hearing the ocean | merluccius, 85th quell

Jonathan had always known where Janan went, but that didn't mean he knew where to find her. He had never looked, let alone let Dominic know where to go searching. Wentletrap Lane was a winding street, dotted with quaint teal and white houses, the occasional gardens out front. The numbers on the houses almost seemed randomized, with 75 on one side and 56 across the street. It was idyllic, inconsistent, and exactly the kind of place she would have run away to.

Something moved in his peripheral vision, and Jonathan turned to find a small child staring at him with intrigue. He realized how out of place he must have looked, wearing a stern gray suit in a place that looked like it was all leisure. He put on his best smile, waving at the child. "Hello, little one!" he called. "Do you know where house 42 is?"

The child merely pointed in the direction that he'd been walking, and he dipped his head in acknowledgement. "Thank you," he said, feeling no less perplexed than before. Down the road he continued, a never-ending wave of sea-colored houses. Teal and then white, teal and then white - yellow.

The sudden shift in scheme startled him, and he blinked as if it were an illusion. It was not, neither was the brushed golden 42 on the front door. Of course. It was always her favorite color.

Jonathan stepped off of the road, scowling at his now dusty and gravel-scuffed shoes. I'll have to get these shined again. Raising his eyes to the front of the house, he wondered if she would laugh at him. She did always find joy in his discomfort. His being here was doing her a favor as much as she would for him.

He rapped his fist against the door, softly at first, then louder. When she appeared at the door in her usual paperbag shorts and oversized t-shirt, he didn't waste any time.

"Did you get a letter from the Capitol?" he blurted out.

The corners of her eyes crinkled as she smiled, but they didn't sparkle the way they usually did. "Hello to you too, Jonathan."

"Janan," Jonathan said softly, clasping his hands before him in a silent plea. Janan's smile fell, and she placed a fist on her hip.

"Come in."

He did as she asked, stepping past her into the front room. Photo frames covered nearly every inch of the walls, gold-rimmed and perfectly hung. He was not shocked to find that he wasn't present in the majority of them, but Dominic was. Their son's eyes shone as brightly in reproductions as they did in real life.

Seeing his face merely reminded Jonathan what he had came for, and he cleared his throat. "Did you get a letter?" he repeated.

"I did." Janan had closed the door and was now leaning against it, her eyes drooping. "They were accepting letters for the tributes."

"I know that," he exclaimed. "I know, not because I got a letter, or because you told me - which you didn't - but because one of my partners asked me what I was sending to him."

"So you're angry at me?"

"Yes, I'm angry at you."

"Why?"

"Why?" Jonathan flailed his arms around wildly, feeling frustration settle deeper within his stomach. "What do you mean, why, Janan? He's my son."

"He's mine, too," Janan grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest.

"No. No, he's not," he hissed, lowering his face inches from hers. "He stopped being your child the minute you walked out on him. On me."

Janan raised her chin defiantly, dark curls shrugging out of the scarf she wore atop her head. "What is it that you wanted me to do?"

"Oh, I don't know," he said with an exaggerated shrug. "Told me about the letter? Sent it to my house if you didn't want to speak to me?"

He backed away from her and began to pace the floor, placing his arms overtop his head. "We could have written something together."

"I didn't want to," she said bluntly.

Jonathan spun around, pointing a finger accusatorily. "See?" he blurted. "You only ever think about yourself."

"You only think about yourself," Janan replied, pushing herself off the door and making her way to the couch. "You're here arguing with me over not being able to send a letter to Dominic, but if you were truly thinking of him you wouldn't have to send a letter, because everything you would have needed to say would have been said to his face."

He recoiled into himself at the accusation. How dare she? "The only reason you have to send him a letter is because you haven't seen him since he was ten!"

"I've seen him, Jonathan," she said emphatically. "I see him around the district all the time."

"And you think that's the same as being there for him?"

"Are you there for him?"

"I raised him," Jonathan said. "I did everything for him that you didn't."

"Everything I couldn't," she said. "I couldn't provide for him. You know that."

Jonathan let out a bitter laugh as Janan continued, "Would you rather Dominic have a mother who's there but not really present, or would you rather him have no one?"

He pursed his lips. "None of the above."

She went quiet, her eyes like buckets ready to carry every bit of him. He turned to study the portraits on the wall.

"Please sit down, Jonathan. Your pacing makes me anxious."

"I'd rather not, thank you."

"Our son is dying." The words made him feel ill, and he went to lean against the railing, which creaked as it accepted his weight.

"No," he said brusquely. "He's not going to die. He's going to be a victor, and a great one at that."

"You think Beck Hailsham can bring him home?"

Jonathan glanced at the photo wall, his eyes drawn to a photo in the corner. It was the only one that featured him, his arms around Janan and their son, all three beaming like the sun.

"I think Dominic can bring himself home," he murmured.