Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It's not until the moon slips behind the clouds, covering the arena in a funeral shroud of shadow, that Wellie finally stirs, the motions crinkling the tarp that Maysilee had managed to wrap around her.

"Don't leave me again."

Her voice is so quiet and pathetically weak that it makes Maysilee's stomach lurch. Despite the darkness of the world around her, Maysilee can still see the glinting of Wellie's glassy eyes, trembling just like the rest of her far-too-small figure. The combination of it all— the darkness, the fear so present in Wellie's voice— brings with it a surge of panic, and so Maysilee clings to the wet bark of the tree for support, forces herself to suck in a few calming breaths.

"I never left you," she manages, though the words don't come out nearly as comforting as she'd hoped. "I got separated looking for Lou Lou. Couldn't find my way back."

It's a half-truth, the kind that tastes of bitter poison on Maysilee's tongue. Because yes, Maysilee had gotten separated from the group when she'd fled after Lou Lou, and yes, Maysilee had spent a good amount of time frantically trying to retrace her steps, to relocate her allies. But after the arena had malfunctioned, after the volcano had exploded, she'd given up searching for the Newcomers.

She'd given up searching for them in favor of searching for—

Another crack of thunder, a few fat drops of rain. Maysilee digs her nails into the tree trunk again. Presses back until the bark digs into the notches of her spine through her shirt, hunching in on herself as her teeth begin to chatter.

"Point is, I'm not leaving you again," Maysilee promises. "Like you said in your interview. Us Newcomers— we've all sworn to protect each other to the end."

A small fork of lightning splits the darkened clouds. In the brief moment of light, she can see Wellie lift her eyes to the sky. Wellie's lips have gone purple from the cold, cracked and barely able to move, but her lower lip is trembling. When the light begins to fade again, Wellie's eyes go strangely distant, her fingers loosen slightly on the small knife clutched in her hand.

"I want it to be the end."

Wellie is fully trembling now, spasming with a small whimper, and when Maysilee touches her forehead, it feels like cold marble beneath her fingertips. Maysilee steels herself, fumbles blindly in the darkness in an attempt to tuck the blanket and tarp more securely around Wellie's body.

"Don't say that," Maysilee pleads, her voice cracking, hands shaking. "Wellie—"

"I want it to be over," Wellie whimpers. "I-I'm hurting all over, and I… I feel like I'm going to throw up—"

Panic seizes in Maysilee's chest. She has to fight the urge to clap a hand over Wellie's mouth, to shout at her.

Wellie was starving— Maysilee had been able to tell from the moment her eyes had landed on Wellie's shrunken form— but she didn't know how to help her. Unlike any of the kids in the Seam, she'd never dealt with someone who was on the verge of starvation before.

So she'd panicked, her mind overcome with nothing except the desire to get food into Wellie as quickly as possible. And when Wellie had seemed barely able to swallow anything that Maysilee had given her, that panic had only increased, her pleading growing more frantic as she tried to pour water down Wellie's throat, slip the small amount of food Maysilee had left in her pack into Wellie's mouth.

"Don't throw up," Maysilee says, a bit too sharply. "You need to keep the food down—"

Another roll of thunder. In the darkness, she sees Wellie's body seize, sees her face screw up in pain. There's a small, pained wheezing sound, and by the time Maysilee recognizes it— a breathless and weakened sob— Wellie has already burst into a series of agonizing wails, curling in on herself as she begins to sob uncontrollably.

"Wellie—?!"

"I want it to be over!" Wellie cries, "I don't want to be here anymore, I don't want to lie here in the dark, I want to be done, I…" The end of her sentence trails off into a pained moan, a brief moment of silence, and then a ragged gasp, like a drowning person coming up for air. "I just wanna die already!"

The way that Maysilee's heart twists at the words— it shocks her how sharply painful it is.

After a day of grief and loss, she'd thought that her wrung-out and exhausted heart would be unable to muster another ounce of sorrow, but that wasn't the case at all. Instead, her grief seems to be all the more agonizing, like she's clenching a bruised and battered muscle as hard as she can.

Because those words already sound unnatural coming from someone so young. But for them to have come from Wellie— small, sweet Wellie, who sat so straight and spoke with such confidence at that first Newcomers lunch, during her interview with Caesar, whose trust in her allies remained unwavering despite the very nature of the Games themselves. Wellie, who, despite everything that had happened to her, remained hopeful, trusting, steadfast as the roots of a tree…

The words act as a final confirmation, unmistakable proof of all that the Capitol had taken from her.

She's fumbling with the pack, desperately wondering if it's possible to start a fire in the midst of this storm, when her hands bump against one of the potatoes within. She pauses, her half-gone mind halting, then slowly whirring back into gear again, blurry images of the training center flickering in her vision.

Beetee's station— she hadn't devoted her full attention to Beetee's demonstration, what with them discussing rebel plans and all. But she's not certain that she could start a fire up here, what with the rain and no fuel, and well, she'd gone through all the trouble of sneaking that potato battery kit into the arena; she might as well use it.

Wellie's sobbing continues as Maysilee props her pack in her lap, her hands shaking as she cuts the potato in half. She has to squint to make out the individual parts in the darkness, but after a few minutes of struggling, another few false starts, she finally manages to attach the last wire to the small bulb. As soon as it illuminates, as soon as the dim glow washes over Maysilee's face, something inside of her finally quiets, the noise in her head fading enough for her to finally breathe again.

In most circumstances, the light would be negligible. But in the gloom of the arena, it feels like life itself.

It takes her a moment to realize that Wellie's sobs have faded. When she turns, she can see Wellie's eyes locked onto the potato light, her shoulders heaving unevenly in a small sigh. Maysilee gives her what she hopes is a reassuring smile as she reaches up to wipe her face— the raindrops, thankfully, hide the tears that had slipped free from view.

And that's when she catches sight of her hands. The sticky crimson painted on her fingers, caked beneath her nails in crescent shapes of rust. She feels herself freeze in place, feels her throat bob as her vision begins to blur, as her hands begin to shake uncontrollably, her breath catching painfully in her chest.

Less than a day ago— this morning— she was watching the sun rise, unpacking and delicately arranging the contents of the most recent sponsor gift on a tarp like a picnic as quickly as she could, giddy with anticipation at the thought of her ally's reaction to their fortune.

And sure enough, at the sight of the feast Maysilee had so carefully laid out— the handerchiefs folded like napkins and the delicate blossom placed in the wineglass she'd been gifted— Haymitch's whole face had lit up like the sun. A flash of real, true happiness in the midst of the arena.

Just this morning, she'd been sitting with Haymitch, the two of them passing the bottle of buttermilk between them as they gorged themselves on peaches and fresh corn bread. He'd scooted closer to her, pushed the last of the peach wedges her way, thanked her for setting out the breakfast so fancy, and she'd shrugged, said something about kicking off the day with a poster. He'd glanced around them, brow furrowed as if puzzling something together.

She couldn't tell if he was picking up on all the meanings of the picnic: the notes of rebellion against the Capitol, of course, but more than that, the gesture of gratitude.

More than gratitude, actually. Something deeper, the kind that couldn't be neatly put into words.

Because she'd awoken for her watch with a strange sort of giddiness, a levity in her chest. And she'd spent the morning trying and failing, over and over, to put into words what his acceptance of her from the night before had meant to her. What his promise of family meant to her, especially after everything he'd come to know about her. Even as he took in the picnic, carefully considering each carefully-arranged part, she found herself desperately trying and failing once more to call to mind something, anything to say on the matter.

And then, she'd seen it click. She'd seen his face softening with understanding for a moment before he turned to her, his smile crooked as he nudged her with his elbow.

"Nice paint job," he'd said. Simple as that.

That was when Maysilee learned that when someone knows you— really knows you— there's no need for the perfect words.

Just this morning, she'd been smiling at Haymitch— shoulders pressed together, stomachs wonderfully full— and she'd been weightless. Another flash of real, true happiness in the midst of the arena.

And here she is now. Shivering against the trunk of a tree, her ally wasting away beside her, and her hands still stained in Haymitch's blood.

How could it have only been this morning?

There's no time for grieving in the arena, Maysilee has learned. Her body must still be catching up to that fact, because ever since she'd pressed that final kiss to Haymitch's forehead, it can't seem to decide how to cope with the sudden loss. She'd been numb as she gathered up the supplies, numb as she'd watched his body be lifted into the hovercraft. Even as she'd wandered through the forest, calling out Wellie's name, she'd felt completely numb, strangely detached. There was no way that she was the one who was pushing her body to move; she was watching someone else, something alien, going through the motions of her life.

She can feel a breakdown fast approaching— can feel the weight of everything that had transpired that day begin to swing back like a pendulum, ready to swing forward and knock her over— when she hears something catch in the leaves above her head.

The rain has stopped. When she finally manages to pluck the parachute down from above her, opens it to reveal the contents within— a cup of vanilla pudding, a container of hearty stew, and a few candy balls wrapped in crinkly paper— she feels a small surge of hope, a larger one of relief. Someone in the Capitol still has a heart.

"Here," Maysilee manages, shivering so hard that she can barely hold the spoon that comes with the gifts. "Wellie, come on—"

"No," Wellie whimpers, so faint that Maysilee can barely hear it. "No, I-I feel really sick, I can't—"

"I know, I know. But you need your strength, because you know what? You're gonna win these Games. I always thought you'd be a great victor, you know why?"

Wellie's face pinches with confusion, doubt flickering across her features like the shadow of a mockingjay flying through moonlight. After a moment, she shakes her head. So Maysilee steels herself, meets Wellie's eyes with as much steadfast determination as she can muster.

Her words come out forceful, almost frightening in their intensity.

"Because life isn't finished with you yet. You have so much left to do, so much left to give, and there is so much out there that's just waiting for you. Things you won't want to miss. There's food and warmth and so many things you don't even know about yet that you're gonna see. There are people who love you more than anything in the world waiting for you back home, and as soon as they see you, they're gonna wrap their arms around you and hold you so tight that nothing bad will ever be able to reach you again." She places a hand on Wellie's shoulder, swallows back the lump that's formed in her throat. "And most of all? You're a Newcomer. The Newcomers may have been Ampert's idea, but you made us into what we were. You were what made the Capitol believe in us, and you were the guiding voice throughout all of it. You didn't come all this way just to lie there and give up now, do you understand me?!"

Wellie drinks in the words like she's starving for them. She is starving for them in every way imaginable. Maysilee watches her tear up, then steel herself with determination, her jaw hardening as she stares up at Maysilee.

"Okay," she says finally. Her voice is still so small and meek, even with the newfound determination behind it. "For the others."

True to her word, Wellie fights. She gets down most of the stew, a few dribbles of pudding. In the time that it takes for Maysilee to unwrap a chocolate ball and turn to Wellie, she's fallen asleep, her breathing slow and hitching slightly. Her face is pale, still cold as marble, but Maysilee tries to remind herself that it's temporary. She tries to tell herself that surely, when Wellie wakes tomorrow, she'll have some of her strength back. She'll be able to see this thing through to the end.

She's about to doze off when she hears rustling from below, the sound of someone slowing to a halt. Silka is down below, Maysilee realizes. She quickly shifts her position, keeping one hand pressed against the trunk of the tree, the other fumbling with the blowgun around her neck as she leans forward. No matter how hard she squints, she can't make out Silka's form in the darkness below, and she wonders briefly if she should just fire a shot into the darkness, if the chance of being able to take Silka by surprise would be worth the risk of giving away her and Wellie's hiding place.

She's startled out of her thoughts by the sobbing. The whimpers and sniffles rising from below, the minute shifting sounds, like Silka is leaning up against a tree, and then Maysilee remembers that Marritte's face had appeared in the sky before Haymitch's. That much like Maysilee, Silka had lost an ally today.

That realization makes Maysilee sink back against the tree once more, her eyes closing as she sucks in a slow, shuddering breath.

When she finally manages to open her eyes again, she's reminded of the chocolate ball, still clutched in her hand. She lifts it up, carefully considers it for a moment— it's almost identical to the chocolates her father makes for the window displays. In fact, if she focuses her attention just on the candy, blocks out everything else, she can almost hear her father's absentminded whistling, the sound of chocolate bubbling in a pot on the stove.

She's always hated sweets. But when the chocolate hits her tongue, she finds that the taste is overpowered by the feeling of returning home. A piece of home, of her family, here in the arena.

And then, Maysilee is crying too. Quieter than Silka, but still.

She presses her bloodstained hands to her face, and in the darkness of night, in the midst of the final three human heartbeats in the arena, she lets the grief of it all— being the last person alive of her District group, losing the one brother she had, losing her family and home and life, all in one fell swoop— overcome her. Just for a little while.

Here in the arena, in this moment, there's no comfort to be had for any of them. Especially not Maysilee. She can only hope that the taste of chocolate will still be on her tongue when she dies.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Every time Maysilee goes to visit the Capitol, regardless of the reason for doing so, she always seems to discover something new about herself.

In her first visit, she'd discovered a plethora of things about herself, about her mind, her identity, most of which were dark and twisted in ways she's still struggling to come to terms with years later. The second visit had brought Maysilee's growing feelings for Lenore Dove into sharp focus, making them impossible for her to deny any longer, and in her third, most harrowing visit of all, she'd not only discovered in grotesque detail just how far her own self-destructing nature would push her, but also the painful thrill and devastation that came with finally reaching that low. Regardless of exactly why she finds herself back in this city of luxurious gluttony, the Capitol has always been able to bring out the darkest, most well-hidden parts of Maysilee into the ugly light of day, both petty and non-petty alike.

And this time is no exception. Because walking up the stairs of Snow's mansion, surrounded by the wild flash of cameras after a full day of tension-filled prep— after seeing her stylist let out the waist of Maysilee's dress with furious snaps of a seam ripper, after squeezing into a full-bust "slimming" shapewear garment before being forcefully laced into a corset, after seeing the hastily-added adjustable lacing sewn into the back of her dress and watching as her stylist tied a hand-stitched belt around Maysilee to hide it— Maysilee learns that she's become incredibly self-conscious about her own body and appearence.

She had promised Lenore Dove that the two of them would stick together throughout the night, and she does her best to keep that promise. But the cameras everywhere have filled her with a kind of bizarre paranoia, and so time and time again, she finds herself excusing herself to go look in the bathroom mirror. She finds herself developing a new ritual of checking her makeup, adjusting her jewelry, then the sheer, flowing sleeves of her gown. She tightens the velvet belt around her waist, fusses with her jewelry and hair, and then she spends a solid few minutes just staring at herself. Testing out different positions and facial expressions, frantically looking for any sign of strain or unflattering swells in her form.

Why does it matter?! she demands of her reflection, her throat bobbing uneasily as she runs a set of fingers beneath her chin. You don't even like these people. You never have.

There's a small smudge of eyeshadow on the corner of her left eye. A slight faded quality to the wine-colored wax painted on her lips. Her hands shake as she pulls open her purse, as she dabs away the smudge with a cotton pad before fumbling for her lipstick.

They're hideous, spoiled brats who wouldn't know good fashion if it walked up and bit their nose off. She flinches as the lipstick cap clatters into the basin of the sink, then twists the tube, places a hand on the counter in a vain attempt to steady herself. It shouldn't matter what they think of you or your body.

She smears a new coat over her lips. It comes out unevenly, part of it leaking into the corner of her mouth. She grits her teeth, her ears beginning to ring as she stares herself down, irritation darkening her eyes and face.

Just brush off their remarks.

Why are you letting them affect you like this?

She sucks in a forceful breath, a burning lump forming in her throat as she fumbles blindly for the lipstick cap.

Why are you giving them the satisfaction of wanting their approval?!

Why are you letting them have power like this over you?!

There's a knock, a faint chirping of, "Maysilee?" The bathroom door swings open right as Maysilee forcefully jams the cap back on the tube of lipstick.

"Oh! There you are! Goodness, I was looking for you everywhere!" Effie fumbles with the door for a moment, chuckling to herself as she smooths out the magenta ruffles on her skirt. "I apologize for barging in, but I had to find you—"

Her eyes finally land on Maysilee, and apparently, the sight is enough to make her stop in her tracks. She stands there a moment, her forehead creasing as she takes in Maysilee's appearance.

"Is everything okay?"

Maysilee glances down at the sink. The lipstick is still clutched in her hands, and she realizes with a sickening start that she hadn't twisted the lipstick back down again before capping it. Uncapping it again reveals the mishappen wax stick within, the streaks of wine painted along the inner walls. She stares at it a moment, her throat making a strange clicking noise as she swallows.

"Yes," she says. "Was just having trouble touching up my makeup, that's all."

Thankfully, Effie doesn't seem to notice her distress. Effie's inability to read the room is an aspect of her that Maysilee has found to be both a blessing and a curse.

"Oh! Oh, you should have come to me sooner!" Effie bustles further in, pulls another cotton pad out of Maysilee's purse with a dazzling smile. Maysilee doesn't protest, just remains still as Effie strains on the toes of her kitten heels, presses her fingers under Maysilee's chin, scrunches her face in concentration as she begins to delicately dab at the lipstick on the corner of Maysilee's mouth.

Maysilee glances down at the ruined golden casing of the lipstick, at the small bit of broken wax that's stained her thumb. She thinks about how the lipstick she'd broken in her anger probably costs enough to feed an average family in Twelve for a week, prays that her expression doesn't betray the way her stomach lurches at the thought.

"Oh, don't worry your pretty little head about that lipstick! I break my makeup all the time; I swear, I lose half my lipsticks the same way!" Effie gestures for Maysilee to part her lips, uses the pad of her index finger to smooth out the shaky lines, and even out the spread. When she's done, she takes a step back, observes Maysilee a moment longer before giving a giddy nod. "There! Just like new!"

Maysilee looks up at her reflection. Takes in the Capitol finery, the glittering swirls of diamond flowers on her sleeves, the artificial shine of her blonde curls, the overly-painted quality of her face. The corset suddenly feels suffocating, the painful throbbing of her ribs bringing a mistiness to her eyes.

Still a doll.

A doll who is painting over the fissures of her exterior in a desperate attempt to distract from the missing pieces that have been cracked or snapped off entirely.

More than a year has passed, one where so much has happened. And yet, she's still here. Like she's back in that victor's house, staring at her reflection in a strange sort of panic, and praying that her current beauty will somehow make the ugly emotions that come with still being alive disappear.

"Thank you," she manages, meeting Effie's eyes in the mirror as she gives her a tight-lipped smile.

"Why, of course!" Effie beams. She wraps an arm around Maysilee's waist, presses her cheek to Maysilee's shoulder with a happy sigh. "Someone who's been through what you've been through in honor of the Capitol— they deserve to look beautiful."

The embrace is likely meant to feel comforting. It's likely meant to invoke the image of an older sister. But paired with Effie's remark, and paired with the unpleasantness of the banquet so far in general, Maysilee finds that it makes her skin crawl. It feels strangely suffocating, like Effie is pulling Maysilee further into the Capitol crowd, dressing her in finery and embracing her like a sister.

Maysilee shakes the thoughts from her mind. Gives the back of one of Effie's hands an awkward pat.

"And thank you for helping with Lenore Dove. Truth be told, I…" She feels the emotions rise and quickly catches herself, considers her words for a moment. "I'm just glad she's here. She wouldn't have been able to attend without your help, so—"

"Oh, it was no problem, really. Besides, I was looking to get rid of that old dress for a while now." Effie suddenly brightens, lifts her head from Maysilee's shoulder. "Now come on! We've got less than an hour until midnight, and oh, Maysilee, you won't believe who I found—"

She's still chattering as she grasps hold of Maysilee's hand and tugs her along, out of the bathroom and back into the main ballroom once more.

The room has darkened, with most everyone fixated on the massive screen that has been installed in the ceiling, on every wall of the ballroom; throughout the night, Caesar has been presenting a new montage of "Capitol highlights" from this year. They'd been more spaced out at first, but with it now being so close to midnight, a new montage has been running every fifteen minutes. The current one that's playing is cycling through footage of a fashion show that Maysilee hadn't attended. Effie keeps glancing up as she moves, shrieking with delight when she sees Proserpina strutting down the runway, shouts, "Oh, that's my sister! That's my sister!"

When the video finally ends, the screens return to their default appearance, mimicking the walls of Snow's ballroom except with picture frames that each contain a slideshow of photographs. The audience erupts into uproarious applause, but Effie doesn't even slow, still weaving through the crowd at the edge of the dance floor, her chipper "Excuse me! Pardon me, so sorry—!" barely audible beneath the music. With the lights now on again, Maysilee's eyes catch the band that sits on the stage in the middle of the dance floor, who stand out starkly amidst the swirling, vibrantly colored garments of the dancers, what with their matching gowns and tuxes of flowing white silk, a color that complements their towering hairdos and crystal instruments. A little further in, the crowd thins out, revealing the lines and lines of round dining tables. The crystal chandeliers throw sparkling light over the beautiful porcelain dishes, the towers of food piled on plates and the buffet table, although it's unable to reach the Avoxes that all line the perimeter of the ballroom, what with their faces hidden in the shadows from the balcony above them.

Maysilee keeps looking up to scan the faces of the people on the balconies. It's another habit that she's picked up throughout the night, one born from a strange concoction of intense paranoia and protectiveness. As such, she doesn't see the person Effie is leading her up to until Effie suddenly stops in her tracks, gently tugging Maysilee to her side, her bright and cheery voice suddenly nervous.

"Maysilee, darling, you remember Drusilla, right?"

At the name, Maysilee's blood turns to ice in her veins. She looks down, and as soon as her eyes land on the woman, she has to fight the urge to immediately let out a shriek of delighted horror.

It takes her a moment to confirm that the woman before her is indeed Drusilla— it seems that in Maysilee's absence, Drusilla had decided to double down on the plastic surgeries, which was a massive mistake, to say the least. Her pale and overly puffy face is a stark contrast to the hideous, lumpy mass of orange and lavender puffs of fabric that Maysilee thinks is supposed to be a dress, her eyes beady and barely visible as they leer up at Maysilee. A golden and jewel-studded walker sits beside her chair, an overstuffed purse resting in her clawed hands, which are trembling slightly, her fingers curling in on themselves like they're fighting the urge to sink their sharp nails into Maysilee's skin.

"I know the two of you had a bit of a… well, a combative relationship," Effie says, giving Drusilla a pointed look. "And with Maysilee now a victor, I just thought that it might be nice to start fresh? You know, wipe the slate clean, that sort of thing."

For a few seconds, all Maysilee can do is stare at Drusilla, completely silent, still unsure of whether she should burst out into laughter or shriek in disgust. More than anything, she feels a gleeful sense of victory rising in her chest. She allows herself a petty moment just to indulge in it, to revel in the absolute trainwreck that the life of Drusilla Sickle had apparently become while they were separated.

But finally, she can see the muscles of Drusilla's cheeks strain, her puffy lips curling into something that is probably supposed to resemble a smile.

"Ah! Hello, Miss Donner. Why, you look…" Drusilla wheezes. She pauses, sucks in a forceful breath through her nose, and exhales with another wheezing sound. "…well, how long has it been?"

Maysilee has to immediately press her lips together to keep from bursting out into laughter, a task that's only made harder when she sees Drusilla bristle indignantly. She can feel Effie's quiet anticipation of her words, so after a moment of quiet struggle, Maysilee smooths out her face, paints a condescending and sugary-sweet grimace on her face.

"Oh, Drusi! Too long, that's for certain!" Maysilee moves into the seat next to Drusilla, flutters her lashes in faux innocence. "I mean, my goodness! You'd think it had been years, considering how…" She pauses, pretends to consider Drusilla. "…well, how different you look from the last time I saw you!"

The barely-concealed insult lands exactly how Maysilee had hoped it would, judging by the way Drusilla's teeth grind in her smile.

"And somehow, you're exactly the same!" Drusilla chitters, her cheery tone contrasting with the way her eyes flash menacingly. "All the luxuries in the Capitol can't change you, isn't that so?!" She reaches forward, makes an attempt to teasingly jab at Maysilee's ribs, each poke emphasizing her words. "Still that same nasty! Little! Shrew! Just like you were the first time I met you!"

The corset, thankfully, means that no real pain registers, much to Drusilla's annoyance. Maysilee smacks Drusilla's hand away, hard enough that she knows it will sting, and then both Maysilee and Drusilla burst into a fit of high-pitched giggles, overly-cheery but unsuccessful in hiding the loathing between them. Maysilee can see Effie's eyes dart between them before she hesitantly tries to join in the laughter, moving to pull up another chair so that they're all sitting in a circle.

"Oh, but I did miss you!" Maysilee says, dripping with sugar. "I was hoping to see you again on my Victor's tour."

"Oh, she couldn't make it!" Effie cuts in, reaching over to reassuringly pat Drusilla's shoulder. "Poor Drusilla had a nasty fall down an escalator. Broke her hip. She's gotten a lot better, but the doctor still has her on a lot of pain medications, I think."

"Fell down an escalator?!" Maysilee snorts, quickly pressing a hand over her mouth. After a moment, she lowers it again, giving Drusilla an exaggerated pout. "Oh, Drusi! Don't tell me— it was the heels, wasn't it?!"

Drusilla opens her mouth to retort, but Effie cuts in. "Yes, I'm afraid it was. Her heel slipped off the edge of one of the stairs, and she just tumbled right down!"

"Oh, Drusi!" Maysilee draws out the nickname, thrilling in the redness that she can see darkening beneath Drusilla's thick makeup (god, she'd forgotten how easy, how fun it was to rile Drusilla up like this—). "I did try to warn you; those heels were much too tall for you! People your age should never be that high off the ground."

Drusilla's growl of anger morphs into a shrill barking sound that barely even sounds like a laugh.

"Ha! Funny as ever! And best of all, you still have that pesky little mouth—!" She pounds the table just a little too hard, and Effie flinches as the motion makes the dishes jump, with small bits of food and droplets of champagne splashing onto the tablecloth. Drusilla quickly retracts her hand again, her knuckles going pale as she clutches her purse, baring her teeth at Maysilee. "Why, when I heard you were on the guest list for this party, I just about screamed!"

"Well, I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you," Maysilee coos. "After all, you were the one who first said you wanted me to win— isn't that so?"

Drusilla's lips part as if to deliver some overly pitying and cutting remark— one could dream, oh, could Maysilee play this game all night if only Drusilla would let her— only for her eyes to catch something behind Maysilee. She freezes, her stiffened brows moving downwards ever so slightly as if puzzling over something.

"What's wrong, Drusi?" Maysilee asks innocently. "Did all that poison you pumped into your face finally reach your brain?"

"That girl…" Drusilla pauses again, blinks a few times. "…she's the one who came with you, right?"

Maysilee turns, craning her head over her shoulder, and she catches sight of Lenore Dove almost immediately.

Even now, even while Lenore Dove weaves through the crowd of guests, clutching a pair of champagne glasses, nervously ducking her head to avoid making eye contact with the Capitol people around her, Maysilee is still caught off guard by the sheer loveliness of Lenore Dove. Her eyes drink it in automatically now, quietly taking in the puffy sleeves and low neckline of Lenore Dove's mint-julep slip dress, the soft shine of the pearls that adorn her ears and wrists, the way the dark curls that Maysilee had so carefully styled frame the soft prettiness of her face.

For what must be the hundredth time since Lenore Dove had first emerged from her bedroom this morning with Effie, Maysilee feels her heart catch in her chest, feels a rush of fondness so immense that it makes her lightheaded.

"Lenore Dove!" Effie calls, raising her hand and wiggling her fingers to get Lenore Dove's attention. "Over here!"

As soon as her eyes land on Maysilee, Lenore Dove seems to unwind, the tension in her body lessening slightly. And like so many times before, even in circumstances such as these, Lenore Dove's presence alone has the power to make everything else fade to the background. Even if just for a moment.

"She looks familiar," Drusilla muses. "I thought it was just my imagination yesterday, but seeing her again—"

"There you are!" Effie chirps, bouncing to her feet to wrap her arms around Lenore Dove. "Goodness, you and Maysilee both have a habit of just running off on me!"

Lenore Dove, who still has the champagne glasses in her hands, goes completely still, hands frozen in place, her eyes darting around uncertainly before Effie releases her. She clears her throat, manages a shaky smile.

"Just getting champagne," she says. "Got lost in this big room, that's all." She glances over at Maysilee, her eyes softening as her lips curve into a shy smile that always makes Maysilee's heart flutter. As if purely by instinct, Lenore Dove moves to press a kiss to Maysilee's forehead, but quickly catches herself, placing one of the champagne glasses on the table next to Maysilee instead. Her cheeks darken as she moves to pull out a nearby chair, turning it to join the circle as well.

As soon as Lenore Dove sits, Maysilee is made horrifically aware of the precariousness of their current arrangement. She feels an uneasy panic spiking in her chest as she glances at Drusilla, mind scrambling as she frantically tries to think of a way to subtly warn Lenore Dove of the woman's presence, but by then, it's too late; Lenore Dove is lifting her own glass to her lips when she catches sight of Drusilla. She immediately goes still again, champagne flute frozen in midair, her eyes widening in shock.

Unaware of Lenore Dove's horror, Effie jumps in, gesturing excitedly between them.

"Drusilla, this is Lenore Dove. Lenore Dove, I'm sure you remember the woman who used to do the reaping for Twelve?"

Something sparks to life in Lenore Dove's eyes, something that makes her jaw go tight, makes her fingers clench and her shoulders rise. Drusilla doesn't seem to notice the change in Lenore Dove— she blinks a few times, leans forward as if to get a closer look.

"Lenore…" Drusilla frowns. "You're the girl who came in with Maysilee yesterday, right?"

After a moment, Lenore Dove manages a stiff nod, her whole body rigid as she sets her glass down on the table closest to her. Her arms come up to fold over her chest, and Maysilee can see the way her skin vibrates with a barely- controlled rage, the motion almost too subtle to be visible.

"It's Lenore Dove," she says, low and cutting. "Maysilee's told me all about you."

Maysilee blinks, her brow furrowing. It takes her a second, but after some mental strain, her mind brings forth a hazy, dream-like memory from the recesses of her consciousness— the warmth of her bed back home, the familiar sensation of Lenore Dove's arms wrapped around her hunched figure, her fingers in Maysilee's hair. Maysilee's eyelids were heavy as lead, and her lips were pressed to the small space between Lenore Dove's collarbones, moving against that patch of sleep-warm skin as she recounted her nightmare, mumbling something about Drusilla hitting her, striking her with a riding crop, something about how the marks had gone up in agonizing flames as soon as the insecticide in the showers touched her skin.

She'd barely been awake then, had fallen asleep almost immediately after recounting that story. But while the memory had slipped Maysilee's mind by the next morning, apparently Lenore Dove had clung to it.

Because now, here she was, glowering at Drusilla with the power of a thousand suns, her body poised as if fighting the urge to lunge at the woman.

"Oh, I'm sure she has," Drusilla says, wheezing out a strange sort of chuckle. She reaches for a cream puff, strains to pop it in her mouth. She chews for a moment, then gestures to Maysilee with a mischievous giggle. "Say, did she tell you about the stunt I had to pull to save her reaping?"

The words hit Maysilee like a sledgehammer to the back of the skull. She sees Lenore Dove flinch, sees her throat bob as her brow furrows and her eyes darken. Lenore Dove folds her shaking hands, looks down at her lap as she screws her eyes shut and sucks in a long, shaking breath that seems to do nothing to dissuade the swell of emotion that's clearly rising in her, hot and unforgiving.

"You had to save Maysilee's reaping?!" Effie gasps, sitting forward in her seat. "Goodness, what happened?!"

There's a small glob of cream on the corner of Drusilla's lips. Maysilee watches, paralyzed by a strange mixture of fear and disgust, as it slips down Drusilla's chin, landing on one of the hideous orange ruffles on the collar of her dress as she swallows. Drusilla, of course, doesn't see it. Instead, Drusilla's face shifts into a gleefully mutilated expression that Maysilee now knows is a smile. She gives another mischievous giggle as she reaches into her purse, unscrewing the cap on something and tipping it into her mouth before stowing it in her purse, clearing her throat before launching into the story.

"Oh, it was such a catastrophe! See, one of the boy tributes from Twelve— well, he wasn't the name pulled in the Reaping! See, I had actually originally pulled a different boy's name the first time, and as soon as I did, the entire district erupted into a riot—!"

"It wasn't a riot," Lenore Dove grits out, quiet and seething. Maysilee can see the tears gathering in Lenore Dove's eyes as they flutter open, still locked on her shaking hands. "Those Peacekeepers—"

"—the Peacekeepers had to actually fire their rifles just to get them back in order!" Drusilla exclaims. "And to make matters worse, one of the bullets accidentally hit the boy who'd been called! Threw everything completely off! We managed to cut the feed before that footage could get to the Capitol, but now we only had minutes to clean up the blood and draw a new name!"

"Oh my word! A District riot, that sounds terrifying!" Effie presses a hand over her heart, her face one of horrified sympathy. She pauses a moment, tilting her head as if trying to remember something. "Wait… which one of the District Twelve boys replaced the first one?"

Maysilee can sense the rising tension in Lenore Dove, so thick and heady that it feels like she could choke on it. Maysilee tries to stand, tries to grab Lenore Dove's hand and guide her away.

"It doesn't matter," Maysilee says, trying to shoot Effie a pointed look. "Let's not—"

"Oh, I can never remember his name," Drusilla huffs. "It was far too long! Plutarch had to write it down for me. What was it again…?" She snaps her fingers a few times, pinches the bridge of her nose. "Started with an H… Hamwitch, I think? No, Hamish… Hamish Abernanny—?"

At the sound of that final botched name leaving Drusilla's lips, Lenore Dove's head snaps up, the motion so sharp that it makes everyone jump, their heads turning to look at her.

"His name was Haymitch!" Lenore Dove snaps. "And it wasn't a riot! Woodbine ran, and you shot him! Your people murdered him!"

There's a small stretch of shocked silence, one that contrasts sharply with the pleasant chatter that fills the rest of the ballroom surrounding them. Finally, Maysilee can see Drusilla's beady little eyes widen in recognition, her lips parting in shock.

"You…" A single, sharp talon comes up to point at Lenore Dove. "I remember you now— you were the girl fighting the Peacekeepers. You're the girl who started the riot that day."

"I didn't start a riot," Lenore Dove says. "And I wasn't trying to fight the Peacekeepers, I just wanted them to let Woodbine's ma have his body. Hell, if those Peacekeepers had even just let her say goodbye, then there wouldn't have been any trouble!"

There's a heartwrenching sort of helplessness to Lenore Dove's voice. Maysilee reaches to press a hand to Lenore Dove's knee, shooting Effie an even sharper look than before, a silent plea for intervention, but Effie isn't looking her way. Her eyes are cast downwards, her brow furrowing as if in thought.

"Wait… you started the riot? But if Woodbine was the first boy…" Effie blinks. Glances uneasily between them, makes a noise of confusion. "I don't understand— did the riot happen before or after he died?! Because you said before, but now she's saying—?"

"You could have cost me my job, you little brat!" Drusilla hisses. "You have no idea how lucky you are that Plutarch ordered to keep you alive! If someone had spit on the legacy of Capitol tradition like that in my day, we would have shot them on site—!" She catches herself, sitting back in her chair and shooting an exasperated look Effie's way with an indignant sniff. "Well… I didn't know that violent criminals were allowed to just waltz into our president's home whenever they pleased."

The protective anger that had been simmering beneath the surface of Maysilee's skin throughout this entire conversation— throughout the entire evening, for that matter— suddenly spikes, too sharp and abrupt to ignore. The angry creature that she's come to know as a part of herself roars to life in her ribs, hot enough to blur her vision, to bring a slight flush to her skin.

But before she can speak, Lenore Dove beats her to it, her words sharp and almost horrifically precise.

"That so?" Lenore Dove sneers, giving Drusilla's swollen face and hideous dress a disgusted once-over. "Well, I didn't know that botched Capitol mutts were allowed in here either, but I guess we're both learning new things tonight!"

This time, when Drusilla slams her fist on the table, it's hard enough to topple several drinks. Several liquids splash across the white tablecloth, and Drusilla lets out a shrill yipping sound as a glass of red wine spills down the front of her dress.

Lenore Dove's words seem to have caught some people's attention, because several heads had turned to gawk at Drusilla, a fact that seems to make Drusilla's embarrassment double. After a few moments of glancing around, she lets out an enraged howling sound, her purse falling from her lap and spilling across the floor as she lunges to her feet.

She must think there's some lack of dignity in using her walker, because she doesn't even touch it, instead electing to start hobbling away. But this quickly proves to be a mistake; her movements are so wild and uncoordinated that some of the guests begin to laugh, and then it's a cycle of laughter followed by faster limping, over and over again, until people are clutching their ribs, laughing so hard that Effie's panicked rambling can barely be heard beneath it.

"Maysilee, help me! Get her things!" Effie gestures to the large variety of items scattered around them. "Just stuff them into her purse as best you can, I can try to catch her before she makes it outside—!"

Maysilee rolls her eyes— after everything that she'd just witnessed the vile things that Drusilla and Effie were saying to each other, Maysilee is certainly not interested in helping either one of them— but after a few seconds of watching Effie struggle to gather the bits of makeup and various trinkets scattered around them, she finally relents, placing her purse on her chair before kneeling to help pick up the pieces.

Drusilla really had stuffed her purse to the brim— there are a few makeup brushes, several lipsticks and makeup products, even a few small squares that appear to be some kind of chewing gum— but most of it appears to be a series of empty glass vials, their accompanying caps either only partially screwed on or missing entirely. And though Maysilee is pretty sure it's just trash, she picks them up anyway, scoops them into Drusilla's hideous purse. Maysilee is placing the final one inside when she catches sight of something glittering beneath the table, almost hidden by the tablecloth. She just manages to wrap her fingers around it before Effie springs to her feet, lifting Drusilla's purse out of reach before grabbing her walker.

"No time!" Effie shrieks, her heels clicking wildly against the floor as she scurries off. "I need to catch her before she gets outside and flags a cab, I'll be right back—!"

She's still shouting over her shoulder as she disappears around the corner. Maysilee waits a few more moments, then finally lets out a small, breathless laugh. Admittedly, it's a bit petty and mean, reveling in Drusilla's suffering like this, but it's also a strange sort of relief. Justice, maybe, if Maysilee were feeling particularly poetic about it.

And the fact that Lenore Dove had been the one to land the killing blow— well, it's not unexpected, per se (when the Capitol flag was found burning beneath the reaping stage that one year, and the Peacekeepers had rounded up everyone with a history of "suspicious" behavior, Maysilee had heard rumors afterwards about the "will" Lenore Dove had given the Peacekeepers during her questioning, which apparently stated that most of her worldly belongings would go to her geese) but it's definitely surprising.

She feels something settle in her chest at the thought; even after over a year living together, over a year getting to know each other, first as friends, and now lovers, Maysilee is apparently still capable of being surprised by Lenore Dove. She doesn't mind that, come to think of it. She wonders if Lenore Dove is ever surprised by Maysilee in the same way.

She's shaking her head in amusement as she finally lifts the small item from the floor. She's chuckling to herself as she rolls it into her palm before pulling it out from under the table, lifting it a little for inspection.

As soon as the light catches the object— as soon as she registers the glittering golden cap, the crystal-clear liquid morphine held within the glass— she feels her heart drop like a stone in her chest, the now-hollow place between her ribs filling with a strange sort of panic.

Her stomach twists painfully, and she screws her eyes shut, frantically trying to banish the snippets of horrible memories that try to claw their way out of the back of her mind as she sucks in a breath.

Drop it, she thinks, hazy and frantic. Just drop it. Kick it under the table—

"I know I'm being forward," comes a male voice, low and almost smug. The sound of it startles Maysilee, and she quickly stuffs the vial in her purse, clearing her throat as she reaches up to adjust her hair, prays that her burning cheeks aren't visibly darkening with shame.

"Can't help it, really," the voice continues, apparently unaware or uncaring of Maysilee's state. "You know, you're one of the prettiest girls here tonight. District or Capitol."

Any lingering panic is abruptly replaced by a flash of irritation. She whirls around to snap at the man, but to her shock, there's no one behind her. It's not until she cranes her head and finally sees where he's sitting that she sees the true target of his advances.

Lenore Dove is hunched in on herself, her jaw tight and eyes downturned, desperately trying not to look at the man who's pulled up a chair beside her. He's got one arm resting on the table, almost wrapped around her shoulders, the diamond-studded teeth of his leering grin twinkling in the light.

"I'm not interested," Lenore Dove says flatly. "You can just leave—"

"Been eyeing you from across the room ever since you got here. Quite the quiet little lady, aren't you?" He chuckles, reaching up as if to brush one of her dark curls from her face. "Not a problem to me, of course… I like a mystery—"

He abruptly cuts himself off with a high-pitched yipping noise. His hand jerks up from the table, his eyes widening as he takes in the two small punctures now visible on the back of his glove, then Maysilee, who is now sitting in the chair on the other side of Lenore Dove. His nostrils flare with anger, which Maysilee ignores, humming to herself as she sets the butter pick back down on the table, turning to him with an icy smile.

"Is there a problem?"

"You—!" he scowls, cradling his hand against his chest. "You stabbed me!"

"I did you a favor," Maysilee corrects, so frigid that she actually sees him recoil a little. "And while I'm feeling generous, here's another one; she's not going to dance with you. So you're free to stop wasting your time here."

"Calm down!" He lets out a nervous laugh, holding up his hands in mock defeat. "No need to get your panties in a twist there, I was just—"

"Embarrassing yourself?" Maysilee challenges. "Why, yes! Yes, you were! I know you have no idea what a woman who is actually attracted to you acts like, so I'm just going to tell you— she's not interested." When he still doesn't get up, Maysilee moves as if reaching for the butter pick again, grinning when he scrambles to his feet. He quickly clears his throat, his cheeks darkening with embarrassment as he glances uneasily around the room. But finally seems to give, his shoulders slumping as he turns and sulks away.

"And another piece of advice?!" Maysilee calls after him. "Those diamonds aren't doing you any favors! No one wants to kiss a man who's shoved razor-sharp stones into his receding gums!"

The victory is short-lived. As soon as she's certain he's not coming back, she feels concern knit her brows together, concern rising as she shifts in her chair, leaning in closer to Lenore Dove and dropping her voice.

"Are you okay?!" she whispers, low and frantic. "He didn't try anything, did he?! He didn't touch you, or make you feel—?!"

"I'm fine, Maysilee," Lenore Dove whispers in return. "I mean, it was a bit uncomfortable, but in terms of Capitol things I've had to deal with since coming here, he's certainly not the worst."

Much to Maysilee's surprise, Lenore Dove's lips are curled upwards, teeth worrying the inside of her cheek as if she's fighting back a laugh. She gives Lenore Dove a small smile in return, though her eyes are still studying Lenore Dove's face for any signs of hidden distress. Lenore Dove softens a little, reaching to reassuringly touch the hand Maysilee had unconsciously placed on her shoulder.

"Maysilee," she presses, firm and steady. "I'm okay. Really. Remember, I asked to be here. I knew that this was going to be overwhelming for me, and that was fine by me. I want to put up with it because I want to be here for you. Okay?"

Lenore Dove's words loosen something in Maysilee, her whole body relaxing ever so slightly with it. She gives her a small smile, carefully removing her hand from Lenore Dove's shoulder.

"What about you?" Lenore Dove asks quietly. "Are you having a hard time?"

"Don't worry about me." Maysilee's eyes fall to the loose curl that the man had attempted to touch. Upon closer inspection, it seems that a few strands of hair had come loose from one of the hidden pins holding it away from her face. She hesitates, glancing around to see if anyone is watching, before bringing a hand up, gingerly brushing it away from Lenore Dove's face. Now it's Lenore Dove's turn to study her, that familiar crease forming between her brows.

"Is that why you keep checking in on me?"

"You don't have to—"

The expression of concern on Lenore Dove's face only grows, so Maysilee forces herself to pause. Swallows hard, quietly steeling herself before meeting Lenore Dove's eyes again.

"I'm sorry," she finally mumbles. "You're right, truth be told, I'm… not really having the best time." Maysilee's eyes flicker away again as she resumes her motions, carefully loosening the pin in Lenore Dove's hair so that she can begin tucking strands back in. "This isn't how I hoped New Year's would go, I guess."

Lenore Dove gives a small nod of understanding, a huff of humorless laughter as she shifts in her seat.

"I feel the same way," she admits. "I was really looking forward to spending it with the Beavers and the Abernathys, and I… well, it's silly. Considering everything, I mean, but—"

When Lenore Dove hesitates, eyes darting around uncertainly, Maysilee feels her fingers go slightly clumsy. She watches, veins thrumming with nerves and anticipation alike, as Lenore Dove struggles for the words, her cheeks darkening slightly. Finally, Lenore Dove swallows hard, her expression strangely shy as she meets Maysilee's eyes again.

"…I was really excited about kissing you at midnight," she confesses, soft and vulnerable. "You know— ringing in a new year together for the first time now that we're going steady."

Even with the makeup she has on, Maysilee is certain there's no way to hide the heat that rises to her cheeks at Lenore Dove's words. The way her chest hitches certainly doesn't help matters either, and when her hands lower from Lenore Dove's hair, when she sees Lenore Dove's lashes flutter slightly as Maysilee's fingers brush against her cheek, Maysilee finds herself struck completely mute for a moment, held captive by the barely-restrained longing that burns in those dark irises.

Maybe it is silly. After all, they'd kissed numerous times now, held each other through the night, even stripped each other bare and touched each other in ways that Maysilee had thought were only possible in her most forbidden fantasies. So in a way, it's the truth: in the face of everything they'd been through, a New Year's kiss is nothing.

But it's more than that. It's a realization that even after the horrible things they'd faced— addiction, overdoses, panic attacks, flashbacks, dead children, sleepless nights and the nightmares that follow them when they could sleep— Lenore Dove still wants the little romantic things with Maysilee. Even something as sappy and cliché as a New Year's Kiss at midnight.

Maysilee has to close her eyes for a moment, has to forcibly remind herself that she's in Snow's mansion. That she's surrounded by Capitol people, that she was supposed to be inconspicuous about her relationship with Lenore Dove. When she opens her eyes again, she finds that she can't meet Lenore Dove's gaze without those yearning emotions returning full force, so she focuses her gaze on one of Lenore Dove's pearl earrings instead, face still burning.

"Well, um—" Maysilee clears her throat. "Well, when we get back to that bedroom at Plutarch's place tonight, I'll kiss you. As many times as you want."

It's a risky thing to say— really, this whole conversation is far more risky than it should be—but god, it's worth it. Because even though she's not looking directly at Lenore Dove's face, she can see it shifting in the edges of her vision, stretching into a small, giddy smile, can hear the soft sound of Lenore Dove's laughter.

There's a small pause, and then she feels Lenore Dove's hand move to cover hers on the table, warm and steady.

"…and if I wanted more than that?"

The question makes Maysilee's brain screech to a sudden, abrupt halt. Her gaze snaps back to Lenore Dove's glowing face, which immediately darkens in a blush. After a moment, Maysilee lets out a disbelieving huff of laughter, reaching up to absentmindedly adjust one of her sleeves.

"Lenore Dove," she tries to scold, though it comes out breathless. "We're in the Capitol—"

"I know," Lenore Dove giggles, just as breathless. "I know it's been kind of a miserable evening, but seeing you get all mean and protective of me— especially in that dress—" Lenore Dove ducks her head, still smiling as she gives a small shrug of her shoulders. "I don't know. Makes me want to do things to you. Or maybe have you do things to me."

The lights of the chandeliers above them begin to dim, Caesar's voice bouncing around the ballroom as he announces the start of yet another reel. But despite the darkness that falls around them, Maysilee can feel her whole body come alight.

In a single instant, she becomes far too aware of how low the neckline of Lenore Dove's dress is. Her eyes flicker over the curve of Lenore Dove's lips, trace over the small number of freckles that dot the brown and delicate skin of Lenore Dove's chest, and then she's thinking about grabbing Lenore Dove's hand, tugging her to the bathroom, shutting the door behind them. She pictures herself pressing Lenore Dove back against the bathroom door, tangling her hands in the dark curls that she'd just taken such care to fix, smearing the wine color of her lipstick across the curve of Lenore Dove's mouth, down the length of her throat and over the skin of her chest, up the insides of her thighs—

It can't happen, of course, not with everyone surrounding them, not in Snow's mansion of all places, but oh, Maysilee wants it. She wants it so badly— wants to be far away from everyone here, wants to be alone with Lenore Dove, wants it with such an intensity it hurts— and Lenore Dove's hand is still over hers, eyes dark and almost pleading.

Maysilee doesn't register that the lights have come back up until the gloved hand tapping on her shoulder snaps her awake again. She whirls around so fast that it seems to startle Lenore Dove as well, judging by the small noise of surprise that Maysilee can hear falling from her lips, and then both of them are turned in their chairs, looking up at the purple-clad figure of Plutarch Heavensbee, his hand still frozen in midair.

"My apologies," he stammers. "I did not intend to—" He pauses. Quickly brings his hand back down to his side again, clearing his throat as he gives a small bow, an overly-tight smile. "I just wanted to stop by and make sure you two were enjoying your evening."

Maysilee glowers up at him. After a moment, she turns her back to him and reaches for her champagne, staring straight ahead as she brings it up to her lips. Lenore Dove clears her throat, gives a polite smile of her own.

"We're fine. Just a little tired, I think; it's been a long evening."

There's a small, awkward pause, the sound of velvet rustling as Plutarch shifts uncomfortably.

"And you, Miss Donner? Enjoying your evening?" Maysilee rolls her eyes.

"Sure." She finishes a long sip of champagne, sets the glass back down with a pointed thud. "Just tired. Like Lenore Dove said."

Plutarch chuckles, though the laughter is remarkably forced. "I understand. I'm also struggling to stay awake, and I'm the one who planned the whole event!" Plutarch glances around nervously, checks his watch. "Well, there's less than half an hour until midnight— that's when I'm released for the evening. I can call my driver to be ready to go then, hm?"

"Really?" Lenore Dove asks, perking up a little.

"Why, of course! Effie may be a bit disappointed to see you two go, but she's got plenty of friends she can party the night away with if need be." There's the sound of clicking heels, and Plutarch looks over his shoulder, letting out a small huff. "And speaking of which—"

"I'm back, I'm back, I'm back!" There's a flurry of magenta ruffles, and then Effie slumps into a nearby chair, furiously fanning her face with a matching fan, her cheeks slightly flushed from exertion. "So sorry for the delay, Drusilla took another fall— not as bad this time, thank goodness— and I had to help her up and get her to a car. I didn't miss anything, did I?"

"You only missed another Caesar special," Plutarch reassures her. "A reel of some memorable moments from his show this year, I believe."

"Oh, good! Nothing exciting then." Effie snaps her fan shut. "What were you three chatting about?"

Maysilee's about to say something catty, probably something along the lines of, "Nothing, and in fact, Plutarch was just about to leave, weren't you, Plutarch—?!" but Plutarch jumps in before she can, voice slightly unsteady.

"Actually, I uh… I was just about to ask Miss Donner here for a dance."

Maysilee bristles, turns to throw him a withering scowl. The bead of sweat that's running down the side of his temple gives her pause. She frowns as she studies him, taking in the unnatural rigidity of his posture, the paleness of his lips where they're pressed together, the slight quiver in his hand as he offers it up to her.

"No."

Plutarch's eyes widen slightly, like he's just experienced a spike of panic at her rejection. He catches himself, his throat bobbing as he gives an awkward laugh.

"Not for long," he promises her. "I'll release you long before midnight—"

"I'm fine to stay here with Lenore Dove," Maysilee says flatly. "You can go bother some other guests now, thank you."

"Maysilee!" Effie hisses under her breath. "Go accompany Plutarch for a dance! It would be rude not to, given that he offered his home to you." She quickly shakes her head, plasters on that dazzling smile again. "Besides, I don't mind staying here and keeping Lenore Dove company!"

"See! She doesn't mind!" Plutarch holds out his hand again, more insistent this time. "Just for a few minutes, hm? What do you say?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Maysilee can see Lenore Dove shoot her a nervous look. But Effie is still staring daggers at Maysilee, so finally, she places her hand in his, allowing him to lead her away from the table. To her surprise, he grips her hand far tighter than she'd expected, seems to try and almost hurry away with her, so fast and unexpected that she nearly trips on the skirt of her gown. A growing sense of uneasy anticipation rises in her chest as she looks at him again; there's something off about Plutarch's demeanor, something that Maysilee can't quite put a name to.

She tries to smooth out the anxiety on her face, tries to shoot Lenore Dove a reassuring smile on the way out, but Effie's already scooted closer to her, effectively blocking Maysilee from Lenore Dove's view. And so, Maysilee turns forward again, her heart hammering against her ribs as Plutarch leads her deeper into the crowd, a frightening intensity flickering in his eyes.

It's a disaster, at first. Plutarch almost slams into another couple dancing in his rush to get on the dance floor, and he fumbles when he tries to gather himself again. Maysilee ends up getting irritated, using his grip on her hand to jerk him to a halt before hauling him upright by his jacket lapels. She grabs his hands, forcefully moving one of them to her lower back before grasping his shoulder. She still has to steer him through the first few movements of the dance, but after a few moments, his body finally seems to catch up with the situation at hand, because they're waltzing soon enough, Plutarch guiding her to gently sway in time with the music.

There's another long bout of silence, so unbearably awkward that it actually manages to negate the uneasiness in Maysilee's chest (as always, annoyance is a near-perfect antidote to fear). He keeps avoiding her gaze, his cheek sinking into the inside of his cheek as he glances around the ballroom, so finally, Maysilee breaks the silence, muttering through clenched teeth.

"Is there a particular reason you dragged me out here?" Plutarch doesn't reply for a moment, but when he finally nods, Maysilee scowls at him. "Then spit it out. I don't want to be out here with you any longer than I have to be."

Plutarch gives a small chuckle, an exasperated shake of his head.

"You're remarkable, Miss Donner. You never fail to surprise me."

And just like that, the uneasiness has returned. Maysilee narrows her eyes at him.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Plutarch considers a moment. "I mean, where to begin? You're a very multi-faceted woman— every time I think I've got you all figured out, you turn around and do something that shocks me to my core. Except whenever I actually reflect on it, I find myself wondering how I didn't see it coming."

"You're not answering my question."

He meets her eyes, steadier now. Maysilee's jaw tightens as he studies her face, as he seems to calculate something about her in his mind.

"You and that Covey girl, for instance," he finally says. When her eyes widen slightly, he gives her hand a reassuring squeeze. "No need to worry— no one else has picked up on anything between you, and I don't have any intention of giving them reason to start looking. Your secret is safe with me— it just surprised me, that's all. She certainly doesn't seem like your type."

A flash of irritation. Maysilee glowers at him.

"Why?! Because she's a woman?!"

"No— although I admit that aspect of it certainly wasn't one I anticipated— it's more like… well…" He pauses, mulls over his words. "Whenever someone is asked to describe Maysilee Donner, everyone always remembers the cutting remarks. They tell the story of all the tributes that fell to your poisoned darts— and, of course, that final battle between you and Silka."

Maysilee feels her stomach drop. She feels her knees buckle slightly, and she grips Plutarch a little tighter, silently praying that his hold will keep her from crumpling to the ground.

"And because of this, I think I'd come to believe, even unconsciously, that any romantic partner of the great Quarter Quell Victor, Maysilee Donner, would reflect that part of you. The loud and proud, the combative, the passionate. To put it simply, seeing you with someone so quiet and seemingly meek, someone so gentle, surprised me. And when I see you, harsh and hardened as you are by the world, treat her with that same gentleness in return, it surprised me even more." He lets out a self-deprecating chuckle. "But then again, it shouldn't have. I mean, I'd seen that part of you in the arena before. I'd seen you be gentle with your allies— with Lou Lou in your quarters, with Ampert in training, Haymitch in the arena, and then up in that tree. When you were helping Wellie."

Wellie's horrifically tiny form, still wrapped in her tarp, pressed up against the tree branch like a possum. She's bathed in the golden and rosy light of morning, the sunlight glinting off the tiny knife in her stiffened fingers.

She's still as death. Cold as marble.

Unmoving.

The fear that seizes Maysilee brings with it a desire to flee. She tries to pull away, tries to storm off, but then he tightens his grip on her, and there's nowhere for her to go.

Pressing her fingers just beneath Wellie's nose. Then to her pulse, and again, there's nothing. No breath. No heartbeat.

"Refeeding syndrome," says Caesar, clicking his tongue as he gives a mournful shake of his head. "She didn't have the energy to digest everything she'd been given, and so her body just—"

"I know it's terrible to think about, Maysilee. Believe me, I know—" He glances around to make sure Maysilee's movements haven't drawn suspicious eyes to them. "But I've been wanting to talk with you about your time in the arena ever since I first saw the raw footage—"

"What are you trying to do?!" she hisses, hating the whimper that creeps into her voice when his fingers don't even give, seeming almost to dig deeper into her back instead. "What game are you playing—?!"

"—but I had to wait. I had to make sure that Snow didn't suspect my involvement in the arena bombing plot. And now that Snow's attention is finally turned elsewhere, we haven't got a moment to lose—"

"Whatever it is, it won't work! I don't know what you're talking about, just let me go—!"

"Maysilee, I'm talking about—" Plutarch stops, face twisting into a frown. "You think this is Snow trying to catch you on something?! Is that—"

"I've held up my end of the bargain!" Maysilee snaps. "I haven't done anything rebellious, I've played the role he wanted me to, I-I'm not going to be tricked into giving ammunition for him to use as justification for hurting her, leave me alone—!"

"Maysilee."

He doesn't shout her name, though his voice carries such gravity that he might as well have. Her rambling cuts off with a choking sound, and so she just stares up at him, wide-eyed and shaking with a mixture of fury and absolute terror alike.

"Listen to me; President Snow and I are not allies. He may have approved your name being on the guest list, but I was the one who suggested inviting you. I was the one who wanted to see you again, because I needed to talk to you." He holds her in place with a determined look, only the faint smell of his sweat betraying his lingering nerves. "I know you don't like me, Maysilee, and you certainly have no reason to trust me. But I need you to believe me when I say that, despite appearances, a desire for freedom is not limited to the districts."

He pauses, as if waiting for her to speak, but her voice seems to have fled her. She can't speak.

She can't.

Why can't he understand that?!

She can't be here with Plutarch. Not with Snow's threat still looming over her like a dark phantom, and especially not while Lenore Dove is close enough for that threat to come to fruition faster than the blink of an eye, before Maysilee can even breathe a word to slow it. How could he stand here, in the home of the man who'd ripped everything she'd ever held dear from her in a single fell swoop, and expect her to even entertain the idea of discussing what had truly happened in the arena?

"I admit, I haven't chosen the most ideal time to discuss this with you. But you were missing from your bedroom last night, and well, I was afraid this might be my last chance before you depart for Twelve again." He lets out a small, humorless laugh. "But I'm your ally, Maysilee. And before that, I was Haymitch's ally, and Beetee's ally before then. This is a fight I've been fighting for a long time now, and I intend to continue it until the day I die. And judging by that final act of rebellion you pulled in the arena, I believe you're very much the same."

Maysilee doesn't even get the chance to respond before the entire ballroom falls into darkness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There's no confusion about her emotions this time. No overwhelming feeling of numbness, no mystery as to which emotion will take center stage in the wake of another ally's death.

No, Maysilee is angry.

She burns with it, the blazing inferno inside of her searing the surface of her skin far worse than any chemical burn or riding crop mark ever could, painting her vision every shade of red that she'd seen spilling from Wyatt's pierced side, dripping from Haymitch's ribs, leaking from the back of Louella's crushed skull. It rings in her ears, clenches her muscles with such force that she's almost certain that she's going to break a tooth with how hard she's grinding her jaw, her knuckles pale where they clutch Haymitch's ax.

After spending almost the entire Games with a delicate little blowgun as her go-to weapon, it feels good having something this solid and destructive in her hand. She tightens her grip a little more as she storms through the woods, heading in the vague direction of the cornocopia, not caring about the ruckus she stirs in her wake.

I'll rip this fucking arena to shreds, piece by piece. Starting by blowing up the goddam symbol in the center of it.

If I can't die a hero's death, I'll settle for one that pisses the Capitol off as much as possible.

It frightens her, how angry she's gotten, but the anger feels so much more familiar than fear, and so she clings to it like a lifeline. Prays that it will be enough to carry her through to the end, which she's pretty sure will be any minute now.

As if on cue, there's the feeling of something flying past Maysilee's ear, then the sound of a loud thunk as it lodges into a nearby tree. When Maysilee catches sight of the ax— thrown with such force that the blade is buried about two inches into the wood of the trunk— she's so enraged with the timing of it, with the twisted combination of her own bad luck and sheer incompetence as a tribute, that she almost laughs.

She whirls around, fingers already grasping for the blow gun hung around her neck, and lifting it to her lips by the time she catches sight of Silka. With the speed that Silka is sprinting for her, she barely has the time to take proper aim, and of course, Silka must have anticipated her using her blow gun, because she's zig-zagging wildly through the trees. The final poisoned dart that Maysilee had left in her possession ends up piercing through one of the folds of her silken sleeves, not even brushing her skin, so Silka just bats it off and continues her approach, her eyes crazed with a horrific sort of glee that borders on manic, almost inhuman.

She's just managed to swing the ax over her head when Silka slams into her, so hard that it knocks the wind from Maysilee's lungs, loosens her grip enough for the ax to slip free.

"Get off of me!" Maysilee's almost roaring with anger when she hits the ground, her now-empty hands coming up to claw wildly at Silka's face. "Get off of me, you goddam snail—!"

She actually manages to draw blood before Silka is seizing her wrists with a snarl, one hand grasping for a weapon in her belt. When she comes up empty— it seems that Silka had thrown her only weapon at Maysilee in order to get her attention— Maysilee lets out a bark of crazed laughter.

"All brag and no britches!" she snarls, delighting when Silka's face goes bright red. "All bluff and no—!"

Maysilee's angry cries morph into a pained yelp, her eyes bugging out of her skull as she feels Silka grab hold of one of her necklaces and tighten, the chain digging so harshly into the skin of her neck that she can feel it begin to split, cutting off her airflow. Silka's face lights up as Maysilee begins to frantically claw at her hands, letting out a crazed laugh of her own as Maysilee thrashes uselessly beneath her, her heels digging into the earth as her feet scramble and kick.

"Been wanting to do this ever since we first ran into each other in the showers." Silka crows. "Go on then, Twelve! Try and insult me again! I dare you!"

Maysilee feels her nails rip through skin on the back of Silka's hands, but Silka's grip doesn't even falter, instead seeming to only tighten even further.

"Ha! That's more like it! Not so high and mighty now, are you, Miss Donner?! You still think you're better than me?!" She lifts Maysilee's head just enough to slam it down against the ground again, the action sending a burst of stinging sparks shooting across Maysilee's vision. "You're nothing! You hear me?! You're—!"

In a rare stroke of luck, Maysilee has the wherewithal to finally grasp Wellie's knife from her belt, the strength to bring it up, and bury it in Silka's eye socket. Silka lets out a pained cry, her hands releasing their hold on Maysilee's necklaces. Silka jerks backwards so sharply that she loses her balance, and Maysilee finally manages to shove her off, her hand grasping at the stinging mark around her throat as she sucks in a painful gasp, as she scrambles for her ax once more.

By the time she rises, Silka is on her feet as well, one hand cupped over her bleeding eye while the other tries to pry her ax from where it's wedged in the tree.

"You can insult me all you want, Silka; at least I don't pretend to enjoy the taste of Capitol boots." The laugh that wheezes through Maysilee's battered throat only makes Maysilee feel crazier, her shoulders shaking as she lifts her ax, pointing it at Silka. "How many Newcomers did you kill to get here, hm? You feeling good about that right now?"

Silka's face crumbles a little. Now that she's not actively fighting for her life, Maysilee is finally able to note the tearstains visible on Silka's cheek, the new wave of salt that's glistening in her eyes.

"They had to go," she hiccups. "You have to go. It's the only way I get back to my people."

Deep down, there's some small part of Maysilee that sees Silka in pain and draws back. Some small part of her that remembers the grief the two of them had shared only the night before, who looks at the person she'd spent the entirety of her time post-reaping teasing and riling up, and can finally see them for who they really are in this moment; a wounded, frightened girl, one that's only a year or two older than Maysilee, who just wants to go home.

Deep down, there's a part of Maysilee that looks at Silka and knows that the two of them are the same in so many more ways than they're different.

But then, Silka wrenches the ax from the tree. Maysilee watches as she sways slightly before steadying herself, raising her ax above her head as she glowers at Maysilee through her tears.

"I will be the one to honor the Capitol."

And then, that part of her is buried beneath that caustic anger once more. She cocks her head to the side, gives Silka a smile that drips with sugar and bile alike.

"Still chasing that sad little dream, Silka?"

When Maysilee was five years old, she'd refused to sell a peppermint candy to a Peacekeeper.

Not because of anything he did to her. He was someone that her father always took the time to catch up with whenever they saw each other in public, and he'd actually been incredibly friendly to her at the cash register, patting the top of her head as he asked her how school was treating her, if she was still friends with the March's kid. She'd refused to sell to him because she'd recognized his face as that of a Peacekeeper whom she'd seen crack his baton across the face of a Seam kid in her class, one who'd been digging through the trash behind the candy shop in search of food.

So she'd refused to sell it to him, and her mother had pulled her into the back of the shop, forcing Maysilee's chin up to meet her eyes. She'd told Maysilee that she wasn't to speak to a Peacekeeper like that again, or she'd have to dump her jewelry box into the trash. The message, though never said aloud, had been received loud and clear; Maysilee wasn't allowed to express her anger for the Capitol or any of its people, no matter how horrible their actions were. Unable to do anything else with it, she'd channeled that unbearable into cutting remarks and icy glares at her classmates. Then into her tribute persona for the interviews.

Here and now, not a thing has changed from her schoolyard days. Try as she may, she can't hurt the Capitol, can't express her anger in any way that would cause them even a moment's inconvenience. The thought is agonizing, absolutely torturous, a terrible reminder of how much of her life she'd wasted fighting the wrong enemy.

But Silka is a close enough proxy to the Capitol, and so Maysilee will hurt her in any way that she can. She'll cut into Silka's skin and tendons, leave the kind of scars on Silka's body that will linger beneath the surface even if the Capitol removes them.

Their axes clash, and the final bloodbath begins.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The applause is still going strong as Caesar struts into his place up on his balcony, his eyes sparking wildly in the spotlight as he leans against the railing of the balcony, microphone in hand. When the applause finally dies down a little, he gives a toothy grin, a dramatic wave of the arm.

"Fifteen minutes until midnight, folks!" he crows, and the applause begins anew. He preens for a few more moments, then signals for them to quiet once more. "Now, admittedly, this next highlight reel is a bit unconventional, seeing as it's not from this year— but I've been informed by our beloved President Snow that tonight, we have a very special guest among us; one who made her way all the way from the mountains in Twelve to join us in our celebrations tonight!"

Maysilee can feel Plutarch stiffen as everyone bursts into wild applause. She's about to whirl on him, about to demand what's happening, when all of the screens light up simultaneously, revealing an image of the District Twelve reaping stage. She watches, horrified, as the highlight reel from her games begins to play, the audio booming through the ballroom like a cannon.

The reaping, then a brief glimpse of the chariot race. A short clip of her in her interview, sneering at someone in the audience.

"How sweet. You're wearing all of your friends tonight."

The reminder of this clip— the way it had been used to build her narrative post-Games— is apparently what it takes to finally snap her out of her trance.

"This was you," Maysilee breathes. "Did you invite me up here just to torture me with the worst moments of my life?!" There's no response. Heat flares in her face, and she whirls to look at him, seizing the front of his suit jacket with a snarl. "Answer me, you—!"

"This wasn't the reel they were supposed to play," Plutarch insists. To her shock, Plutarch seems genuinely confused, almost distressed, his eyes flickering uneasily around the screens in the room. "Maysilee, I promise, I—!"

"We'd live longer with two of us."

"Guess you just proved that. Allies?"

There's a brief video of the two of them locking fingers, and then, there's an image of Haymitch standing at the edge of the arena, rock in hand, head thrown back in laughter. Just like they had in the original version of the highlight reel, they'd cut out the part where Maysilee had offered to get the potatoes, making their alliance breakup seem genuine. But last time, they'd immediately cut after Haymitch caught the rock he'd thrown at the force field, to a shot of Haymitch being ripped apart, Maysilee's running, and then her holding his hand, softly singing to him as he slipped away.

But this footage isn't footage that they'd shown; it's new. Unused.

Maysilee feels her brow furrow in confusion. For some reason, they're still lingering on Haymitch. After the flurry of rapid cuts, the sudden lack of editing feels all the more stark. It sticks out like an omen, one that could only spell out trouble for Maysilee.

There's the sound of rustling in the trees, and Haymitch whirls around, his hand already moving to his ax. He watches, his brow furrowed in confusion, as a dove-colored bunny peeks its head out from the grass. Then another. More and more appear around him in a sort of ring, their green eyes strangely foggy as they lift onto their hind legs, noses quivering like they're testing the air.

Maysilee somehow manages to gain back enough of a sense of self-preservation to screw her eyes shut and clap her hands over her ears before they descend on him.

She can hear the muffled sound of his panicked scream, and she waits for the next cut, for the sound of her singing, but it doesn't come. For far too long, there's just the faint sound of wet ripping, the building cries of agony— had they not cut down this part at all?! She can hear a strange sort of glitching sound, see a flash of light behind her eyelids, quickly followed by the indignant cry of Capitol people, and when she opens her eyes, she finds the screens are frozen on an image of Haymitch lying on the grass, his torso torn and mangled, his eyes wide as they stare up into the heavens.

There are a few muffled sounds of confusion around her. She tries to shake the image from her head, tries to suck in a breath to ground herself, but everywhere she turns, his face is there. Frozen in that moment of agony, completely unmoving. There's the sound of a microphone being turned on, Caesar's cheery "Hold on folks, seems we're having some technical difficulties—" and then Maysilee is moving, shoving her way through the crowd with Plutarch close on her heels.

"Maysilee—!"

"Don't!" she snaps. "If you know what's good for you—!"

"We can figure this out, just wait—!"

He's still pleading with her by the time she finds their table again. Effie is standing next to the place where Maysilee had left her purse, a half-eaten cream puff in her hand as she happily chats with a man whom Maysilee doesn't recognize. Effie startles when Maysilee snatches up her purse, her brow knitting in confusion as she takes in Maysilee's agitated state.

"Maysilee?" She reaches to place a hand on Maysilee's shoulder. "Is everything—?"

"Fine!" Maysilee scowls, forcefully batting Effie's hand away. "Get your stuff. We're leaving."

"What?! Already?!" Effie cries out in distress. "But it hasn't even reached midnight yet—!"

"Did I ask for your input?!" Maysilee snarls, shoving Effie's purse into her chest. "No! I didn't, because it's not your job to ask me questions! Your job is to be my escort! Do you understand me?!"

The man's incredulous stare is nothing, but the hurt that flashes across Effie's face at Maysilee's words brings with it a guilt so overwhelming that it makes Maysilee's head pound. The screens surrounding them light up in a bright white color, and so she screws her eyes shut, pinching the bridge of her nose in a useless attempt to stave off the migraine that's surely on its way.

"Sorry, it's just… It's been a long night." She sucks in a forceful breath, and Effie makes a noise of understanding, her hand shaking as she rubs Maysilee's shoulder.

"Oh… Oh, it's okay, Maysilee. We'll get you home. Plutarch, go ahead and call your driver, tell her we'll…"

Effie suddenly trails off, her voice fading uncertainly. Maysilee's eyes flutter open, and when she sees the way Effie is glancing around her, she feels her stomach lurch, feels her heart stop in her chest.

"Where's Lenore Dove?"

"I…" Effie's frown deepens, her head darting around as she strains on her toes. "She was just with me—"

"Oh, the girl in the green dress?" the man asks. His brow furrows, his head lifting to crane over his shoulder. "I think I saw her leaving— seemed to be in a bit of a hurry too, ran over to that door over there—"

He cuts himself off with an offended yelp as Maysilee shoves past him, but she ignores him, lifting her skirt and taking off for the door he'd been pointing to. She can hear the sound of glasses shattering, as if he'd fallen atop one of the tables, and can hear the sound of Plutarch and Effie shouting after her, but she just shoves the door open again, the cold night air hitting her skin full-force as she sprints through it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had become obvious almost right out of the gate just how unevenly matched Silka and Maysilee were. Though she's clearly lost some weight in the arena, Silka is still significantly more muscular than Maysilee is, with significantly more experience with wielding an ax than Maysilee has. If Maysilee had any kind of desire to preserve her own dignity, she'd probably have surrendered by now, just gone limp and let Silka lodge the blade into her neck. Still, Maysilee is long past the point of caring about what the audience thinks of her in this moment. Despite the sheer impossibility of her emerging victorious from this, she's not going to go down without a fight.

And oh, it is an absolutely brutal fight.

By the time they've arrived at the burnt remains of those ladybug bushes, both of them are bleeding profusely, only exasperated by muscle exertion as they furiously swing at each other. There's nothing pretty, no show of strength and resilience on either side of the fight; the chemical burns on Maysilee's arms only double her agony, and Silka keeps switching between clutching at her wounded side and cupping her still-bleeding eye socket, her whimpering snarl making blood spurt wildly from her jagged mess of bashed-in teeth. The gore sprays across Maysilee's already-shattered nose, and combined with the blood loss from the gash Silka had cut into her thigh, it makes the world around her begin to spin wildly, throwing her completely off balance. As soon as she falters, she feels the blade slice across her stomach, the pain so blinding that she drops her ax with a horrified cry, her hands coming up to clutch her abdomen with a horrific squelching sound.

The feeling of her intestines squirming in her hands brings back images of Haymitch's mangled organs trying to sputter to life in his gaping ribs. She feels tears sting down the bloodied skin of her cheeks as she stumbles backward, through the opening in the ladybug bushes, and into the only ugly part of the arena, the one no tribute was meant to see. She only manages to flee a few steps before she falls to her knees, braced for the final blow of Silka's ax.

But nothing comes.

Her whole vision has gone warped, her eyes unable to adjust for a moment due to the blood loss and the rush of sheer adrenaline that's still coursing through her, so it takes a moment for Silka's form to come into focus. She hasn't followed Maysilee past the bushes; she's just standing there, ax in hand, glancing around uncertainly. Maysilee feels her eyes widen, a high-pitched and disbelieving laugh jostling her ribs and organs in a way that sends a blinding flash of pain through her whole body.

"Really, Silka?!" she taunts, ragged and slightly garbled. "Victory so close you can taste it, and even then, you lot can't bear the thought of breaking one of the Capitol's rules?!" Silka's jaw tightens, but she remains rooted in place. Maysilee lets out another bark of laughter, spitting a glob of blood in Silka's direction. "You really are all bark and no bite! All foam and no kicker! Near-Beer Careers!"

For a moment, Maysilee is terrified that she's taunting Silka for nothing. After all, with how much more severe Maysilee's injuries are, Silka only has to wait her out a little. But the echo of Twelve's propaganda proves to be enough to anger Silka all over again. Maysilee sees her eyes flash, sees her grip tighten on her ax again, and then she's stomping past the ladybug bushes, heading straight for Maysilee. With no weapons to defend herself, Maysilee turns and begins to flee as fast as her dying body can manage, still hurling insults over her shoulder as she hobbles for the cliffside.

She barely manages to reach it before her body finally gives way entirely. She hits the ground just in time to watch the ax sail over her head, spinning wildly as it falls into the ravine below.

The silence is almost eerie, broken only by her and Silka's panting. They're both still clutching their injuries, both staring at each other with a sort of resignation that's so potent it makes Maysilee's teeth ache.

This is it, she thinks. All that fighting, just for this. Just to bleed out at the edge of the arena.

The thought has barely finished crossing her mind when she sees the ax blade bury itself between Silka's eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It feels like hours of sprinting past perfectly-maintained rose bushes, her heels clicking wildly against the concrete of the stone pathways that weave between them, voice shredding around the Covey girl's name, before Maysilee finally catches sight of Lenore Dove.

She almost misses her entirely; Lenore Dove is on her knees, hunched over the stone edge of a beautifully intricate water fountain, only the back of her dress visible to Maysilee. Maysilee barely manages to avoid slamming into a decorative statue as she skids to a stop. She's already reaching for Lenore Dove, mouth open as if to cry her name again, but when she takes the first few steps towards her, her knees give way, and then Maysilee is collapsing in the grass, her corseted ribs searing so sharply that it actually wrenches a sob from her, her hand coming up to press over her throat as she gasps for air, unable to draw a full breath. She's still trying to slow her breathing when she sees a familiar flurry of magenta ruffles, a streak of purple velvet, and then Plutarch and Effie are on either side of Lenore Dove, voices overlapping.

"Oh, Lenore Dove, there you are, thank goodness—!"

"Looks like she's thrown up into the fountain, Effie, help me sit her up—!"

"You can't just run off like that, we were so worried—!"

"Lenore Dove? Lenore Dove, I need you to open your eyes—!"

"Are you okay?! Did you drink too much champagne? Do we need to get you to a hospital—?!"

"Lenore Dove, if something is wrong, you have to tell us—!"

When Maysilee finally manages to look up, she can see that Lenore Dove is still hunched over the edge of the fountain, her hands clapped over her ears, her whole body shaking violently. Effie is trying to pry Lenore Dove's hands away from her head, trying to get her attention by shaking her shoulder, and Plutarch keeps shifting between trying to stop Effie and trying to lean Lenore Dove back to look at her face.

"Stop—" Maysilee wheezes, tries to crawl forward, but she falters, stopping again as the world lurches beneath her. "Stop, you're making it worse—!"

Her raspy pleas are drowned out easily, both of their voices rising in volume as Effie's panic begins to grow, as her voice gets higher-pitched and her insistent pulling gets more frantic, more uncoordinated.

"Did someone slip something into her drink?!"

"Effie, careful, you're jostling her—!"

"Or maybe her food was bad?! There's been a wave of people dying of food poisoning! Oh, Plutarch, we have to get her to a hospital—!"

"Get off of her!"

Maysilee can hear fabric ripping beneath Effie's shocked cry as she forcefully yanks her back. She whirls on Plutarch, but he's already backing away, his hands lifted in surrender.

"She's overwhelmed!" Maysilee snaps, so angry that she's shaking with it. "How fucking blind do you have to be that you can't see that?!"

"Easy, Maysilee," Plutarch says, voice low. "We're on your side—"

"I-I was just…" Effie's eyes are glistening as she sits up, her fingers shaking as they trace the ripped shoulder of her dress. "I was just trying to help—"

Maysilee lets out a disbelieving laugh. "What, like you haven't done enough already?! It's not enough that you brought Drusilla over for a little chat?! Not enough that you were so busy making googly eyes at a cute boy that you didn't even notice when the person you were supposed to be looking after suddenly disappeared?! You wanna contribute more to the shittiness of this situation than you already have?!"

As complicated as Maysilee's feelings are about Effie, it still hurts to see Effie's face crumple so quickly. It still hurts to see Effie duck her head, her lips trembling as they press together, her lashes fluttering as she furiously blinks back tears. She tries to ignore her, tries to shove the guilt into the back of her mind as she kneels next to Lenore Dove, careful not to touch her as she moves in close.

"I'm here, Lenore Dove," Maysilee murmurs, her voice soft, thick with tears. "I'm here, darling, I'm here, just… just try to breathe… t-try to breathe…"

Lenore Dove doesn't lift her head, but her shoulders rise and fall in time with Maysilee's instructions, the breaths rattling in her chest with each shaking inhale. After a little while of this, Lenore Dove finally lifts her head, quietly accepting the handkerchief Plutarch offers her to wipe her chin and blow her nose with. The makeup that Maysilee had so carefully painted on her face is absolutely ruined, streaked with tears and wiped away to reveal the irritated and blotchy skin underneath.

When Maysilee reaches to brush Lenore Dove's hair away from her face, Lenore Dove screws her eyes shut, rapidly shaking her head back and forth.

"Don't," she pleads, her voice hoarse. "Please don't, I-I'm sorry, Maysilee—"

Lenore Dove's refusal of Maysilee's touch feels like it reopens an old wound in Maysilee's chest. She tries to ignore it, tries to give Lenore Dove a reassuring smile.

"Don't apologize." Maysilee's hand is shaking as she retracts it. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Lenore Dove's eyes flutter open, her eyes downturned to the pool of water below. There's a small moment of silence, a brief catch in Lenore Dove's breath, and then she's tearing up, her whole face pinching with unbearable grief as she begins to shake again. Her voice is meek, almost inaudible.

"I miss him."

Maysilee's inability to reply seems to be the final blow that breaks Lenore Dove entirely.

"I miss him," she repeats, louder this time. Her hands shake as she presses the heels of them to her eyes, as she sucks in a pained gasp. "I miss him, I miss him, I miss him so much—!" Her voice breaks into heaving sobs, chest stuttering as she chokes. "I-it's my fault, my fault, my fault—!"

"Don't—" Maysilee's voice cracks. She screws her eyes shut. "Lenore Dove, please—"

"It's my fault!" Lenore Dove wails, her hands coming down to clutch at her throat as she hiccups painfully, as tears stream down her face. "I didn't listen, and now he's gone, he's dead, and I can't— I can't—!"

Maysilee can't get her mouth to move. She can only watch, helpless, as Lenore Dove curls in on herself, sobbing with such vigor that she's clutching at her sides, clawing at her chest like she's trying to break through the skin and grasp at her aching heart.

It's Plutarch who finally breaks the silence, stepping forward to place a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"You're tired," Plutarch says, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into the fabric of her puffy sleeve. "You're tired, and it's been a very long, very overwhelming night. How about Effie takes you to go wash your face, and I'll come get you as soon as my driver is ready?"

Lenore Dove's sniffles go quiet, her body's violent shiver slowly subsiding. After a long moment, Maysilee sees her nod. She watches as Lenore Dove lets Plutarch help her to her feet before leaning on Effie for support, allowing her to guide her back towards the mansion as Plutarch hurries towards the front of the mansion, rapidly speaking into a device in his watch.

Maysilee tries to tell herself that Lenore Dove is okay. Tries to find some kind of comfort in the fact that Lenore Dove is no longer sobbing like a wounded animal. But when the light that streams through the windows of the ballroom catches Lenore Dove's face, Maysilee can see that it's completely blank, her dark eyes empty and unfocused.

Lenore Dove, the girl who had spent so many years refusing to let herself fall into apathy about the cruelties of the world, who forced herself to feel every emotion, no matter how difficult, seems to have finally been pushed over the edge and into numbness.

And it seems that Maysilee has too, because she makes no move to stand. She just sits there, slumped back against the fountain, completely paralyzed in the wake of Lenore Dove's grief, in the wake of just how quickly the evening had soured.

She can hear the people inside the ballroom counting down to midnight when the shadow passes over her, the scent of roses growing so thick that it makes Maysilee feel dizzy.

"You know, before I saw those pictures of you getting off the train with her, I thought more highly of you. I had assumed you wouldn't have been so foolish as to actually let her follow through with her promise to you."

Her eyes travel up the luxurious fabric of his pants, over the white rose clipped into his lapel, before finally finding his face. At the sight of the unnerving sparkle in his eyes, the slight upwards curve to his puffy lips, she feels a wave of nausea so powerful that she wonders if she's going to end up emptying the contents of her stomach onto his shoes.

"I'm glad I was wrong," Snow chuckles, his head tilting to the side as he studies Maysilee's ruined state. "Human selfishness, it seems, can always be counted upon to win out in the end. Especially with you, Miss Donner."

The petty, twisted delight in his face is what finally makes everything click into place, her eyes dropping back to the grass again.

"The 'very special guest' Caesar said you mentioned... the one from Twelve that the reel was for…" Maysilee swallows the bile that rises in her throat. "That was Lenore Dove."

A small huff of laughter. "Clever as always, it seems."

Of course.

Of course, Snow knew about Lenore Dove's promise to come with Maysilee to the Capitol. Of course, he'd only approved Maysilee's name on the guest list in the hopes that Maysilee's desire not to be alone in the Capitol would win out, and Lenore Dove would accompany her. Of course, he'd taken the opportunity to enact some childish, petty form of revenge on Lenore Dove, on a Covey girl that he viewed as a traitor and a gold digger. A Covey girl who no doubt reminded him of the one that he'd probably killed all those years ago.

If she weren't so thoroughly paralyzed with overwhelming guilt about the whole thing, she'd probably try to throw him into the fountain.

"I know it's hard to believe from your vantage point," Snow hums, "but I'm doing you a favor. I'm doing her a favor as well, believe it or not."

"Are you?!" Maysilee demands, weak and unconvincing. "Because I think you're just weaponizing her dead boyfriend to fulfill some childish revenge fantasy you've been itching to follow through on."

"I'm reminding her of what she knows to be true," Snow says simply. "What you both know to be true. Even if you've both tried to deny it."

She presses her lips together, frantically searching for an inner strength that's horribly out of reach.

"What's that?"

He crouches beside her, his icy blue eyes meeting hers with a gravity that renders her speechless.

"I'm reminding you that this love that you both claim to feel for each other wouldn't be able to exist without Haymitch's death. And more than that, it wouldn't be able to exist without my Games." He leans in closer, uses the tip of his finger to lift her chin, forcing her to hold his gaze. "Most importantly, I am reminding you that what the two of you share isn't love, Maysilee— it's desperation. It's two people who never would have even glanced each other's way before now, clinging to whatever they can to convince themselves that they can stay afloat. And the sooner you both accept that, the less the inevitable fallout will hurt."

Her voice, which had always been her greatest weapon against the Capitol, has completely fled her now. She just sits there, the stone ledge of the fountain digging into her back, her vision fading in and out of focus, as Snow rises once more, dusting an invisible speck of dirt from his jacket sleeve.

"Tell Lenore Dove not to worry her pretty head a single moment about regurgitating her meal into the fountain," Snow says, unbearably smug, undeniably victorious. "I have plenty of Avoxes around to clean up that very kind of mess."

Snow has just finished closing the door behind him when Maysilee's fumbling fingers finally manage to toss aside the golden cap, a small bit of morphine dribbling out the side of her mouth as she tips the vial back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The morning after Maysilee and Lenore Dove's first kiss hadn't been an easy one.

Not just because of the nightmares Lenore Dove had, but because Maysilee had woken up with a painful clenching of her stomach, a terrible craving lingering in the back of her throat. A craving that led her to refuse Lenore Dove's offer to accompany her to the woods for a walk, and as soon as the Covey girl was out of sight, that craving reared its ugly head inside of her, clawing at Maysilee's insides and howling in agony, louder and louder as Maysilee began frantically searching every nook and cranny of the house that she could think of, searching for the one thing that could quiet it.

Maysilee still struggles with the terrible humiliation she feels at that memory. She still flinches every time she recalls how frantically pathetic her actions must have seemed in the cold light of day. She'd ripped the drawers out of every cabinet and dresser she could think of, pried open the floorboards where she used to keep the tokens, overturned bedding, and at one point even dug with her hands into the patch of soil near their front door where Lenore Dove had planted sunflower seeds, but there was nothing.

That's how Lenore Dove found her: slumped against the side of the house, sunflower seeds visible in the hole next to her, her soil-covered hands pressed to her face as she sobbed with a terrible mixture of unbearable shame and that all-too-familiar and self-destructive craving stronger than it had been that morning. Because true to her word, Lenore Dove had thrown out every trace of morphine she could find in the house.

She remembers the way Lenore Dove had stood for a moment, honeysuckle basket in hand, face flickering between anger and complete and utter despair as she looked down at Maysilee. She remembers the way Lenore Dove's face had finally crumbled, remembers the way the honeysuckle had spilled across the ground as Lenore Dove collapsed to her knees, wiping the dirt from Maysilee's cheeks before cradling her face with shaking fingers and kissing her a second time, murmuring against Maysilee's lips through tears of her own. She'd promised that they'd work through this. That things would get better.

When Maysilee climbs into Plutarch's limousine, Lenore Dove's eyes immediately lock on her. She stares at Maysilee for a moment, and Maysilee stares right back, trying to muster up something, anything to say to comfort her.

"You took morphine," Lenore Dove says finally.

Not a question. A statement.

Maysilee looks down at her hands.

After a moment, she sees Lenore Dove turn away from her. She sees Lenore Dove curl up in the leather seat, her forehead pressed to the limousine window.

The rest of the car ride is carried out in silence.