Chapter Text
It started like any other day, right when morning first breaks and their bodies intimately pressed together. Their cozy bed emanated enough warmth to keep them sated from the gnawing coldness of dawn.
The passage of time looms subconsciously, but for the most part, Plutarch prefers to nuzzle his face in the mess of Alma’s hair. His firm arms tighten over the curves of her waists, reeling her closer to his chest. He buries his nose in her ashen-gray nest until he stimulates his senses with her earthly scent. There was a faint trace of Thirteen there, innately transient.
Plutarch sometimes wonders whether she misses her District but Alma never voices such yearning in his presence.
The more he stays in this position, the reminder of ticking time fades from his mind.
A gentle hand bends back to tousle his hair and lazily scratches his scalp. The action itself makes him snuggle more comfortably close to her.
“I think you should get ready,” Alma tells him in a soft murmur, crossed between sleep and rousing from it. She tries to remind him of work when her bare shoulder is tickled with kisses.
Such kisses, she notices, progress from lazy to fervor, and that was in the span of a second.
At this rate, morning would speed to noon, and the allure of their bed would keep them confined until noon shifts to night.
Alma knows she’s exaggerating, but it was hard to resist as he starts to nip her skin with his teeth, already teasing. If he targets her neck, then temptation would be too much, and her recent leniency as of late would doom them and his tight schedule.
“Indolence does not suit you, Heavensbee.”
She feels his grunt prickling her skin.
“It’s Friday morning. I’m allowed to be a little lazy.”
“Yes, and such laziness on your part usually escalates from here,” Alma remarks against the pillow cushioning the side of her head, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “You’re exerting far more energy into activities that are only secondary at best.”
“To me, they are primary,” Plutarch’s rich voice deepens, rumbling next to the shell of her ear. “I wonder what sort of activities that may be? You never specified.”
The movement of his hands becomes more daring, and she immediately tucks her bottom lip with her teeth.
What else could she expect from a rebel?
“The non-pleasurable type, I hope,” Alma speaks over the feel of his roving lips that keep exploring her upper back. Someone needs to be above beguiling desire, and unfortunately for her, she has nothing better to do, really. Home-arrest did not provide her with an active role, aside from occasionally doing half of Plutarch’s work at home even if he hadn't asked her to.
Once she’s able to get a hold of his filed paperwork and read them while she’s at it, Plutarch loses the battle long before he can act to retrieve them back.
They argue about it every once and a while, and sometimes she finds herself criticizing his proposals for Paylor’s political governance as if she were working alongside the woman’s presidential Cabinet – the same woman who was elected to take her place as soon as she got discarded off the board.
Plutarch unabashedly points this out one time and that’s when she unbuckles his belt.
She remembers his immediate silence after that, and then the frantic way that his bluish lilac eyes had widened when she wrapped it around his neck. Alma rode him that night, rough and frustrated as she uses his own belt as a leash. Her hips bruised from the way he held on, but at least that got him to think more properly the next time that he blurts out something that makes her temper flare.
With that in mind, that particular thing should only be saved for off days only, and Fridays do not count as such.
“You’re running late, and if I were your superior, I'd have terminated you within the day.”
“Aren’t you just irascible?” He has the audacity to chuckle at her response. “You did not act that way with me on Thirteen.”
He stops when her nails sink harder against his scalp.
“If you have any urges of betraying Paylor lately—”
“Always so eager to pull that card on me,” Plutarch did not mean to whine. He’s too old for such a thing, but he couldn’t help but still feel sensitive whenever she called him out on it. It wasn’t like he was splenetically bitter, it’s more the difficulty of having to swallow a hard pill truth even though she’s merely expressed it in the form of a jest.
“Am I wrong, Heavensbee? Such a trait does not deserve your harbored petulance, especially when it got you this far in accomplishing your goals.”
For some reason, the sight of his pout fuels a playful pettiness that she's so rarely displayed, and it was always directed at his expense for that matter.
Nonetheless, Plutarch lets her poke fun at him because a mischievous Alma was always better than a pissed-off Alma.
“Need I remind you that I'm not the only Heavensbee around here anymore. Referring to me by my surname when you hold the same is a little strange,” He reaches for her hand instead, soft fingers delicately playing around the customized ring made of graphite and topazes. He feels for the smooth surface of the gemstone that constructs the body, then the head, and carefully goes over the intricate curves made of opaque carbon mineral that serves as the wings.
He's made countless sketches and different variations for the design. Sometimes he was close to giving up, tempted even, to drop by District 1 and let the lapidaries have a go at it but his pertinacious behavior wanted to be the one behind the craftsmanship. He had a lab of his own that was left untouched from the Gamemaker’s wing where he’s free to construct anything he wanted, and so far, he triumphed with what he had done (with maybe a little bit of help from a few specialists in that department).
Plutarch drops another tantalizing kiss, his ears burning pink upon catching a hidden excitement by the sound of her hitching breath. He holds her more closer to him, lifting his lips to peck the spots that he knows she’s vulnerable, where she’s most sensitive to.
“You should also know that I’m exceptionally good at other things as well. Wouldn’t you agree so, love?” He teases mercilessly.
A comment further would have made her suffocate him with a pillow but it stays on his inactive tongue when the sound of their door creaks open.
Plutarch was the first to draw back, his bright eyes that shone briefly in mirth blinked sluggishly at the sight of their four-year-old son that’s standing at the entry of their room.
“Can I cuddle?” Phillyeus squeaks out in a small, tired voice that sounds rough and unpleasant to their ears. Daylight streams and pricks through their curtains, highlighting his strawberry brunette hair that’s been in disarray after several restless turns in his bed. One hand clutches his bee plush toy near his chest while the other rubs his eyes with a tiny clenched fist.
“...please?” He adds politely when they failed to provide a vocal response on time.
Phillyeus does not normally look or sound this infirm, nor does he directly ask permission when most of the time, he just sneaks to their bed with no warning and plops himself between them.
There was something wrong, and that’s when their heavenly morning shatters.
Alma was the first to move, throwing back the comforters and slipping easily off the mattress. Plutarch, on the other hand, follows less gracefully.
She crosses the room with quick, light footsteps, reaching their kid’s leveled height by bending down to her knees.
“What’s wrong?” Alma asks behind a neutral facade, but it eventually splinters to a crack when Phillyeus extends his feeble arms out to her.
“Cuddle, mommy.”
“How is he?” Plutarch sees the visible concern that’s been shadowing her face, putting two and two together.
“His temperature’s high.” She explains, fretful. She hoists Phillyeus up with her arms, and their little boy surrounds her neck that instance, swift to conceal his furnacing face near her throat.
As soon as she feels his unrelenting heat radiating off his feverish skin, appalling memories flood her mind — memories that she’s suppressed of a bubbly, energetic girl who was once so full of lively warmth.
Before imagery of her decay can tear through her reality entirely, Plutarch brings her back.
“It’s just a fever,” His voice softly drifts by her ear, meaning to console her. His wide palm sought out to press against their son’s balmy forehead, but Phillyeus is more eager to stuff his face against his mother’s neck, so he opts to check by feeling for his nape instead.
Their boy makes a squeamish noise in return, petite fingers curling around to hold onto his bee plush toy, too mulish to let go.
“The weather’s been irregular lately, which I think might be the case. A few of my employees have recently complained about their kids getting sick. Good news is we still have some medicine left to treat his fever. If that’s not enough, then he can always drink plenty of water. It isn’t like Phillyeus has skipped his vitamins. This will pass sooner than you think.”
Her misty perception barely clears when his lips peck her by the temple.
“He will be fine by tomorrow,” Plutarch assures her, confident like how he used to give resounding advice as her right hand man, but now as her husband, he means it in earnest. He edges closer and rests his chin on top of her shoulder. “There’s no need to worry.”
Alma is only silent.
“I would advise keeping a fair bit of distance, though,” Plutarch adds, a little hesitant, but at the same time, refuses to move away. “All three of us might end up getting sick.”
Phillyeus grumbles in the crook of Alma’s neck, slowly rearing up his head to glare threateningly at his father. In an act of defiance, he shoves his plush toy to Plutarch’s face in one swift move.
“No. I want to cuddle!”
His Dad merely snickers at the contact of the stuffed animal impelling his sight, as if he's expected that to happen. “See? He’s still as energetic and maddening to handle,” Plutarch carefully takes hold of it before his son could get the bright idea of properly hammering it as a weapon. “You’re worrying over nothing.”
“...even if I am, I’d rather be certain that he’s fully better.” Alma drops a soundless kiss to their boy’s auburn moppy hair, making Phillyeus forget about the toy he confiscated and thread back his elfin arms to surround her neck, nestling his face there again.
The sight of them together, while heart-warming, makes Plutarch feel a bit jealous, if not a little left out. Phillyeus never hesitates to be more affectionate with Alma. Granted, they do spend more time together since he hasn’t been enrolled to a kindergarten yet, which is something that Plutarch already dreads. It's only a few months from now where Phillyeus officially starts his first day at school based on the general calendar, and he knows that boy would attach himself to Alma’s leg like how a koala would stick to a tree (pros for being the second favorite parent, Plutarch thinks) before he eventually gets dragged for his nursery classes.
On the other hand, he will be the one to take Phillyeus to school and actively pick him up by the end of the day. At least that’s something Plutarch looks forward to.
“Can I take Daddy’s spot on the bed?”
Phillyeus wiggles his head away from Alma’s neck so he could shoot him a teasing look, and while the same eyes that he inherited from him glazes playfully in observation, only Plutarch could spot the motive underneath those innocent gleam of amaranthine that no common four-year-old child should posses.
He steely holds his son’s calculated gaze for a while.
“What’s wrong with your bed?”
“I want to be with mommy.”
“I see,” Plutarch intercepts with an amused uplifting brow, tucking the bee plush toy under his armpit. “I understand that you want to be with your mother, but I’d prefer if you didn’t somehow get her sick. A fever is contagious after all.”
His boy’s face falls to a slack.
“Mommy will get sick?”
“My immune system is a lot harder to infiltrate than yours,” Alma cuts in smoothly as she joins the conversation. She sounds more calm, and less disquieted like before, although Plutarch picks up something faint from her voice. “But your father does have a point.”
Phillyeus parts a bewildered look to his Dad, then shifts back to her, perplexed that she agreed to him (as if that was a rare occurrence).
“He does?”
“I do,” Plutarch punctuates with a firm nod, angling his head to look at his son all-knowingly. “When I was your age, my parents caught my fever because I can’t seem to stay away from them. They let me sleep on their bed because I begged them to, and in return, they got sick because of me. It was a rough experience.”
Perhaps he should have dialed down his explanation because now, Phillyeus was on the brink of crying.
“I don’t want mommy to get sick.”
Something obscure washes over Alma’s features, and it wasn’t the first time that Plutarch has seen it.
“I won’t get sick. I’ve survived worse than a common fever.”
She hugs Phillyeus tighter in her arms as if he'd disappear if she so much as blinked.
Plutarch is careful when he steps in and pulls them closer, cradling Alma’s head from behind and tenderly dropping a feather-light kiss to her forehead.
It was a while before she completely stopped shaking.
—
“It started from a fever,” Plutarch explains to the Doctor while actively tugging Phillyeus back to his seat when he notices that he’s sneaking more lollipops into his pocket. “We gave him some medicine and let him drink plenty of water, but then he started coughing early this morning.”
He gently wrestles three extra candies trapped in Phillyeus’s clenched fist and returns them to the patient’s jar.
Darrhon, his Pediatrician, merely smiles at his son’s antics.
“He’s not quite febrile yet, and there’s a mild rhonchi that I’m hearing,” Darrhon notes after probing Phillyeus with the bell of the stethoscope on his back and chest. “Does he also sneeze?”
“Ah, I don’t think so. No.”
Plutarch hears the light hum of the medical dispenser as it prints out a slip of the prescription.
“Continue to maintain his fluids and make sure that he takes these on the clock,” Dahrron highlights something in the paper. “I recommend that he should have a meal before taking them first,” He must have perceived something from Plutarch’s face, because not a beat later, he adds, almost reassuringly, “You see, these things are quite common. I wouldn’t fret too much if he’s still under the weather for a few days. He’ll be right as rain in a couple, I assure you.”
“I’m good?” Phillyeus asked before his Dad could say anything.
Dahrron shifts his attention to the hyperactive four-year-old, watching closely as the child drums his hands on the table while eyeing the jar of candies from across.
“Absolutely.”
“I can’t infect Mommy and get her killed?”
“Phillyeus!” Plutarch nearly snaps, chiding him on the spot.
His son stares up at him, eyes squinting in confusion. “It’s not a bad word.”
“Even so,” His Dad’s voice hardened. “It’s not something that you should be saying lightly.”
Phillyeus only pouts and proceeds to sulk in his seat. However, he stirs at the sound of glass sliding against the smooth metal table, staring wide-eyed at the jar of candy that he's been desperately trying to reach.
“Why don’t you take a couple of gumdrops before you leave?” Dahrron uncaps it as an invitation. “The sour lemon ones are pretty good.”
He beams at this, but before he could take a fistful of them, Plutarch’s hand lands on his shoulder.
“Is that wise?” He interrupts uneasily, pulling Phillyeus back. “I wouldn't want Phillyeus to gorge too much candy that's meant for other patients.”
“But I'm a patient.” His son whines.
“You already have a lollipop.” Plutarch explains calmly.
“But not gumdrops.” Phillyeus counters quickly.
Dahrron watches the exchange with strange interest and steepled fingers.
“We're not here for gumdrops,” Plutarch clarifies, a hand going over to massage the bridge of his nose. “We're here for your medicine.”
“ You're here for medicine. I'm here for gumdrops!”
“If you must know, my supply isn’t bad candy for the teeth. They're quite healthy actually,” Dahrron butts in between their squabbles. “And cavity is the last thing you need to worry about.”
“See! It’s part of my pee-crip-son!”
“Prescription.” Plutarch corrects, a little embarrassed by his pronunciation but it's to be expected from a four-year-old.
He hesitantly allows Phillyeus to sink a greedy hand towards the open mouth of the jar. In doing so, he directs a tired look to his son’s Pediatrician. “I’m trying not to spoil him too much.”
“And I think you’re doing a great job, Mister Heavensbee,” Dahrron complements, and he sounds genuine. “It’s mostly my own weakness of spoiling kids that are not my own. I’m afraid I can’t help myself for that matter.”
Even though mild, Plutarch spots the strain in his expression. He’s known Dahrron for three years after prescribing him as his son’s general practitioner. The man is married, and both he and his wife were young enough to keep trying for children. But so far, he hasn’t heard any news of their effort. Nor of their improvement either. The answer clearly lies from the way Dahrron stares at Phillyeus hand-picking a variation of candies with an intense longing in his solemn gaze.
It was an odd feeling, to be the one to have children despite his former profession while someone whose career involves taking care of the youth is unable to have.
What a dreadful reality.
An unkind voice slithers in the depths of his mind.
Plutarch is getting better at ignoring it, and he feels at ease that today was one of those days where it isn’t quite as loud as he hoped. There were bad days for sure — days where his mind eats itself from guilt. He's completely undeserving of having a child, and he knows he couldn’t get rid of the blood that stains all the way from the past, not even if he tried to wipe it all away.
He’s accepted that it's an impossible task to do, and he’s willing to bear that insurmountable weight for as long as he lives.
“I suppose I can welcome you spoiling him with more vitamins,” Plutarch finds himself saying casually out of the blue, and it’s enough to get Dahrron’s attention. There was no point to overthink his situation, and certainly not right now when he’s out in public. His mask easily slips into place as he faces Dahrron, giving him a warm, calculated smile. “It’s quite beneficial on both sides, if I do say so myself.”
The Doctor smiles back at him, his eyes clear of wishful thinking. “I’m glad you think so.”
“Phillyeus,” Plutarch nudges his son, who still has his hand plunged inside the jar. “What do we say?”
Despite his demeanor, Phillyeus sits straighter, his back vertical against the splat, and while he does an impression that mimics what children think adults would express, his hand is still childishly connected to the mouth of the jar, fishing for more candy.
“Thank you for my pre-skip-tion, Doctor!”
“Prescription.” Plutarch corrects again, but he pats his head for his efforts anyway.
“I think he’s getting there,” Dahrron points out kindly. “A few more lessons from his father and I whole-heartedly believe that he’ll be able to pronounce rhinotillexomania next.”
Phillyeus gapes at him stupidly.
“...ray-no-tile…what?”
—
Plutarch stops mid-walk when he feels Phillyeus plant his feet in the ground. He glances to where he’s eagerly pointing at — not that he needs to when there's a distinct 4D scent wafting from the poster that’s promoting customized flavored cones available in chocolate, vanilla, and some other palate iteration that Plutarch wasn’t familiar with. It was sweet-smelling with a sugary saccharine aroma that’s too tantalizing to ignore.
Somehow, he appreciates the technical touch. The shop certainly knows how to lure in potential customers.
On the other hand, the tug on his arm increases in strength.
“No, Phillyeus,” Plutarch shakes his head. “You can only have ice cream when you’re better.”
His stubborn trait was to be expected. “Can we just take a look?”
The image of the little girl can be seen right through the glass with a concoction of piquant ice cream flavors all toppled in a pile, crowned with whipped cream and banana slices pooling the top of her bowl. The entire thing simply catches too much attention.
Another tug, and Phillyeus is begging to take him inside the ice cream parlor.
“You already have your gumdrops.”
“But gumdrops aren’t ice cream!”
Plutarch prides himself when he doesn’t give in, but his no does not effectively carry the same weight that Alma’s no does. When she says no, any efforts to change her mind are automatically binned. When he says no, his authority remains shaky and questionable.
Was he not intimidating enough?
“We can come back another time,” It’s not a flat out rejection and he hopes that’s enough to appease him. And in any case that doesn’t work, “Your mother is already worried about you,” Plutarch adds, resorting to mind games when Phillyeus refuses to budge. It’s the one thing he can fall back on whenever he’s unable to domineer his own son’s behavior. “Gumdrops are an exception because those came from your Doctor. If your health worsens because of a simple ice cream then how do you think she would feel?”
He almost has the upper hand and is so close to spinning things in his favor. However, his craft at manipulating Phillyeus away from the ice cream shop falters when he hears his rapid-fire sentences severed by ugly wheezing. It sounded pretty bad.
“A’hm f-fine!” Phillyeus manages to say past the raspiness of his voice.
“Don’t talk if it’s difficult for you,” Plutarch carefully massages his back, heavily concerned.
Sometimes he’s still not used to it, of having his own baby hands and feet to take care of. Alma wasn’t alien to the foundations of parenting like he was, and as a past gamemaker, his belief in having children of his own was highly perverse.
In the end, Plutarch becomes notoriously fickle like any human being, but he never pretends to be above them in morality. Not even when he’s battling ignorance by keeping his own opinions to himself instead of mouthing them right in front of his co-workers. Co-workers, whom he thinks were insensitive to have had multiple children while purging countless others in a shameful bloodbath for television.
His present is still somewhat controversial to him, but he was very careful not to have children at the height of the games.
Things are different now.
“We should head home,” Plutarch waits until the awful hacks from his son's chest subside and holds him firmly by the shoulders, shoving aside dreadful thoughts of the past. “It's almost lunch and you need to take your medicine.”
“Aww…” Phillyeus looks glum about his decision but surprisingly relents.
Plutarch carefully takes in the detail of how petite his fingers were at wrapping around his hand. The smallness of it makes him feel strange. Even his interaction with children before, if not limited, was almost non-existent. He intentionally kept it that way, and that distant part of him would have shied from a child's delicate touch.
Phillyeus wasn't old enough to know the horror of his old work.
“Hey, can we get a dog?” He asks randomly. There was a skip to his steps that Plutarch noticed.
He searches for the culprit of his curiosity and lands where his line of sight is directed to. There, he spots a golden retriever placing its paws at a table in a nearby cafe, asking for scraps from its owners. A family member eagerly spills their plate of fries to share with the dog, whose tail immediately wags at the treat.
“If we get a dog, it will be your responsibility to take care of it.”
“You don’t think I will?” Phillyeus challenges, and he sees the same spark in Alma’s eyes whenever her authority is openly defied.
Plutarch acknowledges their similarity with odd fondness.
“We’ll talk about this again when you’re older. I’m afraid that getting you a dog would be too much for you right now.”
“I can handle a dog.” His fingers clenched hard around his palm, lips stretched to a daunting line.
“...maybe not a dog,” Plutarch murmured before he could stop himself.
In the end, he’s a bit bothered by how Phillyeus can easily change the topic and make him say yes to other things. In times like this, he wished that his son would inherit lesser things from him, especially when his brilliance ultimately comes back to bite him in the ass.
—
“What do you think of Genie?”
Just as Alma’s mouth pops open to give him her opinion, Phillyeus eagerly shoves the sleek bottle aquarium a little too close to her face. Her narrow eyes trail after an apricot-colored fish swimming inside its miniature enclosure, whipping a tail when it turns just as the shells clink against the glass.
“Get it? Genie-in-a-bottle!”
“Word-play aside, what exactly is the purpose of your…fish?” She can’t quite conceal the confusion in her face or her voice. Alma taps a lone finger to the center of the bottle and pushes it away, partially glaring towards the small scaly thing that she thinks is secretly reciprocating her mood. “Because I fail to see how this is beneficial to you and your condition. Is this not just baggage?”
Phillyeus falters at the term, not quite understanding its intended definition. “...baggage?”
“Yes, baggage,” Alma repeats more sternly. “A pet is a baggage because of the needless effort to take care of it as if its pointless life equates to that of a human child.”
When the meaning settles in, Phillyeus swiftly draws the bottle close to his chest. His face screws protectively tight, and while his nose is red and puffy, it scrunches in disagreement.
“Genie is not baggage. Stop being mean!”
The damn fish had the nerve to give her another look, but Alma chooses to ignore its minuscule sentience and whatever insignificant importance it had to Phillyeus and scoots closer to where he’s positioned in bed. She carefully adjusts his blanket that’s flecked with cutesy star patterns, pulling it back from where it messily cascades past the mattress.
“You need to rest, and I prefer if you put that thing on your bedside table.”
“You can’t even say her name…” He curls on his side, purposely avoiding her and keeping the bottle away from reach. “Forget I asked.”
She ignores his petulant glowering and softly slips her fingers into his unruly hair, brushing his auburn strands that are beginning to bend like tumbleweeds. Phillyeus could use a haircut, but in any case, a fast-growing hair means that he’s healthy, and it’s certainly the one thing that she keeps reminding herself each time the sound of his coughs alarm her.
Alma feels for his temperature again, frowning heavily from the heat that his neck emits. It feels higher than it was in the morning, and he’s already taken his medicine past lunch. Her only assurance was Plutarch’s confidence that Phillyeus would get better.
Because, quote unquote, the Capitol is far superior in providing better medical assistance.
She merely rolled her eyes at him, but deep down, his wording left her bitter.
“We can treat her symptoms for the time being, but you, as well as everyone, should know that it’s only going to get worse from here. No child that has been hit by the pox has ever recovered.”
There were rumors of its origin, theorized and broken down by District Thirteen’s former council. When the answers first came to light, she distinctly remembers the insides of her stomach plummeting at the inference conclusion. She felt so much rage but the lack of certain evidence made her wrath simmer down over time.
It’s not a conversation that she’s eager to have with Plutarch. Not soon, anyway.
Alma continues to brush Phillyeus’ hair in silence, calming herself despite his fluctuating temperature. She mulls over her thoughts and goes for the ones that she would lastly paid mind to.
“How about Gen?”
Phillyeus stirs at her sudden suggestion, his voice a bit hoarse. “What?”
“For your baggage,” She points out nonchalantly, as if her words were factual. “It's shorter and less doltish.”
He blinks at her, catching the subtle and playful curve of her lips.
It’s rare for his mom to intentionally get a rise out of him.
“She is not baggage!”
—
“I don’t understand why we can't bring one back to our bunker…” The chipmunk nibbles on her daughter’s palms, confusing her skin for berries that it had long devoured. “I can hide them under the bed—”
“You'll only be taking it away from its natural habitat. It’s certainly not meant to be a pet, and it can take care of itself.” Alma shuts down her insistence. It's been two hours since they stepped foot to the surface, and their allotted time of exploration is down to three minutes. The flaring ochre star dives in the horizon, its last bleeding ray of light dwindling as night begins to shift.
There was no point in prolonging their stay aside from illiberal interaction with habitual critters that’s far below human hierarchy. The last thing they needed to do was to go against Thirteen’s strict schedule. She’s been lenient enough to find a way around it, let alone indulge with one of her daughter’s enjoyment, no matter how trifling they seem to be.
“Put it back to the tree.”
“But–”
“Now, Genevive.”
Her daughter pouts, and while reluctant, obeys. Her tearful eyes linger to where the chipmunk disappears to the tree’s upper branches until she can no longer spot them past the coverage of leaves dotting her sight. She takes in every detail before they go back underground. It’s going to be a while for them to be out again.
“When can we come back?”
Instead of answering, Alma focuses on cleaning her hands with a handkerchief, wiping away the dried specks of berry skin residue. She’ll have to wash them thoroughly with soap and water to properly get rid of the rodent's saliva. This will have to make do until they are back in their compartment room.
“Can it be tomorrow?”
“You have a compulsory intelligence test that you need to take.”
“What about the day after?”
“You have an evaluation where you are to be assessed after the outcome of your grades.“
“And the day after that?”
Alma sighs. Genevive was pretty good at ignoring subjects that did not concern her in the slightest, and unfortunately, that involved her education.
“I’ve been made aware that your grades are slipping, and I would have preferred if you used the time that we have now to study instead.”
“Like how you use the time for sleeping to contact your secret friend?” Her daughter giggles shamelessly. “Papa is jealous.”
“...well, he shouldn’t be.” Alma says, almost a little too low. She wasn’t the one to throw a few coquettish remarks, sure, but she does respond (to a few of them) every now and then, only so that she can put that overconfident Capitol rebel in his place.
Nothing else.
Everything is strictly professional.
“If you become President one day, will you let me keep one underground?” Genevive perks at the thought, eagerly taking her hand and complying.
“Something that farcical is unsuitably inconvenient and won't ever overpass the law.”
However, she secures her daughter’s delicate palm in her grip, her thumb softly stroking her knuckles. “...but if you're able to ace your test tomorrow, then we’ll see what happens. There might just be a miracle.”
Genevive lights up, her smile bright like a thousand stars. And even though she scored way below the passing grade and under half the items, Alma still wishes to hold onto that promise despite it compromising her statement.
She would give anything to see that look on Genevive’s face again, even when she knew it was impossibly too late for her to hope for that kind of miracle.
—
Alma welcomes the sounds of cacophonous thunder that rattles against the barricade of their windows. If anything, the tumultuous uproar of the weather was better than the ghostly silence of that night where every other living sound in the corridor was snuffed out by death.
She feels warm despite the glacial whirlwinds sweeping over the roof of their house. Plutarch's breath plumes hotly against her neck, his chest pressed to hers closely, taut arms surrounding her bare flanks each time a powerful blast of lightning strikes down and a flash of blinding white rips through the darkness.
The house doesn't shake, but he does.
Effects of the bombings at Thirteen were irreparable, it seems.
She tangles a hand to his hair and draws abstract patterns on his tensed back. Plutarch eventually relaxes, but his face remains tucked under her chin. Alma listens to his soft breathing when another crackle of lightning crepitates the night sky.
This time, he doesn’t tremble, but his face slides to her chest, seeking refuge from his own pesky nightmares.
Maybe it's been several minutes, or an hour at most when the storm finally recedes. Her ears hung onto whatever noises were left after the squall, desperate, until she could no longer hear them. Her breath hitches in brewing panic at the lengthy silence that follows. It’s too quiet now. Not even Plutarch's light snoring was enough to settle her down.
She can’t sleep, not even if she tries.
She’s been awake for several nights overthinking about the blasted fever that remains active in her son’s body.
The first symptom of many. Fever. Sore throat. Excessive coughing. Severe Headache. It gets worse from there. So much worse.
Phillyeus usually recovers after a day or two.
It’s been one week, and he’s already lost his appetite and some of his vigorous energy.
Genevive never recovered from her fever.
Plutarch stirs awake from her alarmingly erratic heartbeat that slams his senses into overdrive. He lifts his head slowly, peering at her from the mess of his bangs and overlapping shadows.
“Alma?”
Her nails sink deep against the muscles on his back.
“I need to go check on Phillyeus.”
“...he’ll be fine, Alma,” He winces from the pain but has not commented on it. “It will be a few days before he recovers. Dahrron told me so.”
He’s a bit surprised when she snaps at him, her breathing coming hard, fast, and sharp.
“I don’t care what your Doctor said—”
“Okay. Alright,” Plutarch responds calmly in spite of her frenzy. “...we’ll go check on him,” He pecks her forehead, and then her lips, and he feels the inner terror from the way she quivers in response.
Her reaction worries him.
“The both of us…”