The taste of dried-up hopes in my mouth

[dreadinquisitor]

WHO| Maxwell and Open
WHAT| Returning from the Arena, catching up/reunions
WHERE| Various locations
WHEN| Sometime after his death in Week 5 of the Arena
Notes/Warnings| Probably some generic talk of death; some purple prose, knowing me.




District 8:

Maxwell emerged from his room a few days after.

He looked no different from the day he'd arrived - baring not even a scar to remember it - but he felt it. An uncertainty in his joints that left his gait stiff. A weight behind his eyes as they drifted across the suite.

The touch of Death lingering, calmy and chill, on the back of his neck.

He eased into a chair in the dining area beside the grand windows, and he sat there for a long time. Warming slowly in the sun, listening to the beat of his own heart, steady, strong and true once more in his chest.

Alive.

Miraculously. Impossibly.

His mind turned over the memory of it: of lying beneath the sky, watching it fade to purple and black; of the frantic drum of his heart, the gurgling pant, of the silence that had followed... And he laughed, suddenly. A wry, sob of a sound.

Wherever had become of Corypheus, Maxwell hoped he'd been watching.



District 7:

He went, every day.

Before the arena, he’d promised to keep his distance from District 7. Promised he’d give the escort no more reason to think ill of him than he already did. But still he went. Knowing he’d happily take the mage’s anger in trade for knowing he was returned, as safe and whole as any of them could be. (From the finality of death. From the darkness he’d seen for himself. From the quiet.)

Every day he knocked. Every day he waited.

Never quite certain which was worse: the dread in the heartbeats after, wondering if a stranger would open the door; or the weight of the silence that followed, knowing the room was still empty.

Every day, he left again. With the beat of his heart a dull, aching blow in his chest. His gut sinking heavily, cold and pitted. Wishing he could say it was for the man he remembered, but knowing he couldn’t.

Already they were tangling up in his mind.

In the arena, he might have turned, forgetting, ready to speak, to tease, before he caught himself. Back, again in the Capitol after everything, he thought of losing him, and pictured first an empty room, a floor below.

Silent and still.


Training Room:

When he wasn't watching - unable to look away, needing to see their faces, to check then against a mental list at every opportunity like a Sister before lesson - he was in the training room. Josephine was gone. As was Lavellan. As was--

He didn't know if he would be able to make anything of more of this chance, but they'd brought him back, and they'd made clear the stakes at risk.

He would be ready, if it came. The Maker as his witness.

Comments

[dreadinquisitor]

Understanding washed suddenly over his face, wrinkled confusion smoothing from his brow. He might not still be entirely sure what a 'camera' looked like, or what a microphone was, but he understood the concept of machines and the varied breadth the Capitol seemed to have them in.

"Ah," he breathed, nodding. "It's how they get our likenesses. ...But I thought that's what you wanted?"

Not that he didn't appreciate someone actually caring that they might not want to be whored out to an entire country; it was just surprising to hear.

"In order to provide sponsors and supplies in the arena."

[conifer]

"Sure, to an extent," Emily agrees. "But there's a delicate balance with the media, showing just enough of you and in the best light rather than letting them show all the unflattering footage they can get their hands on." She knew Jason would have a fit if the tabloids published pictures of their Tributes in the bathroom, for instance. "...And speaking as someone who's been in the same position, I want to make sure my charges have some measure of privacy. No one needs to see them sleeping. Official security footage to keep you all safe is one thing, reporters bugging your beds is quite another." She still felt queasy at Quintus' hints that her own thrashing about in the nightmares of her arena might be picked up and aired by the media.

[dreadinquisitor]

His mouth pursed, a small line creasing his nose. He'd known the devices were numerous, but hadn't realized they went quite that far.

"How do you do it?" he asked her honestly. "How do any of you live like this? Knowing every private moment is being seen by someone?"

Did they just - get used to it?

He couldn't imagine how.

[conifer]

Emily shrugs. She wasn't entirely sure herself; it's just the way things were. "We were always watched a lot back in my home, in District Seven. Not cameras or bugs, but there were plenty of Peacekeepers everywhere keeping a close eye on us." Especially with the majority of the citizens working in the forests with axes, the Peacekeeper presence in Seven had always been substantial. "In some ways this is just an extension of it. But in others..." Her brow furrows over. She'd never enjoyed the fame that came with being first a Tribute and then a Victor, had never adjusted to it, and had been relieved when Johanna had won the Games just two years after her, to take the spotlight of being a Victor from Seven away from her. "You just have to grit your teeth and put up with it, a lot of the time. Especially as a Tribute."

[dreadinquisitor]

"There seems a lot of that is expected to happen," he muttered, but it wasn't directed at her. He knew it wasn't her fault personally.

And it was a reminder that he'd have to pick his battles carefully.

"Speaking of, I would like to visit - to watch for Dorian. I know Jason is... uncomfortable that. Do you have any tips for avoiding him? I don't want to make Dorian's time with him any more difficult than it already is."