#yet....

Twelve begins with this, as much does, with this and his mother. She is multifarious. Steady at the grindstone. A wit sharper than his father’s, with mind and word; courageous; cunning, and—of all—compassionate. With mind and word, she grants her son many little shining beads of hope. To him, she urges that he don these ‘round his neck, bare them polished, but to never tell his father or of the rapier. 

~

It had been a good night. Well. As good as the nights leading up to the games usually were. There was always an excessive amount of events to strut wealth about, though you’d never been sure who it was for. The tributes certainly didn’t care, and everyone here knows everyone else. If you hadn’t been raised in this circle, you’d likely never join it. And you’d been born on the edges, but with a good solid smile and a sharper tongue than being a radio show host like your mother required. So it’d been this game, slowly pulling in, amassing wealth without real need. 

There are mentors, victors, whatever you’d want to call Snow’s dolls out here tonight. They’ll be trying to secure sponsors, you remember. It’d been a while since you’d watched the games, so a few newer faces weren’t very discernable. Two from District 4, a few from 1 and 2, oh, hey, isn’t that the woman from District… 7? Who somewhat yelled at you and your conversation partner, drunk as a whale, a year ago?

You’re still cataloging when someone slips a drink into your hand, something a little too sweet for your tastes, but you know how to play, so before looking, you slip a light crease at the eyes and turn. It’s District 4, male. You don’t remember his name, but you don’t remember many names- people who work with Snow often lie into roses themselves, so there hasn’t been much reason to remember anything but titles.

“Hey, sweetheart. Saw you takin’ a peek from all the way over,” he says, sultry, and you allow yourself to enjoy the carefully crafted tone of voice faded into ease. “Mm.. I suppose I’ve not been hiding myself nearly enough for a clever eye like yours,” you tell him smoothly, sipping the drink just once before setting it on the nearby bar where it’ll be forgotten. 

His posture is relaxed, just the right amount, white shirt buttoned down enough that it’s barely buttoned at all, hair tossuled. He’s well tanned and well kept in general, with a fake smile to rival your own. “I guess not, hm? Nice getup, though. The bracelets are a vintage touch- a bit classier than the others, aren’t you, sweets?” he says, voice a bit soft, coaxing. Praising styles is a pretty good strategy, even you’d memorized all kinds of flat-toe shoes in grade school.

“Well, I’m pleased you liked them. They’re just some scarf linings braided, but let’s keep that between us, no?” you reply with a small smirk. That is the truth- some kid in District One had been selling them when you had walked back through town from your meeting, needing a bit of fresh air. He’d been kind of scruffy- shame that he was a district kid, could be a stylist if he was born to a different family. There’s just a creeping of surprise of 4’s face at hearing the reason, and he makes the next move.

A hand against your waist, at the well-fitted but slightly uncomfortable faded black hem, thumb hooked over the belt. You don’t say anything immediately, letting the hair at the back of your neck stop standing up, sudden contact. “Who’re you rootin’ for, love?” he says, and you quickly flash the statistics, trying to block the sensation of a pale thumb sliding along the belt without pushing off and drawing attention.

“Haven’t picked yet, they’ve drawn names?” you ask, considering the time. It’s a bit early, no? “This morning, didn’t you-” he cuts off, swapping the perplexed look for a more suave one. “Must’ve missed it, then. I imagine you have some good ones?” You prompt, and he looks a bit sad when he says that they’re both promising, but the boy- he’s brilliant, very skilled. He’s selling, and you’re not sure if buying is quite the right idea. 

…It is prefferable to entertaining the lovely Mrs and Mr Chaffin sniffing around, at least. “They’re both 17 this year? Well, good for them. Better shot, statistically then. It’s been a few years since you’ve had a victor, no?” you ask, tone light but not missing the sudden stiffness that slips through him at the mention.

You remember seeing clips of that last game, just because it had been sent by a campaigning ally as a joke, some odd analogy comparing children trying to keep their heads above water to the surge in networking apperances around the annual game season. Haha, very comparable. But it’s entertainment, and here we love entertainment. 

The victor has managed to drape one of his arms against yours at some point, leaning in, casual. He’s a little taller than you, but seems to be putting an effort to dull down the intimidation. “They are, both promising… and well, sweetheart, I can promise you more than a good show if you bet on the winning lot this year.” he says, eyes a bit lidded.

He’s been sipping from your drink a bit- rather, the one you hadn’t cared for, but seems only lightly spritzed, putting in effort to seem more of a ditz than he is. He’s closer to your face now and despite yourself, a bit of something licks in your gut as his chin is almost and inch away from being against your sternum. 

Pink, slightly bitten lips, drowsed seafoam eyes that the Capitol must fawn over, plus that soft tone. Well, he’s pretty, and persuasive, if nothing. “But, but!” he interjects as if forseeing the polite decline coming, which he probably did, experienced as he is. “Enough about the best rated showing of the year, tell me something about yourself!” and he’s going the flattery route, and though you can tell it’s a little fabricated, this strategy suits him. The older lady from his district taught him well, good on her. “Ah, not much to say. You know who I am, or you wouldn’t be at my gala, no? I enjoy a good coffee, I work with the goverment, but I can’t say on what for the sake of confedientiallity.” you tell him. And none of it is a lie, barely even by ommision. You won’t say sugar in it makes you sick or that you have no idea what his name is, or who invited victors at all. “Yourself, a seafarer, I suppose?” 

“Ah, well- I’m the star, no? Not much time for boating about when you’ve got this many adoring fans, darling,” he says with a laugh,  blowing a kiss at some nameless woman who’s been staring at the both of you. Personally, having so many fans you couldn’t actively leave for home or enjoy your own time… well, to you it’s not that delightful, but to each their own!

You always figured it would make sense for victors to take advantage of being thrust into the public eye. There’s very few you know of that go home, they generally choose to be here in the capitol, to soak in their glory, make connections. Win for their districts. You suppose you can admire such an act, you yourself love your city, your country. There are bad things in it, but there always will be, and you love it nonetheless. 

You acknowledge his stardom, you do. He smiles but you see edges to it, but he’s been doing this ten years. You’ve been doing it since you were three. “Have I brought you over to my side yet, Angel?” You slip back into reality. Oh. “Well, I suppose so,  ” You tell him, tone pleased, but if he can read he could know you’re halfway there. You only bet on winning dogs, and four is a risky one.

He curls a lock of hair around his finger and presses against the wall, closer to you than before but now at your side, so you shift to face. And he look you up and down and slides the; “I’m sure we can… come to an arrangement, no?” he asks and you smile without trying. “What would you suggest?” you ask him, and he smirks, tounge poking lightly out the corner of his mouth for just a second, suggestive. 

You cut it before he explains, though you’d like to say you do it rather eloquently. “How about a nice dinner, hm? Some good company, say, this next Sunday?” He blinks a bit, caught off guard, though his body language remains loose. “Romantic, aren’t you, pretty boy?” he asks with the hint of teasing in his tone. You grin back, though it’s a bit fake at the creases of your eyes.

“Well, is that a yes?” you ask simply and he lets out a low chuckle. “- sounds just darling.” He dips his head and golden blond curls tun and slip just slightly out of how they’re neatly arranged. Then takes your hand- his slightly rough palm against your own, silky smooth and not a scar in sight under the powder sealed. He glances for a second at the slightly jagged bits at the turns of your nails, proof of life inside a carefully curated mannequin. His own are perfectly smooth and painted over clear, as he presses his lips to your skin. 

You give him a glittery smile, and he exchanges one without teeth, with a little wink before turning to go, stressing the movements of his limbs- long, partially bare legs that have glitter painted on, making it a sight to behold. It’s drawn not just your own eyes but many others, 

and… as ridiculous as it sounds, it’s almost as if you’re looking at something,

rather than someone. 

There’s a feeling of feathers against your sternum, a sparkle from that fairly dry conversation that stays with you- although you’re not certain if it was the alcohol or the slightly unguarded looks certain answers drew out. He was a good player of this game we call civility if nothing else, and dinner will be nice.  

You look down at your hand and wipe the faint gold glitter away. 

~