❦

𝐹𝑂𝑈𝑅𝑇𝐸𝐸𝑁
ᴡᴏʀᴅs ᴏғ ᴡɪsᴅᴏᴍ

❦

Cillian thought the screens might've made him feel out of touch from the games. But, staring up at the vast expanse of darkness, he could almost feel the heat on his own skin. He had to squint, looking up at the veins of neon orange that decorated the ground, stretching as far as the camera would allow them to see. There was not a single tribute in sight as the drone panned across the scene.

Eirlys had a drink in her hand, as she so often did. She seemed delighted by the screens, sprouting on about how exciting the arena was this year. 'So much more fun than yours, Cillian, what was it again, snow?' He paid her no mind, not bothering to tell her that his games had been suffocated by a drier type of heat, an expanse of sand.

The training centre was empty of mentors and district representatives. Only the sponsors and highest esteemed Capitol civilians flooded the cinema room of the training centre. Their outfits came in an array of colours, all themed toward their favoured districts. Eirlys had chosen to keep closed lips when it came to informing them that it was little use for the mentors to attend the initial screenings, as many had chosen not to do. Only Finnick stood watching the screen, alone for once and with poor, stooped posture. Haymitch also sat at the furthest corner of the room, nursing a complimentary drink, looking as if he was putting himself through voluntary torture.

"We need more sponsors," Johanna said, finally turning from the screen and nudging him in the arm. Cillian nodded in agreement. "And we're not going to get them here. Look at them, they're delighted. We'll not get a word out of them."

"I have a suggestion," Felix said, interrupting their conversation.

It was the first Cillian had heard him speak in a while. His voice was deep and velvety, matching the maturity of his face. Again, he was dressed more simply in comparison to the Capital styles, wearing a cotton blue tunic that reached mid-thigh and a golden shimmer across his eyes to match.

"I know of a party happening to celebrate the beginning of the games, this evening," he began, watching Eirlys from the corner of his eye. Cillian wondered if this was secret knowledge. "To the best of my knowledge, there will be only a few other mentors there. It will be a prime opportunity."

A room full of capitol drunks... what better way to gain sponsors?

How Felix had arranged the excursion to the party that night, Cillian didn't know, but nor did he wish to ask. It was perhaps the falsest type of freedom that Cillian would ever experience, but he made the most of it all the same. With Eirlys not invited and Felix unlikely to tell, he let the cool slip of alcohol breach his throat, tasting the bubbly sweetness of wine fill his stomach. This was the closest to a party he would ever get. It may have been the engineered, purposeful kind, that was designed to get the sponsors in one place with the mentors, but there was music, and dancing, and laughing. Cillian didn't care who the noise came from. He just liked the sound of it.

"So who were you with, the other night?" Cillian asked, remembering the night on the roof and hearing her voice.

Johanna only levelled him with a cool glare. "No one."

"No one?"

"And who were you with?" she said, turning on him with her chin raised.

Cillian only asked. He would get no truth from Johanna, so she would get done back, no matter that he would have told her that it was Finnick Odair, District Four's heartthrob and his public enemy, that he spoke to on the roof of the training centre.

Felix introduced him to his friend once Johanna had disappeared into the crowd early in the night. She had grown tired under the noise quickly while Cillian had flourished under it. The loudness numbed his thoughts and made him feel anonymous amongst so many different faces, despite the fact they all knew his name.

He knew little of the man, only that he knew Felix and was the host of the party that was designed to celebrate the beginning of the games. Already he had created an image of him. Oberyn would have a glittering gold face, a tunic the colour of crimson petals- the colour of blood- and he would shine like an overbearing sun amongst the most wealthy of the crowd. He would leer at him, as most Capitol men did, and say his name so many times that Cillian would wish it was not his own.

As Felix drew him toward the corner of the room, to the velvet settees and low lights, Cillian could not see the man he identified. It was only as Felix took him by the elbow and sat him down, that he realised he'd gotten much wrong.

Oberyn had a style much similar to that of Felix. Something understated and tasteful, with muted colours and fine embroidery. His coat was brown leather, shaped like a suit jacket, lined at the arms with fur. When he smiled, his teeth looked real, not plastic and pearl white. Cillian wondered how he'd gotten so far in the capitol, without the glitz and dangerous glammer of the trends.

"Cillian," he said, nodding his head with a smile. "I've been wanting to meet you."

His mood immediately soured. He waited for the hand to the knee, obvious and desperate, for the leaning in. It did not yet come.

"I can imagine why," he said, hoping the bitterness did not sound so blatant, but either way the man ignored it.

"I don't imagine you can," Oberyn said. Rather than leaning forward, he moved back, lounging against the back of the seat like a king on a throne. Cillian almost laughed. Did he think himself slick? Seductive? There was only one reason Capitol people wished to meet him. "Do you like the wine? It is cheap liquid, to tell you the truth, but most here get too drunk to ever tell the difference."

Cillian suddenly felt self-conscious with the attention on the glass in his hand. He leaned forward and placed the wine on the table, noting how empty it was. In honesty, he had enjoyed the wine and thought it rich and flavourful, but then again it was hard to come by such a drink in District Seven.

Turning his attention back on the man, Cillian found Oberyn already looking at him. He was strange, he could finally admit, looking at eyes that seemed just as interested. Eyes that did not gawk or secretly undress him with such intensity in a stare. Eyes that instead seemed respectful and approachable. Either that or he's got a good mask to hide behind, Cillian thought.

But Oberyn had an undeniable wit that made so many gravitate unintentionally toward him, for it was not handsome looks that made him known, as his face held no trophy in comparison to the chosen darlings of the Capitol. The bridge of his nose was wide, the length between his ears even wider, and his jaw set off at a deep, sharp angle. Despite the mean look of his face, with the dark eyebrows and curved lips, there was benevolence behind his eyes, the kind that made one feel at ease and in the presence of someone trustworthy, without knowing what it was that made them feel such way.

He had a dazzling sense of charm, the type that fell from his lips in liquid gold, leaving many- men and women alike- clawing to shovel it up. Everything about him was like an embrace. So much so, that even Cillian fell into his enthral, and when it came to moving, to opening the door of a private room, he followed. He would blame his ease in moving on the wine, but something told Cillian that this was not his usual meeting. And when the door was closed, Oberyn sat but did not command, only coaxed him into returning to their conversation with a smile.

"Tell me about District Seven," he said eventually, eyes wide as if he wanted to memorise each inch of their interaction.

Cillian did. The wine tasted bitter on his lips, staining them red. He spoke of the lumber mill, of the great span of trees that went on for miles. In his head, he could see the canopy of leaves, feel the brush of a breeze against his skin, and catch a glimpse of sunlight from the gaps. Cillian felt the urge to close his eyes, to see a glance of his sister, long hair twirling between the trees, still uncut.

He found himself talking about her unwillingly, about all of his family. Their jobs at the mill, their old home by the creek. The low ceilings and frame-less windows. The sound of water would send him to sleep and wake him when the rain had been too heavy and seeped through the roof. This could have all been a trap but Cillian was in too deep to care.

Oberyn spoke of the Capitol in turn, of how his family always spoke of the war, of his apartment that looked high across the city, to the mountains in the distance, which he'd always wanted to visit. His words were clipped, and censored, but Cillian listened without argument.

It was almost morning when Johanna and Felix found him again and escorted him back to the apartment. For once, the city seemed silent in comparison to the loudness of the room, of his thoughts, and with the scent of wine on his sheets, Cillian fell into the deepest sleep he'd had in a long while.

*