the delights of death {Kirito + Raquel}

They've given me a room to myself, here in the Capitol. A big one with a queen-size bed and a floor-to-ceiling window that looks out on the city. But for all I know, we could be underground. There's a remote on the end table, a sleek little black one, which I can use to scroll through various images on the window. A beach, a forest, an ice-capped mountain. I've searched through all of them and I can't find a single picture that looks anything like Eleven. I guess I'm not surprised. They want us to be in awe of their technology, impressed with what they can do, but they certainly don't want use thinking about home. We're supposed to be focused on the arena we'll be entering in a few day's time.

Air escapes my lungs in a heavy sigh, and I re-position by body, curled up with my knees to my chest. I hardly slept. The bed is too soft, too comfortable. I want my mattress on the floor at home, the one I share with Emmanuel and Sofia. I want their body heat to keep me warm, not the furnace beneath the floor and the finely-tuned monitor on the wall.

There's a clock next to me, one that reads 5:19. We don't have digital clocks in Eleven, just the analog ones, and usually only in our homes. The ones you can strap to your wrist are expensive.

My body shifts again, and I turn to look up at the ceiling. This is about the time when the workers would be getting up, when Sofia and Emmanuel and I would have breakfast and head out to join them. The heat becomes unbearable at midday, and we try to get as much work as possible done before them. I close my eyes, willing myself to return home, where Sofia will wake me up and Emmanuel will cook a breakfast from whatever food we have and our parents will meet us out in the fields. But this is not Eleven. This is not my home.

Reluctantly, I pull myself from the sheets, feet slipping on to the floor beneath me. I need more sleep, but I know at this point that trying would be futile. My moccasins are set out carefully at the end of the bed, soft brown with blue and white embroidery. Specially requested by yours truly. Likely made in Eight, crafted by steady and practiced hands, a work that almost matches that of my Grams. Almost. I wasn't wearing the shoes she gave me on Reaping Day, and now, I wish more than anything that I had. They would've been a comfort when I stepped foot outside the fence.

I dress myself slowly, ignoring the neatly folded clothes at the end of the bed, chosen by my stylist and placed their by an avox. I do not intend to dress myself the way she wants me to. There are very few decisions I'm still in control of, and I'm going to hold on to whatever I've still got with every last bit of my will.

Instead, I move to the closet, picking out a simple white shirt and black pants. Bloomis requested that I put my hair up, but I leave it down, slightly ruffled from my restless sleep but not a complete disaster. I return to the bed, feet slipping with ease into my moccasins. I take my little wooden figure from the table, something I stole from the training center and have yet to complete. It finds a place in my pocket, and then I make my way out of the room.

I reach the end of the hall, one foot stepping out of the shadows, then pulling back suddenly when I realize someone else is there. Not because I'm scared, but because I'm curious. It's Kirito. There's a mess of papers set out in front of him, a mug in his hands, eyes intent on his work. It clicks somewhere in my mind that he was recently elected for mayor.

I don't stay in the shadows for long, instead stepping out and making my way across the room, arms wrapped around myself in some sort of form of comfort. His gaze flickers from his papers to me, to the clock, and back to me. I can see the question in his eyes, but he has the courtesy not to ask it.

"Oh morning, no one's ever up this early."

You are.

"I just made some coffee if you'd like a cup."

I glance over to the counter, catching sight of a pot filled with dark brown liquid. My family has a coffee bean patch on our property, but we don't eat them. We harvest them, ship them to the Capitol, or sell them at the market for a better price if we have any extra. I've never actually tasted the stuff.

I slip past the former tribute, find myself a simple white mug, and fill it almost to the top.

"We haven't had the chance to really talk about anything."

You're the mayor, of course we haven't.

"Do you have any questions or anything you want to run by me?"

I don't answer him immediately. Instead, I lower myself into the corner of the couch, legs crossed beneath me, a respectful distance between us. I take a sip from the mug and almost instantly grimace.

"Yeah actually, how do you drink this stuff?" I purse my lips and set it down on the table. "It's disgusting."