swim, dear riptide {wade/luke} blitz

[dars]

He was sick; he wasn't getting better. Not here.

More importantly, he wasn't sure how much longer he'd be able to hide it from Mother. He'd told the people who cared, the people who wanted to help, the people who already knew anyway. Jane had grabbed his hand and smiled, always a girl who relied more heavily on actions than on words. And Luke-

The two of them sat hidden behind the kitchen counters, a single pint of ice cream sitting between them. Wade held up his spoon, staring at the warped, upside down reflection that stared back at him.

"We're leaving," he said in a hush, pretending to occupy himself by trying to balance the spoon on his nose, "Next reaping. You, me, and Jane."

He'd been thinking about it for weeks. Now that the Morrisen girl had taken the crown, District Four would see the next reaping as a celebration. A prayer to continue their good luck. More tributes who'd come of age would be likely to volunteer. Hell, Wade figured they'd be fighting tooth and nail for a place on that stage. No one would ever notice three ghosts slipping out through the back.

"I won't let them take us, Luke. Our bodies should be our own."

words: 206

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

Sea-blue eyes watch him in his trivial act — the spoon is ineptly balanced upon his nose. You trace the sunbeams back to the sea where they come from, through the frosted windows to kiss its steel.

Wade Hailsham's talent is to be utterly himself. Your gaze washes over him and you see no one but him, because he's like one of those special edition souvenirs from the Capitol.

Once gone, there would never be another person to fill the empty field of atoms he's left behind. There would never be another pink nose, whose bridge held up a spoonful of vanilla ice cream to the fissure in the ceiling.  

But, strangely, Wade refuses to be immortalized.

“We're leaving,” he says it like we're about to meander around the islet, with an air of nonchalance. “Next reaping. You, me, and Jane.”

You make your surprise known by snatching the spoon on his nose and its contents kiss the blue of his jeans. “What? We're leaving?” You do not know if the sudden distaste blooming in the cavern of your mouth is for his absurd idea or for the last name he uttered.

Tongue repeats each word he said like an echo. 

“Me, you, and Jane?”

You do not care to veil the demented expression across your face. “Leaving — where would we go? We are trained to survive the arena, not the outside world. And — and,” throat buries the lump suddenly sewed to its wall. “Jane?”