life is but fleeting flame {rene/alistair}

Sometimes I wonder how well I know the taste of dread. Maybe sweet, but mostly bitter - like steam off fresh coffee - not unbearable but quick becoming overpowering. It occurred to me upon arrival that I should have put more thought into just how I planned to survive. The Capitol is full of suffocating decadence, like it's meant to steal my breath away with every little wonder I find tucked in some flashy lounge. It's like everything is trying to hard to seem spectacular that all of it has blended into a brown haze of runny watercolor.

I think I'm fucking terrified, but also just bored.

It's almost funny to watch the lower districts fumble their way around holding a weapon, thumb running idly across the callouses I'd worn into my own palms. How bad do their lungs burn by now? How long does it take for their muscles to start screaming when wielding the weight of a child-killer? Something that is more pity than satisfaction coils in my gut as I watch them, making no effort to join even though I know I should. The poison I felt volunteering still lingers, diluted by the realization that I'd probably signed my own death certificate with two simple words. But, fuck, if it's not a relief to finally admit that's what I've done.

I've spent my whole life starving and a part of me had always hoped they were right when they told me this would sate me. Of course it didn't. It's a bit comforting to know everyone back home is living in a fairy tale and so few of them will ever actually realize that. We find out how worthless we really are, then we die. Works for me, though, it means they'll make me into a fucking hero back home. That's all I've ever lived for.

There's something curious in this room. He sits in the corner of my vision like a stain, casting only a ghost's shadow. I've taught myself to read people, I'd even say it's the only talent I've ever truly possessed. The unconscious twitch of anxious lips are obvious when I've made recognizing them a game of life of death. That must be why he stands out, he's the absence of a light I've grown accustomed to blinding myself with.

The closer I draw the more I notice little things - he reminds me of blank parchment with singed edges. He's hasn't been training, there's no sweat staining his brow. He's definitely not a career, he doesn't reek of desperation. He doesn't even look scared and I'm a little jealous of that.

He's observant too, he notices me before I clear my throat.

"Trying to survive not your thing?" And I'm a hypocrite, but I already knew that.