Work Text:
Leering from above, there is a spot on the ceiling where damp seeps through and creates a point of infection in the paint which spreads like a common disease. I have watched it grow slowly over the years, a hair larger every night. In the dark, the vague marbled shape appears almost alive; a bacteria or foreign sickness.
With every blink my eyes prickle with the ache of fatigue. I need to sleep.
I stare at the bedroom ceiling, the infernal water stain, and know that I need to sleep.
Intermittently, I can hear where the wind batters against the window and imagine it doing the same to Lucy Gray's sea of ruffles, the colours dulled in the poor illumination provided by the greasy light of the zoo streetlamps.
I think about her, and I wonder if it's her turn to keep watch against the rats right now, or if she has achieved the peaceful sleep which seems to evade me so effortlessly. She told me she usually sleeps first, and then Jessup second, although I doubt his mock chivalry still stands in his current state. He is lucky he scored Lysistrata for a mentor. I think of Lucy Gray, and I wonder how she must be curled into Jessup's side against the wind and rats.
My Lucy Gray. Such a pretty thing, with her charms and wit — a flower, plucked from her native soil and left out to wilt.
The wind forces a whistle through where the window seal has weakened over the years. With a surge of irritation, the warbling sound brings to mind the Grandma'am's infamous ‘Gem of Panem’ and I push aside the coarse bedsheets with in a single movement.
Cold air pulls my hair into standing on end, prickling across my body, and I dress guided only by the weak spill of light the thin curtains cannot quite keep at bay. The pitiful selection of clothes in my wardrobe seems a little less pathetic when cloaked in shadow. I still for a moment and listen into the night, my eyes focused towards the bedroom door. Other than the whistle, the apartment is mostly silent save from the occasional patter and scratch of tiny feet within the walls. The noise brings bile to my throat but I swallow it down, long since hardened against the helpless state of the place. I find solace in the fact I know most of my classmates would likely struggle to make it for a single night — much less maintain the secrecy — so at the very least I allow myself to find a little pride in my endurance.
I pull on a heavy coat and wrap it tightly around my body as I exit the bedroom, making for the kitchen. The wool is coarse but warm, an expensive relic that should have been sold far before now; authentic wool can go for a pretty penny if you know where to turn. I wrap it tighter to smother away the apartment's chill, knowing that we get far more use out of a quality coat than any old piece of jewellery or disused furniture.
It is all an order of priority, and much like a jacket, Tigris can only wear one pair of earrings at once.
I navigate to the kitchen in the dark, knowing every creak and notch in the flooring by heart. I sidestep and crouch to search the barren cupboards. I know that Sejanus has been offering food for his Marcus, and Lucy Gray can only run on nutritional biscuits for so long, especially if she insists on funding her allyship with her own food.
Jessup is older than her. Stronger than her. She has a keen eye for protection, although, it is decidedly unfair that this should have to come out of my pocket. If I wished, I suppose I could speak to Lysistrata and hope that she would see the value in feeding up our tributes, should the two of them insist on working together regardless of the sparse resources.
I remember my own initial dismay at receiving a tribute from Twelve, at being gifted the lowest of the low despite for all I had worked, and consider that Jessup never offered the ripe blossoming that Lucy Gray presented in her performance. Out of the twenty-four, Lysistrata scored second to worst (on the account of winning the male instead of the female, as I myself had), and since then, he has not done a thing that would give her anything to work with at all, save for being reaped alongside mine. She would be smart to pounce on any opportunity to leech off Lucy Gray's foot-up. The issue with this, first and foremost, is that she would be able to provide more than I could manage by way of quality food. That is, if she should have the nerve to bring it to them in the zoo in the first place. Lysistrata is inoffensive; overly pragmatic at worst, mutually respectable at best. Not one for bending rules, that’s for sure. And even if she did manage, Lucy Gray would get fed, of course, but from Lysistrata's hands instead of my own.
Our tributes may form teams, find allies, but that does not mean we, as mentors, must do the same. We have a prize to win.
I search the cupboards as quietly as I can manage and once again have to swallow the anger and embarrassment which rises from seeing how bare they have grown. I rarely interfere with the kitchen because I don’t wish to step on Tigris’ feet, so I rarely keep track of the exact goings on. There’s evidence of mouse droppings along the back panel behind a silver tin with no label. I make a mental note to mention it to Tigris tomorrow and close the cupboard with the naked tin.
The faucet drips.
My eyes scan over the countertops, hungry to find anything at all to bring for Lucy Gray. I can hardly bring her loaf heels or wilting greens. The lines of the countertop are harsh and angular, illuminated an uninspiring grey in the weak light.
Just under the window sill sits a black box, tied shut with a dark rouge ribbon, the thin layer of dust almost invisible in the darkness. It has sat there for so long now, that my eyes had begun to skip over it as part of the kitchen’s usual set dress.
I know exactly what it contains. A box; neat, lavish, and full of cake-like biscuits Tigris was gifted at her apprenticeship. They are small, and dense - the type that coats your teeth in a film of sweetness and cloy in your throat. We had looked at them together, when she had first brought them home, and upon examining the careful frosting work and noting the lack of expiry date, decided they were best saved in case our situation fell as dire as it had become in the past. We both understand the power of a little sugar to keep your vision steady and your weight on your feet.
With carefulness akin to the petting of an animal, I pull loose the velvet ribbon and work the cardboard lid free, setting it aside. The scent of nutmeg and cinnamon, of sugar and cloves, goes straight to my stomach and makes me ache with want. The cookies sit neatly in a plastic insert, boasting shapes from stars to hearts to shields, and appear to be coated in a thin, cracking layer of a sugar glaze.
They look fancier than anything I have eaten in years, almost as though they would make for decoration before they would make for food. I praise my talents for self control as I replace the lid without pressing them into my mouth, re-tying the ribbon until the box appears unopened. The dust wipes off easily with my coat sleeve, and I have to hope it looks professional enough to Lucy Gray.
For a second, I worry that the spices and sugar might be too much for Lucy Gray’s district tongue. I’m not entirely sure what the average district diet looks like in practice, but certainly cannot imagine it contains as intense of a range.
Fiddling with the ribbon again, I brush off the thought quickly knowing they will have to do. The box looks elegant, and the cookies themselves are pretty. Tigris won’t hold this over my head, so long as these cookies help me coach to my victory. The situation is dire to Lucy Gray. They can be replaced.
Without glancing back I leave the apartment and descend the stairs, my shoes tapping all too loudly against each step. The black box fits neatly under my arm, and I hold it tighter against myself as I brace against the cold night air. I am immensely grateful for the wool of my coat as the wind plays through my hair and clothes, carrying in every gust the bite of the night’s chill. I walk quickly, each step clicking against the pavement stones as beats of a clock and reminding me just how little time I have with Lucy Gray before the Games begin.
Frequently, I long to spend hours and hours talking to her, telling her my strategies and hearing her skills, receiving her winks and giving her hope. But we do not have hours and hours, so I must steal what I can, even if it means losing us both a little sleep.
With my head down and a pointed stride I make short work of the walk, passing through the entrance of the zoo and heading straight for the bars behind which the tributes sleep. The only light spills from a row of streetlamps that occasionally flicker, the electricity poorly maintained and temporary. Still, it’s enough to throw around my shadow and pave the ground in front of me in darkness, so I strain my eyes down towards my shoes to avoid stepping on the dirt and vermin that nobody has bothered to clear away.
Clenching my jaw against the cold I approach the bars towards the same spot where I met Lucy Gray before, and — taking advantage of the lack of Peacekeepers — go right up to them. A rat scurries along the dried-up moat on the other side.
The huddled bodies of the tributes appear nearing to entirely inanimate as they sleep, curled into small balls of dark fabric and dark hair. From this distance, I can hardly tell if the shapes beyond the bars breathe at all, the ugly nighttime and sway of wind blending all movement into one. I think for a moment I can hear a restless muttering coming from beyond where I can see, but I only have a second to lend it any concern before my eyes lock with those of Lucy Gray.
She sits in a puddle of watery ruffles with her feet tucked under and her hands pulled into her sleeves. I pull down my coat sleeves and think now that I should have brought her something to keep her warm, like a blanket or a scarf to cradle her shoulders if only for the duration of my visit, but I reason that she’d only miss it when I left and feel colder than ever in its absence. The sight of her — not far from where Jessup is curled up like a child — fills me with a warmth and relief that nearly overpowers the crispness of the air. The evidence of fatigue is clear around her tired eyes, but I’ve yet to see them lose their spark.
She rises to her feet slowly, stumbling over her balance and blinking herself into a semblance of alertness. I do not yet speak and watch her with what I hope appears akin to affection, and sit myself down on my side of the cage close enough to reach right through to her. Not that I would, unless she instigated herself. Her tiny hands look fragile and cold, clutching her skirt as she steps through the dried moat to come to a stop in front of me, sinking down to match my sitting. The bars watch us both from in-between.
She smiles a vixen’s smile and glances at the box of cookies.
“Hiya, sweet thing,” she says, her voice rough with sleep and hushed like the breeze.
“Lucy Gray. Did I wake you?” I ask, just for the courtesy.
“Not at all, and, if you did, I’m sure I’ve got it in me to forgive someone like you.” She reaches through the cage and toys with the red ribbon adorning the box, twirling it around her forefinger. I can recognise the familiar glint of want in her eyes. “What’s this?”
“A little something I thought you’d appreciate. I had planned to save them for the morning, but no time like the present.”
I push the box towards her and she wastes no time in pulling loose the ribbon, lifting the lid and discarding it to the side. Though she is clearly making an attempt at casual decorum, the quiver of want in her frantic fingers betrays her. Hunger is something I have developed a skill for detecting. I can see the way it eats at her self control, the way I have learned to mask myself.
“They’re a Capitol delicacy.” It’s not completely true, but I doubt she’s eaten anything like these in the district before, so I figure it qualifies.
“Why, thank you, Handsome.” The teasing in her tone has me barely suppressing a shiver.
“Handsome?” I return, trying for a similar taunt, but she merely laughs and presses a cookie to her lips, biting off the point of the star and tasting it thoughtfully.
“Cinnamon,” she hums.
“You like them?”
“Like the wintertime.” She makes quick work of the star, and reaches for another without hesitation, seeming to ignore the flakes of white icing decorating her lips. “You ain’t eating?”
“Only if you’re offering,” I say, but my stomach pangs with desire as I watch her teeth sink into her second. Her left canine pokes out a little and the asymmetry disturbs her otherwise perfect smile. You usually can’t see it for her lips, so full and pouty.
“You’d rather’ve come in the middle of the night just to watch me eat?”
“No. Of course. I couldn’t sleep.”
I take a cookie and allow myself the smallest bite. It dissolves into a sugary paste with a sweetness that nearly wells my eyes with tears, and I swallow desperately before I betray myself. To me, it doesn’t taste like wintertime at all - it tastes like a celebration, hot and busy in my mouth with spices melting and heating me like a loud summer night.
We eat in silence for a moment. I try desperately to pace myself and do not take another even as she reaches for a third.
She swallows heavily, and I realise I should’ve brought water, too.
“So,” she begins, brushing her hands over her skirts to clear the crumbs. I am sure the rats will be all over this spot once we have gone, devouring what little we leave behind. The other tributes, too, will no doubt smell the pungent cloves and nutmeg should they wake. The lump of Jessup’s clothes far behind Lucy Gray does not stir. “You’re gonna tell me what’s keeping you up?”
“Nothing,”
“Awful lotta something for nothing.” She wraps her hand around a bar and leans a little towards me, supporting her tired weight against the cold iron. “So late it’s early.”
So close, I can see creases around her eyes and make out the tugs in her hair and am nearly overwhelmed. I so badly want to sweep her into my arms, comb out the tangles, kiss each cheek, dress her up in something clean and fresh for her to dance in. I am sure I could even source something blue for her to colour her eyelids with again, just like her Reaping; her moment of glory on the stage.
“Awful lot of something for you,” I say, regretting it the moment I hear how it sounds off my tongue. “I mean, as in,” I fumble with what to say as she watches me, brown eyes wide and flirtatious, “It’s cold tonight. The wind was keeping me up, and I couldn’t stop thinking about you, Lucy Gray. I feel horrible you’re here at all. I don’t know how you can look at me.”
Moving aside the box and the handful of remaining cookies, I shuffle closer until my knees nearly kiss the bars she leans against. The stone beneath me freezes through my trousers and gives me goosebumps all over.
“You ain’t exactly a sore sight to look at, Sweetheart,” she teases, but I can hear something more serious beneath. “You’re doing more than most.”
“I am?” I need her to continue.
“Well, you’re here. Even in the middle of the night, you’re here. Ain’t none of the other mentors are.” Her voice has dropped low in a way which seems to rattle under my skin and along my nerves like warm water. I shift how I am sat, and absently return the lid to the cookies before they are claimed by some foreign vermin.
“I’m not here as your mentor right now.”
“What’re you here as?” Her eyelashes ghost against her cheek as she shuts her eyes.
I do not reply, searching for an answer I do not have.
“Nothing to do with the Hunger Games. Not tonight. None of that exists for us, tonight, Lucy Gray. Let me give you that.”
“A moment without the Games,” she hums, sounding appreciative. “For one night only.”
I push aside the cookie box further, suddenly filled with annoyance with how I know she will perceive tonight. I do not want to believe that I am visiting her as a mentor. I do not want her to believe that I am visiting her as anything at all. I want her to believe I am visiting her because I genuinely want to — because I saw the cookies and thought about her; thought about gifting them and sharing them under the pallid moonlight. Together. The idea that she could be tempted to view this as nothing more than some Hunger Games rite of passage, expected behaviour from a mentor, devalues what I may have thought, and the entire intention behind it all. I want her to think that I am here because I want her to be here with me, and because of the goodness between us both.
I decide. A moment without the Games, for one night only.
“Have you spoken to the others much?” I try, glancing behind her into the darkness of the cage.
She sighs in a musical hum. “Nothing special. Coral’s done made an enemy outta half the folk in here before the proper fighting’s even started. And there’s a lotta talk about poor Brandy. But mostly we’re just, you know. Living from moment to moment, I guess.”
My face goes cold at the mention of Arachne’s tribute, and I cast a glance over towards where Festus and I had helped her in her last moments. I hate not only the reminder of the danger Lucy Gray is in on the other side of the bars, but the danger I, myself, face in being so close to them. She presses her cheek against the cool iron just above her hand.
“They think I’m circus songs and charm. ‘Cept Jessup, of course,” she finishes.
“Jessup,” I muse, trying for nonchalant. “How’s he faring?”
“Still muddled. Talking all kinds of nonsense I don’t got the energy to figure out. I think he’s scared.”
Once again, I glance behind her, not entirely thrilled at the idea of her taking a nonsense-talker as a bodyguard. He does not look like he will turn out to be any amount of useful at all, at the rate he is depreciating at.
“He’ll come round,” I say, feigning confidence in place of the truth.
“Yeah.”
The last thing I can afford is Lucy Gray’s spirit to be broken so soon before the opening of the games. Her spirit leaks out of her, in all its bright and wild colours. To lose that is to lose the one virtue she can play to her advantage.
“But that isn’t now. That isn’t tonight, Lucy Gray.”
“No Games tonight,” she echoes, but her eyes are still closed and her lips are a murmur. “What a shame it’ll be when the sun rises.”
I study her face. Her hair blows over her cheek, a strand crossing her bottom lip. Slowly, her eyes open to meet mine.
“The sunrise in the district ain’t nothing like you Capitol folk could imagine. There’s far too many of those” — she gives an accusing gaze to the flickering streetlight — “to be able to see nothing real.”
“Then you’ll have to write a song about it when you see it again. Play it for me next time you’re searching for something to sweeten your tongue.”
She laughs in a tired exhale, shutting her eyes again.
“Quit your flower-talking. You should go home. The peacekeepers arrive too early for anything sensible — hollering ‘till we wake to make sure no one’s went and dropped dead in the night, mind you — and you’re surely pushing your luck. Isn’t it past your bedtime?”
“When should you wake Jessup? Have you slept at all yet?”
“A little. For a while, when it was first dark.” Her voice is heavy and low.
“You should wake him as soon as I’m gone and get some proper sleep. Your rest is one of the most important things we can focus on until the Games.”
“There ain’t nothing of ‘real’ rest here,” she murmurs, holding her weight against the bar as though melting into it. “You said no Games tonight.”
“Sorry. Of course,” I reply softly, lowering my tone to meet the tired notes of hers.
Her breathing slows as I watch and she mumbles a non-committed response through closed lips.
She seems deflated and impossibly tiny beneath her layers of fabric, lethargic if she may fall asleep at any moment. I glance skywards and see the first dregs of morning pulling at the edges of the clouds, and wish for a moment that I could push her ruffles aside and press my palms against her cold skin until I found a heartbeat to thump against my hand, cradling the sweet, resilient animal of her body whilst it sleeps.
Her mind would be somewhere I could never follow; her dreams. Though, perhaps selfishly, I delight in the idea that some version of me accompanies her even there. The image of myself, filtered through the vibrant eyes of Lucy Gray and imprinted on her so deeply as to conjure itself even whilst she sleeps. I think about her dreams, and wonder what sweet things she might imagine me saying to her, wonder how my hands feel against her in her fantasies. I wonder what past dreams that I might have replaced and what her brain had to discard to make space for me instead. The vague tones of her Reaping song ghost the back of my consciousness and I bristle.
Slumped against the bar so close in front of me, I take a little pride in the fact that it is in front of 𝘮𝘦 that she allows her guard down like this. She seems to sleep. Stranded in the Captiol and dropped into a cage of wild children and yet, here she sleeps, less than two feet from me. The images of Arachne pulling the sandwiches from Brandy’s claws and of Clemensia’s hardened resolve against Reaper make me revel in what I have cultivated with Lucy Gray. I have given her someone to trust, someone to survive for. That sort of motivation will take her far.
Although, I acknowledge I would be surprised if the other tributes have the capacity to care for charm at all, and admit with much less certainty that they would value it over their lives. You can hardly wink yourself out of an impaling.
Up so close, I can see the shallow wrinkles that have formed around her exhausted eyes over the past days. Her lips are visibly flaked and split, her brown cheeks roasted to a dark-red dryness under the sun. Over her shoulders, her hair spills in a frizzy mass from where she has attempted to finger-comb away the tugs, only beginning to re-curl slightly towards the last few inches. This makes it look thinner than I know it to be. I should hope it rains soon to kill away the frizz before the Games. A strand flies free in the breeze and plasters across her face, slipping a little into her mouth.
There’s something about her appearing so disheveled — and so far from the girl with the flowers and eyeshadow from her Reaping — which makes her appear almost ugly. Certainly, it is a costume of physical unpleasantness, rather than anything true. There is no denying the shape of her nose, the thickness of her eyelashes, her heart-shaped face. A good shower and fresh moisturiser would set her right again in a matter of hours, with such a canvas to act upon.
The realisation strikes me with a surprising sense of comfort as it reminds me just how far a charismatic smile and a little confidence can truly go. Lucy Gray to most seems to thrive on her air of unattainability — a dancing sprite on a far away stage, all eyes always on her.
But here, stripped of her stage and stripped of her colour, Lucy Gray is disarmingly imperfect, which settles my stomach and calms my paranoia. She appears tangible and I latch into the crack in her facade, and latch onto the greater understanding which is now held between us. Mutual trust, I should think.
She stirs, wrinkling her nose slightly and exhaling loudly, sounding thick with sleep.
“Go home, Coriolanus,” she croaks, pushing herself from the bar and blinking her eyes wearily open, seeming just barely awake. Her eyelashes seem to stick together for a moment, and I can tell she is hardly lucid.
Obediently I stand, brushing off my coat and picking up the cookie box once again. It feels bad to take it instead of leaving it for her, but the last thing I want is to cause harm to her when the other tributes wake and find the evidence of the luxury I have been indulging her in.
“I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” I say, just for the formality. I’m not. The sound of her voice and the sight of her lithe form are the only things that could have soothed my racing mind, though I admit my head begins to swim a little with my own delayed tiredness.
“ ‘s okay,” she murmurs, pushing herself slowly to unsteady feet and glancing behind her, locking her gaze onto Jessup as if already dreading the moment she has to rouse him. “See you…” She trails off as if unsure and looks back towards me. Her eyes sharpen slightly with what I hope is positive attention. “I'll see you when I do, pretty thing,”
I bow my head in a deep nod. “Sleep well,” I reply lowly, whilst turning on my heel to follow the cobbles out the zoo. My shoulders ache.
I know our goodbye could last forever should I not force my eyes to leave hers. Behind me I hear the quiet swishing of her returning to Jessup’s side, her bare feet silent under the ruffling of her skirts. I only hear the edges of her murmuring towards Jessup as I leave the zoo, parting away from the gates and tracing the street along the cracked pavement. The concrete hasn’t been redone since the war, and the evidence shows.
I catch my feet on every crack.
The cookie box is lighter and far less burdensome to carry home than it was to carry out. There are a few small, broken cookies left, which gives me an excuse to return it to the countertop for whatever special day Tigris and I decide qualifies as ‘dire’. There is more than taste for both of us. My mouth waters in memory of the sweet spiced taste and I press my tongue around my teeth.
As the night has worn on the breeze has died down as the sky begins to brighten, but I judge there to still be several hours before any sensible morning hour at which the rest of the Capitol will wake. Tigris and the Grandma’am will sleep soundly so long as my return is quiet.
Lucy Gray, too, can still catch sleep yet, if Jessup does his job keeping the rats and raccoons away. Her near-sleeping form, grasping the cold iron of the zoo’s cage, is an image I know I will not be able to wipe from my mind. Her face falling placid with fatigue and her posture curling like a little girl into her mother’s side. I smile at my feet and revel for a moment in my luck, revel in the calm before the storm.
However much she likes to pretend, and however much she presents herself as more, she has shown irrevocably that she is only a girl.
A girl, gifted to me, whose survival was handed to me tied with a red, red ribbon.