happy birthday mippins here's DYSTOPIA

[thleeny]

“I’m not covering for you if we get caught.”

It’s a quiet warning, said with no heat or malice. Just a vague statement, said as Rosalind leans back, her hands wrapping around her drawn-up leg. Her skirt-- plain, long, not the tight little things they make her wear in public-- rucks up over her legs, and absently she picks at the hem. Her eyes are trained towards the layers of buildings, slowly lighting up as the sun sinks on the horizon, little flickers of electricity and shapes of shadows interplaying pleasantly. She’s in profile to him like this, a dark outline against a blazing sky, and he likes that. He likes the way it makes her hair light up, the sun low enough to be reddened now. (It’s because most of the color spectrum is gone, Newt thinks, seeing the words on the library book he’d stolen when he was six, gotta love that photographic memory, leaving mostly red and yellow waves, the buildings all washed in crimson and orange).

He thinks about things like that. About why the world works the way it does, not on a practical level but a scientific one. It’s way easier to think about the genetics of the muttations in the earlier games, how you can take a species built for tame existence and make it into a weapon, butterflies with poisonous wings and rats who wouldn’t be sated by anything but human meat. It’s an endless puzzle for him to toy with, and he indulges in it. It’s safer than the alternative. He’s learning how to be safer when he’s here, so he doesn’t stick out so much as come across eccentric, quirky and amusing but not-- and this is important-- dangerous.

She’d taught him that, back when he’d first become a mentor. Sixteen and full of false bravado, talking shit at anyone who met his gaze, because if you were bright and loud and aggressively didn’t care surely no one could hurt you. Aposematism, that’s the term, like those blazing red frogs they’d had in the arena last year: not hiding but boldly advertising, telling others that it would be a bad idea to mess with you, you’re smarter than them, you can run circles around them, you have, you will again, god please don’t make me prove it again--

And yet there she’d been. She was, what, nineteen that year? Yeah, three years older, all cold and cutting and sharp, even then. Severe, all steel to his exuberant fire, tampering him down and leaving him gasping in her wake. Don’t draw attention, she’d snapped at him. That was right before the initial interviews, all the tributes and their mentors lined up, dressed up and feeling like his suit didn’t fit right. She’d been all in gold, he remembers. It should have made her look pretty, but the effect was harsh instead: like the edge of one of those titanium oxide knives the Capitol citizens were going nuts for that year. Pretty, sure, and lots of people had wanted one, but it’d draw blood the second you touched it.

Do you truly want their eyes on us right now? Don’t just bleat, choose your words wisely or they’ll get chosen for you, her hair all pinned up and her neck bare, and his eyes had lingered even as he’d snapped back at her, even then, even when he’d been certain he hated her (but then again, he’d wanted so badly for her to like him, and she was nothing like she’d pictured-- not sweet, not warm, no, he wasn’t stupid, but surely intelligence could recognize intelligence but apparently not, and it stung more than it ought to).

But she’d been right. He’d learned. He’d curbed his words-- not silencing himself, but at least adapting. Surviving, because the Capitol had ways to silence those who spoke too loudly. His father’s warned him more than once about that-- that people have their eyes on him for a thousand reasons, starting with his mother’s origins (and nobody knows, really, save for a handful, that Newt’s mother is from the Capitol, but those that do are very careful to dangle that fact above his head) and ending with his winning his Games, so please, liebchen, don’t start--

Anyway.

It’d worked. And now here they are, years later, and they’re on the rooftops of the Training Center with rum and some of those weird gel cubes they serve at every damn party, and it’s--

Not nice. Nothing about this period of time is nice. But slightly less awful than the other times.

“Yeah, I know,” he answers, emerging from his thoughts. Blinks once, then turns towards her, putting on a reckless sort of grin, because it’s either that or start bawling, and crying never gets anything done. “I got it, okay? Big bad and scary, that’s you, believe me, I buy the act. I’ll let them know I strong-armed you up here, made you drink-- unless you don’t want any?”

“I didn’t say that.” She says it with a very slight huff to her voice, a little layer of realism that he loves to earn. Tearing her gaze from the cityscape, she focuses in on him, then the rum, reaching for the bottle. Long nails (elegantly manicured, painted a dark red that doesn’t quite suit her) pick at the seal.

“That’s what I thought.” He’s still grinning as he watches her pry off the cork and take the first sip-- a sip, how ladylike, though she’s drinking from a bottle of rum. There’s more than one reason he’s watching, but it’s easier to focus on the petty reasons. Like how her lips purse as the liquor hits her tongue, slides down her throat; how she so obviously hates the sting and taste, but refuses to give it up. He’s grinning as she offers him the bottle, but though she makes a little face, she doesn’t comment.

They do that for a while. Drink silently, amiably, trading the bottle back and forth just a little too rapidly to be considered idle. Only once it’s half-gone do they slow, and by that time, the sun’s set. They’re in darkness now, comfortably invisible, even as the city bares itself to them.

She moves. Shifts, nudging at him, and he acts like he doesn’t know what she’s doing, because he likes being wanted. Lets her guide him into wrapping an arm around her shoulders, just so he can have the pleasure of feeling her hand take his, hearing her huff in the dark as she pulls just so, shifting this way and that, until she’s curled up against him and he’s leaning up against a beam. His fingers slide against her shoulder, drifting up to the crook of her neck, slipping beneath her shirt to tease at the secret skin no one else gets to see. Useless touches, claiming touches-- touches they get to indulge in once a year, while their tributes sleep beneath them.

“. . .” He takes in a breath and releases it slowly, saying nothing. It’s stupid: all year he thinks of things he wants to tell her. Books he wonders if she’s read, or theories he wants to run past her. He puts them in his letters, yeah, but those are so infrequent, and it’s hard to hold a conversation that way. They cover broad stuff, sure, but all the little details? The day-to-day stuff? Nah. He can’t exactly fill up precious letter space with so I was talking to my uncle today about the five-pound bag problem and you wouldn’t believe the excuses he came up with today, can he?

But it’s quiet. And though he loathes the silence, there’s a difference. It’s not the forced servility in the Capitol’s trains, the Avox with their hollow eyes and masks, the baited breath as their darling betters speak and they all of them wait to see what new horrors might await them. That, that silence, that sterility, that’s what Newt hates.

But this is just quiet. The two of them not talking because it’s comfortable, not because they can’t. And there’s little things-- the faint sound of her breath, slow and steady. The idle trace of her nails against his hip, her fingers slipped up beneath his shirt to find bare skin. The way their clothing rustles as one of them adjust, shifting and moving against each other solely just to feel the push and press of warm limbs and half-remembered bodies.

He would’ve been content with just that.

“Come down to bed with me,” he murmurs. It’s gotten chilly, and though the rum’s doing a fantastic job of keeping him warm, he’d rather lie with her on a bed. Or other things that might involve beds, he’s really not picky, but on the other hand it has been a whole year, and posed like this he can kind of see down her shirt and listen, he’s only human, and he likes her so very much.

She should have agreed. They’ve done this song and dance for nearly five years now, there’s no room for hesitations or uncertainties. Or, if there were, she would have let him know at the start. She’s blunt like that.

So there’s no reason for the way her breath catches. The pause, and then the forced casualness to her tone, even as her body stiffens in his arms. “I,” she says, and suddenly he knows, he knows what she’s about to say, because it’s not been ten years for her, not really--

Because it’s a reality for all of them, sooner or later. Because she’s pretty and cold and hates being touched, an awful combination that isn’t meant to titillate but does, and because they’re not so old that they’re out of the running yet. Youth is valued, but sometimes people aren’t so picky.

Because she has her own form of aposematism, but sometimes snakes ignore the warning signs.

“Yeah,” he says roughly, and sits up, dislodging them both. He’s being a brat, he knows, he’s being awful, standing up abruptly and leaving her down there, and later on he’ll feel bad, but right now-- “Yeah, it’s fine. I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

“Newt,” and it’s not upset, it’s just quiet, and he hates her a little for that. Let her-- oh, god, let her take it out on him. Let her call him out on his behavior, for the way he’s scowling, the way he’s making this all about him. Let her snarl, sink her claws in, let her get it all out on him-- but no, that isn’t her way. She’ll just suppress it. She’ll go even icier, cold gaze and sharpened tongue, and she won’t come out for ages and ages, not til she feels safe-- or as safe as you can ever feel around here.

He knows this. They’ve done this. But still he avoids her gaze as she stands, straightens. Just shrugs. “Tomorrow,” he repeats stupidly, his tongue feeling thick. It’s stupid. It’s so stupid, they all go through this, it isn’t her choice, it isn’t her fault. He wants to say that. He wants to wrench his gaze up and force himself to be the person he wants so badly to be, softer and kinder and better than the thing he’s being right now. It’s okay, and the words are on the tip of his tongue, held back by pride and stubborn instinct and a desperate need not to be soft, because if it’s still happening to her it could happen to him, and he can’t--

“Fine,” she says, and turns. The door slams shut behind her, and then there’s nothing. He takes in a breath, exhaling it harshly. Rubs a hand over his mouth, and gets the rum, and goes down to his room alone.

**

It’s three in the morning when his door opens.

Stupid. She should know better. Nobody wakes up a mentor in the middle of the night, not unless they want a knife to the gut, but Rosalind’s never really fit in the categories of nobody and everybody.

Anyway, he’s up. He’s been up all night, even when the sweet heat of liquor ran out. He’d gone for the morphling next, just one little hit, but even that’s faded now. He’s lying in the dark, eyes wide and thoughts a few years away.

Somehow, there’s no shock to his door sliding open. Just a slurred sort of recognition, like: oh, right. Of course. Like they’d arranged for her to come here tonight, like he hadn’t snapped at her the way he had.

She doesn’t say anything. Just stands there, looking a little like a ghost for how pale she is. Her hair is down, and (his heart twists, just once) she’s wearing not whatever shit they gave her to put on tonight, but rather one of his shirts. One of the ones from last year, the one she’d stolen and then denied stealing when he’d accused her of it later on. Just that and some sweatpants, and she looks--

Normal. Not attractive, not really. Shapeless and comfortable, tired and pale, not dressing up for anyone but herself.

“Hey,” he says softly. It’s a laughably small attempt at an olive branch, but she takes it anyway. In two strides she’s at his bed, nudging at him with a sharp knee until he moves over. Her legs swing up, her head fitting in so naturally under his head. Her hand settles on his chest (and thank god he’d worn a shirt tonight, he thinks, because it doesn’t matter but it does, all at once). And just like that, she’s settled. His arms come up around her, his grip loose, and he shifts to turn into her more.

“Hey,” she finally replies, the noise soft and muffled, and he bites back a laugh. Not cruel, not even really amused, just-- exhausted, maybe. Exhausted and sad and a little hysterical from all he’s forced himself not to think about, and in the face of all that, hearing her say something so casual is just-- it’s just--

“I missed you,” he tells the top of her head, and buries his nose there, eyes closing. There’s a soft noise beneath him, a mumble he doesn’t quite catch, the heat of her breath against his throat, her nose brushing along his skin. Her fingers curl and then relax, splaying out over his chest, a touch that’s as pointless as the way he sweeps her hair back.

“It’s been a long time,” she finally replies. A year, a whole year . . . and even when they do meet up, it’s tainted. It’s filled with nights like this, as miserable as they are precious, the fear and the dread and the oncoming horror of the games, and yet in a perverse way he looks forward to them. Not the games, but her, and these stolen few moments they get.

Her lips against his throat, and he feels them move, tremble, and he realizes--

“Newt,” she says, and there’s something so horribly fragile about it. Like that breathless moment before a glass shatters, like when an acrobat balances on a tightrope and wobbles, he knows what she’s doing, he knows her so well. “I . . .”

“It’s all right,” he says, and there’s something fierce in his voice. His arms tighten around her, a fierce grip, his fingers curling in her hair. “Ros, it’s fine, we don’t have to talk, you don’t have to say anything--”

“I’m not--”

“It’s all right,” emphasized, because she’s trembling now, hands shaking and gone all cold, and he glares at the wall, all hazy and out of focus.

“It’s not-- I’m not-- it wasn’t-- it didn’t mean anything, it doesn’t matter, I’m fine--”

“Shut up,” he tells her, and he says it so harshly, but none of that nastiness is for her. “Just shut up, god, Ros, just--” Her fingers curl and then loosen in his shirt, and her next exhale is trembling, and--

--and, and, and maybe nothing happens and maybe something does. He doesn’t pull back to check. What would be the point? She’s so humiliated already, why make her suffer through his selfish need to look? The least, the very least he can do is give her privacy. Ignore the way his shirt is a little damp now, the way her body is shaking so violently it must hurt, the way she presses her mouth to his throat to keep herself from making noise. Just holds her, rocking lightly, letting her ride it out for as long as she likes.

He’s ready for her when she pulls back. Long fingers wipe at her cheeks, and his thumb joins in the effort, palm cupping her cheek as she sniffs and pulls herself together. Her eyes dart up to meet his, and though they’re still red-rimmed, there’s something there that’s beginning to settle. Not grief, but her, solid and intelligent and intense.

“I did miss you,” she says, her voice just a little brisk. “I wasn’t-- this wasn’t just for tonight.”

“I know,” he replies.

Rosalind inhales slowly, a steady breath, and shifts just far enough she can lay her head on the pillow properly. His fingers linger on her cheek; she puts a hand over his, just to keep him there, before shifting to take his hand gently. And there’s that quiet again: that fragile moment when words fail him. When he has a thousand things he wants to say, emotions he doesn’t know how to express, desperate confessions he can barely fathom, words he practices over and over throughout the year, and yet it all falls flat in the face of her.

There’s quiet. Just the quiet, and the sound of their breathing, and the two of them staring at one another in the dark, his fingers intertwined with hers.

And maybe for right now, that’s enough.

They’re enough.