Rokia/Sara
They don’t make promises. Never have. Life’s too uncertain for promises. But the night before the Reaping Rokia hears a noise outside and when she goes to the window Sara’s trying to climb the downspout.
Rokia opens the window and hisses at Sara, “What the fuck are you doing?”
Sara looks up, and Rokia expected Sara’s usual grin but no, her lips are pressed together. “Wasn’t sure you’d let me in,” she says, “but fuck you if you think you’re leaving for the Capitol without seeing me.”
Rokia blinks. “I’ll let you in,” she says, closes the window and goes to the door.
This is stupid. It’s unbelievably reckless. But Sara pushes past her into the house, stands with her arms crossed over her chest just inside the door.
“Promise me,” she says. “Promise me you’ll do everything you can to get out.”
“Sara, it’s not my call,” Rokia says. They’ve been over this. Rokia has a job to do, and nobody knows what’ll happen to any of them, in the end.
“Promise.” Sara says, eyes flashing, mouth hard, her fingers digging into her upper arms.
Rokia sighs, looks away over Sara’s shoulder and out the window. Looks back into Sara’s eyes, warm and brown and familiar and scared, behind everything.
“I’ll try,” Rokia says, soft.
“Promise me.”
“I promise,” Rokia says, locking eyes with Sara.
Sara uncrosses her arms and wraps Rokia in a hug, hard, then steps away before Rokia has a chance to react.
“Be careful,” Rokia says, as Sara turns to leave. Sara doesn’t turn back, just nods, opens the door, and disappears into the night.