The Anchor Keeping Feet on the Ground, Wings Keeping Hearts in Clouds
"don't paint me black when i used to be golden..."
District One against District Twelve. Odds are on a victorious Twelve. Both have their partners in the finale of Hunger Games thanks to the rule change. This had most likely been for the Star-Crossed Lovers themselves. Who cares? District One is still here.
The plan is to run. It's a shit plan and they know and in their heads, they both hear mentors yelling to think of better ideas, but they can't.
Home is so close they hear it smell it taste it touch...Wolves. She sprints, seeing Clove's black irises staring at her from inside the creature raging wild, baring teeth as if eating her alive with its sharp claws or pointed teeth. He follows fast, realising that the collared beast wears the number Two. These are not just wolves; these are mutated—by the Capitol, of course.
Neither questions the steps taken paces. Glimmer knows Marvel memorised all Capitol creations to date in Mandatory Training at home by age ten. Marvel knows Glimmer recognises Clove's damn orbs anywhere as the only female Careers in the arena. They keep going, yet somewhere along the way District Twelve is on their heels. Let the fight begin, he thinks.
Lover Boy is slow. Marvel doesn't hesitate to shove his spear into the traitor far enough in his ribcage to kill him in one try. Any easy chance to catch the opponent off guard is the right one. (He doesn't watch those blue eyes cold...lifeless. No remorse, remember?).
A cannon sounds in his ears as he walks away and it becomes his heartbeat.
The Girl on Fire sticks an arrow in his unarmed figure and he isn't sure but he seems to be losing blood by the pint only sure of one thing, that his chance of survival is lower every second. Blood drips for his wound as if it's a river and he wants Glimmer to stitch him. Tell him everything will be all right. Knot the bandage too tight. Glimmer is in the corner of his vision. She's climbing the Cornucopia after the brunette and accurately tosses an extra spear, therefore, he does the best he can to heave the arrow left-handed.
"Catch it!" Marvel yells raggedly.
Can't be much time left.
It's the last thing he sees before the setting shifts, spins and the world blackens.
"Thanks." Glimmer holds what the girl opposite her needs most.
Twelve loads her bow, so Glimmer ducks and the archer misses and it hits a nearby tree. Crawling on her flat stomach, Glimmer catches an ankle. She watches Twelve slip and hopes maybe she'll die right now and One will have the Victors. The trainee in her knows that will never happen. This bow is difficult to slip off, yet, Glimmer always has what she desires.
When she has it, she aims it off the horn, leaving no choice for Twelve. The blonde is a hand-to-hand combat kind and she intends to use it. So, she does. There is hitting, kicking, biting, pulling and chocking until Glimmer emerges the victor of combat. (She closes her green eyes, imagining Marvel's brown ones, rather than ruby blood. (No guilt, recall?).
When she strides to an [unconscious, dead?] Marvel, she cries loud enough to drown out the deceased girl's cannon shot.
Mutations climb up and scratch at Twelve, scrape her. Her face is red from the metallic liquid. Twelve is food now and no one wants to save her and Glimmer really needs to focus on the boy crumpled in front of her. First, she rolls him on to his back. Wounds are more complex when they're flat, though easier to heal like so. Then, uses the arrow she'd caught and makes a tourniquet with gauze from the pack she had hidden nearby. She smirks. If Marvel were here, he'd giggle a little; he's nearly not.
Marvel is unresponsive as she chews on dry leaves to extract pus. (It's a trick Eleven did the first time they attempted to kill him earlier this week). Or, mops up blood. Glimmer sobs some more, too.
Tucking her hair behind her ear, propping herself on her knees, she waits and waits and waits and pretends the guilt for not staying with him is not swallowing her whole.
Marvel's earth is dizzy. The sky is darker than when he last saw it, but he can't see it completely since Glimmer is lingering above him. Glimmer and those emeraldemeraldemerald eyes, those longlonglong legs and sunsunsun hair. Glimmer. His lady Tribute. Glimmer. His Victor. "Hi."
She lightly leans into his slit face, the end of her plait tickling somewhere on his neck.
"We got them," she tells him. "We got them good. They're dead; we did that, you know. Yes, we did!"
Just then, Claudius Templesmith is announcing the victo— Nononono. This can't be happening. It can't. No. Anything other than this. Just for a second, Marvel forgets that fucking cannon and Glimmer forgets blood and they listen to his serious voice.
"Proper consultation to the rules says there's only one Victor. Any previous edit has been revoked. Thank you. May the odds be ever in your favour."
Three heavy breaths, then she whispers. Words come out, rushed, almost jumping over each other to be first out. "We've got to warm you up. Keep warm." Another on his lips. "Come on, Marvel, come! Keep warm."
She's unsure of time elapsing, but she continues placing kisses—long or short doesn't even matter because all she wants is him and if this if is the only way to keep him, she'll do it—all over every inch of exposed flesh. Whatever's left of his thermal jacket rapidly unzips from her roaming fingers. Hands push his shirt to the top of his chest. Kisses again. Againagainagain. Quietly, she traces the round of his navel. Circlecirclecirle. Except—oh, bullshit—his hands tremble and she thinks he's dying and someone, (the Capitol), has to retrive them.
Claudius crowns them their title and that plane is here. (Glimmer bites them when they attempt to remove Marvel from her. Has she gone insane?).
As soon as she's permitted to walk about, Glimmer's aside Marvel as close as the doctors will let her be and she shouts and tears are streaming down her face. She looks disgusting, but she's stopped caring a long time ago. The only time she leaves is when she forced to find the bathroom and use it.
During the Victors ceremony, they do so much kissing and crying, that Marvel doesn't remember anything he's planned to. His hands quake so much that for days, Glimmer's, "shh, it's okay!" becomes his fucking mantra. All he needs is to fucking hear her damn vocal chords. She holds those palms together until he stops and counts 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. The crowd chews it up and calls them better than the long-lost Star-Crossed Lovers. (She watched him throw an urn off the table when she released her grip after stepping off the elevator after the observance).
Gloss and Cashmere, the mentors—Marvel and Gimmer remember the names now—leave them alone at Glimmer's pleads. Marvel loses it then. He slides down the wall, sweaty and blood trickles like tears out his hands. Cries like a baby and doesn't quit long into the night.
She kisses him when he does, shuts him the hell up and fucks him against the wall with love and passion in a silky, transparent dress and she looks like a nasty ragdoll because she's teary as well but Glimmer Fina doesn't stop fuckingfuckingfucking and damn it Marvel Ember doesn't want to.
For Ohhdaughter. She wanted me to write her something with Glimmer in it. Sorry it took so long babe. I need this to be perfect because I love this paring and you do. The ending is crap, but I hope you don't mind. And it killed me to murder Peeta and Katniss or not refer to them by name. This long crap is the longest thing I've written here, and I rather love this shit. Enjoy it, darling. And nobody favourite/follow without a review, please!