tampered | ➴

Katniss sits listening to everything around her, legs folded underneath her as she watches Peeta watch the skyline. Maybe he half thinks it isn't real. Maybe he half thinks this is all a dream. Maybe. She can't read him very well this way, despite the definitive suspicion that he is just as open at this age as he is ordinarily. Likely she is just over thinking it, and it isn't completely lost on her that Peeta is one of the few subjects she does tend to over think. Everything else, if her track record says anything, seems to fall into the opposite category--not enough thinking, but she's not surprised about that either. She goes on instinct, and similarly impulse often too solidly chained to the notion of a good idea at the time. Like the berries. Like a public marriage proposal. Like running away. Like starting a rebellion.

...not that any of that means very much here.

Even now she cannot really get her head around that, and as a result can't accept it, putting her at the kind of crossing where all directions lead to dead ends. And she hates the uncertainty more than any kind of sureness, even if that sureness could potentially be only of something much worse than the positions they find themselves in lately. Back to childhood--of sorts. Unable to be productive. Prone to singing and generally looking charmingly foolish.

It's not worse than what they have all been told still waits for them back in Panem, that being encompassed by the setting itself no matter what point in time they were pulled from. A world where a thing like the Games is celebrated by a Victory Tour, where a starving District suddenly seems appealing when compared to Rue's prison-like 11, where the first thing Katniss herself thought to do was escape because it seemed safer. Being away from the situation has given her a silent if clearer certainty that she was wrong. Gale appearing the way he did clarified that for her, if she needed it. Rue arriving wreathed in wildflowers reminded her again.

Today is not for running though. There's nowhere to run to, but more than that, as is the bizarre blessing in this place, there isn't anything to run from.

Underneath her hands, she picks at the grass, but it's an absentminded motion, a breeze whispering past with the hallmark drop in temperature that says autumn is here beneath the bright blue sky.

Annoyed doesn't even begin to cover how Cinna is feeling today. He couldn't get into his shop when he woke up, he can't hold onto anything remotely related to the one thing that keeps him sane in this place, his work. Pens actually fly from his hands, and paper floats away like he had the worst static charge ever. Never has a day gone by, not since he was a child anyway, where he hasn't sketched out an idea. Made a slight alteration to some garment, to some hair style, to something. It is his passion and without it...

He imagines this is what an addict feels going through withdrawal. Which, the more that he thinks about it, is probably the point of this strange little curse he seemes to have. Still, it's a frustration that no amount of sunshine or fresh air is going to solve.

But he'd told Finnick he'd come by for awhile, so here he is, sauntering towards the small group, hands shoved in his trouser pockets, a button-down charcoal gray shirt partially undone... and bright yellow socks in brown sandals on his feet. It appears the City won't even allow him to style himself properly today.

As days in the City go, Finnick has to admit he's had much worse. Even with the insistent compulsion to sing that he's spent the whole day unsuccessfully trying to shake, it's still gone over much better than, say, fighting for his life while someone came at him with a sword, or abandoning a sinking ship in the middle of a stormy ocean. He can handle a little singing, just like he can handle playing chaperone to a pint-sized version of Peeta for the day.

It's strangely entertaining to witness his wonder at the whole thing. But Peeta has always excelled at making people see things in a new light, whether it was through his paintings or his words. So it's not so strange to think that he's managing it today, too, simply by virtue of his own reactions and perceptions. He's a child today, and Finnick hasn't been a child in ten years. Skylines and cityscapes hold nothing but cold memories for him now. But seeing Peeta seeing it all for the first time...he can almost remember what it was like, having that sense of wonder himself.

He is standing a short distance from Katniss, rocking on his heels with his hands in his pockets, humming under his breath to the tune that's currently running through the back of his mind; anyone within earshot and reasonably good hearing might even be able to pick out the words as he absently shifts to singing softly: "Pictures of you, pictures of me, remind us all of what we used to be..."

Peeta isn't sure what's going on today. It's not just that he got to sleep in, that his mother isn't anywhere, that he got this fancy device that lets him talk to people who aren't around him, or even that this isn't District 12. It's a mix of all of that, and the fact that there's a grown-up girl named Katniss who looks kind of like what his Katniss, who is seven, looks like.

He wishes that he could talk to her. Well more than a few words. She seems a little lonely, and he wants to help, because Peeta prefers it when the people around him are happy; he's a natural pleaser, even though he could never please his mother, even though he's not enough for her. But he doesn't think about that right now. Instead he inches closer to Katniss, and looks at the City skyline. Why is it so bright and so big? He's never seen so many tall buildings.

He looks over at Katniss again and sits where she is picking at grass. He picks up a strand and puts it between his fingers and blows, producing a familiar, tuneless, high pitched honk.

Watching him move closer is interesting. Even in this smaller form he is hardly subtle, not that she gets the feeling he is trying very hard to be, but it's somehow comforting anyway. Peeta is Peeta is Peeta, so to speak, and that is true whatever age she might meet him at or know him until. Putting it like that feels a little like she has given them some unknown expiration date however, so she tucks that undertone as far down as possible, which is easier when the blond boy decides to make a not-so-musical instrument out of a blade of grass.

"Hey," she isn't sure if she is smiling or not, but the slight discomfort at the corners of her mouth suggest she is trying. Normally she is better with children, because she trusts them faster, and it's much simpler to act from the stance of protector than peer or subordinate, but Peeta manages to be the exception. Because this isn't how they normally are; isn't even how they once were. For that to be true, Katniss would have to be seven as well.

They may both be better off that she isn't though. She is at least half sure of that.

"Hi," he manages, making another honk with his grass. His Katniss - well, the Katniss in District 12 who looks a little like this Katniss - she smiles more. Peeta can't imagine anything more than they're related. He picks another blade of grass and blows, and then picks a third and offers it to her.

He doesn't know what he's doing wrong. Usually people like him. People at school, once they get over the fact that he's a little richer than they are, are quick to become friends. People who come into the bakery like to talk to him over his brothers. They smile at him. He smiles back. That's how it works. It puzzles him that Katniss looks so uncomfortable with him, and it makes him want her to like him. Maybe because she does look so much like the girl from school, the one who sings and laughs and whose mother his father loved, once upon a time.

"Will you play with me?" He means play a blade a grass, make it honk, make a symphony of high pitched bird calls. It's a free thing, so it's a toy in District 12, for the very small amount of time between the end of school and the return to the bakery. Other kids in District 12 play after school, then starve. Peeta doesn't play, he bakes, but he eats. That's how it works.

Finnick waves as Cinna approaches, still humming faintly under his breath even as his face breaks into a smile of greeting. He certainly doesn't miss the fact that Cinna looks quite unlike himself today, and frankly, nobody could miss those socks in those sandals. Finnick makes no claims of being a fashion expert, personally, but even he knows that some things just aren't done, and matches like that happen to be one of them.

"Hey, there you are," he says good-naturedly, once Cinna is within earshot. And he almost almost adds a, "Nice socks", but like his urge to sing, he manages to restrain himself for the moment. Having heard Cinna's description of the day's events, it's clear that the other man is beyond frustrated by the fact that he can't work, and point out his current fashion disaster would just be rubbing unnecessary salt in the wound.

(Of course, one jab about his own current inclination toward singing and all bets are off. Pun intended.)

Not all kids play in District 12. Katniss would wager that the majority of Seam kids don't, for instance, but that has always been one of the great divides between Peeta and herself. Less so now, or it would be if he was the normal age, but it still defines them to the more finite of their roots. It isn't a competition, though she guesses that's how the Capitol wants it to be; who suffers the most? Things change anyway, and she knows that whatever hell she went through watching Prim waste away near to nothing, they do pass that, overcome it. Because of something Peeta did no less. Just the way he is now.

How do you go about repaying that kind of thing?

Somehow reasoning him into a falsely founded marriage doesn't seem like the answer.

And saving them both in the Games almost doesn't count, because she had no way of knowing they would come out alive anyway.

Or if it counts, it's just not the same, which in the end sits with her just as sourly.

The discomfort returns tenfold, but she can tell he isn't making an effort for his health. As ever, he is trying to make her smile. It's the least she can do to play along, answering his question by accepting the strand of green and pressing it to her mouth. Somehow the sound she elicits from it manages to come out a little less like a honk, more like a whistle.

At the moment Finnick seems unable to stifle the curse's effects, Katniss happens to be back to observing Peeta rather than directly interacting with him, which affords her the moment to look his way. Her hearing is excellent since the repair work that the doctors did on her, as if there was never any damage done to it except the memory, which as every memory is, has continued to be indelible. The song Finnick is taken by is not one she recognizes, but the words strike her with enough clarity to draw her attention in full for a few seconds.

The truth is that she doesn't know what to say about them, or if she has anything to say, so it ends up only being a stare. This one isn't fettered by an underlying question or suspicious sentiment however. In fact, it manages to be strangely open, especially for Katniss, but being open is such a rarity that she doesn't notice it herself, all this only amounting to facts; I hear you, I see you and maybe most importantly it may be good for me to know you. Not just for Peeta, but for herself. Her now habitual way of not trusting people hinders this most of all, but both repeated necessity and a survivalist's grip on certain truths have at least given her enough reason to tentatively cross him off a list of people she has already given up on in one way or another. Vaguely it reminds her of an alliance, and by chance of the way the sun falls, her eyes go to the bracelet again. Flames.

It seems too coincidental really, for someone so inexplicably invested in the well-being of people who didn't even know Finnick beyond the television and the press before he came here.

Some time after Cinna's initial arrival, Katniss winds her way to him, close to silently though this is unnecessary as she has no need to be undetected at present. The tension about him is hard to miss, and as one of the few people she cares about who is relatively new in her life--well, very, especially when compared to others--Cinna's quirks have registered. Maybe 'quirk' is the wrong word. His way, may be a better way to put it. Katniss associates him with a quiet power, an ease that does not necessarily mean anything he does is easy but that it comes off as natural. She can parallel the way Cinna seems to put life into his work to the way Gale comes alive simply by being in the woods, at home to a degree. Though her relief at this curse not being life-threatening in terms of a sinking ship or worse (she knows this is possible, anywhere, whatever the situation) she knows enough of her stylist and friend that today will still be trying.

"Hanging in there?" she asks, because to ask if he is 'all right' is pointless when she already knows the answer.

He does catch her staring, but pretends for a few moments that he doesn't notice, guessing that as soon as he catches her eye and lets her realize she's caught his attention, that she'll look away. And frankly, it's not a bad thing that Katniss is looking his way; it's certainly better than ignoring him, and looking leads to wondering leads to the beginnings of understanding. And that's what it comes down to, really--the understanding that he is not her enemy.

Even in the arena, after what they'd been through, that understanding was tenuous. He hasn't forgotten how she'd lunged at him when he'd been attempting to resuscitate Peeta. He doesn't expect the sort of easy trust that he and Peeta have forged, simply through weeks of living together and seeing each other every day.

But maybe now that they're in the City, that they quite literally have all the time in the world, maybe now there's the chance that they'll manage to understand each other a little better. He suspects they're not as different as she might think, regardless of where they grew up or what their circumstances were. And, of course, all Victors have some things in common, whether they like it or not.

If there's one thing he's learned, it's that the way to reach Katniss is by letting slip a little bit of himself. So he lets his control slip a little more, lets the lyrics come a little more strongly, and lets her watch.

The face Cinna makes at Finnick's enthusiasm speaks volumes and for a moment he wonders why he'd come at all. His mood was foul, his mind was dark and all the pain and anger he put into fueling his work was simmering just beneath the surface. The sunshine of the day seemed an affront to his frustrations, bright where he saw only darkness, heat where all he felt was cold.

"Finnick? Enjoying the day, I take it?"

"Tolerating."

Of all the people he'd show his true frustrations to, Katniss was not one of them. Still the signs of frustration and anger are probably plain on his face, even through the smile he spares for her. As always, she deserves nothing but his best, whatever he can give her.

"When I'm not serenading the masses? We've been having fun," he answers with a smile. He is in a reasonably good mood, in stark contrast to Cinna's, but that's not to say he's any happier about being cursed than Cinna is. The truth is, it's more unsettling than ever, the vast display of power the Gamemakers here put on--summoning storms, raising the dead, reversing ages, compelling and preventing actions--but dwelling on it isn't going to do any good at the moment.

Also, there's the much simpler fact that he's spent the whole day with Peeta so far, and it's just plain hard to be moody when a kid like that is staring at you in wonder over something as small as a few extra hours of sleep.

"I'm guessing the same can't be said for both of us, though," he adds after a moment, his voice lowering with a hint of concern. "Is there anything I can do?"

He laughs, because she's so much better at it than he is, and because she looks a little silly, and because sometimes it's okay to laugh, too. Especially when there's nothing terrible happening. That's how Peeta got through the fact that his mother was less than loving, and his father never protected him from that. Taking advantage of all the good things that he could. He blows on his own again and it honks, and he hopes that she smiles. He doesn't wonder why she seems so serious. People from the Seam, that's how they are. They're serious.

But that's okay, too.

Though Katniss is no mind reader, if she had the ability for a moment or a day she would argue that that isn't necessarily true; she doesn't deserve his best really. What has she done to earn it? As far as Katniss can tell, it's Cinna who has done a great deal for her already and never the other way around. She would try, did the opportunity present itself, but so far it hasn't. Standing beside him, she doesn't think about it much as she places a hand on his arm.

"Anything that would take your mind off of it better?" She can't think of anything in particular, truth be known, but she feels useless doing nothing and saying nothing, and there are few feelings she hates more than that.

When she makes her way over to him it's quiet, understated, the way she might move while hunting though this is far from that. She thinks to ask him if it scares him--the extent of the 'deities' and their power, their capability of not only influencing but outright compelling a person to do something as harmless as sing songs, but eerily songs he has never heard before. If they can do such silly things, they can do terrible things as well, some of which they have already seen, but sometimes this place lacks the veracity of an arena in ways that leave Katniss hanging between one thought and the next, a grip on reality and just glancing at it.

"You're going to get hoarse." An observation, no particular worry evident, but it's a point and that's all she means to comment on at the moment.

It always comes back to power in the end; that's one lesson Finnick's come to learn all too well in his years of life as a Victor. Everything is about power--who has it, and who doesn't. Who eats and who starves. Who lives and who dies.

He's seen power at work, time and again, in a myriad of ways: in physical strength, in speed, in cunning. Power in wealth. Power in deception. And, in his own meager way, power in secrets. Power from knowing the evil of the human soul, and the fragility of the reputation that hides it. It always comes back to power, who holds it and who lacks it, in the end. And the powers that the so-called deities have shown here, power that eclipses even what President Snow himself can do...to say it scares him is an understatement. But the real terror lies in the fact that even now, he has no idea why. What do they stand to gain from this? Who benefits from it? What are they trying to prove, what motive do they have for doing it?

The Gamemakers do it to keep their audience entertained. Maybe that's why he's never quite been able to shake the feeling that there's still a spotlight on him, even now.

He hums a few more bars, then wrests control of his voice and offers her a smile. "I'm starting to already," he agrees, clearing his throat a little as if to emphasize the point. "I'll have to find some cough syrup once we get back."

"Do you have-" He tried to finish the sentence, but no words came out. Apparently, he wasn't even allowed to ask someone else to style him and save him from the horrid yellow socks that had been left for him.

Oh, this was a trying day.

With a sigh, Cinna searched the sky, "Apparently not. I'll just have to be patient."

"Tell me how your life in the City is going?"

That should be a nice distraction, he hadn't had a chance to catch up with Katniss properly in awhile, it would be nice. He'd been working so much, he felt like he'd hardly seen her.

"--any sense of style? Not unless someone hands it to me." But he does reach over and make an effort to finish doing up Cinna's shirt, so at least it's not hanging partially undone on top of everything else. "And they say that's a virtue, you know. Patience. Not one I was ever any good at, though."

"Dying fabric takes time, you can't rush it. And you can't rush fashion you have to-" design, sketch, try angle after angle until you find what works. Or at least that's what he was trying to say.

Sinking down to the ground, he buries his face in his hands a little before looking up. "Apparently I can't even talk about my work? I've heard of censorship, but this is ridiculous. I need something to do, Finnick."

After casting one last glance in Peeta's direction--just to double-check that he's still safe and content, because priorities are priorities--Finnick takes a seat next to Cinna, pulling one knee up to his chest and resting his arm comfortably atop it. He's back to humming a bit under his breath, as if the mention of Cinna's curse has fueled the compulsion driving his own.

"Well, they tell me I'm pretty good at making conversation when I try," he answers after a minute, not bothering to disguise the hint of irony that colors his tone. "How about your team back home? Can you talk about them?"

"They're a bit foolish, truth be told, they certainly aren't aware of my... political leanings?"

Deciding that he should at least try to relax on this forced vacation, he shrugged off his jacket, lying it on the ground behind him so he could lay on it. Staring at the sky, he thought back to his team back home.

"But they're talent can't be denied. You've seen Katniss, they're brilliant - the really bring my designs to life."

"That's a luxury in itself, isn't it? Being foolish." Certainly not one that the Districts can afford, when a single wrong step can mean death. Foolishness in the arena gets you killed. Foolishness outside of it puts others on the line, too. "You're right, though. Between your designs and their work, I'd almost argue that brilliant is an understatement."

"I miss them, to be honest. They would chatter away about this and that and the other thing, but it made for a... light atmosphere."

He gestured at the people in the park, "It was background noise, but they were happy and that kind of enthusiasm can be infectious."

"Have you considered taking on someone around here? Not that anyone could replace your old team, but there's got to be someone bubbly around here that can prep your models and chatter on endlessly while they do it." He pauses, then opts for a touch of humor: "I'll even teach them the accent, if it'd add that extra touch of home to the experience."

"I think we can dispense with the accents, please. There are plenty enough to go around."

Thinking for a moment, he added, "But there was a girl that I was considering offering an apprenticeship to. Perhaps I should ask around."

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