Chapter Text
Chapter 1 - Rowen
I wake to the sound of the front door slamming shut. The house shudders from the force, floorboards groaning, and the foundation bracing as if waiting for another blow.
I don’t remember falling asleep. Doesn’t matter. I’m wide awake now—alert and on edge.
Below me, through the floor I can hear two sets of footsteps moving deeper into the house. They stop in the kitchen. One set is familiar: slow and heavy, dragging like the weight he carries is stitched into his bones. Atlas. My brother who feels more like a stranger every day.
I don’t recognize the second set immediately, they’re quicker, sharper, less familiar - until I hear the voice. Low. Tense. And unmistakable.
“What exactly did they say to you?”
Finnick.
“I already told you,” Atlas says, voice clipped. Defensive. “It was just some vague bullshit.”
“And you just accepted that?” Finnick’s voice is cutting. Controlled, but just barely. “You didn’t think to press for further details? Or even ask why?”
“If I had, do you think they’d have been any more forthcoming?” Atlas retorted dryly.
“You could’ve tried.” There’s a small pause. “Do you even understand the implications here?”
“Perfectly.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” Finnick snaps. “You’re showing a hell of a lot of indifference for someone whose sister might be-”
“Don’t.” Atlas’ voice drops dangerously low. His words, while quiet, carry more weight than yelling. Though, the conversation in itself is heavy enough. Finnick has never confronted my brother in such a manner - at least as far as I knew. It was almost as startling as the topic being argued over. “I know exactly what this is.”
Silence blooms between them. The kind that feels suffocating.
“I wasn’t sure,” Finnick says after a moment, quieter now, but still pushing. “Not given the complete lack of concern you seem to be showing.”
“Lack of concern?” Atlas snaps. “I don’t have to prove anything to you.”
Finnick’s footsteps grow louder. Pacing, maybe. I hear the tap turn on, a slow trickle hitting the basin. That’s Atlas. I can picture him in the kitchen, scrubbing his hand down his face, like he tends to do when he’s overwhelmed - unless he flees the room first.
“They’re replacing Mags,” Finnick says after a beat. “That’s not nothing. Mentors aren’t replaced hours before a Reaping.”
“I know.”
“This isn’t a coincidence.”
“I know.”
“So why aren’t you doing something?”
“What would you have me do, Finnick? March back in the Peacebuilding and demand to know if they plan to kill my sister?” Atlas exhales through his nose. Bitter. “We both know how this ends.”
“It’ll be Rowen.”
And it hurts. The way Finnick says it - not like a name, but something fragile. Like he’s already mourning me. I shut my eyes.
The water stops and Atlas’ footsteps start up again. “Let’s not forget why that is.” Not even a second later, the front door slams shut.
The house shudders again. So do I.
I didn't move for a long time after that. My chest feels tight. Not like I’m holding my breath - more like I forgot how to breathe properly. I can hear it, shaky, catching on each exhale.
It’ll be Rowen.
The words rattle around in my skull. Finnick’s voice. Finnick’s grief.
Neither of them had explicitly said it aloud. They didn’t need to - I could read between the lines. Or at least some of them anyway. It's obvious I’m missing a substantial piece of information - eavesdropping on a conversation with no context. It was clear enough, however, that they thought— no, they knew—that I was going to be Reaped today. And whatever convinced them of this had to be undeniable.
I was going to be Reaped.
It’s a fear we all live with, those of us still unlucky enough to be eligible. A festering, gnawing thing that takes root around twelve and never really leaves. But even then, the ugly thought is tempered by this quiet voice of doubt simmering beneath your sweeping worries, assuring you that it won't ever actually be you. It’s a whisper of hope that you cling to whether you realize it or not. You watch the odds shift with each added tesserae, calculate the numbers, population size; you think statistically it's improbable—not out of thousands, you tell yourself. It's this subtle certainty, however irrational it may be, that keeps the peacekeepers from dragging screaming children to the square.
But the illusion has dropped. I’m grasping for those fleeting feelings of false security and assurances. They were a crutch kicked out from under me. Kicked out by a conversation overheard between my brother and the boy I used to love speaking about my death as if it’s already scheduled down to the minute. I don’t know how I’m supposed to walk into that square now.
I suppose that’s when fear stops being abstract, when it hardens into something real—something tangible. When it stops being a possibility and starts becoming fact.
It doesn’t twist your gut anymore. It settles. Cold. Heavy. Certain. It makes me feel sick. But I can’t fall apart. I can’t afford to let myself. If you look like you’re breaking, they make it worse. Confidence is armor. Beauty is a blade. No one notices if you bleed beneath it.
I sit up slowly, like any sudden movement might shatter me. Which it very well might. I feel light-headed, my limbs feel strange—too light and too heavy all at once. Like they’re not entirely mine. I press the heels of my palms into my eyes, hard enough to see sparks; I let the sting steady me.
I need to move. I need to know.
Finnick is still downstairs, he wouldn’t have followed after my brother. Atlas flees when it gets too heavy. Finnick doesn’t. He stays behind and lets it crush him.
I stand, slipping on a dressing robe strewn haphazardly across the edge of bed. My fingers twist around the tie at my waist lingering longer than they need to. A stall. Something to trick myself into a feeling of composure.
I move quietly down the stairs, each step careful, deliberate. I don’t want to give him the chance to compose himself before I see him; I don't want him hiding behind that Capitol smile he wears like armor. I want him. Whatever version of him still exists underneath all that gold and grit.
When I round the corner into the kitchen, I find him slouched at the table, elbows on his knees, staring down into a half-empty mug like he’s hoping it’ll give him non-existent answers. He looks wrecked in a quiet, deliberate way, like someone trying not to come apart too visibly.
He doesn’t hear me enter. Good.
I let the silence stretch longer, then speak just loud enough to make him flinch.
“Well, if it isn’t District 4’s golden boy. Should I be flattered that you're mourning something in my kitchen?”
Finnick visibly startles, his head snapping up and hand tightening around the cup. His eyes widen before he schools his expression into something cooler, calmer, but the guilt flashes through anyways. Brief but blinding.
“Rowen,” he says, voice rasped like he’d forgotten how to use it.
I arch an eyebrow. “Did I catch you mid-spiral, or post?”
He exhales through his nose—half a huff, half a sigh—and sits back into the chair like it suddenly weighs more.
“I didn’t hear you come down.”
“That much was obvious.”
I cross the kitchen, slow and casual, brushing fingertips across the back of a chair but not sitting. Let him squirm a little.
He watches me carefully. Like I might break or suddenly vanish.
“I didn’t expect you to be here,” I say. “Your house is actually the one across the street.”
“The coffee tastes better here.” It’s the same stuff.
“Must be the company, then,” I say dryly. “Or the existential dread in the air, that Atlas wafts all over the place. Adds flavour.”
That earns the faintest smile from him - crooked and fleeting, it slips out before he can stop it.
“I’ve missed your optimism,” he says, still watching me like I’m something fragile. Something breakable. Which is ridiculous. I’ve never broken in front of him. Not in front of anyone. Not once.
“Don’t get sentimental on me, Odair,” I murmur, finally sliding into the chair across from him. “It’s barely past sunrise and the Reaping isn’t until noon.”
He shifts in his seat uncomfortably, like he’s trying to find a version of himself that fits. I almost feel bad for him. Almost.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.
My brow lifts again. “Talk about what?”
He hesitates. I let the silence needle at him. He’s never been great with that kind of pause - the kind you can’t charm your way out of. Of course he’ll try anyway though.
Somehow he leans back even further into the chair, like he’s settling into old territory - handsome smirk, tired eyes, trying to act like nothing’s burning beneath the surface.
“I just meant…” He shrugs. “If something’s bothering you.”
“You mean besides the looming threat of government-sanctioned death?”
His jaw ticks. “Besides that.”
I study him for a beat, then lean forward slightly, elbows on the table, like I’m indulging him. Like I’m letting him in. He’ll know better.
“You’re acting like I should be bothered.”
He blinks. That fraction of hesitation gives him away.
“I didn’t mean-”
“But you did.” I tilt my head. “So, go on. What is it you think I know?”
His lips part, then press shut again. There’s a flicker of panic behind his eyes—he’s calculating how much I heard. How much I understand.
“I don’t think anything,” he says finally. “Just… checking in.”
I let out a low breath, slow and unbothered. “That’s sweet. You check in with all potential tributes the morning of, or just the ones you used to kiss behind the cannery?”
He doesn’t flinch. But the silence that follows is telling.
“Ren,” he says softly, and I hate the way it still sounds good in his mouth.
“Don’t,” I reply, just as soft. “Not unless you’re going to tell me something I don’t know.”
He leans forward now too, mirroring me. There’s something heavier in his expression - no longer trying to charm his way out. Just… him.
“I don’t know anything for sure.”
“But you suspect.”
He nods once. No point lying now. We both know I heard them.
“It’s just a feeling. A pattern.”
“And Atlas?” I ask, watching him carefully. “He shares this feeling?”
A silent nod.
The room goes still again. The house creaks around us. Finnick’s eyes haven’t left mine.
I stand abruptly, breaking the silence, shoving the chair back with a loud screech. It startles him—just a flicker—but I clock it.
“More coffee?”
He blinks at me, a little thrown. “What?”
I don’t bother acknowledging him, instead I turn away, stepping towards the cupboards like nothing’s happened, and pull out the tin of coffee grounds. The lid sticks. I pop it off with more force than necessary and tip the grounds into the filter.
“You’re making coffee now?” he asks, somewhere between amused and concerned.
I glance over my shoulder. “What can I say? Impending doom gets my appetite going."
He huffs a sound that almost resembles a laugh. “I missed this.”
“Please don’t get nostalgic. It’s unattractive.”
I hit the switch. The machine sputters to life with a groan. The smell starts to drift through the kitchen - burnt and familiar, curling into the corners of the quiet. I keep my back to him as I watch the coffee drip down slowly.
“You seemed off earlier,” he says finally, tone low.
“Must’ve been the charming morning atmosphere,” I reply, turning to face him fully. “Y’know, doors slamming. Accusations being thrown around. Light breakfast entertainment.”
He looks away, jaw tight. “That wasn’t meant for you to hear.”
“Then maybe next time don’t broadcast it through the floorboards.”
He’s quiet again. I let the silence stretch, arms folded loosely, resting my weight on one hip. A breeze from the cracked kitchen window ruffles the edge of the curtain, brushing cool air across the back of my neck.
“You and Atlas seemed pretty confident,” I say. “That it’ll be me.”
His eyes flick back to mine. “It’s not confidence.”
“No?” I tilt my head. “Because it sure sounded like certainty. Unless I misheard the part where you said my name like a funeral bell.”
He winces. That’s gratifying.
“It’s just a pattern,” he mutters. “A feeling.”
“Right,” I say, circling back to the counter. “You said that already. Still sticking to that answer?”
The coffee machine hisses behind me. I pour two mugs. I added sugar to his without asking. He’d always taken it that way. Dumb muscle memory. I hated that I remembered.
I walk the mugs to the table with steady hands—or so I think. When I set one down in front of him, it drips down the sides, pooling in a ring on the table —the slight tremble in my fingers… Barely there. But enough. His gaze drops to it like it’s a wound.
I pull my hand back like I’ve been burned.
“Don’t.”
“I wasn’t - ”
“You were,” I say, sharply now. “Don’t look at me like I’m fragile.”
His jaw clenches. “I wasn’t.”
“You were. If you thought you were hiding it well, you need to try harder.”
He picks up the mug and takes a long slow sip. “Thanks.”
I lean against the counter across from him, eyes narrowing slightly. The ceramic is still warm beneath my palm.
“So you and Atlas, what? Just felt something in the air and decided the Capitol was aiming at me?”
“It’s more than that.”
“Then enlighten me.”
He hesitates. And there it is again - that shift. That pullback. The one he does when he’s protecting something. Or someone.
“It’s not something I can explain,” he says finally.
“Try.”
“I can’t.”
“Because you don’t know,” I say slowly, “or because you won’t tell me?”
His silence answers that.
“Right,” I murmur. “Of course.”
“Ren-”
“No.” I shake my head once. Controlled. Dismissive. “Don’t do that. Don’t use that tone like we’re still… whatever we were.”
“If I could fix this, I would,” he says, quiet and raw. “You know that.”
I stare at him for a beat, then nod once. Not agreement. Just acknowledgement.
“So you came to say nothing helpful and leave uncomfortably. As usual.”
He huffs a bitter laugh. “Thanks for the coffee. And the damage.”
“Anytime,” I say, turning away.
“I’ll be there, Ren,” he says, softer. “Even if you don’t want me to be.”
I don’t answer. I don’t have it in me.
But I don’t need to, because he stands, slow and reluctant, and leaves without another word. His footsteps are quiet, careful, like he’s trying not to wake something that’s already broken.
A moment later, the front door clicks shut - quiet, deliberate. Not like Atlas. He doesn’t slam it. He never has.