Die for You | Catching Fire

chapter forty-two

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chapter forty-two
FAMILIAR FEELINGS

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tw:
mention of torture, mention of forced prostitution, ptsd, sadness — mockingjay is heavy :(
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He knows this feeling. It has plagued him for the majority of his life with some glimmering exceptions, moments with his sister and Gunnar usually offering some sense of hope. The first time he was ever consciously aware of the fact that he was just running through the motions, sleep-walking through time, he was only thirteen.

Alessandra had been gone for a year at that point — one of the only people who made his existence bearable, and he was training at The Academy with his sword, partaking in duel after duel for a crowd of other students and Victors. By the time the hours were up, he had won every single fight, triumphing over every single opponent that stepped in the ring — including a seventeen-year old contender for the upcoming Games. There was an applause, but he hadn't noticed.

Ptolemus hadn't noticed because he didn't care, and despite the love and adoration pouring in his direction from his comrades, there wasn't a single ounce of him that felt anything. That was when he realized who he was. Who he'd always been — a shell, more of a something than a someone. More of a trophy than just a boy.

He was just a boy.

He would run through the motions for six more years. Simply sleep-walking and trying to make a meaning of his life that was already woven for him by his parents, by his name, by The Capitol.

Then came the Gleam Gala that fateful year. And just like that, Ptolemus could feel the tapestry unravelling, even turning to dust, and he realized how his own fingers resembled the fingers of Fate — how they always have. It was such an empowering revelation. There were more glimmers. More moments where life felt like what it was supposed to feel like.

He felt it when she first looked at him in that shadowed bar as the warmth creeped up in his chest. When he kissed her for the first time in the garden. Every time she'd smile so bright and big with that dimple on her chin, or when she'd snort between a giggle at one of his horrible puns. And every time she'd allow him a glimpse into the brilliant workings of her brilliant mind. Then he wasn't running through the motions. Then, he was wide awake, and life felt like it could be something more.

He could be someone more.

But now, Fate's fingers have begun weaving again, and he's tangled up in its knots while his own go numb, that old feeling coming back to him like an unwelcomed friend.

God, he misses her so much.

The days are the same. Meals with her family that include coloring with Erabelle, cards with Shiloh and stories with Mrs. Navarro. Sessions with Dr. Fission and Dr. Metis. A good amount of crying. A plethora of maddening questions as he's taken to Command for more meetings with the other Victors but no news of the ones lost to The Capitol.

Finnick is sometimes there, sometimes not depending on whether they can keep him awake. It's strange seeing a man once paraded around The Capitol like a shining god reduced to a shell that can barely function. Ptolemus avoids looking at him the same way someone avoids looking at their own reflection. He's resigned to only two phrases each time he attends the meetings, otherwise mute and glaring. "What are you going to do to save Sage and the other Victors?" and "I'm not doing shit until Katniss agrees."