a sky full of stars — francis & nico. [day 3 → 4]
Mar 17, 2019 16:47:15 GMT -5
Post by 🌱 kaitlin. on Mar 17, 2019 16:47:15 GMT -5
Nico is restless.
He can feel a thrumming in his bones, can feel tensions left unsolved and untended to every time he tries to shift his position, every time he tries to shut his eyes and get the rest his body so desperately needs. Every time he lets his lids fall over his eyes, he sees his mother, sees her leaned over him and running the tips of her fingers over his forehead. He sees the look of heartbreak and disappointment on her face when he tells her that the Peacekeeper who killed her young husband had been transferred to another district, maybe even the Capitol itself. He sees the tears shining in her eyes the morning of the Reaping, when he'd told her that he was going to volunteer, that he was going to steal life back from the government that had stolen it from her.
He sees Reggie's fist coming at him that night he told him the same.
It feels like so long ago, lifetimes ago, maybe.
Like it was another universe, another Nico, another boy who had no room in his heart save for the want of vengeance. He swallows thickly, heart in his throat, painfully aware of the spaces the arena has opened up inside of it, painfully aware of the ways it has changed since stepping foot among the tall flowers.
His eyes are open when the Anthem sounds, and Berlin's face across the stars fills Nico with some emotion that he doesn't know how to identify, some feeling that he doesn't have any idea how to put into words—he knows only that he feels.
Like a thumb along the edge of a knife.
Like an arrowhead stuck in his flesh.
Too painful to leave, but worse to take out.
So he bears it, lets the strange ache of knowing what Berlin Batalanto looked like when life left his eyes settle into his own chest and learns how to live with it. The face of the boy from Eight flashes across the screen, and Nico remembers him taking a swing at him during the Bloodbath, remembers the anger that had surged through his chest in that moment and the shock of adrenaline that had sent Nico further into battle. When the girl from Nine shows up, Nico's chest hollows out some more, the image of her final moments settling into his bones alongside the image of Berlin—she might not have died by his own hand, but Nico had attacked her more than once on that first morning in the arena, had spilt her blood to the Earth just as whoever killed her had, and some of that still stains his soul. The girl from Ten, and both tributes from Eleven.
He'd heard the cannons all day, had let his heart panic for half a beat every time one went off and either Jess or Francis wasn't in his immediate line of sight. They both are now, and he's not surprised when he sees their eyes open, gazes hard on the sky above them. He watches the expressions on both of their faces as the other tributes paint the sky, catalogs every crease between Francis's eyebrows, knows in his bones that when the sky flashes the girl from Eleven right after the girl from Ten, that his heart probably skipped a beat knowing that Exover Endor had lived to fight another day.
It hurts Nico that he had to wait until Death to know Francisco Bloom, that he had to wait until it was one life or the other to know him well enough to know what makes his heart race.
It hurts, knowing him.
At least he will will die knowing his light.
He watches as both Francis and Jess drift to sleep, and lets himself look at the stars some more, traces the pattern they decorate there with his eyes and suddenly wishes that he had Francis's knack for putting pencil to paper and drawing what he sees. Nico leans back on his good arm, palm to the earth, feeling the dry dirt beneath the pads of his fingers. He doesn't remember slipping away, doesn't remember falling asleep, but when he does it's in the middle of the night with a gasp, his mind bringing back the fevered hallucinations he'd suffered through last night—the image of his mother reaching into his chest and taking his heart in her palms, blood slipping between her fingers. Stupid boy, she spits at him, the woman she had once been those years ago, not the woman he had spent his life taking care of, using his own life to keep her alive another day.
You gave this to your enemy, but it wasn't yours to give. Nico's breathing is heavy, and when he pushes up, his eyes meet Francis's own bright one's immediately.
It's mine, she had said right as Nico bolted awake.
Francis says something that makes Nico half-smile, that slows Nico's heartbeat in his chest, that makes the whole world stop spinning.
Looking at Francis now, Nico only has one reply for her.
Not anymore.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asks Francis as the other boy shifts closer, leans against the rock Nico had propped himself up against earlier in the evening before he'd rested his head on the earth. Which—speaking of. He lifts his hand to his cheek, feels the deep gash there where Hisidrio Di Angelo had managed to catch him with his weapon, and winces, seeing dirty blood clinging to the tips of his fingers when he brings them away. "Fuck," he says. "I must have rolled over in my sleep and got dirt in it again."
He reaches for his own bag of supplies, and is only half-surprised when Francis reaches out and says to let him help.
Nico can feel his heart in his throat again when Francis touches his cheek, feels himself swallow word after word, not knowing what to say, not knowing where to begin and where to end, only knowing that he wants this moment with Francis's hands on his cheek to last forever, that he never wants morning to come.
But Nico cannot stop time, not even for Francis.
Instead he just says "Thank you."
Instead he just says "For everything.
For showing me that this life is mine, he means. For showing me kindness when I deserved none. For giving me my heart back.
He can feel a thrumming in his bones, can feel tensions left unsolved and untended to every time he tries to shift his position, every time he tries to shut his eyes and get the rest his body so desperately needs. Every time he lets his lids fall over his eyes, he sees his mother, sees her leaned over him and running the tips of her fingers over his forehead. He sees the look of heartbreak and disappointment on her face when he tells her that the Peacekeeper who killed her young husband had been transferred to another district, maybe even the Capitol itself. He sees the tears shining in her eyes the morning of the Reaping, when he'd told her that he was going to volunteer, that he was going to steal life back from the government that had stolen it from her.
He sees Reggie's fist coming at him that night he told him the same.
It feels like so long ago, lifetimes ago, maybe.
Like it was another universe, another Nico, another boy who had no room in his heart save for the want of vengeance. He swallows thickly, heart in his throat, painfully aware of the spaces the arena has opened up inside of it, painfully aware of the ways it has changed since stepping foot among the tall flowers.
His eyes are open when the Anthem sounds, and Berlin's face across the stars fills Nico with some emotion that he doesn't know how to identify, some feeling that he doesn't have any idea how to put into words—he knows only that he feels.
Like a thumb along the edge of a knife.
Like an arrowhead stuck in his flesh.
Too painful to leave, but worse to take out.
So he bears it, lets the strange ache of knowing what Berlin Batalanto looked like when life left his eyes settle into his own chest and learns how to live with it. The face of the boy from Eight flashes across the screen, and Nico remembers him taking a swing at him during the Bloodbath, remembers the anger that had surged through his chest in that moment and the shock of adrenaline that had sent Nico further into battle. When the girl from Nine shows up, Nico's chest hollows out some more, the image of her final moments settling into his bones alongside the image of Berlin—she might not have died by his own hand, but Nico had attacked her more than once on that first morning in the arena, had spilt her blood to the Earth just as whoever killed her had, and some of that still stains his soul. The girl from Ten, and both tributes from Eleven.
He'd heard the cannons all day, had let his heart panic for half a beat every time one went off and either Jess or Francis wasn't in his immediate line of sight. They both are now, and he's not surprised when he sees their eyes open, gazes hard on the sky above them. He watches the expressions on both of their faces as the other tributes paint the sky, catalogs every crease between Francis's eyebrows, knows in his bones that when the sky flashes the girl from Eleven right after the girl from Ten, that his heart probably skipped a beat knowing that Exover Endor had lived to fight another day.
It hurts Nico that he had to wait until Death to know Francisco Bloom, that he had to wait until it was one life or the other to know him well enough to know what makes his heart race.
It hurts, knowing him.
At least he will will die knowing his light.
He watches as both Francis and Jess drift to sleep, and lets himself look at the stars some more, traces the pattern they decorate there with his eyes and suddenly wishes that he had Francis's knack for putting pencil to paper and drawing what he sees. Nico leans back on his good arm, palm to the earth, feeling the dry dirt beneath the pads of his fingers. He doesn't remember slipping away, doesn't remember falling asleep, but when he does it's in the middle of the night with a gasp, his mind bringing back the fevered hallucinations he'd suffered through last night—the image of his mother reaching into his chest and taking his heart in her palms, blood slipping between her fingers. Stupid boy, she spits at him, the woman she had once been those years ago, not the woman he had spent his life taking care of, using his own life to keep her alive another day.
You gave this to your enemy, but it wasn't yours to give. Nico's breathing is heavy, and when he pushes up, his eyes meet Francis's own bright one's immediately.
It's mine, she had said right as Nico bolted awake.
Francis says something that makes Nico half-smile, that slows Nico's heartbeat in his chest, that makes the whole world stop spinning.
Looking at Francis now, Nico only has one reply for her.
Not anymore.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asks Francis as the other boy shifts closer, leans against the rock Nico had propped himself up against earlier in the evening before he'd rested his head on the earth. Which—speaking of. He lifts his hand to his cheek, feels the deep gash there where Hisidrio Di Angelo had managed to catch him with his weapon, and winces, seeing dirty blood clinging to the tips of his fingers when he brings them away. "Fuck," he says. "I must have rolled over in my sleep and got dirt in it again."
He reaches for his own bag of supplies, and is only half-surprised when Francis reaches out and says to let him help.
Nico can feel his heart in his throat again when Francis touches his cheek, feels himself swallow word after word, not knowing what to say, not knowing where to begin and where to end, only knowing that he wants this moment with Francis's hands on his cheek to last forever, that he never wants morning to come.
But Nico cannot stop time, not even for Francis.
Instead he just says "Thank you."
Instead he just says "For everything.
For showing me that this life is mine, he means. For showing me kindness when I deserved none. For giving me my heart back.
