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𝑇𝑊𝑂
ᴡᴏʀsʜɪᴘ ᴛʜᴇ sᴛᴀᴛᴜᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ sᴘᴇᴀᴋ

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The bright, blinding lights of the Capitol never seemed to overwhelm Cillian. The Games had burned his nerves, making his reactions somewhat skewed. Even as the beams flashed across the floors, flooding the walls of the mansion in grand colours of cerulean and indigo, he didn't blink, letting his eyes rest upon the voluminous figure he followed, her hair puffed out at all ends, skirt ruffling like a table cloth by her feet. Eirlys paraded about in front of him, her glittery face beaming.

Leading behind her was Selena and her apprentice, a gangly sort of boy called Dorian, whose eyes were wide and yellow, angled like a fish. Cillian kept his steps slow, unbothered with his hands tucked into the thin pockets of his trousers. The partygoers around him all seemed small as they turned toward the small group, excessive shoulder pads and hairpieces catching and filling the space, so much so that it appeared as if most were drowning behind fabric.

The formal garden boxed the hoards of people in with towering walls of ivy and climbers. Straight-lined shrubs were sheered into runners, directing toward the very front of the mansion, stretching wide around a square pond that first looked a moss green put upon closer look was a jewelled mirror, rippling with the deep colours of the blanket of sky. Bushes of gardenias and magnolias dotted around the garden in perfect symmetry, forming small circles around young trees, their leafy branches coated in strings of lights. Trees that were out of place amongst the suffocating neatness, nothing like the wildness that circled the tree plantations in Seven.

Toward the front, below the grand, swooping entrance to the mansion, a long, winding table was already set, piled with hordes of garishly coloured foods: orange, sugar-coated peach pie, cheese and fruit plates complimented with more posca, and cream with rose petal soup among the piles of numerous plates he could not recognise. The apprentice made a beeline toward the drink table, eyeing the thick, golden liquid that settled in the bottom of multiple bottles, only to be discreetly pulled back by the sleeve of his glared jacket.

"Save yourself," Selene told him. "We can't have you drunk by the first hour. Eat instead."

Dorian nodded and went to stand by Eirlys, who leaned across the table, picked up a single grape and plopped it in her mouth as she turned to speak. Her dark skin, decorated with swirls of orange, was already mottled beneath the harsh lights.

"Caesar Flickerman has already requested you be his first interviewee. This is one of those opportunities, Cillian," she said as she smoothed down the collar of his blazer. "Eat, drink, have fun, of course, but make sure they're watching."

It wasn't until she was steering him with her arm tucked around his elbow, that he realised just how quick the interview would be starting. Caesar Flickerman stopped them dead in their tracks, staring wildly with his pearly grin. His hair was an off-purple, different to the yellow and blue he'd fashioned the past two times in which Cillian had failed to avoid him.

As he turned first from the wide camera to Cillian, his violet brows shot far into his forehead, creasing his burnt skin like crumpled paper. Under the bright white streaks, Cillian raised his chin, meeting the spotlight with the side of his face, letting it cast the other half of his body in shadow, angling it just as Eirlys had taught him to. It was how she'd portrayed him in the games: so mysterious, half of him seeming so obtainable, so reachable while the other was hidden away, eager to be uncovered.

How badly they wanted to rip the cover from his face! It was almost as if the lights were designed to draw him out like a moth to a flame, sizzling any ounce of freedom he had by exposing the truth. But even beneath, he was as stoic and relentless as the mask that intrigued them so.

"And if it isn't the devil of the dawn himself! Cillian, come speak to us!"

He inclined his head toward the man, letting his jaw clench as he pulled the trademark smirk onto his face. "Caesar."

Caesar let his tongue run across pink lips as he turned to lean toward the camera, holding the microphone close to his mouth, holding his hand up as if he was sharing a secret.

"As dreamy as ever, am I right!" He shouted, erupting from the pretend whisper, his eyes widening in mock arousal. "Tell us, how are you finding the party?"

"A little tame for my liking," Cillian said as he let his eyes slowly scan over the scene behind him.

"Well how about I ask about a little bit of excitement! How are you feeling about Finnick Odair," he said, surprising Cillian slightly. Caesar turned to wink at the camera. "It seems he is suddenly on your radar, I'm sure you all know what I mean."

The audience let out a frivolous sound of laughter, shock hissing the air through their teeth at the mention of another victor as if it was a topic too illegal to breach.

Cillian knew briefly of Finnick Odair in the way most people knew of the victors: with fleeting remembrance and brief, passive disdain. Being a victor himself did not change his ideas about the people. He too, like them, flooded the playgrounds of the Capitol, attending parties as if they were the same, acting as their puppets and play toys. But Finnick was similar to him in a way that many were not- his body was used by the Capitol too.

Only faintly, could he picture the boy despite how often his name graced the titles of Caesar's flashy gossip sections. But he was dangerous in a way he wouldn't have been in the arena. A victor in a situation like Cillian's thrived on public attention- the kind that sustained him with their sponsorships, and Finnick Odair unknowingly had the power to take that all away.

"I can't say I've spared him a thought, Caesar," Cillian said.

"Oh, so confident. We loved you for it in the games and we love you for it now!" Caesar's voice ripped through the crowd, his hand reaching out to hold Cillian's arm in the air, just as he would have done in the Hunger Games interviews. He smirked, forcing himself to swallow away the brewing anxiety that formed at the mere thought, and kept his eyes lowered. "Cillian Darya, everybody!"

The crowd enveloped around him, swallowing him until he could drive his way back toward the tables behind Eirlys, being spit back through at the other side. Caesar's bright purple aura disappeared amongst the hoards, slipping in between the masses of feathered hats and spiked shoulders.

It wasn't often that there were concrete trends within the outfits of the Capitol as fashion was too fast to ever stick, but few heads around the layered garden were streamed with angry red, inspired by Johanna Mason, who had won the last Hunger Games only nine months ago.

Her popularity had been a delayed one. Not in the way Cillian's had when it took until the interview for him to rack up support, but rather it was entire months after her win that people started paying attention to her. It was hard not to. The video of her spitting in Eirlys' face at the reaping circulated again eight weeks after her victory and she was sent spiralling through a tunnel of hyper fixation again. But all victors would go through that at some point. It was only Cillian's luck that his period of desirability had started during the beginning of the games and never ended.

Selene's apprentice had found his way to the drinks table again by the time Cillian had made his way through. Dorian hovered over the wine, tall, skinny bottles of red and white before he switched his hand to land on the plump bottle of liquor, pouring it into a clean glass. Striding over, Cillian took the drink from his hands and with a single glare, sent him scurrying back to the small group of designers that were forming around Selene.

The mounting voice was ignored as he turned toward the balcony, staring up at the rose garland that snaked along the thin railing, its petals as white as snow. Below it, another streak of red hair caught his eye.

"Johanna Mason," he said, letting his deep voice carry above the noise.

"Cillian."

He looked down at her, tipping back the rest of his stolen drink. "The last person I expected to see at a Capitol party."

"I'm not here out of choice," she said, turning back to stare up at the towering balcony that overlooked from above, almost wide enough to reach over her position. "Eirlys dragged me here against my will. She's gotten a taste for kidnapping me and bringing me to be paraded around the Capitol."

Cillian let out a gruff of agreement. Johanna's head inclined upwards, her dark eyes narrowing, zipping across the side of his face so hotly that he almost felt burned. It was this action only, that revealed the dark purple that clung around her eyes, bruise-like shadows that someone had poorly attempted to cover with a thick layer of red powder, hollowing them out further than they already were. The hand that applied it had been messy, uneven as if drunk during the process.

"Here for pleasure?"

"Not mine," he answered, hands digging deep into the pockets of his trousers.

Johanna considered him for a moment and then nodded, choosing to change the conversation, though the topic could never ever far. "We're mentoring this year."

Cillian dismissed the thought with a shake of his head. "We'll be mentoring until we're old."

"Or until they've replaced us. That won't be for a while for you though, the darling of the Capitol," she said, laughing bitterly. "Being a victor is more of a chore than it's worth."

Darling of the Capitol. The title seemed a bit tame for the reputation his wired purpose held. What purpose was that except the role the fools of the Capitol gave him? It didn't matter that he held at least some sort of value to them, as Johanna implied. He could bathe his body in glitter and gold but the reality would always be dressed plainly in truth. He was as replaceable as any of the other victors.

"Remind me to ask Eirlys about that," Cillian said, referencing his newfound title.

"I talked to Finnick before, actually," Johanna said, scoffing as her arms folded across her chest, sticking out slightly due to the puffy layers of the structured corset that wrapped around the top of her black dress. "I found him hiding around the fountains. Seemed rather aware of your little competition then. I don't think his charm ever switches off."

She paused again for a moment, her shoulders dropping. Her lids had drooped too as she let the slide across the garlands, her lips downturned into a frown. The darkness around her eyes made her skin look paler, her face more rounded and young. Sometimes it was hard to believe she was still a month and a half away from eighteen. Then again Cillian himself often forgot he was not far off turning twenty-one.

Johanna swallowed, her whole face darkening again as her jaw clenched. "It's sick what they're doing to you- making you compete for attention when you've already won. Making you-"

"What, do you think you've been let off easy?" Cillian snapped.

Johanna held firm as she turned to glare at him. "They can't make me do anything."

"They can and they will."

Johanna continued to stare at him for a moment. With the way her tongue ran over her tips, her jaw clenching straight after, he couldn't tell if she was angry or disappointed. Either would have been an obvious guess. Rage was her default setting.

"I'm escaping," she said, dismissing him with a sharp tilt of her head. "See you at the games, Cillian."

He watched her leave, her shoulders tense, reaching toward her head, yet still lost beneath the layers of material. Cillian attempted to savour the moment of solitude, for while at work it could never last too long. 

"Cillian, over here darling! I have some people I'd like you to meet!" Selene's voice somehow reached him above the cacophony of noises that echoed against the walls of the tall, white buildings that surrounded them. She placed a hand on his chest, discreetly flattening down a single crease as she pulled him to her group. "Isn't his outfit gorgeous! Almost does justice to that beautiful face. Cillian, this is Portia and Vesta, both very prominent stylists here in the Capitol. They were just admiring your suit."

The second woman- Vesta- nodded violently, her eyes closing as she left out a barking laugh, a single curl of ash white hair dripping above her nose. "Oh, you flatter us too! We haven't even worked in the games yet. We're hoping to in a few years."

"I'm sure Selene has told you how rewarding it is to have a role in the Hunger Games," Cillian said dryly, though Vesta did not seem to understand the irony as she began to nod again.

"Oh, of course, but she needn't tell us anything we don't already know. I for one have been dreaming of being a stylist for the tributes since I was little," she said, her voice shrill and haughty. "I always hoped for District Four with the tall, tan tributes. Nothing against District Seven, of course, darling."

"Of course," he said. Selene eyed him warily, but it was his next swipe that would earn him an elbow to his side. "Who would wish to work with trees?"

"Precisely, you understand!" As if only just remembering the other woman was with her, Vesta turned to Portia, a hand dripping to her forearm. "Which district would you like to work with, Portia?"

"I like to think I could do justice to any district I style," she said simply, no malice laced behind her voice despite what the words implied.

By the clothes on her body and the intricate styling of her hair, Cillian had no doubt the woman would go far. The misty, burgundy that coloured her hair was perfectly matched to the cool tone of her brown skin and the glassy look of her orange eyes. Never had contacts looked so realistic than in the wide, gold-rimmed eyes of Portia Rosalyn.

As Portia turned to glance at a man behind her, the train of her lace dress whipping around her ankles, Vesta watched with and added contempt. "Oh, well yes, me too. But there's something about Four that gives something interesting. Have you seen Finnick Odair? Delicious," she said, her voice rising as she realised the attention had easily been shifted from her. "Quite the romancer too."

Selene leaned against his side, her jaw clenching. "Hm, not quite as alluring as our Cillian," she said as a hand ran up his arm.

"I have heard very... tempting things about you."

Before Cillian could edge another snide word in, Selene turned on her heels and waved out a hand, becoming the same man Portia had been gravitating toward.

"Ah, Cinna!" Selene called, her other arm snaking around his. "I'm sure you recognise Cillian."

Cinna smiled as he inclined his head. "It would be a crime not to."

"Cinna is one of my dearest friends. He too is in line to become a stylist for the games," Selene said, then she leaned forward, covering her mouth as if she shouldn't be speaking. "With the impact he's been having recently I would reckon he'll take a fast track to be featured very soon."

"If that's the direction my art takes me in then I'll work it to the best of my ability," Cinna said carefully- Cillian wondered what he meant by that. "I have inspiration just looking at you."

"How exciting."

He felt a hand connect with his wrist, drawing his attention from the attractive man to the woman beside him. Selene's twig-thin eyebrows rose, her lips pursing as her eyes flicked over toward the new drinks table. When his own gaze didn't follow, she chose to whisper instead.

"Is that Floriana, dear?" Selene said, her voice somewhat regretful to be the one reminding him of the woman.

"Yes, I think you're right," he said stiffly. "If you'll excuse me, ladies, Cinna. I believe I promised someone a chat."

They said goodbye and the small circle closed around the empty space he abandoned, his own spot quickly being taken over by Dorian's awkward figure. Cillian could hear them behind him- talking as faintly as obnoxious Capitol voices could. Oddly, it was only Cinna, who spoke with a hint of softness.

"Oh, that gaze, Selene!" Vesta said lowly. "What did you say he does in the Capitol?"

Cillian noticed Floriana by the white rose that was entwined among her short hair; it was the same delicate flower that floated in the posca bowls like water lilies, decorated the staircases cascading down in waterfalls, and filled the air with a powdery and strangely wood-like scent. Her choice of style was certainly ambitious but nowhere near surprising. The strands of glittered, green hair stuck out from behind the pinned bouquet like thorns and vines, wrapping around her head like a crown. Not a single piece moved out of place as she spun around to greet him as if she'd recognised his arrival by scent only.

"Cillian. I was hoping to run into you," she said, her chin lifting as if impressed. "How long has it been? Two months? I suppose it doesn't matter."

At that moment, Finnick came to mind: his dazzling smile and the charm that could not be switched off. Whatever this competition was, Cillian seemed to be losing, and in response, he pulled on his smirk- a proud look that spoke more than his words ever could. Victory would get him nowhere better than he was: he was already victorious in the eyes of the Capitol, but to lose meant something entirely different. Something he did not wish to find out.

"I want to play a game," he said, toying with the woman like the president liked to play with him.

That lump, that sickening feeling was building in his stomach, but he pushed all worries or thoughts of it away.

"Exciting," she purred, her hand trembling as she placed her glass of posca down on the table.

"Make it to the reserved room in secret," he said. It was the only thing that would come to mind.

"Oh, Cillian, how daring!"

Her hand reached up to his shoulder, her finger trailing a line across his chest as she brushed past him. Small, cluttered steps took her toward the mansion that was now brimming with as many people as there were down in the gardens. He waited a moment before he followed, taking the longer route as he finished a second drink, skimming around the outskirts of the courtyard in a small effort to avoid the crowds.

Inside, the mansion was as regal as the land that surrounded it. A large, swooping staircase rose from the glossy, marble floors, highlighted by electric lights of a warm yellow and a chandelier of bright white. At the top of the staircases, along the hallway that led to the reserved apartments, collections of paintings hung on the wall, first depicting water- calm, turquoise water like that which was expected in district four- then of the founder of the Games, and very lastly President Snow with his signature rose folded in the pockets below his lapel. The set-up was much like that in any other grand house in the Capitol, or at least those that Cillian had seen. Expensive paintings were almost like dedicated shrines, worshipping gods as false as the ones made of fake gold and bitter values.

The room that was already reserved was near the back of the mansion, spanning over two rooms. Cillian stopped at the door for a moment when he arrived, his hand pausing on the door nob, building courage, before he pushed it open.

Floriana sat on the bed, her dress removed, revealing a velvety slip, the colour of crushed berries. Her eyes fluttered upwards as he shut the door, moving to stand between her legs, her knees trapping him close. She had to tilt her chin to gaze up at him, her darkened lips pulled into a smirk- her expression taunting, teasing, testing him.

Cillian ran a finger across her cheek, stopping below her chin, guiding her to her feet with a single gesture. Floriana swallowed, her lips parting automatically, hot breath fanning against his wrists. He stood there, making her wait as she shivered, her hands twitching at her side. She pulled him into a kiss, lips smashing messily. Then he pulled away, head turning away, playing the game she craved and called for, the game she'd asked for the first time and each time since.

Cillian's hand smoothed down the side of her hair, tracing the line of her neck slowly. She really was pretty at face value. She could have been so much more, had her insides matched. His hands reached the thin strap of her slip and he felt her breath hitch as he let it drop from her shoulder, the other following over the rippling wait of the thin, flowy material. Unwillingly, she let out a moan, the sound sending vibrations hitting against his neck.

"Quiet," he whispered as he dipped down to the level of her ear.

But despite his urges, Floriana was anything but silent. The whole floor would have heard her. Perhaps that would gain him extra points in this so-called competition. The thought sickened him.

As they finished, Floriana rolled over to look at him through lowered lashes. "My darling, I want to spoil you," she said lowly, breath hitching in her throat. "Tell me."

Here it was, his currency laid out as it used to be. His bankruptcy was vanishing. She paid him for the sex in the way he wanted her to.

"What is it you desire?" He had to hide the smile that was threatening to erupt against his lips. Cillian leaned forward, connecting his nose with the skin below her ear, letting teeth and lips trail up to it, but Floriana pulled away. "Don't play. What is it I can treat you with?"

Treat, never pay.

"A travel pass," he said, forcing the words past his lips.

Floriana ran a hand across his jawline. "Hmm, want to pay me a visit while I'm on my rounds?"

"You know the answer to that."

It was much easier to let them create the answer that they wanted to hear, rather than let himself manipulate it somehow. Floriana laughed in response, her chin dipping to rest on his chest, her legs spread across the bed, her arms tucking around his side. Seconds later, her eyes were closed and resting, and Cillian was left to the darkness, once again feeling completely empty.

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