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chapter twenty
HIS MESS

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The ghosts of the Games never find peace. Instead, they're dug up every chance The Capitol gets, playing with the dead rather than letting them rest. The wounds never heal because they're never allowed to. Just when it seems they might, you're starting to feel like a person again, they rip out your stitches and dig their fingers right back into where you ache until you scream for mercy. It's how they reinstate their power. It's how they assert their dominance. It's how they remind you of where you kneel and where they stand.

Placing the Victory Tour six months after the last Games and six months before the next one is how they keep the spirit of the bloodsport alive. It's quite strategic on their part. Completely and utterly diabolical. The irony of it all. To pronounce themselves as civilized, as the peak of humanity, all while sadistically torturing their people in the name of a game, cheering over children's bones.

Mateo and Taura's bones have been returned to Ten's soil for six months now, but their phantoms still linger. That's the funny thing about all this too. They don't haunt The Capitol. They haunt everyone who never wanted them to die in the first place.

Sage sits tiredly on The Reaping Stage, too exhausted from a lack of sleep to produce any tears. In fact, she wishes she could cry, as maybe that would provide some relief to her aching eye sockets. Weeping with no tears might be more draining than if she had any to spare. She's been dreading this moment for months.

The last time she sat in this very chair, they were alive.

And just like that, now they're not.

A part of her tries to hold onto the butterflies she saw on her flowers in November, the ones who told her they were alright after all, but another part says enough-- let me be sad, let me wallow. She tries not to look at the screens that display her Tributes' faces, their grief-stricken families perched below. Well... just Taura's family, her two sisters, mother and father standing hollowly beneath the sun. No one stands for Mateo. They're all dead-- technically missing, which in Panem simply means dead. Even his friend who he volunteered for is gone like a whisper in the wind with no trace.

Sage wishes she could have done something.

Shep adjusts himself in his seat beside her, and she watches him warily. He's difficult to read today. His green eyes remain reserved and neutral. It's when she looks at him that her stare shifts past his shoulder. Barrow mumbles to himself as he widdles something with a screwdriver, wood shavings piling onto the stage. If they don't let him do that, then he'll start screaming again, the world outside his home too much for his broken mind to bear, hence why he never comes out. A Peacekeeper looms by the Victor's side just in case his mind takes him back to the Arena. Sage would be lying if she didn't admit that she's secretly terrified of old Barrow.

They always place the Victors in order of their victory along the stage. Barrow — 26th, Alondra — 36th, Shep — 52nd, then Sage — 72nd. Her heart aches at the missing chair that's supposed to be there, but simply isn't.

Penny said her mother passed peacefully in her rocking chair, watching the butterflies that fluttered to her garden during the Monarch Festival two months ago. Alondra muttered something about that she was ready to be with her son. By the time Penny fetched her one of his old shirts that still seemed to smell like him, she came back onto the porch to find her mother's body right where she left her, but her soul long gone.

Sage is relieved that Alondra isn't in pain anymore. But damn it, she wishes she would've gotten to at least say goodbye.

Now all she has is Shep.

At least she still has Shep.

The Panem anthem blares, blowing through all the hollow bodies of Ten that have been forced to gather in Fairfort again. Their people look beaten and worn, but they're standing straighter than they have in other years. It isn't pride. It's from anger. Sage feels herself sitting a little taller as well as Mayor Gallus begins his speeches. She zones him out, staring blankly out to the crowd while picking at her fingers again.

She hasn't even realized that Marcellus has been presented and taken his place on stage until she notices the change of tone. When she looks up at the giant boy, it's clear he's just as uncomfortable too, eyes glued to the cards and not daring to peer back at the vengeful crowd. Sage wants to be angry with him, it might take her mind off the ache, but she just can't.

It's almost relieving that her heart has no room for anger toward the boy, no matter how many nightmares she has of his hand raising that awful brick.

When he commemorates the two Tributes from Ten, he struggles to say Mateo's name, shaking hand subconsciously rubbing at his own sweaty temple. His name just comes out as a strangled breath and grimace. The crowd glowers. He speeds through the rest of his speech, hardly pausing between sentences until he's finally dismissed back behind the curtains. Sage catches a glimpse of a familiar tall figure waiting for him backstage. Not a soul claps.

Later that evening is the dinner presented to the Victor provided by the District. One of which Sage and the other Victors are expected to attend-- except for Barrow, Mayor Gallus preferring to hide him away again, and the old man doesn't seem to mind. He shocks Sage when he hands her his carving, the two never exchanging more than ten words. He smiles right through her before allowing the Peacekeepers to escort him back to his home. They've taken back his screwdriver.

She glances down to the carving in her palm.

"What'd he give you?" Shep asks as they navigate to the Mayor's garden, following the string of lanterns that have been hung in celebration.

Sage brushes the beak with her thumb. She almost hesitates to tell him, knowing one wrong word could send him retreating into himself. "A hawk."

His eyes fog, and he almost stutter-steps. Or maybe he's tripped on the cobblestone. Either way, Sage is side-glancing him warily, waiting for Shep the Victor to return. He just straightens. "I thought he was carving a bear."

They're both surprised when Sage chuckles. The corners of his lips tug upward, and his chest rumbles lightly in amusement at his own joke, almost as if he forgot he had the capacity to have humor and is pleasantly reminded. It's uplifting to witness it, even if it's fleeting. Sage peers back down at the hawk in perplexion.

"Was he always like that?" she asks quietly. "Barrow?"

Shep shakes his head. "Not when he was my Mentor. He was just angry all the time and yelled a lot. I was almost scared of him more than some of the Careers." He shrugs. "Alondra says he's like that now because of the dementia."

Both of them flinch at the present tense when speaking of Alondra, but neither of them correct it. Neither of them want to. God, what are they going to do without her? Sage just nods quietly at his explanation. Stiffly, Shep and her stop in front of the Mayor's garden gate, a Peacekeeper looming outside. He opens it for them, and they stride inside.

More lanterns are hung along the trellises, and a long elegant table has been decorated and set in the middle of the garden. Various District Ten dishes are already strewn about as everyone awaits the arrival of their esteemed guest and his team. Sage and Shep greet the Mayor politely before finding their seats labeled with their name cards. She notes that beside her is Ptolemus's name.

A part of her is relieved she might see him on a painful day like today. The last she saw him was for a Yuletide party in The Capitol, a giant pine tree flown in from District Seven and lit brightly in the Square for all to admire. Sage watches as three figures make their way from the garden gate. Mayor Gallus stands to greet them.

Marcellus, Enobaria and Deverra bid their thank you's before finding their spots around the table. She waits for Ptolemus to trickle in after them, perhaps running late, but as the first course goes, there's no sign of him. Eventually, one of the servers takes the name card away. Sage's brows furrow, and she glances to Deverra. The woman notes the question in her eyes and clears her throat, shifting her pleasant gaze toward Mayor Gallus.

"We're sorry Ptolemus couldn't make it tonight. He's been feeling under the weather this week."

Sage straightens to mask her disappointment and worry. The explanation is fair enough. She glances to Enobaria and Marcellus for clues or confirmation, but they're expressionless, too focused on their meal.

"Not a problem," the Mayor smiles with stride. He saws at his steak. "We'll just fix him a plate for the ride to Nine."

━━━━

January is always particularly miserable for Ptolemus. In fact, he dreads the month throughout the other eleven, only releasing a breath February 1st, then holding it all over again by the 2nd. The time between always seems to happen far too quickly, January creeping up on him even when he watches it with trained eyes, preparing for it to snare him with its sorrows. He sees it coming every year, and every year it's never better. It's never better because she's never coming back. His sister is never coming back.

Ally would've been twenty-five this week.

He's pretty sure he's the only one in this world who knows that. He keeps watching and waiting for someone else to show him that they're thinking the same thing he is, that they remember her, that they know her birthday is this week and are mourning her too, but the world just keeps spinning. Round and round and round until he's dizzy and can barely think straight.

Neither of his parents look in his direction as they sit in the back of the limousine, his mother sipping a martini and his father downing a glass of bourbon. He knows they feel his stare, they're just simply choosing to ignore it. Like everything else. He inhales a sharp breath before pouring himself a shot of whiskey.

"You get one of those," Petra orders shortly, still glowering at the space beside his head rather than into his eyes. "Choose wisely when you'd like to use it."

Ptolemus doesn't even flinch as he raises his shot glass into the air. "It takes more than one for me to get drunk if that's what you're so worried about." He tilts his head back, throwing the liquor down his throat. It burns so much his eyes start to water, and he blinks, breathing in the fire.

"We can see you're itching to embarrass us tonight," Nero adds, glowering at his son. "Which would be stupid considering this is your night to shine. After all, you were his Mentor."

"Hm. My night to shine, you say?" He nods thoughtfully. Then he raises an irritated brow. "So what the hell are you two doing here then?"

Nero's glare narrows. Just as his lips part, Petra sends him a warning glance, and like a dog on a leash, he bedgrudgingly backs off. It isn't for Ptolemus's benefit. She never cares any other time when his father beats and berates him. It's for her own satisfaction, seeming to keep all the men in her family at her heels.

Finally, the limo stops just outside its destination. The gates of the Presidential Palace. Ptolemus swears he can already hear them setting off the fireworks for Marcellus's victory, his own limo parked in front of theirs. Maybe it's just their doors opening and shutting, which are then followed by Deverra's voice guiding the young Victor out to the walkway. He waits for them to get several paces ahead before he decides to escape this suffocating limo. As he does, he stops in front of his dad, stooping down to his level and clamping a ringed hand on his shoulder.

"You two utter any bullshit about how proud you are of me to some Reporter and I swear to God I'll put us on the front page again, and not for something warm and fuzzy."

"Fair enough," Nero shrugs. "My New Year's Resolution was not to lie, so..."

Ptolemus sneers, but doesn't say another word as he strides out of the limo. He doesn't wait for his parents to join him as he stalks in his lonesome through the night toward the Presidential Mansion. It glows in all its blood-stained glory, music echoing against the corners of the sky and several fire-breathers puffing roaring flames into the air like dragons. He has to slow his pace so that he's still ten feet behind Marcellus to ensure he gives him his moment of glory. Enobaria doesn't seem to mind stealing some of the light.

Capitol people in their vibrant colors erupt into cheers and cries at the latest Victor's grand entrace. It's clear it all makes Marcellus uncomfortable as he awkwardly bids nods and thank you's, head constantly on a swivel while trying to acknowledge everyone. Deverra does the best she can to parade him around. There's the flash of some cameras, but not many, as only a few journalists are ever invited to the Presidential Palace. It seems Snow doesn't enjoy extra eyes in his private life either. Ptolemus notices Marcellus flinch when a man pokes at the spikes along the shoulders of his tuxedo.

The boy has made it through the main entryway and into the party when some of the focus shifts in his direction. Both of his parents have caught up to him by now, almost nipping at his heels as he shoves his hands into his pockets, bidding a few quiet nods and tight-lipped smiles. A video camera blurs into his face, the reporter beside the camera man dressed head to toe in gold, flecks of it splattered in her lashes. She smiles and points the microphone at him.

"Ptolemus. A word real quick?" Before he can come up with an excuse, there's that damn hand on his shoulder again, holding him right in place. The reporter perks up. "Oh perfect! All the Pierces together. Let's get your parents in this shall we?"

Let's not.

She shifts her attention back to the Legacy. "So Ptolemus, this is the first Victor of yours you've mentored and managed to bring home. What's that like?"

He shakes his head and shrugs, irritated. What the hell do you think that's like? "Relieving," he sighs impatiently, scratching at his cheek.

"And an honor," Nero interjects, not so subtly correcting his son. Ptolemus grinds his teeth together, side-glancing his father in annoyance. "More glory for our proud District."

"And our proud family," Petra adds.

A muscle in his cheek twitches, and Ptolemus covers it up with a sneer. "Yes, we certainly are a proud family." Too proud to acknowledge their dead daughter's existence.

"You have every right to be!" The reporter agrees, oblivious to the hostility. "Well thank you for your time, enjoy your evening."

Ptolemus wastes no time shrugging out of his father's grip. His mother shoots him a look that he ignores, and he stomps through the aftermath of Marcellus's entrance, raking his fingers through his hair. He isn't sure where he's going at such a determined pace. He just knows he can't stand anywhere near them.

As he passes through the parlor, he notes an Avox passing him with a tray of alcohol. He bids a thank you before snatching a glass and tilting his head back to chug. It burns all the way down his throat, temporarily setting him on fire, the flames holding him up. Someone tries to engage him in conversation, a nameless Gamemaker, but he just ignores them, grabbing another drink and pushing out toward the courtyard. His eyes sweep across the busy scene for somewhere to hide. Eventually, he settles for the outskirts of the cobblestone, a large fountain of an angel with a wing span tall enough for him to duck beside blaring its trumpet.

He was told he'd need to stay at least until midnight. Long enough for him to be noticed and acknowledged so the press can account for his presence and support for his victorious Tribute. A guilty part of him feels as if he should help Marcellus, guide him through the evening. At least be a familiar face for the boy. But to do that would mean to to engage in conversation and pretend absolutely nothing is wrong when he's rigged up detonate any second now.

Marcellus is better off without his company tonight.

Just like Sage was when they visited Ten.

It wasn't necessarily a lie to say he wasn't feeling well enough to join them for dinner. While he doesn't have a fever and no virus plagues him, a different sort of sickness so well entangled into his soul has reared its ugly head again. He can feel it brewing and simmering, living in the twitch of his knuckles, the heave of his chest, and the scream swelling in his throat.

She doesn't need to be around him when he's like this.

So destructive. So reactive. So broken.

The more he drinks the more guilty he feels about it though. About not being there for her, at least showing face at dinner, giving her a kiss and squeezing her hand under the table to remind her that he's there. After all, she's had a rough few months as well. It was only a day after him returning to Two from his visit with her family that she called him with the news about Alondra. Her death hasn't been easy on Sage. Then the whole Victory Tour ripping up old wounds for the two kids she couldn't save.

He feels like shit. He always feels like shit. He can't help anyone apparently.

More booze, shall we?

Fortunately, the hiding spot he's found has happened to be a good one, the only people acknowledging him being the Avoxes and a few guests who notice him in passing. The ache is growing numb, but the fire is is getting hotter and hotter by the second as he lurks in his corner. The people dancing piss him off. The people conversing piss him off. The people dining and cheering during the fireworks piss him off. Not to mention the music is too fucking loud.

But he isn't infuriated until his lazy gaze finds his parents somewhere near the swan ice sculpture.

They clutch their champagne, standing side by side while conversing with Seneca Crane, the "ingenius" Head Gamemaker of the last two years. His beard is ridiclous. Whatever he says (Ptolemus can't hear from here but it's probably not even funny) is the flame to the fuse, the spark sizzling down to the dynamite that's been dying to detonate inside him. He watches his father's chest shake with that barreling laughter that pierces a room while his mother's lips quirk, and she tilts her head back into a chuckle.

And that sends the wrathful twelve year old boy in him that's been brewing since his sister's cannon onto his rampage. Because that boy hasn't laughed in years, and they shouldn't get to either. Not when she's dead. Dead because of them.

Ptolemus starts toward them, and the liquor tries to hold him back, his strides feeling heavier than normal. It's no use. That boy inside is determined.

His gaze centers on his father first, the one who threw their television and smashed it to pieces when Ally lost. Ptolemus thought that was how he mourned. But that was just his way of showing his distaste for her humiliation to the family. His fingers twitch as he grows nearer, ready to hurl him right into that stupid swan. Then there's his mother. His mother never shed a single tear and practiced amnesia once the bread crumbs were scattered along Ally's coffin for the cameras. He knows he couldn't physically harm his mother, but he defintely could mold his words into daggers to wield.

God, all the things he could say—

Thump!

A shoulder slamming into his sends him stumbling, liquor from his glass splattering onto the cobblestone as he spins. It's like a match scraped against his skin to be lit. Dangerously, his eyes search for the perpetrator, knuckles clenched. Who he sees makes the boy inside him snap.

Finnick seems dazed and startled at their little bump. He blinks, lips parting for something. Probably more cocky bullshit feigning charm. "Exc—"

Ptolemus's knuckles twitch, and he fists the Victor's tuxedo jacket, his glass dropping as he lurches forward to drag him to the fountain and hold his head under. Fitting, isn't it?

Finnick's eyes widen, and he backpedals two strides before his sober strength manages to hold him at bay. He grips Ptolemus by the shoulders as the bewilderment fades to annoyance, which eventually fades to something else. Something that makes the boy inside him feel vulnerable.

Knowing.

He tries to wield his fury again, but one look like that, and it's starting to die out, the sword disintegrating in his hands.

Finnick clings back to the twenty-year old in a way that if people are watching in this corner of the party, it's extremely confusing. Two foes or two friends caught in an embrace and a deep chat? Either way, he knows what he's doing as he steadies the Legacy. His sea-green eyes sweep across him dismissively, almost with disappointment, lips forming a tight line.

"You reek."

Ptolemus clenches his jaw as he huffs hot air through his nose. His knuckles are white, still clutching the jacket and his eyes are stinging. Things are getting blurry, and he doesn't want to be here anymore as he inhales a shaky breath. His fists slacken into palms that try to shove Finnick away from him. "Get off me."

Finnick shrugs. "Gladly." Another dismissive sweep of his gaze, but he still doesn't release the younger Victor. "It's very clear you didn't think this through."

Maybe he does want to be punched.

Finnick clamps his palm on Ptolemus's shoulder with false comradery, other hand reaching for his bicep as he leans toward him. "You wanna beat me to a pulp for killing your sister? Fine. But pick a better place than President Snow's backyard."

Those words cause the paranoia to seep, and his uneasy gaze searches for all the watching eyes. Either he's hallucinating, or hardly anyone's noticed them, because everyone seems too engaged in their own world.

"You're seeing that Sage girl, right?" the Victor from Four asks in a hushed whisper. His stare shifts past his shoulder and toward Mr. and Mrs. Pierce in the distance.

Her name makes Ptolemus tense, and his glacial glare flits dangerously toward Finnick's unreadable one. His reaction earns him a smug chuckle.

"Thought so. Think before you drink like that. Because everything people like us do comes back to those we love ten times. Sometimes even more."

That sobers him up quickly. Practically bleeds the alcohol right out of him as he just listens while painfully still. His heart is pounding in his head. They wouldn't hurt her, not directly, but they would hurt her family. Now he's really paranoid about the stares. A sour taste hangs right in the middle of his throat.

Finnick inhales a short breath and sighs, something glittering his eyes. He looks right into Ptolemus's when he says this. "I did what I had to do." Another squeeze of his shoulder as he prepares to release him. "What we all had to do. I'm not sorry for it, but I am sorry you lost a sister."

Ptolemus reaches for the anger because it's the first thing he can think of to wield. But it isn't there to latch onto as he sinks into depths he doesn't know if he'll ever climb out of. Finnick releases him, and he does the same limply as the Victor from Four barks out a hearty laugh that feels ill-placed and strange, scratching against his ears like nails to a chalkboard. To the Capitol people, it's just two Victors enjoying a knee-slapping joke that they wish they were apart of.

"Good one," Finnick plays loudly. He saunters off like he always does, still laughing. Some nearby party-goers smile and watch the tail-end of the interaction in amusement and longing. "I'll be sure to stay away from the veal."

That boy in him isn't satisfied, his bloodthirst unquenched, trying to make sense of Finnick's words and how they can nourish him or spite him. But he struggles to wield it again. Instead, it's subdued, pacified, fumbling for purpose while it all lingers in confusion.

He doesn't even feel like a person. Just a boy made of paper, one breeze preparing to send him drifting aimlessly into the wind. Fallen deep into a sorrowful place, so dark and hollow, Ptolemus fumbles for a way home, escaping President Snow's party a minute after midnight.

━━━━

His head hurts like a bitch the next morning, as expected. Then there's his sour stomach and the tired ache that courses through his body. All he wants to do is sleep, and for once, his mind allows him to slip out of consciousness. Of course, it isn't without a price, nightmares plaguing his slumber for the entirety. Most of them have to do with Alessandra of course, her ghost haunting him two days before her birthday.

One of them, he's in the Arena with her as a twelve-year old boy, practically teleporting through the television screens he anxiously watched at home. He does everything he can to try to save her. But no matter what decision he makes, the dream still ends with Finnick's trident in his sister's chest.

Another, he's back home, watching through teary eyes his parents' anger and disappointment as they tried so hard to bury the girl who failed them from everyone else's memory. Ally should've been eighteen. He remembers how he waited and expected them to say something to honor her on her birthday. Even just acknowledge her existence. But they didn't, and he realized that not only did he lose a sister, but he wasn't even allowed to mourn her.

Then there's the dreams of the training. The training and the anger and the pain as his parents twisted and manipulated and molded him into something that could never malfunction or defect like her. Something that could feed their egos and maintain their reputation all while destroying every piece of him he could call his own. There was a boy inside him that wanted to defy his parents, but there was another who yearned for their approval more than anything in the world with a starved and aching heart. So much so he killed three kids to do it. And look at him now. He's still left with nothing but that ache that never quite goes away.

Part of Ptolemus wishes he would've died in that Arena. At least then he'd be free from his parents, from The Capitol, from the fury and the pain. He was never meant to be enough for them anyway. He'd lost that battle before he ever realized he was supposed to be fighting it.

When he wakes again, it's Sunday. He feels just as tired as he did before, trudging through the morning sunlight as he tries to make himself do something. Anything to keep his mind off things.

He curses when he burns his omelet, smoke setting off the detector with shrill beeps that almost send the hot pan hurling at it along the ceiling. He settles for opening a window, the acrid stench stinging his nose as he flings his breakfast into his backyard. The January air is bitter, goosebumps floating across his flesh as it infultrates his kitchen, but he doesn't care, leaving the window wide open.

He huffs, skipping breakfast and starting toward his coat rack by the front door. The red light on his landline twinkles and shines, signalling missed messages he has no interest in hearing right now. He mangles his jacket onto his body before stomping out into the winter wind.

Ptolemus can feel that angry boy in him coming back out with a vengeance. So he heads to one of the only places that appeases his demands. The Academy.

He punches, he jabs, he kicks, he cuts, slices and stabs until the boy is tired and subdued until he isn't anymore, and it starts all over again. Because again, no matter what he does, his older sister is still dead, his parents still don't love him nor are they truly proud, and he still isn't his own.

Sage remembers from her Victory Tour that this time of year requires a winter coat in Two. She tugs the faux fur close to her body as she navigates Ravenna's streets, the tips of her ears stinging with cold and her breath swirling in front of her lips. Balanced against her hip is some chilli from Ten's market. While she didn't have a chance to stop home for her mom's cooking to take upon her visit, she did manage a container from one of the butcher's stands.

A few stares bore in her direction, studying her with suspicion or annoyance. She only meets them warmly and politely until she takes enough twists and turns that Deverra instructed her upon, finally spotting that familiar sign reading "Victor's Village."

Where Ten's is rusted and a chunk of the 'e' has broken off, Two's is still gleaming with sunny gold, the bricks rinsed of grime. All of the houses appear lived in as well, lamps glowing in the windows and one or two front yards tinkered with children's bicycles.

One Victor happens to be outside as she makes her entrance, his gaze sweeping over her mindlessly as he turns back toward his porch, then doing a double-take. It's when he stares at her like that that she recognizes him as Marcellus. She feels him watch her every step while she warily strides up the steps of what Deverra said was Ptolemus's home.

Second house on the right, second house on the right, second house on the right.

Just as her knuckles raise to knock, Marcellus clears his throat, voice hesitantly dragging itself into the cold air. "He's not home."

Sage straightens, peering over at him on the next porch over. Marcellus can only look in her general direction rather than at her, and he shifts his weight uneasily.

She quirks a brow, trying to keep her voice light. "Do you know when he'll be back?"

"Soon, I'd imagine." Marcellus shrugs and glances back to the gates. "He's been gone since morning, so..."

"Hm." Two rocking chairs rock softly in the bitter breeze. One looks like it's never been sat in at all while the other is worn. She stifles a shiver as she carefully plops herself into one, the wood radiating with cold. "I'll just wait until he's back then. Thank you."

Marcellus nods, studying her uneasily. He takes a step toward his own front door, then stops, lips parting like he wants to say something, but ultimately thinks better of it as he reenters his own home. Sage gently places the chilli along the porch floor, then stuffs her hands into the pockets of her coat.

The sky's orange and pink hues slowly darken into purples and blues at this hour, and the street lamps begin to glow. Another minute passes as she watches the gates when a front door beside her opens and closes. Marcellus quickly staggers down his porch steps before winding up toward Ptolemus's. He offers Sage a blanket without a word, and she takes it, bidding a grateful and small smile also without a word.

As she waits, she feels colder and colder. Which makes logical sense of course, the longer you stay outside in thirty-five-degrees the more you're going to feel it. But the chill in the air isn't the only thing sending goosebumps blossoming along Sage's flesh. She feels their stare, intuition pulling her gaze toward the house directly across from Ptolemus's. A tall and lean shadow lurks in one of the windows.

Sage sits a little taller as she stares right back, adjusting the blanket along her lap.

There's the crunch of gravel beneath someone's shoes, the steps lazy and slow at first, eventually picking up a hastened pace. Sage turns her head at the sight of a stunned Ptolemus approaching his porch.

He recognized her figure from the moment he walked through the gates and finally stopped glaring at his feet. However, the entire time he draws nearer, he expects her to evaporate into thin air, merely a figment of his imagination. But she doesn't, simply rocking back and forth lightly in his chair, the breeze blowing at the fur of her coat. His heart jolts when she looks at him and smiles.

"Hey stranger," she greets warmly, breath swirling in the air.

Ptolemus's ears perk at her voice. So he isn't hallucinating. He shakes his head as he takes her in, staggering up the steps, almost tripping up the last one. The sweat from his training now clings to his body with a chill.

"Sage," he breathes, the disbelief still lingering. Suddenly, he's painfully aware of his body odor and unkempt demeanor, dark circles looming beneath his eyes. Then there's the rosy tint to her cheeks from the cold.

She can feel it. She's been feeling it. Call it woman's intuition, but something's wrong, and it's not just because he's "sick." She tries to conceal the concern from her features as she carefully folds the blanket on her lap back up. It's once she starts moving that Ptolemus knocks himself out of his daze. He staggers forward to help her, gently taking the folded up blanket from her grasp.

"That's Marcellus's. He lent it to me," she mentions, reaching down for her gift from Ten.

That makes him feel even more guilty. He hastily tosses the folded blanket onto the spare rocking chair, swooping down for the container of chilli before she can grab it, stuffing it under his arm and draping his spare one around her.

"I didn't know you were coming, I'm sorry." He thinks of how hot Ten is, a stark contrast to northern Two. He leads her to the door swiftly. "How long were you out here? It's freezing."

Sage chuckles lightly at his coddling. "It's okay, really. I called to check on you, and Deverra left a message that I was going to stop by, but you must've been busy."

An uncomfortable twang in his gut as he remembers the red blinking light on his phone. He opens his front door, gently drawing her inside. However, as he follows after her, it's clear it's not much better than outside. He silently curses, remembering the window he didn't care enough to shut before he left in an angry rush this morning.

Sage doesn't react despite the fact she feels the chill as she peers up at him carefully. He shuts the door behind him, and she turns to face him completely now. She saw his interview at Marcellus's Victory Party. She could see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice then and now— he's hurting.

She knows what that's like.

The way she looks at him startles him, almost making him jolt. He shudders for his armor, piling it on quickly and tending to her needs before she can question his. Just as her lips part, he latches onto her hand, tugging her down the hall toward the kitchen.

"Well I'm glad you're here." His tone lightens casually as he stalks toward the open window, curtains blowing from the breeze. He slams it shut with the heels of his palms, inwardly groaning at the dirty dishes in the sink. Ptolemus whirls back around to face her. "How was the train ride?"

"Quick," she says, eyes trailing around his home. "Like always."

The layout is the same as hers, but where her walls are painted a burnt orange like the canyons, his are a steely blue. He keeps his home far more pristine, only a few things out of place. He looks like he might combust at the sight of it as he awkwardly shifts his weight. Ptolemus places the chilli on the counter before fumbling for the thermostat on the wall behind her, cranking it up as high as it goes.

"I'm sorry for coming so unexpectedly." She shoves her hands back into the pockets of her coat, the nail of her thumb poking into her index finger. "You didn't come to dinner and you didn't answer my calls, so—"

The guilt is gnawing him to bits, and he whirls around to face her again. His palm cradles her cold cheek as he shakes his head at her. "Hey, don't be sorry. You're always welcome here."

Ptolemus scrambles to gather up all his broken pieces and tape them together into something presentable. He can feel her searching for something as she studies him quietly. It won't be long before she finds it. She's always been so clever.

He smiles lightly at her. "I had some kind of stomach bug when we visited Ten," he lies. "But I feel better now." Another smile. "A lot better. And ready for some of your mother's chilli."

Sage stifles the urge to correct him that it's from the market. Instead, she's subdued into silence when he plants a kiss to her cheek, slowly warming. "I'm just going to take a shower real quick, alright? Make yourself comfortable."

With that, he breezes past her, his footsteps lumbering down the hall, then pounding up the stairs to the floor above her head. She just stands there dumbly before releasing a sigh. She starts toward the cabinets, looking for where he might keep the bowls.

Meanwhile, upstairs, Ptolemus hastily scrubs himself down beneath the seething hot water. If he didn't already feel like a wreck before, he certainly does now, it even more apparent as he tries to piece himself back together into something presentable. It's even harder with someone like Sage. Someone so intuitive and smart. He knows she sees right through his bullshit, and it makes him feel bare.

She isn't supposed to see him like this. Like such a fucking mess, so entangled in his mourning, the January cold always ripping his wounds right open so he bleeds everywhere as if his sister just died yesterday. He's trying so hard not to bleed on Sage too.

Downstairs, while the chilli heats on the stove, she starts to wander off to the dining room next door. Only one place is set, but it appears he uses this table more than she uses hers. To her right is his sun room, the screen door shut. Curiosity gets the best of her as she carefully opens it, emerging inside to what must be his studio, shelves upon shelves lined with pottery, clay, and glazes. In the middle of the room is a wheel, and jutting out from the side is a small addition of a room that more so resembles a closet. The door is cracked open, revealing a tall and large metallic barrel. A kiln, maybe?

She inspects his masterpieces with just her eyes, too afraid to touch in case she were to drop one and shatter it along the ground. Sage marvels at his talent, the vases, pots, mugs and other dishes beautifully crafted. It's when she glances to the next shelf that she notes the small picture frame.

The girl is significantly taller than the boy, arm draped around his neck and cheek pressed to the crown of his head while he clings back to her. They both smile such bright and innocent smiles, gaps between their teeth and dirt on their clothes from playing. While Alessandra looks like Petra with the blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, she feels significantly warmer. Ptolemus can't be more than five in this picture.

"Do you like them?"

Sage almost jumps into the air at his voice, breath hitching. Her cheeks flush warmly as she spots him in the doorway, hair a wet mop on his head. If he saw her peeking at the picture, he doesn't say anything. She glances around at his pottery again before smiling lightly.

"They're beautiful."

He steps into his studio, sidling up beside her as he inspects the shelves of his work. He picks up a soup bowl painted sky blue with specks of gold. "Thought this one was going to break in the kiln. Was a miracle it didn't, honestly."

She leans over to inspect it carefully. "What causes them to break in the kiln?"

"Too much moisture inside the clay. Water can create steam pockets that expand and explode from all the heat," he explains. Then he glances down to his wheel. "I'll have to show you how to make a pot some time."

"Hm, that'd be nice," she muses. "Although I definitely didn't inherit my mother's artistic talent, so it might come out more like a blob."

Her eyes keep falling back to the picture of Ptolemus and his sister as kids. Her intuition prods her to ask, but she doesn't, not wanting to interrogate him so early in the night. He's still so stand-offish. "I think the chilli might be warmed up by no—"

Both of them stiffen at the sound of the front door opening and shutting. Sage's brows furrow, and she glances up to Ptolemus uneasily. He isn't looking at her, jaw clenched and eyes glowering through the wall in front of them. A deep voice calls out his name, itching beneath his skin. It awakens that wrathful boy inside him all over again.

"Ptolemus."

"Is that...?"

He doesn't answer her, jaw clenched so tightly it's a miracle it hasn't cracked. His knuckles twitch at his side, and he stomps out of his studio toward the voice's source. Sage follows after him until they emerge into his kitchen again, the chilli bubbling on the stove, the heat on low. Two familiar figures stand beside the counter and straighten at the sight of them. Ptolemus simply glowers at them silently, shifting in front of Sage ever so slightly as she tries to peer past him. Both of his parents inspect them with unreadable glints in their eyes.

Nero is the first one to speak, the lightness in his voice eerie as he tilts his head like a cat. "Aren't you going to introduce us to your guest?"

Ptolemus's knuckles twitch again. He can see what his parents are doing from a mile away. More of their games. Sage said she wasn't out on his porch long, but clearly it was long enough for them to spot her. And today, out of all days, they just can't seem to mind their own business.

The Legacy doesn't budge. "Shouldn't you know her name already?"

"Manners, Ptolemus," his father tuts.

Ptolemus's eyes narrow. "Says the people who barged in without being invited."

He flinches when he extends his big hand out toward Sage, who doesn't seem nearly as tense as him, simply shaking his hand back. "My wife and I have been dying to meet you. Especially in a closed setting."

Sage forges a sickeningly sweet smile as she glances over to Petra. "Oh, well Mrs. Pierce and I did meet briefly at the Masquerade." Then she glances down to what the tall woman holds in her hands. A crystal lid glimmers over a dessert. "May I ask what the cake is for?"

It's when Sage points it out that he finally notices it. Just the sight of it almost blows a hole through his chest, and his eyes tick dangerously.

"Didn't Ptolemus tell you?" Petra wields that manipulative and soft voice like a sword. She peeks over at her son. "Tomorrow would be his sister's twenty-fifth birthday."

"We would've preferred to celebrate privately as a family," Nero adds pointedly. Then he shrugs. "But we suppose since you're here we can muster up another slice."

So they do remember her birthday. Of course they remember her fucking birthday. Now with them finally admitting it rather than pretending they have no clue what he's talking about like they have all the years before feels like an utter slap to the face. Where the hell did they get that cake anyway? Neither his mother nor his father have ever baked in their life.

Clearly, this is all for show.

His parents can't let him have anything.

"Where can I set this down, Ptolemus?" his mother asks, coolly glancing over to him.

"Up your—"

"On the counter is fine," Sage interjects gracefully. She raises her brows lightly, then reaches for his arm, the muscles taut like wire beneath her grasp as she offers him a comforting squeeze. "But I'm not so sure we'll be able to eat cake tonight. Ptolemus is just getting over a stomach bug."

A corner of his lips tugs upward faintly in pride. He mockingly clutches his stomach.

Petra straightens, and Nero's gaze narrows at the Victor from Ten. They struggle to maintain their civility, it's quite clear.

Nero inhales sharply as he glances to his son. "Stomach bug? Is that what you call your hangovers after you drink like that drunk from Twelve? Now I know your sister's death has taken it's toll on you, but you need some more self-control, son."

"Self-control?" Ptolemus sneers, and he takes a step forward. "That's rich, coming from you. What happened to grandma's precious vase? Oh right, you threw it at the wall during one of your tantrums."

Petra ignores him, still glowering at Sage. "As you can see, this is a sensitive family matter. Which doesn't involve girls like you."

Flames dance in her eyes at the "girls like you" comment.

"How about you be a dear and put this on the dining table for us? Hm? Perhaps you can even set the table while we have a chat with our son," Petra suggests, holding the cake and its crystal container out for Sage to take.

"Be a dear and cut the bullshit," Ptolemus interjects, glaring between the two of them. "You haven't acknowledged Ally since she died, so take your cake and shove it right up your pretentious ass."

Nero lurches forward, hand reaching like a claw for his son. Ptolemus goes to push Sage behind him, but she slips out of his arm. A figure blurs between him and his father, and his heart lurches.

Sage, five feet and four inches, stands right in front of Ptolemus, glowering up at a seething Nero. He's brought to a dead halt, blinking at her in bewilderment, menacing hand faltering. Ptolemus's hand slinks around her waist and across her ribs protectively, drawing her closer to him. He shifts to push her back behind, but she won't budge, feet planted firmly in the ground.

She cranes her neck to peer up at his father, the storm in his eyes as threatening as the ones that rained on her in the Arena. Darkness glitters, and he crouches down so he and her are eye level. When she peers into him, she can see all those angry little boys inside trying to be a man. She doesn't flinch, a corner of Nero's lips tug upward in eerie amusement, a soft hum vibrating in his throat.

"Got a girl protecting you now son?" His nostrils flare, and he tilts his head at her. "I'm not opposed to hitting girls, you know."

Ptolemus lurches forward. "You lift a finger and I'll fucking kill you."

"Wouldn't expect anything less from you," Sage quips evenly at Nero, her gaze sweeping across him with a disgust that makes him falter. Ptolemus tightens his grip on Sage, pulling her closer to him and further from his father.

Petra slides herself right between her husband and the Victor from Ten. The only one who can seemingly put Nero Pierce in his place. The man maintains his wolfish glare in Sage's direction, but she ignores his predictable intimidation tactic. Petra's glacial eyes drop the temperature in the room by several degrees.

She shoots a glare at Sage, then to her son. "We will be having a conversation about this another time, Ptolemus." Now back to the girl in front of him dismissively. "Without an audience."

"I pity you, you know," Sage interjects sharply. The blonde woman quirks a sharp brow, a muscle in her cheek twitching. The most uncomposed he's ever seen his mother. "You've known your son for twenty years, and you have no idea how great he is. My family figured it out the first day they met him."

Ptolemus feels the ache coming back with a piercing vengeance, something inside him quivering. Like a spear shooting right through his chest all over again. His eyes start to sting, so he bites down on his tongue, pulling Sage as close as he can to him. She wraps one of her hands over his.

"The same ones who shovel cow shit?" Nero snorts.

"Yes, how low of them, and how even lower of you," she mocks, hardly missing a beat.

Petra inhales a sharp and flaring breath through her nose. "Careful."

Sage doesn't even flinch. Just shakes her head, her voice quiet but even as she holds the older woman's gaze. "You don't scare me."

Silence. That muscle in Petra's cheek twitches again, and for the first time ever, she's starting to remind Ptolemus of his father. Her nails quiver at her sides, and so does his heart as his chest heaves. His voice comes out strangled, but still strong.

"Leave." Ptolemus demands through grit teeth. The look in his eyes could kill. "Now."

Nero, of course, opens his mouth to object. But one cool touch by his wife along his shoulder ices his hot venom. Petra grins a small, tight and faint grin at the two of them. "Fine." She takes a step backward from Sage, but still extends the hand balancing the dessert. "Enjoy the cake."

It's as she turns with her husband back toward the hall that she allows the crystal holder to slip from her grasp and just out of Sage's reach. The glass shatters loudly along the floor into millions of pieces, flying out at her feet like shrapnel. Ptolemus pulls her back, and both of them stagger to avoid the shards. The cake slumps sadly in defeat, frosting sparkling with glass. He's about to chase his parents down when he hears the front door slam behind them. And as usual, they leave a mess in their wake.

Sage carefully tries to pull herself out of his grasp, eyes fixated on a broom and dustpan in the corner of his kitchen by the trash can. It's when he hears the glass crunch beneath her boots that he's knocked out of his daze of anger, something else sieging his entire body.

He quickly whirls her around to face him. "Are you hurt? Did any of the glass hit you?"

She shakes her head in dismissal. "No, no." She tries to take another tentative step, giving him another squeeze on the arm in comfort. Another crunch. "My legs are covered, so—"

"Stay right there," he insists, the nerves quaking in his voice. He staggers toward the broom and dust pan. "Don't move. You could get cut or fall or..."

Ptolemus crouches down quickly at her feet, sweeping up the shards of glass, some large, others broken into pointy and dangerous dust that could prick a palm. She tries to move. "Ptolemus, I can help—"

"No, it's my mess," he insists sharply. The glass scrapes against the tile of his kitchen and his heart. She shouldn't of come here. He never should've let her come here. He shakes his head, bangs falling into his eyes as something inside him swells. His sweeping becomes jerkier and jerkier. "It's my mess, Sage. I'll clean it up."

His voice breaks just like the glass at her feet, and he winces as his emotions overwhelm and submerge him instantly. The harder he tries to push them back down the harder they push back.

"It's my mess."

There it is. She hears it clear as day. She reaches for him the same time he abruptly stands, striding toward the trash can and dumping the dust pan's contents quickly.

He bangs it against the edge to rid it of the ruined cake and frosting. It was chocolate. So they remembered his sister's favorite too.

His eyes are watering, burning even, and a tear falls right out before he can stop it. He stifles the urge to fling the broom back against the wall, shakily propping it in place instead. When he turns to escort Sage out of his home and back to the train station, the softness of her features startles him, her soft touch grazing his arm.

"Hey," she murmurs. Her own heart aches seeing him like this. The red-rimmed eyes and the nervous tremble of his fingers as he tries to avert her gaze. The armor is cracking and splintering and revealing the beaten boy who's been trying so hard to hold it all up over the years.

She stands on her tip-toes to brush the hair out of his eyes and the wet tear from his cheek. It makes him flinch. "Hey, you didn't have to clean it up alone."

Ptolemus shakes his head at her, then nods vehemently. His fingers reach for her wrist. "Yes I did, yes I did, Sage."

He staggers backward to lean against the counter, the room starting to spin. He wants to run, but he can't, his knees starting to buckle. She clings to his side as he slides down to the floor, hip to hip and following him the entire way. The tears shine in his eyes when he looks at her.

"It was my mess, you shouldn't have to— Are you sure you aren't hurt? Did any glass hit you?"

She wipes another tear with her thumb. "I'm sure, Tolly. I'm fine."

The nickname plucks his quivering heartstrings, and he inhales a shaky breath, tilting his head back to stare up at the ceiling. He feels her lips press gently to his temple, and he shivers.

"You don't have to do any of this alone," she murmurs against his skin. She tries to smooth his disheveled hair. "I'm not going to let you do any of this alone."

He's sobbing now. The sob climbs up and chokes him until it's pushed out of his lungs and past his lips. Ptolemus turns to her on the kitchen floor, reaching for and pulling her into his lap. One of his hands finds the small of her back while the other tangles into her hair. She clings back to him too as he shakes and trembles, pressing their foreheads together. She feels one of his tears brush her cheek.

"I'm sorry," he croaks. "I'm sorry—"

"It's not your fault," she vows. "There's nothing to be sorry for."

"But—"

"Shh."

She holds him, and he holds her, both of them clinging to one another on the kitchen floor. She rubs soothing circles into his spine, and he draws her even closer to him. Neither of them know how much time has passed until the aches in their backs become too profound to bear. Ptolemus feels the tears dry out, a numbness taking over as he straightens. His eyes burn, and he leans back to look at her. He brushes that dark curtain of hair out of her face.

"Do you want to head to bed?" she asks gently. He waits for the pity or judgment in her eyes, but never gets it.

Ptolemus just nods.

The two crawl out of each other's arms to stand, and Sage turns off the stove for the chilli, it bubbling with a tomatoey film across it. He reaches for her hand as he leads her down the dark hallway, up the stairs, and toward his room. He gives her a pair of flannel pants and a sweatshirt to crawl into, finally shrugging off that winter coat. Eventually, the two of them climb into his bed and burrow beneath the covers. They cling to one another like puzzle pieces that can't bear to be apart.

"That's the first time they've acknowledged Ally since she died," Ptolemus murmurs, staring at their intertwined hands. "I was beginning to think they forgot about her completely but—" He shakes his head, his chest trembling. "That's the first time they've acknowledged her since she died, and it was all for show anyway."

Sage squeezes his hand as she studies him sadly. "I'm so sorry."

He knows she's genuine. She's always so genuine.

"Tomorrow is my sister's birthday," he starts, gnawing on his bottom lip. He peeks back over at her nervously. "I go to her grave every year—alone, every year." The waves are climbing again, ready to pull him back under as tears brim his eyes. God, he misses his sister so much. "And I don't know if I can go alone again, Sage."

She doesn't even hesitate. "I'm with you." She holds him with so much love. "I'll go with you."

He can't help himself when he kisses her. He's never felt so close to anyone before, at least not in this way, and he just has to get closer. They hold each other up when they're both ready to crumple. Ptolemus's heart screams the words inside his chest, but he merely whispers them against her lips, a promise he intends to keep forever.

It's the most terrifying thing he's ever done, but he says it anyway.

"I love you."

Sage shivers, peering at him through the moonlight. She can see it in his eyes as much as she hears it in his words, and she can feel it beating in rhythm with her heart.

"I love you too."

And that's the first time Ptolemus Pierce has heard someone tell them they love him in eight years, since his sister volunteered at the Reaping.

━━━━

The sun struggles to fight through the gray January clouds over the graveyard as Ptolemus and Sage stand in front of her headstone. He crouches down, replacing last month's flowers with fresh ones. Sage hands him the bread crumbs, and he sprinkles them into the vase. His sister should've made her journey back by now, but he always adds some more each year, just in case. Shakily, he stands, one of his hands stuffed into his coat pocket, the other wrapped around Sage.

"Ally, there's someone I want you to meet." A corner of his lips tugs upward sadly. Ptolemus knows his sister would've adored her. Everything inside him aches for this introduction to be real, rather than just over her bones. "This is Sage."

The Victor from Ten smiles at the engraving of Alessandra's name. "Happy birthday."

The wind only blows back in response, and he shifts his weight.

"I miss you. More than anything." His voice cracks, and he fights to still remember what her laugh sounded like. He can hear it when he remembers them playing soldiers in the treehouse, both of them giggling until their sides hurt and the ceiling spun. Sage squeezes his arm again. "And I really wish you were here."

It's subtle at first. Barely noticeable. But slowly, a pale yellow glow seeps out from the clouds, like a hand breaking free and outstretching itself to bathe her grave and their figures in its soft touch. Sage leans against him. She doesn't say it out loud, but he knows what she means.

She still is.

Then he crumples. He crumples after years and years of maintaining his strength with no other alternatives but to stand taller when more cracks splinter across his core. Stone wears, the people of Two understand that better than anyone, yet they expect themselves— who are only flesh and bone— to remain sturdy and unrelenting no matter the circumstances. It's so exhausting. He's so exhausted.

So like stone, he cracks, he splinters, and he crumples, sobs breaking free from the confines of his ribs. Sage just holds onto him as he collapses into her. Warm tears tickle the flesh of her neck. She murmurs soothing and calming words of love and empathy in her sweet voice. That makes him cry harder.

Not because she's making it worse. In fact, she always has a way of making everything better, and that's how he knows she's the one. She's the one he's safest with. Safest to love, safest to hold, and safest to crumple into when he's tired of being made of stone.

━━━━

»»————-　♡　————-««

Ahhhh another long chapter!!! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed!! Please feel free to comment your thoughts, I love reading your comments :)

Thoughts? Opinions?? A lot happened in this chapter.

So, alondra's death was an "off screen" death, and she died during the Monarch Festival while Sage was out with Ptolemus and her family. Obviously, that death is important for a certain quarter quell and our girlie Sage.... 👀

I hope this chapter didn't seem rushed or things were glossed over, they will be referred back to in act 2 as well!!

Ptolemus and Finnick's interaction??? Sage coming to Two??? Ptolemus breaking down??? Oooh and the big I love you!! Please feel free to share your thoughts, favorite parts, etc.

And now we are at the end of act one! Ahhh!!!! I'm so excited to start act two. Flip on over to the next part to get a sneak peekish of what's to come! And before you come at Sage for her quote, please know context will be important!

Reminder: Act Two will pick up around Katniss and Peeta's Victory tour, so a year after Act One has ended.

Sage and Ptolemus have been seeing each other for nine months before the big I love you if you wanted a timeline!

Thank you so much for reading again! I'm so grateful for the love and support on this story :) Ptolemus and Sage are my babies <3

Word Count: 10487