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There is the pale grey of the duvet, the wide expanse of window and the bright blue sky beyond. There is the sound of the springs beneath his knees, the creak of the bed frame and the frantic sounds of breathing. There is blond hair and green eyes and tan skin and—
There is nothing else to do but close his eyes.
--
Cinna is here for moral support. Haymitch has made sure he understands at least this much, that there are more important things to talk about than Cinna needs to understand, and his presence is all that is required. So he sits, drumming his fingers on the elegant table cloth, and listens to the men talk.
“It’s impossible,” Finnick is saying. His voice is pitched low beneath the sounds of music, but the bite in it carries through. “It can’t be done.”
“It can,” Haymitch says. He looks so different in the suit he’s wearing, so much more polished and smooth. He’s far more handsome than he seems on the broadcasts, though the hard expression on his face adds years and does him no favors. Cinna doesn’t blame him; he’s seen the tributes Haymitch arrived with this morning. They’re unlikely to make it past the first night, maybe even past the Cornucopia. Maybe that’s what tenses Haymitch’s shoulder, hardens the gleam in his eyes. He gives Cinna a pointed look as Finnick fidgets nervously and Cinna leans forward and puts a hand on Finnick’s knee.
“Listen to him,” Cinna says.
Finnick stops suddenly, his napkin twisted tightly in his hands. “You agree with him?” There’s a hint of accusation in his tone that Cinna cannot stand.
He makes his voice calm, docile, and says, “I think there are things here worth listening to.” He knows better than to push too hard, better than to command. He leans closer and runs his hand a bit higher on Finnick’s thigh. “Isn’t it worth it to at least try?”
Finnick barks out a harsh laugh. “That’s so easy for you two to say,” he bites out, “you don’t have anything left to lose.”
Haymitch leans back in his chair and swirls the last of the brown liquor in his glass. “No, we don’t. Not all of us were so lucky.”
“Lucky?” Finnick’s voice is rough and terrible and Cinna can’t help but close his eyes and pull his hands away. He hates Haymitch suddenly, for all of this. He has half a mind to walk away himself, but—nothing left to lose, surely, but still so much lost. He keeps his seat and listens to Finnick’s bitter whisper. “Don’t tell me about lucky. You have no idea.”
Haymitch leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, and his eyes are full of fire. “Yes, I do. That’s why we need you.” He looks over his shoulder, scanning the room anxiously. It’s death for them already, and the war’s not yet begun. “No one knows this city like you do. No one can tell us the things you can.” He lets his voice go soft, saying, “We can keep her safe.”
Cinna watches Finnick’s shoulders sag, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Can you promise that?” There’s a crack in his voice that could tear the world in two.
Haymitch leans back, draining the last of his glass in one swift, practiced motion. Cinna sees Finnick clench his fists, and Haymitch answers, “No.”
--
This is what he remembers most, what he tries his hardest to forget: streaks of indigo dye threading their way up his wrists and down his fingers, and the whites of his knuckles as he fisted the sheets to keep from crying out. The look on Grayson’s girl’s face as he passed her on his way into the train’s sleeping car, the delicate angle of her wrist as she dangled a champagne glass from fingers tipped with blood-red paint.
Eight disappearing behind them, miles and miles down the tracks, and the Capitol coming slowly into view.
--
He watches the broadcasts of the reapings in Finnick’s living room. They go in numerical order, and by the time they get to 12, Cinna’s vision is blurry at the edges, the alcohol working its way down to his fingertips.
He sees Haymitch stagger onto the stage, but when the cameras focus on the older man’s eyes, they’re clearer than Cinna is used to. He sees Effie Trinkett, her nails bright as she reaches into the mad flurry of papers and extracts the first name.
“Primrose Everdeen.” The name hangs in the air for an eternity before a young girl walks slowly to the stage. She’s no more than 13 and Cinna feels his spirits sink, feels every muscle in his body go slack. He stands up, turning away from the screen, and doesn’t look back as Finnick calls his name.
“I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!” The words cut through the room and Cinna turns in time to see a wiry girl, older than the first, throw herself in front of the young tribute. There’s a sadness in the lines of her shoulders that Cinna recognizes, and he watches her hands shake and the strength of her jaw as she fights to keep her face hard and unreadable.
“Katniss Everdeen,” Effie says. Cinna’s eyes leave the screen long enough to meet Finnick’s and then he sits down slowly onto the couch.
“Katniss Everdeen,” he whispers. “Yes.”
--
There is blond hair and green eyes and miles and miles of skin. Light filters in through the window, casting shadows around the room. There is a moan and then—
Grayson’s voice. “Don’t stop,” he says. “Don’t.”
Cinna closes his eyes and keeps moving.
--
Cinna requests District 12 without consulting Haymitch and, not surprisingly, he gets an earful for it, hears all about the jeopardy he’s put them in, how frivolous it was, how stupid.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Haymitch asks. “You think you’re going to incite rebellion with a little bit of lace?”
Cinna knows Haymitch must be drunk to be throwing words like rebellion around so freely. There are red streaks in his eyes and Cinna can’t help but be disgusted at the sight of him. Bold and strong, their fearless leader. Maybe they’re already doomed.
“I know the Capitol,” Cinna says. He holds his ground, even as Haymitch stares him down. Haymitch only comes up to his chin but he’s sturdy, solid and all the more wild for being drunk. Still, Cinna doesn’t budge. “Without their sympathy, you’re nowhere.”
Haymitch scoffs and turns away, goes to refill his glass. The hotel room is lush, twice the size of Cinna’s studio. The light in here is beautiful, but Cinna pulls his eyes away, instead focusing on the shake of Haymitch’s hand as he pours himself another drink. “You think that’s wise?” he asks.
Haymitch drains the glass and pours another in response. “If we needed your help, we’d have let you know,” he says, finally turning around.
“I don’t think you know how important they are,” Cinna says. “The Capitol? As long as they’re entertained, the Games continue. As long as they’re satisfied, you have an audience. And there’s nothing they love like a little bit of lace,” Cinna concludes, resentment clinging to his words.
Haymitch lets the scowl slip from his face and gives Cinna a hard look. Venia and the other groomers are still in with Katniss and Cinna knows he has precious little time left to make his case. “She’s a hard girl, isn’t she?” Haymitch snorts out a laugh. “She could use a little softening up, a little something to make her dazzling?” Cinna takes a step forward and picks his words carefully. Haymitch might not be afraid to speak out of turn, but Cinna isn’t so foolish as to doubt there isn’t someone always listening. “What you need is a spark,” he says, thinking of the costuming he so carefully designed, that Portia helped so meticulously construct.
“And you think you can do that?” It’s the first time Haymitch has ever asked him a question and actually wanted an answer.
Cinna remembers the factories, the mills, the thin arms and bony shoulders of his classmates and the ever-present pinpricks in his small fingers. There’s no room for argument when he straightens his shoulders and answers, “Yes.”
--
His first year in the Capitol, Grayson took Cinna to the Games. Paraded him around—viewing parties and galas, celebrations and feasts. He watched the tributes fight it out, watched Grayson’s delight at all the bloodshed and mayhem.
The tributes from Eight were small, factory kids surely, and Cinna had a vague memory of the boy from school. He didn’t say anything about that to Grayson.
His first year in the Capitol, Cinna watched Finnick Odair win the Hunger Games.
--
“I think the Gamesmakers borrowed your design.” Haymitch slides down into the seat beside him and breathes out a heavy sigh. “The girl on fire. Doesn’t look so lovely now, does she?”
Cinna looks over Haymitch’s shoulder, eyes stuck to the vid screen on the wall. They’re broadcasting images of the remaining tributes and Katniss looks terrible. She’s haggard and wounded; it settles in his chest, tightens his hands. He wonders how Haymitch can take this so lightly, how he can shrug it off like everything doesn’t hinge on that girl’s survival. “Are you doing anything to help?”
Haymitch takes a swig from the bottle in his hand. “I’m doing enough.” The older man eyes Cinna suspiciously and his voice is oddly even when he says, “You were right. About the clothes.”
Cinna smiles wryly at how uncomfortable it makes Haymitch to admit even this much and Haymitch scowls at the slight grin Cinna gives him. He shakes it off, says, “What do you care anyway? A Capitol boy like yourself?” He leans in slightly, eyes scanning the busy room. There are Gamesmakers in the corner and mentors all around, but in the crowd they’re as hidden as they need to be. Haymitch looks at him hard and asks, “Why are you so bent on helping us?”
Cinna turns his eyes back to the vid screen. They’re showing the Careers, Peeta among them, and Cinna fights the urge to question Haymitch about this strategy again. His previous attempts have gotten him nowhere, so instead he considers Haymitch’s question, its implications and assumptions.
“I’m not from the Capitol,” Cinna finally says. It’s not often he tells people these parts of his past, but it feels necessary here, to throw his stock in more soundly with Haymitch. As much as it pains him, Cinna knows it’s necessary. He can’t help how throaty and unsure he sounds when he says, “I grew up in Eight. I was the son of a luxury fabric maker.” He closes his eyes and remembers, the smell of the dye, the feel of the wool. The heft of a soft cashmere skein against his shoulder. “I came to the Capitol when I was 15. Well,” his voice falters, “I was brought here.”
Haymitch leans forward, finally interested. “What does that mean?”
Cinna shakes his head. There are only so many doors he’s willing to reopen, even for a cause so important as this. “Let’s leave it at that,” he says, pushing himself to his feet.
“What do you mean—”
Cinna cuts him off. “Find Katniss some sponsors. The girl needs help.” He straightens his shoulders and gives Haymitch as sure a grin as he can manage. “I can’t carry this thing on my own.”
The hint of a smile, a real, genuine smile, crosses Haymitch’s face. “Hey, Cinna?” he says, draining the last of the bottle. “Fuck you.”
--
“Just sit down there on the bed,” Grayson says. Finnick’s knees wobble as he walks across the room and he looks questioningly over his shoulder as he approaches the bed. Cinna leans back against the wall, feels his shoulders dig into the plaster. Finnick turns slowly and lowers himself onto the mattress, which sags beneath his weight. He’s so much smaller than he looked on the vid screens, so much thinner than he looked in the arena. His face seems paler, his shoulders more slender. He looks like a boy.
Grayson’s voice is loud when he says, “Take off your jacket.” Finnick’s eyes narrow but he does as he’s told. The Gamesmakers have made sure his Victory Tour is the epitome of elegance; it’s been awhile since they’ve had a Victor this universally popular. The jacket is silk, with intricately stitched lining. Cinna sees it when Finnick folds the jacket neatly and sets it beside him on the bed. His hands are shaking.
Cinna swallows hard and listens to Grayson close the door, hears the lock click into place. He wonders if the jacket was made by his father, wonders if his mother stitched the fabric. He sees Grayson cross the room and settle into a chair in the corner and then moves his eyes to Finnick. He’s all blond hair and green eyes and so much skin and—
He tries not to think about anything else at all after that.
--
He calls Katniss every Friday night. He puts his pad down on the table and pours a glass of wine and dials the number from memory. Sometimes he listens to her ramble, sometimes they discuss the designs so she’ll be ready when the interviews start.
A few weeks in, Cinna realizes. Katniss thinks it’s over, that the Games are behind her, that she’s already won. He wants to tell her that there’s so much left to do, so much fight in front of them, but he’s not foolish enough to trust the phones and keeps his peace.
“Cinna?” Katniss asks one night.
Cinna’s sketching the lines of a coat. Katniss was inspired by the hills surrounding District 12, if anyone asks. “What?” he answers.
“Why did you want to be a designer? I figure I should ask in case anyone asks me.” She sounds older than she did when he met her, but she’s still such a girl.
“I’m not sure my answer would be of much use to you,” he says, putting his pencil down. She has no need of a story about hours spent in a studio, head bent low over a paisley print. Her story shouldn’t be about learning how to blend in, keep as much of yourself hidden as possible. He clears his throat and gives her the easiest answer he can think of. “You like making pretty things,” he suggests. “You just want to bring a little color into a melancholy world.”
“That makes me sound like an idiot,” Katniss says.
He laughs. “Yes, it does.”
Cinna knows it’s trivial in the districts, that anything beyond surviving seems frivolous, but he wants Katniss to have a good answer to that question, something solid to back up her choices, even if it’s all a ruse. He remembers Haymitch’s reluctance to take him seriously, how hard he had to work to prove himself, and his voice gets very quiet when he answers her. “You want to make something that means something. Something that affects one person, or a dozen, or the world. Like your mockingjay pin.” He knows he has to speak carefully here, just as well as he knows she understands what he’s trying to say. “That mockingjay means something to you. It means something to a lot of people.”
Katniss doesn’t say anything for awhile and Cinna hears her fidgeting through the receiver. “That’s a good answer,” she finally says. “I’ll have to remember that.”
Cinna smiles into the receiver. “Try not to mess it up and make me look bad,” he teases.
Katniss answers with a laugh and Cinna’s chest gets tight. She’s the same age he was when he left Eight, he thinks, not for the first time. He hears more noise, voices in the background, and Katniss moving around. “I have to go, okay? I’ll talk to you next week?”
“I’ll call on Friday,” Cinna says.
He hangs up the phone, lets his hand linger on the set. There’s an idea in the corner of his mind and he scrambles to hold onto it. Like your mockingjay pin, he’d said. He closes his eyes, sees smoke and wings and feathers, Katniss on stage and the whole world on fire. No room for fear now, just action.
He puts his pencil to the pad and starts to sketch.