ▎ ━━ 𝙖𝙘𝙩 𝙞𝙫 𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙤𝙤𝙣 035. | ALL IS FAIR IN LOVE AND WAR
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𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐋𝐘, 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐓𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃, 𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐀𝐘— and the very first thing she saw when they opened was Finnick. Through her squinted eyes and foggy eyesight from after-sleep haze, Finnick's sight caused her breath to get caught in her throat, his strong arm wrapped around her waist so tightly, it was as though if he let go, she would dissipate into thing air.
The two of them were twisted in their blankets, a faded light peeking through the doors illuminating the side of his face, luminescence bouncing off her golden strands beautifully.
She trailed her eyes down to his neck, and then his shoulders, the way light contoured every curve of his bare chest that rose and fell steadily.
Sweet honey rays painted beautifully on his skin, she stared at the crystallites pinned on the valley of his chest and the dawn slipping to the faint crimson of his cheeks. Her head was on his silken bare shoulders — clinging to his bones.
"Are you trying to memorise my face, darling Scarlet?" He murmured with his eyes closed, voice soft and silk with the hazy rasp present.
"I've memorised it long ago," replied the girl. "I just like looking at you."
"Creepy," he peeled his eyes open, a pinch between his brows at the chirpiness of the gleam from outside.
Letting out a tiny breath, he rose his opposite hand and placed his fingers softly on her temple, pushing back her hair to study her face.
"Sleep well?"
"Best night of my life," she winked sharply, a teasing tone that certainly sent his ego to sky-rocket. Their bare arms were tangled, and Scarlet felt so, so safe in his arms.
His hand lingered there on the side of her head. His thumb grazed the skin of her temple and his fingers bathed in the softness of her hair, resting there so delicately.
"I hope this all ends soon, the war," said the girl softly, sudden vulnerability hitting her fragile chest.
"It's almost over, you know it," Finnick replied, "are you sure you want to join the war?"
Scarlet was a little taken aback when Finnick referred to all this as war because nobody else ever did.
All those years before the Quarter Quell, everybody called the matter a conflict — as though it was a playground argument, a confusion over who gets what privileges, as though men and women and children were not being murdered in cold blood in every corner of Panem.
