𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘'𝐋𝐋 𝐉𝐔𝐌𝐏 𝐎𝐅𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐋𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐄 𝐓𝐎𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑.
What District 2 victor, Saffron Creek, and prodigy, Finnick Odair, share is the very antithesis of what has been stolen from them. They test the edges of the rules that construct t...
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oversized playhouses . . . . .
It is the beginning of summer; the Capitol has settled into a lull after the 70th Hunger Games. She is twenty years old and now faces the preying gazes of men and women more than twice her age. Without knocking, she enters Snow's office.
He is sitting there like he expected her, which, of course, he did. At once, she regrets bursting in without abandon. He speaks first, straight to the point. "You and Odair. My citizens are beginning to lose interest."
Suddenly, she is still like a singular calmness has settled over her.
"What would you like me to do?" Her nails press into her wrist.
Naïvely, she thought that after she won her Games the fear would eventually dissipate. That was foolish, though now she cannot tell whether she was more scared of the children in the arena or the man who orchestrates it all in front of her. This part of her is fragile.
"Fix it," he says.
"How?" Her voice sounds desperately small.
President Snow leans forward. He is comfortable in his power and knows how to wield it. "Put on a show so they cannot look away."
Saffron bites her tongue, literally, and nods.
She is loath to turn her back on him and still shivers as she is guided back down the hallway. She hears her heart thumping like she holds it in her hands.
Later that evening, she finds herself deep in yet another game with Finnick Odair. One that she has designed.
They court each other across the gallery with quick smiles, hidden winks, and fleeting glances. They act as if the busy parlor is the stage of a theater. Saffron does her best to pretend to be indignant, exaggerating her expressions, when Finnick leans too close to another woman.
They aren't together. They are far too valuable single, but society delights in scandal, however scripted.
"I cannot believe you," Saffron hisses loud enough for those clustered around her to hear. Finnick shoots an affronted look over his shoulder as she pulls him by the wrist into a shadowed corner of the room. Still visible, but out of earshot.
"Can't believe what, sweet?" he teases.
They are pretending to quarrel.
She gestures angrily with her hands. "That your hair still looks good with that much gel. It's pasty."
"Jealous?"
"Horribly."
He snorts and jabs a finger in her face. "I thought you were going to say that you couldn't believe these people are falling for this."
"That too."
He regards her, their faces six inches apart, with a false sneer painted upon his features.
"You look beautiful, as always."
It's true. She's wearing a backless dress tonight, as she is often dressed in. The rich fabric dips low, creating a rather enticing effect in the shallow light. It's a cruel irony and a powerplay, but she can appreciate its loveliness, nonetheless.
"Touche."
But he is always gorgeous. Copper hair and pretty dimples.
"Another good thing does come from this arrangement," Saffron continues.
"And that would be?"
"I get to do this."
Then she pushes him harshly by his shoulders. "Go to hell!" she yells, spinning completely and walking away. Onlookers titter and giggle over the shoulders of others.
A group of women crowd Saffron before she is halfway across the floor.
"It looks like someone's in trouble," one sneers. Her eyelashes are painted the scarlet of blood.
"Quite," Saffron huffs.
"It was a fling never destined to last," the lady to Saffron's right sighs. "He was just raining on your fire." She casts a pointed look over Saffron's shoulder to where thin body chains rest cool against burned skin.
She simmers and she is almost afraid that her irritation will boil out of her eyes.
"I agree," Saffron says simply. "He has far too much ego for one boy."
It is three in the morning, and they were the last to leave. In the elevator, she and Finnick giggle so fiercely their stomachs hurt. They don't go anywhere. They just ride up and then down again, slouching against the metal walls, legs outstretched.
"Did you see her wig?" Saffron breathlessly asks. "It was practically about to slide off her head."
"No. But I'm pretty sure the owner of that bank in central square was wearing a fake nose."
"God," she says before dissolving into laughter once more.
Inexplicably, she begins to tear up, at once, both so content and profoundly woeful. She laughs again, sending tears down her cheeks. Finnick's boyish giggles die out. He throws his jacket at her face.
"Don't get your snot on it," he tells her.
They have come to an astounding number of understandings wordlessly, forged in something less concrete. Pins are needles race up their feet.
