𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘'𝐋𝐋 𝐉𝐔𝐌𝐏 𝐎𝐅𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐋𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐄 𝐓𝐎𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑.
What District 2 victor, Saffron Creek, and prodigy, Finnick Odair, share is the very antithesis of what has been stolen from them. They test the edges of the rules that construct t...
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ambrosia . . . . .
He is warm and sweet and her fingers hum. This, she thinks, is addicting. She tries not to crumple his suit as she wraps her arms around his neck. It feels like he seeps into her bloodstream, and it is a feeling she could get drunk off of forever.
They meander through Saffron's makeup and finding her shoes.
"They don't look too bad today," she says, looking at her back in the mirror. Her fingers glide against the scar tissue self-consciously.
"Sweet, you're beautiful."
She snorts. "I never said I wasn't."
They laugh. Downstairs, they drink scalding cups of peach tea. Then they go to the wedding and sign the guest book and congratulate the couple. Finnick's hand stays against her back as they loiter in the late afternoon sun. There is something quite delightful in knowing that in a crowd, out of all the people here, there is someone that will always prefer you.
After the reception they walk home in the dark, stopping under each streetlight to act out silly poses. Saffron wears his jacket with the sleeves rolled up several times over her elbows. She halts them under a golden cone of light, pulling his forehead against her own. She kisses him again, just a peck, fleeting.
"I didn't tell you before," she whispers, "but you're beautiful too."
"Aw, you're making me blush." He grins.
"It's true. Your cute little ears are red."
He cups his hands over his ears.
In Finnick's room, he lays with his head resting on her abdomen on top of the covers. They are watching the television with the sound off. She is twisting his hair.
"You still smell like lemons," she comments. Citrus and the sea.
"The habit stuck."
They fall into silence.
Then she says, "I'm glad I got on the train."
He chuckles.
"I'm glad I came to get you."
Hundreds of miles away in the Capitol, gossip columnists write speculative stories about Finnick and Saffron's clandestine rendezvous, publishing articles with recycled blurry photos of them walking down a sidewalk together. Unseen, however, is a group of photos delivered to President Snow's office. His gloved hands flip through the prints on which Finnick and Saffron are shown, their foreheads pressed together. They grin at each other deviously and privately.
But Snow is a man of a thousand eyes.
What an interesting development, he thinks.
He then taps the photos against his desk so they are aligned straight against each other and tucks them away.
