#embersstart

Every other year, Twig hasn’t minded the full slate of events and social activities that accompany the Games. For a long time, he even looked forward to them: his life in Seven had grown so small that it sometimes felt like he hardly existed at all in between the Games, like the Capitol just put him on a shelf until it was time to pull him out again.

This Games season has been different. They have less freedom to leave the Tower, to engage in the kind of gatherings where Twig usually thrived, greeting old friends and sealing new deals. This Games season has been different, too, because Twig hasn’t wanted to. Because it felt futile, even before the wedding showed him exactly how much.

He still has the mark on his palm, the bite of broken glass from the wedding, a reminder of what he’s already given up this year. He regrets it, but he’s not sure if he regrets it enough. He’s not sure if he’ll live long enough to reap the consequences of burning his bridges. If there will be more Games, more Tributes, for him.

This year already has a body count, after all, and the Games haven’t even started yet.

Tea doesn’t feel strong enough, but maybe that’s for the best. Better to keep his head, even when his head feels like the last place he wants to be. "Well this is—” he says, rolling the word around in his mouth “—quaint.”

When the train pulls away from the station, Hudson doesn’t look back. Not at the Capitol. They’re sure they’ll be back here soon enough.

They don’t remember much about that first train ride, the one that took them from District Twelve to the Capitol. It all passed in a blur. Time has a way of speeding up when you find out you’re dying, slipping through your fingers like sand. It seemed new again for their Victory Tour. They had survived, and time slowed down again. They looked out the windows like they were seeing everything for the first time.

And they stood in every District Square, looked out into a sea of faces of the people whose children and siblings and friends and countrymen they’d outlasted. And they saw something brewing. Now, on another train, they wonder what they might be able to glimpse as they roll through the Districts on the long journey back to Twelve. After Snow’s party, they’re more sure than ever that there’s something to uncover, if they’re only brave enough to.

The car at the back of the train is almost all windows, and that’s where Hudson’s made themself a perch. Right now it’s just empty space out the window, but even that’s a welcome sight after the overwhelming grandeur of the Capitol.

And, of course, they couldn’t hope to keep it to themself. The door opens, and he offers a nod and a smile to the new arrival. Ready, again, to be observed. “Happy to be heading home again?”

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.

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.”

These parties were always so stuffy. Fingers gently tap along the exterior of the champagne flute in Swann’s hand as she looks out on the party before her from a secluded balcony. She can only afford a few moments to herself before she knows she will have someone searching for wherever it was that she disappeared to, but these few seconds of momentary relief from judgmental eyes is all she needs. Lifting the glass of translucent, golden liquor to her lips, Swann stops when she hears the footsteps of someone else approaching. Back straightening, her lips pull into a smile as eyelids drop slightly, hooding her dark brown eyes.   ❝ So you’ve found my little safe haven? ❞  she asks before turning around to see who it is. When her eyes land on the fellow party goer, grateful that it wasn’t one of the countless capital officials that have been vying for her attention all night, she allows her shoulders to ease up and drop slightly. It’s not a complete remission of her former state, but it’s just enough to give the guise of nonchalance.   ❝ Who knew that one champagne fountain wasn’t enough? They simply had to have one for each corner of the event, hm? ❞  There’s a slight lift in her voice — the suggestion of sarcasm — but not enough for anyone who might wander past their conversation and overhear.

setting: by the buffet tables

Perri had frequented parties, once. At first, it was for the free-flowing alcohol to drown her sorrows. Then, it was for the company of fellow Victors, the only people who had anything in common with her in this gigantic gilded cage. 

Then it was for Leto and Vega.

It’d been impossible to return to the scene at first. She’d become a recluse in the initial months after their passing, then with Juli to take care of, Perri simply hadn’t had the time. There had been that one party early on when Perri was frustrated and exhausted from caring for Juli, and in a moment of impulse perhaps better suited to Leto, she joined the revelries for a night.

Fifteen minutes in, she had run out of the hall with her hands shaking. (She’d kept on hearing Vega’s laugh in the crowd.)

So it was strange, being back. She used to turn down invitations to the afterparties of the Hunger Games citing Juli’s age, but the excuse grew flimsier every year until she was unable to keep it up any longer. She was grateful for one little thing, at least; Juli had conceded to staying home. Perri hadn’t wanted him to have anything to do with the Games if she could help it.

The event has stretched long into the evening. Maybe they should feel tired by now: tired of smiling, tired of congratulations, tired of talking to people—but they aren’t yet. They look around, and they see Fava in her reception dress, or Wren smiling, or Nelly and Griffin here together, and it feels like a good thing they’re doing, not just something they felt like they had to do.

And maybe, they hope, the spectacle of it might have some sway when it comes to the Games. That people in the Capitol could see them all here—Tributes and Mentors alike—and feel a little bit less at ease about what’s supposed to come next.    

"Thank you for coming,” they say to the closest person next to them. It’s the kind of thing they know they’re supposed to say at an event like this, but flush with love and with a ring on their finger, it’s easy to mean, as well.