Die for You | Catching Fire

chapter forty-five

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chapter forty-five
A GAME OF CAT AND MOUSE

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tw:
mention of torture, mention of abuse

━━━━

He can barely stop crying, and when he does, it's replaced by insatiable and destructive rage. There's no Academy for him to run to and unleash the chaos beating against his ribs, so all he can do is pace the halls, chest heaving and knuckles clenching. He tugs at the collar of his jumpsuit as if he's suffocating like Sage was in that dress. There were so many dreadful stories written along her face and in her eyes — no amount of makeup capable of concealing it all.

Tears blur his gaze as he stumbles through the corridor, replaying her own that fell when she flinched at whoever was behind that camera. Her torturer, probably. One misplaced word, look or breath, and surely she'll pay more than she already is. He doesn't have to hear her screams for his own torturer — his mind — to gladly recreate them with a distressing realism that makes him choke.

Ptolemus is crouched in a corner and balancing on his toes, fingers tangled into his grown out buzz. That hole in his chest beats like a tumor rather than a heart as he collapses into himself. He can't get it out of his head. The hollowness to her cheeks, to her voice, to her eyes. The price she's paying for trying to save Katniss and Peeta in that Arena. The price she's paying for her role in the revolution.

The price she's paying for saving him.

Another sob wheezes out of his chest. This one's packed with more than grief, it's engulfed by guilt. Sage did all of that for him, and every day, she's paying for it in God knows however many ways. It threatens to drown him even when he's buried deep in the earth with no water in sight. He crumples into the corner now, spine pressed into the wall. He's never felt so powerless in his entire life — which is saying something, given his entire destiny has been written for him before he was born.

Ptolemus isn't sure how long he spends withering away in that corner. All he knows is enough time has passed that the retching sobs have been subdued into shallow breaths as he stares tiredly at his wedding ring. If he closes his eyes and concentrates enough, he can still feel the ghostly sensation of her slipping it onto his finger. Her vows are like a lullaby in his mind.

"You've always kept me safe." The self-loathing starts to rise up again, and he inhales a shaky breath, grimacing at his failure. "And as your wife, I vow to take care of you just like you've taken care of me."

And so she did. Sage did exactly that, upholding her promise as Ptolemus is reminded of the cost every single day in this limbo without her. He recalls Sage's trembling frame in that interview, playing with her wedding ring. And he's sharply reminded of his own vow.

"I vow to protect your heart as long my own will beat."

That's what wakes him up. The sound of his own heartbeat. Slowly drawing him out of the fog of his raw anguish and misery, and thudding rhythmically in his chest just like when he first woke from his coma. His heart is still beating, and therefore —

Ptolemus staggers out of the corner, right hand grazing the wall to help steady himself. There's still tears in his eyes and a wheeze to his lungs, but his muscles and bones are solid. Forced to stand and walk, propelling him forward as he navigates the winding corridors of Thirteen with a sense of purpose. It isn't rage that draws him to Plutarch's Compartment, though by the wary expression on the man's features he seems to fear so. No. This is something so much more powerful.