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Plume wished that she believed in a God. Perhaps, as she awoke with her hands wrapped around the bare chest of Aries Roman, the room smelling like lavender and fresh laundry, and her eyes half-lidded from sleep deprivation as the sun reflected gold onto the floorboards, she would have prayed to It. She would have prayed for more mornings like this; when the first thing she became conscious of was the warmth of his head against her hair and the delicate sighs that he gave while in deep sleep. She would have asked for forgiveness, begged for whatever is watching over her to find pity on her predicament, and give her a chance. A chance to be with him without the tightening of a noose around her neck. A chance to wake up and feel him breathing next to her, as if tomorrow things might not change either of them into a corpse.
It is unfair, Plume thought. Millions of people in the Capitol wake up every morning beside their partners and can go about their days without worrying about returning home to a cadaver. Plume had to be cautious. She couldn't fall completely into Aries, because there was always that chance that he could slip out from in between her fingers. It is unfair.
Retreating from his bedroom was agony. She gingerly unraveled herself from him, replaced her clothes, and sent him a lingering glance as he rested. When he was asleep, all of the anger was gone from his face. The scar over his eye seemed more like a touch from the hand of a sculptor rather than a gift from a rusted blade. It was then, with his curls spilling onto the mattress beneath him, that Plume left his room, her hands shaking at her sides with a medley of anger and fear. Anger that she had to leave, fear that that might be the last time she left.
Compared to the warmth of his bed, her own room was a glacier. She tried to warm herself up with a shower, but it only served to turn her skin pink. It wasn't the same, she decided. She wrapped herself in a fleece sweater and pants with thick fabric. As she stood above the sink, brushing her teeth with a heavy hand, she watched herself in the mirror.
It felt like she was staring into the face of death. The time was nearing. Two hours until she was shipped to whatever horrors the Gamemakers provided. Her face had hardened since she stepped on that train back in District 10. Her green eyes were rimmed with circles as dark as bruises, but there was an unmistakeable flame that burned beneath them. Her jaw twitched in agitation, a challenge to anybody nearby.
Lay a hand on me, and it will be the last time you have hands.
She spent her morning trying to eat. Eating was hard before the arena. Food never swallowed right, and it tasted like mud. Even the water that slid down her throat felt like battery acid. Her hands trembled. She tried to hide it by clenching and unclenching her fists, but her fear was palpable. She'd never be brave. She'd be just like she was when she was fifteen, a child scared of the eternity of death. Her breath came out in thick sighs.
