BITTER HORSE UNDER THE STEEL.

location: the outskirts of the ballroom

Sixteen Capitol attendents are dressed in Oversee originals – more if you count the ones that were dressed in “vintage” designs pulled from the vaults of her mother’s work. She doesn’t do any styling anymore; not since the incident that left a permanent tremor in her fingers. (Shame, they said, she was something special.) At least they had her daughter to take her place.

Truth be told, Holls didn’t want to be there. Another grandiose soiree meant that another Reap was coming, another chance to dress the children that would more than likely meet their demise at the hand of the Careers. It made her own hands tremble at the thought. She flexed them instinctively at her side.

It is beautiful, though, the mansion. Signature white roses are everywhere. Hollis wonders why anyone hasn’t made a dress out of them yet. In due time. Perhaps that will be her next project.

The stylist slips a flute of champagne from a passing tray before settling against the wall that she had claimed as her own. There is security in feeling something strong against her back, as if nothing can hurt here there. That doesn’t stop other people from approaching, of course. Thankfully, this one doesn’t seem like the type to ask her a million questions about her process like the last person she ended up in a conversation with.

just five more minutes. inhale and exhale, another mark. 

he grits his teeth in an effort to stop the impulse, but he can feel the familiar sting, the familiar itch setting in behind his eyes--they’ll start to fall closed, be rimmed with red, if he doesn’t remove himself from the equation. he shoves his hands into his pockets in an effort to head-off the impulse to drag them repeatedly over his face, to dig the heels of his palms into the delicate flesh, and he moves to withdraw himself from crowd--to find an abandoned dark corner somewhere and just close his eyes, just for a second. 

he makes it about five steps, to the outskirts, when he’s stopped in his tracks by someone speaking to him. 

“uh,” he says eloquently, feels color rush to his cheeks as he briefly casts his eyes over the clothes he’s wearing. “thanks? i uh, didn’t really have any say--i just put on whatever gets left for me.” he shrugs his shoulders, and the corners of his lips pull up briefly. “i think they’re just glad that i’m not wearing something stained or ripped.”

Fava hated dresses. They represented all of the things that she shouldn’t do. Her mother had insisted that she could not climb trees, could not wrestle, could not hide frogs in the lining of her skirt… Really, nothing fun ever happened when she’d worn a dress.

What’s more, she’d come to view them as a symbol of the Capitol. The only time that she was ever made to wear one, at least after her poor mother realized what a wild child she’d raised, was when she’d attended the Reapings. Now, in the Capitol, she was expected to wear one to every event. The parade, the interview with Caesar Flickerman, her victor ceremony, and now a party that was meant to celebrate her win with Hudson.

And still, nothing fun happened when she wore a dress. These days, she had even more restrictions. Griffin had instilled in her that she’d best hold her tongue, smile at everybody, and keep up the romantic angle. If she didn’t, her family would pay.

He knew just how to make her try.

She smoothed her hands gently over the skirt of her dress, admiring its silky golden fabric, and tried to force herself to wear a natural smile as she stepped into the room.

Fava tried her best to ignore the gasps and stares as she stepped into the room, the people of the Capitol admiring her in brightly colored throngs. She had nothing but contempt for them. They’d let her people starve, while they ate until they were sick. No, she didn’t care for them. They were only of interest to her when she was in the arena.

But they would not be ignored. As she tried her best to look for Hudson or Griffin or even Nelly, she was whisked away by a chatty socialite. Fava barely listened to anything she’d said, nodding and making soft sounds of agreement as the man went on and on. He gave her a glass of something and a glittering plate, and insisted that she get something to eat and join his party.

She blinked, flummoxed by the assortment of foods spread out before her. At first, she tried to look as though she knew what she was doing, but Fava hadn’t the slightest idea where to begin. She glanced at the nearest person and murmured. “Any recommendations” Fava asked, a faint crease forming between her brows. “What… is all of this?”

but before she opens her mouth to speak, he studies her face and he knows--he knows by the way she keeps pulling at the fabric of her dress, the way her gaze keeps flitting towards a door, a nearby window, the way the skin around her mouth pulls just slightly too tight. a hungry kid knows another when he sees one. a kid raised on the wild, with only trains and the ground beneath his feet for company, knows another who craves open sky when he sees it. 

there will be time later for cruelty, and it will come worse from people above him--for now, he doesn’t see why he can’t uncurl his fists, why he can’t be the boy who from district six who was convinced he could outrun a train, that he could fly with wings on his ankle bones. 

“i’d spent my whole life up until then not knowing when i’d get to eat again, y’know? so i tried everything, to make up for lost time--almost out of spite for the way i’d grown up.” he smiles as warmly as he can, which he’s sure is a poor approximation--a clumsy imitation from someone whose face was never meant to pull in that direction. “after that i figured out that the easiest thing to do is hold it for a minute, move the food around like you’re interested, and then put it down somewhere. that way you avoid having to comment every district’s terrible regional delicacy.”

he offers a hand. “i, uh, don’t think i’ve congratulated you yet on the win.” 

Location: Snow’s mansion | lounge area Time: 8:47pm

Another tailored suit ruined. Not by spilled food or drink, but by the handsy attendant of another stylist. Retired, of course, had terrible taste beyond repair. But had been running around, already lost on absinthe, pressing hands of paint onto patrons of the party. Before she could get dragged off, she’s already planted two neon hands to the back of Slate’s suit. He was disappointed to say the least.

“par for the course? you see me looking awful on a regular basis, slate.” he snorts and rolls his eyes--like always, there’s no real heat behind the action. it’s more like muscle memory, something comfortable, something evolutionary his body does without the consent of his brain. “is that what made her want to put her hands on you so badly? your silver tongue?” 

There’s a sick feeling in her stomach, the kind that rolls around every year she attends a Presidential event, but strangely, it feels different from parties past. Dawn has never been immune to a love story and there was something so terribly compelling about Fava and Hudson’s devotion to one another. Truly, she wants nothing more than to fall into the throes of romanticism alongside them, but Dawn knows better. If the rumors are any indication, Fava and Hudson are anything but mere star-crossed lovers, not that she really minds. After all, despite all these years, there’s an undeniable part of Dawn that would burn it all down to ground if she could. 

But that was neither here nor there. 

Tonight was about playing her part and working within the system that she despised so much. With a Quell on the horizon, she knows there are soon to be tributes who need her, just as much as she needs them. She needed to be prepared for whatever was to come. And so, Dawn smiles, shielding her constant, inner fury with a pleasantness so unshakeable that golden sun rays might turn green with envy. 

“It’s such a lovely evening, isn’t it?” Dawn muses, sipping from an elegant flute of champagne, as she spots a familiar face, “I would be remiss not to stroll around the garden, if you would care to join me.”

he can never get them completely clean. 

he scrubs his skin raw every time, tries to erase every trace of six, every trace of himself, but there is always something there--a grey brushstroke tattoo to remind him that he will always be a stranger to these people, a rusted automaton in a room full of grecian marbles and oil portraits, no matter how many times he repeats the motion. back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. 

the dirt does not go away. it just seeps deeper inside of him, into the marrow of his bones, into the cavity of his chest. one day, he’s certain, the room will fall silent as he begins to choke on it, to cough it up onto the pristine floors until he can be buried underneath of it all. 

at least then, he will get to sleep. at least then, the poor bastard kids that will get pulled up from six with bright eyes and black lungs will know the truth of it. you can run, but never far enough. never away from yourself. 

he’s startled by the sudden intrusion of another person into his space, shoves the offending limb into his pocket where he curls his fingers into his palm, hard enough to leave crescent marks in the skin. it’s a short lived panic, and the corners of his mouth immediately pull up unbidden when dawn meets his eyes, as warm and as welcome as her namesake. he’ll never understand why she has such a talent for that--for appearing when pista’s very skin feels like an ill-fitting costume. 

“just got a hell of a lot lovelier, if you ask me.” he laughs, offering his arm to her. “maybe i won’t look like such a stiff, with you there to take all of the stares.”