a ruining. a reckoning.

johnny had hoped to wander in without causing too much of a scene, briefly weaving through idle patrons with intent on getting from the door to bar top. on his second trip there in one week, he hadn’t come for socializing or the occasional burn only alcohol could provide. all he really wanted was to see a certain face in charge, that night he’d gotten his wish. for once.

mouth opened to speak on his approach, though samson beat him to it. jaw clamped shut and lashes fluttered in mild surprise, he supposed expecting a divergence would’ve been wise. keep it under wraps, right. clearing his throat, head bobbed in quiet obligation as he slid onto nearby stool. his own expression gave way to a silent relax, same page. this guy had saved his life, the least he could do was behave and not immediately bring it into light.

drink is strained with practiced ease and garnished with a cherry, samson finally making eye contact as he sets the manhattan in front of johnny, ignoring the way his stomach twists, the need to uphold his walls battling internally with the fact he was, honestly, happy to see him in one piece.

rapid thrum of his heart rate is telltale; despair has not relinquished its grip on him. worsened it, if anything. breathing is nigh impossible as he feebly swallows down nausea, digging crescents into the heel of his palm until indentation in the flesh stings. his free hand palliates at the top of his knee, soothing gesture that serves only to rub his palm raw amidst his distress.

tone of hyun-ju's voice cuts through his emotional rampart. night-time conversations are nothing novel; constant reminder of his failures, slithering to his bedside in the dead of night as to not implicate his sisters in bearing witness to his mistreatment. he knows to brace for it, now, involuntary in his head lowering as hyun-ju settles into his space. there is nothing he can say as a remedy, and every hapless apology for his inadequacy had been muttered and repeated like static hours ago.

future gamemaker.

the pseudo-title follows him throughout the party — inescapable in the way its shackled to him with every admiring look, every tittering compliment, every hand on his shoulder and saccharine whisper asking if he can give any hints on what the 74th games will hold. his golden smile, an elusive response, the bitter taste that never leaves his mouth : it's a dance jayce knows far better than he would like as he mingles with the crowd, counting the seconds until he can escape to the relative safety of his lab. he knows better than to try to leave early ; snow would no doubt find out, and the leash was always tightest in the weeks leading up to and including the games.

he extracts himself from his present conversation, making a slow but deliberate path towards the drinks. his eyes sweep the room almost idly, unremarkable to anyone who doesn't know what they're looking for. the crowd isn't unfamiliar —he's been subject to this for far too many years to not commit faces to memory, to know who he had to guard his tongue against extra tightly— but it holds even fewer friendly faces. plutarch is entertaining a knot of capitolites with an ease jayce could never hope to imitate ( though try he does ). he lets his gaze slip away, never lingering unlike the conversation they had prior : mr. talis, i hear you're looking for a new tailor ...

he'd specifically chosen twelve. they were a joke in many circles : often overlooked, often dismissed before their chariot rolled out of the remake centre. twelve had the most stylist vacancies, many either moving on to "bigger and better" districts after their first games, or to new prospects entirely. they deserved better than his predecessors, names that fall from brightly coloured lips in alcohol-fuelled mirth when he's introduced as the latest district twelve stylist. cinna would see to it that they wouldn't be forgotten.

he'd grown up with all the pomp and circumstance that came with being a petreius, and yet the build up to the 74th games was wearing at his carefully controlled demeanour, a brief reprieve sought in a corner furthest away from the clumps of capitolites that ooze gratuitous excitement. the glass in one hand is being used as a prop, something to make him look more involved with the party than he wanted to be. cinna's debating how long before he could make his excuses to leave when a voice draws his attention, familiarity sharpening into recognition as he turns to see who'd spoken.