AN: *Winner* of the Caesar's Palace monthly oneshot contest using the prompt "alive" submitted by zero. Please review, I'd love to hear from you!

All she wants to do is seek solace in another's arms — the one with the same Seam eyes as her, the one who knows her best. She wishes to let the past slip away and her body aches to feel something, anything, under his touch. They are out in the forest, away from cameras, schedules, propos and anything resembling a society that once was. She sets aside her bow and quiver, and pulls him down to the cool soil scattered with crumbling leaves.

All he wants is to sleep one night without the restraints, without the burning injections — the ones that make her disappear. He wishes to hold onto the past while his mind fights against the endless loop of audio: mutt, traitor, killer, enemy. In a cold, concrete room illuminated only by video screens and sparks, he calls her name.

She does not feel cold steel on her wrists or needles under fingernails, only warm calloused hands entangled with hers. Soon, they venture under her shirt, leaving a trail of fire from her hips to her breast.

The only contact to his flesh is with gloved hands or metal instruments that force his eyes open and probe his ribs with razors and hot wires.

She does not hear screams of pain or anguish, but moans of lust breathed in her ear as the fabric of her pants bunches around her boots.

Mutt, traitor, killer, enemy, Mockingjay, killer, killer, kill her. Kill Her. Blood and urine drip down to his ankles.

Her senses are awake, drinking in the scent and taste of flesh and sweat under the green canopy; he closes his eyes and holds his breath, denying the smell of shit, blood and bile as well as the images of her, twisted and mutated.

She does not feel electricity, fire and hunger the same way he does; she finds pleasure in those while they drive his body into the darkness and strip away any sane fiber from his mind.

She does not feel pain when she sees the spot of blood, satisfied that she is the one who decided how it would be; he stopped asking, but his answers still hurt and leave the taste of burnt bread in his mouth.

She closes her eyes and relishes the caress of his mouth on her bare skin, the feel of him inside her and the heat building in her core; he can't look away. The grey eyes that he loved turn black and red.

She does not say stop, but pleads for more until her muscles press tighter against her anchor; he is unable to move his tongue when his jaw and throat convulse in time with the crack and pop of voltaic current.

This is what she needs; this is what he needs.

For the sake of her sanity; for the sake of the Capitol.

They both feel air fill their lungs and blood race through their veins, and they know, for this moment, they are alive.