what the tide may take | {roland/perdita}

He'd woken up early that morning so he would have time to go on a run to the cliffs and still get back in time to shower and start on breakfast before Perdita and Giselle woke up.

His hair was still wet and the smell of pancakes and syrup made the light of the early morning mansion seem more like a home when his sister found him.

"You're cooking?" her voice was still tired; he wondered if she realized yet what the day would hold. Roland had aged out of the reaping last year, the very year Beck Hailsham went all the way to the end and won gold. He was safe, but he wasn't. Not quite. Not when Giselle was only just starting her series of reapings, and not when Perdita still had one left.

Giselle was getting older, pulling away. She often acted as if she didn't need him at all. Maybe she didn't, but the truth was that he would always need her. He supposed he should be glad for it: she was growing up. That meant he hadn't failed her yet. That meant she still had the chance to, like Roland himself, see what lied beyond the ever-present question of the Games.

She took a seat at the island and poured herself a glass of juice.

"Is Perdita up yet?"

"Not yet, no."

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Apart from the shaky unrest that would always be present in the face of potential danger, the morning was fairly average. They ate breakfast and got dressed. Roland held Perdita's hand as they made their way to the square, the wind made the ribbons in Giselle's hair pin billow as if reaching for freedom.

He was thankful for the sun, squeezing his girlfriend's hand when she started to pull away.

"I'll see you after, okay?"

Perdita was getting colder, pulling away. She often acted as if she didn't need him at all. Maybe she didn't, but the truth was that he would always need her. He supposed if she wanted to let go, she would eventually. And he would hate himself for it, but he would let her.

He pulled her into a hug; she smiled and he wondered if it was because she wanted to, or because it was the polite thing to do.

"I love you," he whispered into the safety of the crook of her neck; she kissed him and he wondered if it was because she wanted to, or because it was the polite thing to do.

She cared; that much he knew. Loved?

He let her hand fall and headed for the outskirts to watch.

—————————————————————

He didn't know what to say. As he sat there, Giselle's tears soaked into his coat, a scratch mark on his neck as she'd fought against him. She didn't understand, either. She didn't act as if she needed him, but she did, at least for a while longer, and he thought maybe that wasn't the case with Perdita anymore, and that broke his heart. But he wasn't allowed to be upset yet. Not when Giselle had already broken, and not when Perdita might not live long enough for them to make up.

"You should get that looked at when you're finished here."

The words came from a peacekeeper who looked to be about Roland's age, with blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. He realized a moment too late that the other boy was referring to the cut on Roland's neck. He'd thought it was nothing more than a scrape of her fingernails, but when he moved now, he wondered if the clip in his sister's hair had cut him a bit more seriously when he'd picked her up. He looked down to find that a lot of the wetness he'd first mistaken for tears was, in fact, his own blood. Not an alarming amount; he didn't feel dizzy at all. But enough that it was safe to guess he would need stitches.

He smiled politely at the boy and nodded, flipping up the collar of his coat to hide it.

"They're ready," said another voice. Roland stood and gestured to the boy.

"Have a good day, Officer."

The scratch on his neck was nothing compared to what he felt. Giselle had claws, but Perdita was a weapon. She was the shards of a girl he'd never met, but he still loved her as if she were whole. He couldn't blame anyone other than himself when the sharp and jagged edges left pieces of him lying out of his own reach; he'd given her the power to take him apart and put him back together. And if it meant being reduced to nothing more than a heart that wasn't sure what it was beating for, fine. He was okay with that.

He was escorted to a door. She's just on the other side of it.

Full of melancholy and dread and fear, he smiled when the knob was turned and it came swinging open on its hinges.

"Hey, you."

He hugged her, and she hugged him back, and he wondered if it was because she wanted to, or because she thought it was the polite thing to do.

He prepared himself for the cut that was to come.