Put an ocean and a river between everything, yourself and home [4/4 - part 1]
Title: Put an ocean and a river between everything, yourself and home [4/4 - part 1]
Fandom: The Hunger Games
Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games nor am I earning any financial gains from this work, I am simply taking them out to play.
Pairing/Characters: Cinna; Finnick Odair, Haymitch Abernathy, Cecelia, OCs
Word Count: 13,000+
Rating: R
Summary: It is very uncommon, some would say utterly unattainable, for anyone to live in a district different from that which they were born... But not impossible. The life of Cinna Bell before the 74th Hunger Games.
Chapter 4, Danger.
Warnings: Violence and death
Author notes: I took a slight liberty in that Cinna says to Katniss its his first time at the games. I have bended this to mean it is his first time as a main stylist at the games, not his first year involved. Also, have no fear, this story is almost completely written and all plotted out so it is not something which will be left unfinished! (Title from "England," The National) EDIT: I decided to cast my story!
CHAPTER 1 - District 8
CHAPTER 2 - The Capitol
CHAPTER 3 - The 71st Hunger Games
Cross posted at AO3
After the last tribute falls and Brandon of district seven is declared victor, all the people who worked on the games have a party. A few days will be spent returning the victor to top health and beauty so all the victors, mentors, stylists, sponsors, and Gamemakers spend the time indulging and watching the raw replays before the finished production at the after interview.
“Happy hunger games,” Claudius Templesmith cries and pops the first bottle of champagne.
Everyone cheers and holds up their empty glasses. Septimus takes Cinna’s and goes to fill them up. After relinquishing his glass, Cinna decides to mingle instead of waiting. He doesn’t much feel like drinking with party time joy. He thinks about Mara, four days and a knife in her back. To be honest, Cinna didn’t believe she would really win but he certainly had hoped she could. Cinna is as least glad she was spared the violence of the Cornucopia. He hopes the things he said helped her to feel not so alone.
Cinna makes rounds through the room, lazy circles simply watching the crowd. The main sponsors of the games all sit at a long table shouting at each other either with pride or righteous reasoning.
“She had a poison dagger and two axes! You’d have bet on her too!”
A woman shrieks with laughter. “Oh, but I didn’t, did I? And you send bread? How boring!”
“We know who wields axes best any way, Flavius,” a man barks, “and it certainly isn’t district nine!”
“Well,” A blue haired woman slaps the table, “I gave my girl that medicine, you saw! District eleven I tell you! Final three!”
“All that matters is the victor!” A red faced woman throws her strawberry at the blue harried one. “And you lost!”
“Stella, you always pick the winners,” a man gripes. “Give one of us a tip sometime.”
Cinna keeps weaving through the guests so the sponsors’ squabble becomes more of a background rumble. A group of stylists cluster near a set of cameras replaying the interviews. Cinna knows they are critiquing each other’s work. He scans the crowd and finds Septimus talking to a couple of victors. Cinna wonders absently where Cecelia is.
Then Cinna walks past an alcove and sees a man slumped over in his chair, draped across the table in front of him. Two glasses lie dripping beside his head. Cinna steps closer to make sure the man still breathes then realizes it is victor Haymitch Abernathy of district twelve. Cinna slips into the alcove and crouches low.
“Haymitch?” He gently shakes Haymitch’s shoulder. “Haymitch.”
Haymitch jerks once and mumbles some nonsense syllables.
“Come on, Haymitch, bit early to pass out.” Cinna shakes him harder.
Haymitch suddenly spasms, jolts up, and grabs Cinna’s lapel, yanking him against the table. Cinna gasps in surprise, Haymitch’s face only inches from his own. Haymitch breathes heavily, breath reeking of a combination of too many alcohols. He blinks slowly then releases Cinna’s coat. He leans back in his chair and stares.
Haymitch cocks his head with a look of confusion. “Who are you?”
“Cinna.”
“Cinna,” Haymitch repeats, “Cinna, Cinna, Cinna.”
“Are you all right?” Cinna asks.
Haymitch laughs. “Oh? Am I all right? I’m alive!” He points over Cinna’s shoulder. “Better than them.”
Cinna turns and follows the line of Haymitch’s finger to the largest set of screens on the center wall. Cinna turns back but has no reply.
Haymitch sniffs loudly and pulls at his waistcoat. “I thought this year - no, no never.” Haymitch waves a hand in the air. “Smack! Bam! And another year done!”
Cinna touches Haymitch’s arm. “Haymitch, I could get you -”
“What? Get me a new set to dress up?” Haymitch knocks Cinna’s hand away then laughs again. “Naw, I had plenty of fun this year. Loads! Did you see the little one smashed at the…” he trails off as he sits up and grabs for the empty glasses on his table.
Cinna wishes for one moment he could really be one of the ridiculous, naive Capitol citizens who would only take Haymitch’s words as drunk, meaningless ravings. Instead Cinna sees the last victor of a district in over twenty years.
“I have no drink,” Haymitch says abruptly clear as if sober. He looks right at Cinna. “I have no drink.”
“Those would be on the floor now.”
Haymitch laughs once then tries to stand up, knocking a glass over when he falls back into his seat. Cinna jumps up and reaches out, ready to help.
“Got it,” Haymitch waves his hands emphatically. “I… I’ve got it.”
“Oh, great.” Cinna turns suddenly at the voice behind him.
A man, probably Haymitch’s age, with part of one arm missing, towers over Cinna. He holds a bottle in his only hand and Cinna recognizes him as a victor but the name escapes him.
“Beating me to the punch, Haymitch?” He says.
“Catch up, Chaff,” Haymitch replies, “and give me that bottle.”
“Why should I give you the bottle if you want me to catch up?”
Haymitch grins. “I’ll arm wrestle you for it.”
Chaff snorts and finally looks at Cinna. “Didn’t throw up on you, did he?”
“Not yet.”
“Then you’ve been spared so far.” He claps Cinna’s shoulder and moves around him to sit beside Haymitch.
Cinna smiles unsurely. “I was just checking he was alive.”
“Unfortunately!” Haymitch cries as he grabs the bottle from Chaff.
Chaff steals it right back and takes a swig. “Oh, you’ll never die, Haymitch. Who would I drink with if you did?”
“Enobaria?”
They both burst into laughter, slapping each other on the leg and on the chest. Cinna smiles sadly and shakes his head. Chaff suddenly focuses on Cinna.
“Wait, who are you?”
“Cinder!” Haymitch fills in.
“Try again,” Cinna says, smiling.”
“Simba?”
Chaff and Haymitch fall into a new fit of drunken laughter. Cinna doesn’t even feel insulted.
Instead he smiles and walks backward. “Enjoy the party.”
Cinna turns out of the alcove leaving the pair to their bottle and their sorrows.
“Cinna!” Cinna hears Haymitch shout after him. “Got it! Cinna, Cinna, Cinna! Third time’s the charm.”
Cinna makes a note in his head to check on them later.
Walking through the crowd, many now dancing with less inhibition, Cinna picks up a glass of wine and searches for Septimus. He passes by the new victor’s team, all of them talking animatedly and already pointing at papers all over their table. Obviously, they wish to start planning the coming victor interview or maybe even the victor tour of Panem right away.
“Cinna,” Septimus appears beside Cinna and loops his arm around Cinna’s, “You’ve left me to the dogs.”
“You love it.”
“Of course, but occasionally I need a talking point to steer conversation and I wanted to use you.”
“I have to be present for that?”
“I told you I would pay you back, Cinna.” Septimus let’s go of Cinna’s arm. “That means talking all about you.”
“And showing me off?”
“Exactly!”
“Like a tribute.”
Septimus stops walking and gazes at Cinna. “Ah, I see the games have sent your mood down again.”
Cinna crosses his arms. “I’m fine.” Septimus gives him a skeptical look. “I just don’t think now’s the time.”
“Of course now is the time.” Septimus sweeps his hand indicating the crowd.
“Well,” Cinna taps a button on Septimus’ vest, “You talk all about me then and I’ll be mysterious!”
“Hmm.” Septimus takes Cinna’s wine from his hand. “I suppose I can work with that.”
“I have faith in you.”
The two part and Cinna searches for a quiet corner. He’s not exactly depressed but he sees no reason to celebrate, Mara dead along with the others. He understands it all now, the Capitol fervor with the games, he just does not share the zeal. At the moment Cinna glides through the chaos so everything washes over him, just sound and color - don’t listen to the words.
“Cinna.” Someone touches his arm.
Cinna turns. “Finnick.”
Finnick smiles, perfect gold brown hair, teeth perfect, perfect eyes like clear water and wearing a tight navy blue suit, sea green shirt open at the neck. He looks just as attractive as usual.
“Follow me.” Finnick grins mischievously.
Cinna blinks rapidly but follows despite all the ways he imagines this could end badly especially as Cinna isn’t a hundred percent sure what Finnick intends. Finnick weaves through people smiling and blowing the occasional kiss. Everyone watches him pass, a few spotting Cinna following. Cinna wonders how elaborate a story the gossips will create. They round a corner into an abruptly empty hall. Finnick walks a bit further in and stops, back against the wall. Cinna stands in front of him.
“So?”
“I know who you are,” Finnick replies, face suddenly different. All the easy flirtation disappeared and Finnick looks like a normal person.
“Cinna Bell?” Cinna fills in.
“Of district eight,” Finnick finishes.
Cinna tenses, frozen for a moment only staring back at Finnick. Then he slowly slides his hands into his pockets. Oddly Cinna feels relief instead of fear. Maybe he’ll be sent back to district eight, maybe he’ll be publicly embarrassed, ostracized, maybe they’ll turn him into an Avox. (Though somehow he feels exposure is probably not Finnick’s plan). He watches Finnick and waits, why run?
“It was my first year as a mentor,” Finnick explains, “And there was a small tribute from district eight, Cora Bell, who wore a dress made by her brother to her interview; her brother, Cinna Bell.”
“I’m surprised you remember her.” Cinna glances at the floor. “She didn’t last long.”
“That first year after tends to stick.” Cinna looks back up at Finnick. “And I remember her smile. She kept it on like armor.”
“And you remembered my name.”
“Well, I…” Finnick falters for a moment. He clears his throat and stands up straight. He reaches inside his coat and pulls out a small book. “I keep track.”
Cinna reaches for it then stops, glancing up for permission. Finnick hands the book to him. Cinna opens to the first page.
66th Hunger Games
1. Crystal Reever - brown hair, beautiful laugh. Liked how the night sky at the Capitol seemed brighter.
1. Vincent Ward - dark brown eyes, very catching. Confident but had an odd mercy.
Cinna jerks his head up. “What is this?”
“After I won and the tour and then things started to…” Finnick pauses and pulls at one of his cuffs, “to change. I decided to keep track of every tribute starting with the game after mine.”
Cinna shakes his head. “But why? They were all your own tribute’s competition.”
“Because no one deserves to be turned into a number then forgotten.”
Cinna stares at Finnick then looks back at the notebook.
8. Samuel Lawson - shy with freckles, never looked at the camera.
8. Cora Bell - always smiled, a brother Cinna who can design, didn’t give up at heart.
“And sometimes,” Finnick continues, “because I envy the ones that died.”
Cinna closes the book and hands it back. “Who are you Finnick Odair?”
“Who are you, Cinna Bell?” Finnick counters. “And why are you here? Your sister was a tribute, not you. Yet here you are.”
“I’m a designer; I work for Septimus Moran, as I told you.”
Finnick raises his eyebrows. “And that’s the whole story?”
“What more would you like?”
“Well, you didn’t magically appear.”
Cinna folds his hands together. “After the 66th Hunger Games, Septimus came to my house and brought me here because of my talent for design.”
Finnick stares. “You say it so calmly.”
“Do you want me to be angry?”
“Maybe.”
“Are you?”
Something flashes across Finnick’s face for a moment. His teeth clench and one hand balls into a fist briefly before relaxing.
He shakes his head. “Not for myself.”
“So then why are you telling me all this? Why are you asking?”
Finnick sighs. “I suppose I thought you should know that someone else knows. And,” he steps into Cinna’s personal space, “Why do you stay?”
“Well, my designs that I make here -”
“That can’t be all it,” Finnick interrupts.
Cinna swallows. “I’m not sure I can leave if I’d want to.”
Finnick frowns. “Why? You’re not a victor told where to go.”
“This is the Capitol.”
Finnick only stares at him.
“Septimus had a letter from the President’s council.”
Finnick looks unconvinced. “I see.”
Cinna steps back so more space lies between them. “See what?”
“Nothing, it’s just unusual.”
“Yes, but?”
Finnick turns back toward the party. “I just think maybe you should find out how much of what Septimus told you is true. You should have a chance to go home.”
“And why do you care?” Cinna snaps suddenly. “Is this redemption for the arena?”
Finnick glances back at Cinna. “Yes.” He smiles, flirtatious again. “And to give the gossips something to talk about.”
Finnick turns and walks back toward the noise and celebration.
“Finnick,” Cinna calls and Finnick stops. “Thank you for remembering my sister.”
“You’re welcome.”
When Septimus and Cinna return to the apartment, Cinna pours Septimus a drink then sits down in the chair directly opposite him.
“Oh dear,” Septimus says, “you have that serious conversation face on.”
“I do.”
Septimus takes a sip of his drink. “Well, by all means, proceed.”
“It’s about when we first met, about district eight.”
Septimus only stares back, waiting.
“When you first came for me after the hunger games with Cora you had an envelope, a ‘special dispensation’ or something from Snow’s council.”
Septimus rolls his glass between his hands. “Yes.”
“But that wasn’t real, was it?”
“No.”
“You came to get me, all on your own, just to benefit you.”
“Yes.”
“Did you bribe the Peacekeepers?”
Septimus snorts softly. “You think that’s a hard thing?”
“So… you kidnapped me?”
Septimus sighs. “Cinna…”
“I’m not angry, not anymore.” Cinna leans forward, forearms on his thighs. “I just want to know.”
“I suppose you’re right but if it wasn’t me it would have been someone else.” Septimus looks up at Cinna. “I just got there first.”
They sit for a minute only staring at each other.
“The silly back story about a mountain family?” Cinna asks, breaking the stand off.
Septimus smiles. “People will believe a lot of ridiculous things here but if you’d been found out as a district citizen.” Septimus pauses and glances to the side before looking back. “Well, that would have been rather bad for both of us.”
“It still could.”
“Not now, it’s been too long. Plus,” Septimus takes a drink, “I’ve altered your records, including the video from your sister’s interview.”
Cinna raises his eyebrows. “Cost a lot?”
“Not as much as you’d think.”
Cinna sits back again and shrugs. “Didn’t you ever worry that some one would recognize me or my name at least after Cora?”
Septimus laughs once. “That was never a problem, Cinna. The people here in the Capitol, as you should know by now, only remember the victors of the Hunger Games. The rest is just a blur of parties and carnage, never names.” Septimus clears his throat and speaks softly, “Especially those who die so quickly.”
Cinna wishes he didn’t understand but he does, completely.
“Septimus,” Cinna says after a pause, “I’m going to district eight.”
Septimus, for once, looks completely surprised. “What?”
“Are you going to stop me?”
“I…” Septimus’ hands clench on his glass. “No. No, I’m not going to stop you. I just don’t see why you -“
“Yes, you do.”
Septimus makes a noise close to a growl. “…of course.”
“My family.”
“Yes, your family.”
“Septimus,” Cinna stands up, voice calm. “I’m not yours; I never was.”
“Did I say that?” Septimus almost snaps.
“And you are not my father,” Cinna continues firmly.
Septimus’ mouth falls open slightly then clamps shut.
“My mother and father who haven’t seen their son in five years deserve to now.” Cinna pauses again and Septimus stares at the carpet. “So, I’m getting on a train and going.”
Septimus sits up straight, puts his glass down on the table beside him and looks at Cinna. “When?”
“Tomorrow. Do I have anything to worry about?”
“As a Capitol citizen you can travel to the districts, though it is not common. You should think of a good excuse.” Septimus drums his fingers. “Research perhaps, for future games?”
Cinna nods. “Thank you.”
He turns and walks toward the stairs, packing to do not to mention he needs to think of what he’s going to say to his parents.
“Are you…” Cinna stops and looks back at Septimus. “Are you coming back?”
Cinna breathes in once then begins to climb the stairs. “I don’t know.”
In the morning Septimus waits for Cinna at the bottom of the stairs. He smiles and holds out a small card.
“Your Capitol ID.”
“You have IDs?”
Septimus shrugs and smiles a little. “They’re issued for people who need to travel outside the Capitol. Wouldn’t want to be mistaken for a district citizen, would they?”
Cinna chuckles. “I see.”
They stare at each other for a moment then Cinna puts the ID in his pocket and adjusts the strap of his bag.
“Well, I’ll be off.”
“Be prepared,” Septimus says abruptly, face with a hint of worry behind his smile. “Be prepared for things to be different.”
Cinna only nods in reply and heads out the door.
The train ride to district eight feels longer this time around. Perhaps the fear of the unknown quickened the journey when he was younger or perhaps he simply is older now and feels time as it really is? Whatever the reason, Cinna has plenty of time to mull over time past, ponder what to expect. He knows he can’t expect things to be the same. They’re all going to be five years older after all and so is he. He wonders if the house still looks the same or if they all have the same jobs. He considers, should he blame Septimus for the time? Should he blame himself, blame his ignorance? Everything could be blamed on the Capitol some way or another. Or perhaps he simply shouldn’t bother with excuses, just wait and see what he finds.
Above all joy fills his heart at the prospect of seeing his family again.
When the train pulls into the station less than half a dozen people get out. Cinna recognizes two of them from years ago as factory foremen who travel to the south for raw product while another he knows used to take the train every two weeks with finished supplies of fabric to the Capitol. Cinna hadn’t sent any sort of word that he was coming, though who knows if it would have made it to his family. Messages between districts have never really happened for common folk and he had never entertained the possibility of writing to his family before. Now that he thinks about it Cinna feels so idiotic that he never tried, assuming too much.
Cinna walks the streets from the station down toward the factory housing district, houses all the same as he remembered, colors all the same. Oddly, the air does not feel as cold as his memories. People glance at him as he passes by, some with surprise or perhaps faint recognition. Cinna’s nerves tense further with each street until he stands in front of a familiar door.
“Okay…” Cinna knocks.
He hears a clatter and someone say, ‘the door,’ and then footsteps. Cinna’s heart jumps to a new speed and he clenches a fist around his bag. Then the door opens and Clasta stands between him and every memory of sixteen years of life.
“Ye -”
She stops before even finishing the word, smile froze on her face. Her hand clenches on the door frame like a vice and she only blinks.
For some reason Cinna can’t smile. “Hi.”
“Cinna.” Her voice sounds different, older.
“Clasta, who is…?” A man steps into view behind her. It takes Cinna a moment then - Bale Westerby, did leather work.
“Hi,” Cinna repeats, “I’m…” suddenly Cinna wishes he actually had rehearsed some sort of speech or thought up something to say instead of just believing it would come to him in the moment. “Can I come in?”
Clasta’s face relaxes slightly and she steps back. “Yes, of course, yes.”
She steps back, Bale following, and Cinna walks into the house. The first thing he notices is the paint. The main room they used to use for any activity which wasn’t bedroom related or cooking is no longer splotchy green and brown as it used to be but white, repainted. Cinna feels a chip flake off the illusion of the past.
“Are we having dinner?” Cinna’s father walks out of the kitchen. “Don’t tell me it was Merrily from next door again?”
He looks at Clasta, eyes coasting right over Cinna at first, then he suddenly snaps back and his mouth falls open. “Cinna!”
“Hi.” Cinna smiles and has a small heart attack. “Hi, dad.”
He strides over to Cinna and stops in from of him. He reaches out a hand then stops in mid air as if he doesn’t believe his hand won’t fall right through Cinna if he touches him. Then he rests his hand on Cinna’s shoulder. He laughs once.
“You’re… you’re here.” He frowns with confusion then smiles again. “You’re here.”
Cinna nods. “Yes, I am. I’m sorry it’s been so long.”
Clasta makes a choked sort of noise from behind him and Cinna hears Bale make soft shushing sounds. Clasta sniffs loudly. Then Cinna drops his bag, reaches out and pulls his father to him, trapping the man in a tight hug.
“Oh my god,” his father gasps. “It’s really you.”
Suddenly, Clasta’s feet stomp over the floor and she hugs Cinna’s back, locking him into a sandwich of warmth and a million lost memories. Cinna clings onto his father and just breathes. The two of them smell just the same. After about a minute Cinna drops his arms and all three let go. Cinna peers around his father into the kitchen.
“So,” Cinna swallows, “where are mom and Cherra?”
Cinna’s father glances over Cinna’s shoulder. Cinna already knows the answer.
“Let’s lay another place and sit down for dinner, all right?” Clasta says from behind him.
“How?” Cinna asks.
Cinna’s father looks back at him, his mouth a thin line. He sighs. “Factory accident, a year ago.”
‘Isn’t it always?’ Cinna thinks.
“One of the furnaces that heats the vats to melt the dyes blew, took out half the building and… well, a lot of people.”
Cinna frowns. “And… both of them were…”
“A lot changed after you were gone, Cinna,” Clasta says, “and it’s been a long time.”
The four of them sit down at the table in the kitchen, stew with biscuits on the side and iced tea. Cinna learns, as expected, Clasta and Bale married two years ago. They live a few streets away and have no children. They tell him about the things he has missed - Cherra had received a promotion, gotten a raise before the accident. She’d been so happy about becoming a foreman. She’d been the first on call with the malfunction of the furnace that day. Their mother had taken a second batch of hours in the dye factory in addition to the cotton factory after they lost Cinna’s income. Cinna’s father transferred over to leather to work with Bale, change of pace and keep family close. Bale and Clasta married in the fall, her wedding dress was pink and the traditional cloth they tied around their hands at the ceremony was a ripping from the skirt Cinna had made her.
Cinna cannot force himself to tell them about the Capitol because suddenly he feels how very, very wrong this entire situation is. His life then compared to his life now and how life here has moved ahead without him.
After dinner Bale makes coffee while the three remaining Bells sit together.
“So, what… I mean…” Clasta stares at her hands on top of the table, twisting the ring around her finger. “It’s been five years and we didn’t… I thought you…” She looks up. “I thought we would never see you again.”
“How did Cherra take it?” Cinna asks, remembering Clasta’s last plea to Septimus to let them get Cherra to say goodbye.
Cinna’s father laughs once and shakes his head. “Worse. She didn’t say anything at all. She went upstairs and it wasn’t until three days later that she suddenly started crying.”
Cinna looks away. They sit silently for a moment then Clasta sits up straight.
“We saw Septimus on the Hunger Games.” Cinna turns to Clasta. “District five?”
“Yes.”
“He looked pleased.”
“He was.”
Clasta tilts her head. “So, is that it? You’re still… what? Working for him?”
Cinna nods. “For these past five years, yes; I’ve been designing for his shop. The Boutique.”
“The Boutique?” Clasta repeats.
“Designing?” His father leans forward over the table. “Actually designing all those things you used to try to scrape together here?”
Cinna nods. “Yes, exactly. In fact all those outfits I doodled away in my notebook? We made them, all of them and more beyond that.” Cinna smiles suddenly feeling some pride because he has done something. “And people in the Capitol have liked what I’ve done, The Boutique has become more popular and Septimus said right from the start I have a natural talent. I think I’ve even changed it a bit, brought an amount of sense to Capitol style in clothing at least. It really makes…”
Suddenly Cinna trails off because he sees his father and Clasta staring at him with confusion and surprise. Cinna clears his throat and the mugs behind them clatter.
“I’ll… um, be right back,” Bale mumbles and leaves the room.
“So, well,” Cinna clears his throat, “Septimus has been doing what he said when he came here.” Cinna has no idea where these words are coming from. “Nurturing my talent.” Everything sounds so flat, so ridiculous sitting here in his family’s kitchen.
“I see,” his father says.
Clasta sighs and nods. “Yes, I see.”
Cinna sees too because it is not pride he feels now toward him, it is disappointment.
“And now,” Clasta says, “the Hunger Games?”
“Yes, well… that is… I try to help.”
“How exactly?” Clasta’s voice changes, harder and less like his sister.
“Clasta, I can’t very well -”
“Say no?” she interrupts. “Because that man certainly hasn’t been keeping you locked up from the look of it.”
Cinna suddenly realizes how fine his clothes are - his shinny shoes, his tailored coat, and the gold eye liner on his eyes. Why didn’t he take that off? What was he thinking?
“It wouldn’t help anything,” Cinna retorts.
“I wouldn’t help to say, ‘No, I won’t work on this horrible thing; I won’t add to the misery by being a part of it?’”
“Clasta!”
“No,” she snaps, “no, those games took your sister! Your little sister died in those games and now you -”
“I was there with that girl!” Cinna shouts back. “I held Mara’s hand and let her cry because she had no hope! I tried to give her some before she was throw to the dogs and you know that no one else there would have felt anything to give her that! But I did!”
Cinna grips the edge of the table and breathes through his nose to calm his hammering heart. Clasta only stares back at him, her mouth shut tight.
“All right,” their father says, “we knew you would be different, Cinna, if you ever came back. We knew things would change.”
“We never thought you’d come back,” Clasta whispers.
Cinna wants to say ‘I’m no different’ but he knows with certainty that is a lie.
“Why didn’t you come back sooner?” Clasta asks.
Cinna glances down at the table. “I didn’t know I could until now.”
He doesn’t want to admit that just maybe he began to like the comfort of the Capitol despite the pretention and opulence. He hates himself for changing because he knows now that he cannot change back. There is no place for him anymore in district eight.
Cinna stays to have coffee. Bale returns and tells Cinna about the last spring festival, the streamers in town and how Clasta won one of the gift basket raffles. They tell him about families he knew, babies born. His father repainted the other room after mother died. Clasta’s house is painted pale red inside, two floors and they splurged after the wedding to buy two down pillows. Clasta’s students work harder every year; she’s been trying to throw in things like algebra for the smarter ones. The Peacekeepers have changed some, a few new ones who are less inclined to friendly conversation though there haven’t been many punishments in the square. Wages were cut in the some of the factories and demand seems to have grown, a lot of factory shifts and job changes. It’s odd but everyone seems to make due. They tell him about last winter and the sudden snowman contest which lasted for a week. Clasta and Bale built a pair outside their house with matching blue hats.
“It never stops being cold, does it?” Cinna says.
“Colder than it used to be,” Clasta says with a sadness that means more than just temperature.
“I suppose I should go,” Cinna says noticing the darkness outside. “I know you all have work and I certainly can’t ask you to stay up talking all night with long shifts ahead.”
His father sighs. “Back to the Capitol?”
Cinna looks around at the three of them. They all look normal; cotton clothing, sturdy shoes for working, Clasta’s hair tied up with just a simple band, slight scruff on Bale’s face. Then Cinna wears glossy leather on his feet with linen and silk above with that light touch of gold.
Cinna only smiles and they all know it together, too much has changed.
Cinna hugs Clasta and his father, a nod to Bale. “Belated Congratulations,” Cinna says with a smile.
“Find a way to keep in touch,” Cinna’s father says abruptly when Cinna’s hand touches the door knob.
Cinna nods. “Yes.”
“Goodbye,” Clasta says.
Cinna opens the door then stops and glances back. “I want you to know.” He stands just a bit taller. “I am going to change things somehow. I am.”
Then Cinna closes the door and walks back over the streets blindly until he hits the train station and - after a bribe to the conductor - hops on the night train with finished factory fabrics back to the Capitol. He can’t decide if it feels like running away or going home.
When Cinna opens the door to Septimus’ apartment, Septimus sits on one of the couches of the main lounge. The TV is off - no one else is there - as if all Septimus is doing is waiting which, Cinna knows, is exactly the case.
“So?” Septimus asks quietly.
“It was different,” Cinna answers.
Septimus nods. “I see.” He looks away at the bright green walls. “And you blame me for that?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Septimus turns back. “What do you know then?”
Cinna stares at Septimus. “That I don’t have a home there anymore.”
“Your home is here.”
“I’m not sure I’m happy about that.”
Septimus breathes in slowly and Cinna sees his fingers digging into the upholstery. “But you are happy here.”
“Maybe.” Cinna drops his bag to the floor and leans against the spiral stair case, arms crossed. “Maybe I also wanted to go home someday but it’s too late now.”
“You had to have known that -”
“Known how much I’ve changed? How much I’ve missed?” Cinna sighs with frustration. “Known how they’ve moved on without me and I’ve become…”
“Yes,” Septimus insists. “You had to have known all that before you left.”
“Well, maybe I didn’t, Septimus!” Cinna shouts finally. “Maybe I didn’t!”
He whips around the stairs, storms all the way up then slams the door of his own room. Inside he leans heavily against the door, breath coming in great gulps. All this time the reality of the Capitol never actually hit home. For a long time Cinna thought he would never see home again but he did not believe it. Somehow being uprooted and thrown into a new environment with no in between made the entire thing unreal. Even when the Boutique and the Capitol and the hunger games all became his life it was just Cinna part two - completely separate and unrelated to life in district eight.
What had he thought, that he could hop the train to district eight and everything would revert back five years? How could he ever go back? He told himself on the train that things would be different but seeing them, feeling them, talking to his diminished family and the meeting of their changed lives actually cemented into reality. Now Cinna understands the loss. Perhaps it’s even worse than death or ‘never to be seen again.’ He has seen them again and they have seen him and the bridge between them has crumbled away. Cinna is Capitol now and they are still district eight. His own family is a different world.
Cinna’s knees shake and he slowly slides down against the door until he sits on the floor. He knocks his head back against the wood and stares at his red curtains. Curtains. Even his curtains are fine, made of heavy fabric. If Cinna could stand up he would tear them down.
For the next few weeks Cinna works in a fog. He thinks of nothing, simply letting his hands move with the needle over cloth or pencil across the page. He draws simple outfits - loose pants to the ankle, one color dresses with straight sleeves, coats with three buttons and plain collars. He does a lot of menial grunt work which could go through the automatic sewing machine or helps Misty and Lilac dress mannequins. If he keeps his hands busy then his mind won’t dwell on what he’s become.
He hardly speaks to Septimus and Septimus lets him.
“Do you think maybe Lilac and I could come to the Hunger Games this year?” Misty asks one day as the four of them close up shop for the night.
“Oh!” Lilac gasps. “That would be amazing.”
“I am afraid not, dears.”
The both whine at the same high pitch, giving Septimus matching expressions of disappointment. Septimus folds a jacket in half and offers only a stern look in return.
“Cinna gets to go!” Misty whines again as though she is only ten years old.
“Cinna has a skill which is of use to the Games.”
Cinna freezes where he stands locking the door of the shop.
“Ugh! That is definitely not fair,” Misty groans, “there are prep teams aren’t there?”
“Not for clothing, that’s Septimus,” Lilac corrects.
“Exactly, Septimus, not Cinna. See?”
The girls argue on as Cinna stands still, staring out at the street. Snow covers the pavement right now along with patches of ice from the melted snow of yesterday. He thinks about throwing a snowball right at Cora’s head, perfect shot and the best scream of anger back. He thinks about wearing two pairs of socks to school because the heater in his history class never worked. He thinks about the half of his closet upstairs with fur lining and how easily he can pick up a heated street car if he needs to go out somewhere more than five minutes away.
“Cinna…” Septimus says.
Cinna turns around and walks toward the back stairs to the apartment, handing off the keys to Septimus.
“They have a bit of a point, Septimus,” Cinna comments as he passes.
“Cinna, wait…”
Cinna waves a hand back at them and imagines the expression on Clava’s face, how quickly her emotion turned to rage, how he defended himself.
“Cinna, please!” But Cinna ignores Septimus’ plea and climbs the steps.
Cinna thinks back about how he could have done things differently:
[“You go to the games alone, Septimus; I want to go back to district eight.”]
[“I’m 18 now, Septimus; that makes me an adult and the reaping are past this year. I can’t be ordered around like a tribute. It’s time for me to go home.”]
[When the train hits the station in the Capitol, Cinna runs, weaving through the crowds deeper into the city so Septimus loses sight of him. Cinna hides down alleyways, keeps quiet until night falls and then he creeps back to the train station. The next morning he checks the manifest, hides in the cargo car and rides back to district eight.]
[“I don’t care what that paper says; I am not going to the Capitol.”]
Cinna wonders if his family would even want to see him again now. Do they even see him anymore or do they only remember the sixteen year old boy who left? If he came back would it just be awkward silences filled with surface level comments - how was the winter this year? Is it just as cold in the Capitol? How was the spring festival this year? Did you do anything special for your birthday? Ridiculous questions with banal answers and never talking about how the puzzle pieces no longer connect. Is it easier for them to not see him, to forget?
Cinna and Septimus sit in the first floor lounge, Septimus staring at a book but obviously not reading it and Cinna staring at nothing, food half eaten on a plate beside him.
Then Septimus sighs and puts his book down. “Cinna, if you can’t have both and you can’t have eight then what are you left with?”
Cinna shifts his focus to his plate, pasta with too much sauce and not enough basil. No wonder he only ate half.
“You are left with the Capitol and despite your wallowing in despair you don’t live the idle privileged life most people here do.” Cinna looks up and frowns. “No, you’re not hungry or cold, but you also held on to Mara’s hand and I know you’ll do it again.”
Cinna looks at the floor. “How is that really helpful?”
“I’m sure it was very helpful to her.”
As is often the case, Septimus is right. Brooding does no good and the past cannot be changed. If Cinna cannot go back then he must move forward.
CHAPTER 4 - PART 2
Fandom: The Hunger Games
Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games nor am I earning any financial gains from this work, I am simply taking them out to play.
Pairing/Characters: Cinna; Finnick Odair, Haymitch Abernathy, Cecelia, OCs
Word Count: 13,000+
Rating: R
Summary: It is very uncommon, some would say utterly unattainable, for anyone to live in a district different from that which they were born... But not impossible. The life of Cinna Bell before the 74th Hunger Games.
Chapter 4, Danger.
Warnings: Violence and death
Author notes: I took a slight liberty in that Cinna says to Katniss its his first time at the games. I have bended this to mean it is his first time as a main stylist at the games, not his first year involved. Also, have no fear, this story is almost completely written and all plotted out so it is not something which will be left unfinished! (Title from "England," The National) EDIT: I decided to cast my story!
CHAPTER 1 - District 8
CHAPTER 2 - The Capitol
CHAPTER 3 - The 71st Hunger Games
Cross posted at AO3
After the last tribute falls and Brandon of district seven is declared victor, all the people who worked on the games have a party. A few days will be spent returning the victor to top health and beauty so all the victors, mentors, stylists, sponsors, and Gamemakers spend the time indulging and watching the raw replays before the finished production at the after interview.
“Happy hunger games,” Claudius Templesmith cries and pops the first bottle of champagne.
Everyone cheers and holds up their empty glasses. Septimus takes Cinna’s and goes to fill them up. After relinquishing his glass, Cinna decides to mingle instead of waiting. He doesn’t much feel like drinking with party time joy. He thinks about Mara, four days and a knife in her back. To be honest, Cinna didn’t believe she would really win but he certainly had hoped she could. Cinna is as least glad she was spared the violence of the Cornucopia. He hopes the things he said helped her to feel not so alone.
Cinna makes rounds through the room, lazy circles simply watching the crowd. The main sponsors of the games all sit at a long table shouting at each other either with pride or righteous reasoning.
“She had a poison dagger and two axes! You’d have bet on her too!”
A woman shrieks with laughter. “Oh, but I didn’t, did I? And you send bread? How boring!”
“We know who wields axes best any way, Flavius,” a man barks, “and it certainly isn’t district nine!”
“Well,” A blue haired woman slaps the table, “I gave my girl that medicine, you saw! District eleven I tell you! Final three!”
“All that matters is the victor!” A red faced woman throws her strawberry at the blue harried one. “And you lost!”
“Stella, you always pick the winners,” a man gripes. “Give one of us a tip sometime.”
Cinna keeps weaving through the guests so the sponsors’ squabble becomes more of a background rumble. A group of stylists cluster near a set of cameras replaying the interviews. Cinna knows they are critiquing each other’s work. He scans the crowd and finds Septimus talking to a couple of victors. Cinna wonders absently where Cecelia is.
Then Cinna walks past an alcove and sees a man slumped over in his chair, draped across the table in front of him. Two glasses lie dripping beside his head. Cinna steps closer to make sure the man still breathes then realizes it is victor Haymitch Abernathy of district twelve. Cinna slips into the alcove and crouches low.
“Haymitch?” He gently shakes Haymitch’s shoulder. “Haymitch.”
Haymitch jerks once and mumbles some nonsense syllables.
“Come on, Haymitch, bit early to pass out.” Cinna shakes him harder.
Haymitch suddenly spasms, jolts up, and grabs Cinna’s lapel, yanking him against the table. Cinna gasps in surprise, Haymitch’s face only inches from his own. Haymitch breathes heavily, breath reeking of a combination of too many alcohols. He blinks slowly then releases Cinna’s coat. He leans back in his chair and stares.
Haymitch cocks his head with a look of confusion. “Who are you?”
“Cinna.”
“Cinna,” Haymitch repeats, “Cinna, Cinna, Cinna.”
“Are you all right?” Cinna asks.
Haymitch laughs. “Oh? Am I all right? I’m alive!” He points over Cinna’s shoulder. “Better than them.”
Cinna turns and follows the line of Haymitch’s finger to the largest set of screens on the center wall. Cinna turns back but has no reply.
Haymitch sniffs loudly and pulls at his waistcoat. “I thought this year - no, no never.” Haymitch waves a hand in the air. “Smack! Bam! And another year done!”
Cinna touches Haymitch’s arm. “Haymitch, I could get you -”
“What? Get me a new set to dress up?” Haymitch knocks Cinna’s hand away then laughs again. “Naw, I had plenty of fun this year. Loads! Did you see the little one smashed at the…” he trails off as he sits up and grabs for the empty glasses on his table.
Cinna wishes for one moment he could really be one of the ridiculous, naive Capitol citizens who would only take Haymitch’s words as drunk, meaningless ravings. Instead Cinna sees the last victor of a district in over twenty years.
“I have no drink,” Haymitch says abruptly clear as if sober. He looks right at Cinna. “I have no drink.”
“Those would be on the floor now.”
Haymitch laughs once then tries to stand up, knocking a glass over when he falls back into his seat. Cinna jumps up and reaches out, ready to help.
“Got it,” Haymitch waves his hands emphatically. “I… I’ve got it.”
“Oh, great.” Cinna turns suddenly at the voice behind him.
A man, probably Haymitch’s age, with part of one arm missing, towers over Cinna. He holds a bottle in his only hand and Cinna recognizes him as a victor but the name escapes him.
“Beating me to the punch, Haymitch?” He says.
“Catch up, Chaff,” Haymitch replies, “and give me that bottle.”
“Why should I give you the bottle if you want me to catch up?”
Haymitch grins. “I’ll arm wrestle you for it.”
Chaff snorts and finally looks at Cinna. “Didn’t throw up on you, did he?”
“Not yet.”
“Then you’ve been spared so far.” He claps Cinna’s shoulder and moves around him to sit beside Haymitch.
Cinna smiles unsurely. “I was just checking he was alive.”
“Unfortunately!” Haymitch cries as he grabs the bottle from Chaff.
Chaff steals it right back and takes a swig. “Oh, you’ll never die, Haymitch. Who would I drink with if you did?”
“Enobaria?”
They both burst into laughter, slapping each other on the leg and on the chest. Cinna smiles sadly and shakes his head. Chaff suddenly focuses on Cinna.
“Wait, who are you?”
“Cinder!” Haymitch fills in.
“Try again,” Cinna says, smiling.”
“Simba?”
Chaff and Haymitch fall into a new fit of drunken laughter. Cinna doesn’t even feel insulted.
Instead he smiles and walks backward. “Enjoy the party.”
Cinna turns out of the alcove leaving the pair to their bottle and their sorrows.
“Cinna!” Cinna hears Haymitch shout after him. “Got it! Cinna, Cinna, Cinna! Third time’s the charm.”
Cinna makes a note in his head to check on them later.
Walking through the crowd, many now dancing with less inhibition, Cinna picks up a glass of wine and searches for Septimus. He passes by the new victor’s team, all of them talking animatedly and already pointing at papers all over their table. Obviously, they wish to start planning the coming victor interview or maybe even the victor tour of Panem right away.
“Cinna,” Septimus appears beside Cinna and loops his arm around Cinna’s, “You’ve left me to the dogs.”
“You love it.”
“Of course, but occasionally I need a talking point to steer conversation and I wanted to use you.”
“I have to be present for that?”
“I told you I would pay you back, Cinna.” Septimus let’s go of Cinna’s arm. “That means talking all about you.”
“And showing me off?”
“Exactly!”
“Like a tribute.”
Septimus stops walking and gazes at Cinna. “Ah, I see the games have sent your mood down again.”
Cinna crosses his arms. “I’m fine.” Septimus gives him a skeptical look. “I just don’t think now’s the time.”
“Of course now is the time.” Septimus sweeps his hand indicating the crowd.
“Well,” Cinna taps a button on Septimus’ vest, “You talk all about me then and I’ll be mysterious!”
“Hmm.” Septimus takes Cinna’s wine from his hand. “I suppose I can work with that.”
“I have faith in you.”
The two part and Cinna searches for a quiet corner. He’s not exactly depressed but he sees no reason to celebrate, Mara dead along with the others. He understands it all now, the Capitol fervor with the games, he just does not share the zeal. At the moment Cinna glides through the chaos so everything washes over him, just sound and color - don’t listen to the words.
“Cinna.” Someone touches his arm.
Cinna turns. “Finnick.”
Finnick smiles, perfect gold brown hair, teeth perfect, perfect eyes like clear water and wearing a tight navy blue suit, sea green shirt open at the neck. He looks just as attractive as usual.
“Follow me.” Finnick grins mischievously.
Cinna blinks rapidly but follows despite all the ways he imagines this could end badly especially as Cinna isn’t a hundred percent sure what Finnick intends. Finnick weaves through people smiling and blowing the occasional kiss. Everyone watches him pass, a few spotting Cinna following. Cinna wonders how elaborate a story the gossips will create. They round a corner into an abruptly empty hall. Finnick walks a bit further in and stops, back against the wall. Cinna stands in front of him.
“So?”
“I know who you are,” Finnick replies, face suddenly different. All the easy flirtation disappeared and Finnick looks like a normal person.
“Cinna Bell?” Cinna fills in.
“Of district eight,” Finnick finishes.
Cinna tenses, frozen for a moment only staring back at Finnick. Then he slowly slides his hands into his pockets. Oddly Cinna feels relief instead of fear. Maybe he’ll be sent back to district eight, maybe he’ll be publicly embarrassed, ostracized, maybe they’ll turn him into an Avox. (Though somehow he feels exposure is probably not Finnick’s plan). He watches Finnick and waits, why run?
“It was my first year as a mentor,” Finnick explains, “And there was a small tribute from district eight, Cora Bell, who wore a dress made by her brother to her interview; her brother, Cinna Bell.”
“I’m surprised you remember her.” Cinna glances at the floor. “She didn’t last long.”
“That first year after tends to stick.” Cinna looks back up at Finnick. “And I remember her smile. She kept it on like armor.”
“And you remembered my name.”
“Well, I…” Finnick falters for a moment. He clears his throat and stands up straight. He reaches inside his coat and pulls out a small book. “I keep track.”
Cinna reaches for it then stops, glancing up for permission. Finnick hands the book to him. Cinna opens to the first page.
66th Hunger Games
1. Crystal Reever - brown hair, beautiful laugh. Liked how the night sky at the Capitol seemed brighter.
1. Vincent Ward - dark brown eyes, very catching. Confident but had an odd mercy.
Cinna jerks his head up. “What is this?”
“After I won and the tour and then things started to…” Finnick pauses and pulls at one of his cuffs, “to change. I decided to keep track of every tribute starting with the game after mine.”
Cinna shakes his head. “But why? They were all your own tribute’s competition.”
“Because no one deserves to be turned into a number then forgotten.”
Cinna stares at Finnick then looks back at the notebook.
8. Samuel Lawson - shy with freckles, never looked at the camera.
8. Cora Bell - always smiled, a brother Cinna who can design, didn’t give up at heart.
“And sometimes,” Finnick continues, “because I envy the ones that died.”
Cinna closes the book and hands it back. “Who are you Finnick Odair?”
“Who are you, Cinna Bell?” Finnick counters. “And why are you here? Your sister was a tribute, not you. Yet here you are.”
“I’m a designer; I work for Septimus Moran, as I told you.”
Finnick raises his eyebrows. “And that’s the whole story?”
“What more would you like?”
“Well, you didn’t magically appear.”
Cinna folds his hands together. “After the 66th Hunger Games, Septimus came to my house and brought me here because of my talent for design.”
Finnick stares. “You say it so calmly.”
“Do you want me to be angry?”
“Maybe.”
“Are you?”
Something flashes across Finnick’s face for a moment. His teeth clench and one hand balls into a fist briefly before relaxing.
He shakes his head. “Not for myself.”
“So then why are you telling me all this? Why are you asking?”
Finnick sighs. “I suppose I thought you should know that someone else knows. And,” he steps into Cinna’s personal space, “Why do you stay?”
“Well, my designs that I make here -”
“That can’t be all it,” Finnick interrupts.
Cinna swallows. “I’m not sure I can leave if I’d want to.”
Finnick frowns. “Why? You’re not a victor told where to go.”
“This is the Capitol.”
Finnick only stares at him.
“Septimus had a letter from the President’s council.”
Finnick looks unconvinced. “I see.”
Cinna steps back so more space lies between them. “See what?”
“Nothing, it’s just unusual.”
“Yes, but?”
Finnick turns back toward the party. “I just think maybe you should find out how much of what Septimus told you is true. You should have a chance to go home.”
“And why do you care?” Cinna snaps suddenly. “Is this redemption for the arena?”
Finnick glances back at Cinna. “Yes.” He smiles, flirtatious again. “And to give the gossips something to talk about.”
Finnick turns and walks back toward the noise and celebration.
“Finnick,” Cinna calls and Finnick stops. “Thank you for remembering my sister.”
“You’re welcome.”
When Septimus and Cinna return to the apartment, Cinna pours Septimus a drink then sits down in the chair directly opposite him.
“Oh dear,” Septimus says, “you have that serious conversation face on.”
“I do.”
Septimus takes a sip of his drink. “Well, by all means, proceed.”
“It’s about when we first met, about district eight.”
Septimus only stares back, waiting.
“When you first came for me after the hunger games with Cora you had an envelope, a ‘special dispensation’ or something from Snow’s council.”
Septimus rolls his glass between his hands. “Yes.”
“But that wasn’t real, was it?”
“No.”
“You came to get me, all on your own, just to benefit you.”
“Yes.”
“Did you bribe the Peacekeepers?”
Septimus snorts softly. “You think that’s a hard thing?”
“So… you kidnapped me?”
Septimus sighs. “Cinna…”
“I’m not angry, not anymore.” Cinna leans forward, forearms on his thighs. “I just want to know.”
“I suppose you’re right but if it wasn’t me it would have been someone else.” Septimus looks up at Cinna. “I just got there first.”
They sit for a minute only staring at each other.
“The silly back story about a mountain family?” Cinna asks, breaking the stand off.
Septimus smiles. “People will believe a lot of ridiculous things here but if you’d been found out as a district citizen.” Septimus pauses and glances to the side before looking back. “Well, that would have been rather bad for both of us.”
“It still could.”
“Not now, it’s been too long. Plus,” Septimus takes a drink, “I’ve altered your records, including the video from your sister’s interview.”
Cinna raises his eyebrows. “Cost a lot?”
“Not as much as you’d think.”
Cinna sits back again and shrugs. “Didn’t you ever worry that some one would recognize me or my name at least after Cora?”
Septimus laughs once. “That was never a problem, Cinna. The people here in the Capitol, as you should know by now, only remember the victors of the Hunger Games. The rest is just a blur of parties and carnage, never names.” Septimus clears his throat and speaks softly, “Especially those who die so quickly.”
Cinna wishes he didn’t understand but he does, completely.
“Septimus,” Cinna says after a pause, “I’m going to district eight.”
Septimus, for once, looks completely surprised. “What?”
“Are you going to stop me?”
“I…” Septimus’ hands clench on his glass. “No. No, I’m not going to stop you. I just don’t see why you -“
“Yes, you do.”
Septimus makes a noise close to a growl. “…of course.”
“My family.”
“Yes, your family.”
“Septimus,” Cinna stands up, voice calm. “I’m not yours; I never was.”
“Did I say that?” Septimus almost snaps.
“And you are not my father,” Cinna continues firmly.
Septimus’ mouth falls open slightly then clamps shut.
“My mother and father who haven’t seen their son in five years deserve to now.” Cinna pauses again and Septimus stares at the carpet. “So, I’m getting on a train and going.”
Septimus sits up straight, puts his glass down on the table beside him and looks at Cinna. “When?”
“Tomorrow. Do I have anything to worry about?”
“As a Capitol citizen you can travel to the districts, though it is not common. You should think of a good excuse.” Septimus drums his fingers. “Research perhaps, for future games?”
Cinna nods. “Thank you.”
He turns and walks toward the stairs, packing to do not to mention he needs to think of what he’s going to say to his parents.
“Are you…” Cinna stops and looks back at Septimus. “Are you coming back?”
Cinna breathes in once then begins to climb the stairs. “I don’t know.”
In the morning Septimus waits for Cinna at the bottom of the stairs. He smiles and holds out a small card.
“Your Capitol ID.”
“You have IDs?”
Septimus shrugs and smiles a little. “They’re issued for people who need to travel outside the Capitol. Wouldn’t want to be mistaken for a district citizen, would they?”
Cinna chuckles. “I see.”
They stare at each other for a moment then Cinna puts the ID in his pocket and adjusts the strap of his bag.
“Well, I’ll be off.”
“Be prepared,” Septimus says abruptly, face with a hint of worry behind his smile. “Be prepared for things to be different.”
Cinna only nods in reply and heads out the door.
The train ride to district eight feels longer this time around. Perhaps the fear of the unknown quickened the journey when he was younger or perhaps he simply is older now and feels time as it really is? Whatever the reason, Cinna has plenty of time to mull over time past, ponder what to expect. He knows he can’t expect things to be the same. They’re all going to be five years older after all and so is he. He wonders if the house still looks the same or if they all have the same jobs. He considers, should he blame Septimus for the time? Should he blame himself, blame his ignorance? Everything could be blamed on the Capitol some way or another. Or perhaps he simply shouldn’t bother with excuses, just wait and see what he finds.
Above all joy fills his heart at the prospect of seeing his family again.
When the train pulls into the station less than half a dozen people get out. Cinna recognizes two of them from years ago as factory foremen who travel to the south for raw product while another he knows used to take the train every two weeks with finished supplies of fabric to the Capitol. Cinna hadn’t sent any sort of word that he was coming, though who knows if it would have made it to his family. Messages between districts have never really happened for common folk and he had never entertained the possibility of writing to his family before. Now that he thinks about it Cinna feels so idiotic that he never tried, assuming too much.
Cinna walks the streets from the station down toward the factory housing district, houses all the same as he remembered, colors all the same. Oddly, the air does not feel as cold as his memories. People glance at him as he passes by, some with surprise or perhaps faint recognition. Cinna’s nerves tense further with each street until he stands in front of a familiar door.
“Okay…” Cinna knocks.
He hears a clatter and someone say, ‘the door,’ and then footsteps. Cinna’s heart jumps to a new speed and he clenches a fist around his bag. Then the door opens and Clasta stands between him and every memory of sixteen years of life.
“Ye -”
She stops before even finishing the word, smile froze on her face. Her hand clenches on the door frame like a vice and she only blinks.
For some reason Cinna can’t smile. “Hi.”
“Cinna.” Her voice sounds different, older.
“Clasta, who is…?” A man steps into view behind her. It takes Cinna a moment then - Bale Westerby, did leather work.
“Hi,” Cinna repeats, “I’m…” suddenly Cinna wishes he actually had rehearsed some sort of speech or thought up something to say instead of just believing it would come to him in the moment. “Can I come in?”
Clasta’s face relaxes slightly and she steps back. “Yes, of course, yes.”
She steps back, Bale following, and Cinna walks into the house. The first thing he notices is the paint. The main room they used to use for any activity which wasn’t bedroom related or cooking is no longer splotchy green and brown as it used to be but white, repainted. Cinna feels a chip flake off the illusion of the past.
“Are we having dinner?” Cinna’s father walks out of the kitchen. “Don’t tell me it was Merrily from next door again?”
He looks at Clasta, eyes coasting right over Cinna at first, then he suddenly snaps back and his mouth falls open. “Cinna!”
“Hi.” Cinna smiles and has a small heart attack. “Hi, dad.”
He strides over to Cinna and stops in from of him. He reaches out a hand then stops in mid air as if he doesn’t believe his hand won’t fall right through Cinna if he touches him. Then he rests his hand on Cinna’s shoulder. He laughs once.
“You’re… you’re here.” He frowns with confusion then smiles again. “You’re here.”
Cinna nods. “Yes, I am. I’m sorry it’s been so long.”
Clasta makes a choked sort of noise from behind him and Cinna hears Bale make soft shushing sounds. Clasta sniffs loudly. Then Cinna drops his bag, reaches out and pulls his father to him, trapping the man in a tight hug.
“Oh my god,” his father gasps. “It’s really you.”
Suddenly, Clasta’s feet stomp over the floor and she hugs Cinna’s back, locking him into a sandwich of warmth and a million lost memories. Cinna clings onto his father and just breathes. The two of them smell just the same. After about a minute Cinna drops his arms and all three let go. Cinna peers around his father into the kitchen.
“So,” Cinna swallows, “where are mom and Cherra?”
Cinna’s father glances over Cinna’s shoulder. Cinna already knows the answer.
“Let’s lay another place and sit down for dinner, all right?” Clasta says from behind him.
“How?” Cinna asks.
Cinna’s father looks back at him, his mouth a thin line. He sighs. “Factory accident, a year ago.”
‘Isn’t it always?’ Cinna thinks.
“One of the furnaces that heats the vats to melt the dyes blew, took out half the building and… well, a lot of people.”
Cinna frowns. “And… both of them were…”
“A lot changed after you were gone, Cinna,” Clasta says, “and it’s been a long time.”
The four of them sit down at the table in the kitchen, stew with biscuits on the side and iced tea. Cinna learns, as expected, Clasta and Bale married two years ago. They live a few streets away and have no children. They tell him about the things he has missed - Cherra had received a promotion, gotten a raise before the accident. She’d been so happy about becoming a foreman. She’d been the first on call with the malfunction of the furnace that day. Their mother had taken a second batch of hours in the dye factory in addition to the cotton factory after they lost Cinna’s income. Cinna’s father transferred over to leather to work with Bale, change of pace and keep family close. Bale and Clasta married in the fall, her wedding dress was pink and the traditional cloth they tied around their hands at the ceremony was a ripping from the skirt Cinna had made her.
Cinna cannot force himself to tell them about the Capitol because suddenly he feels how very, very wrong this entire situation is. His life then compared to his life now and how life here has moved ahead without him.
After dinner Bale makes coffee while the three remaining Bells sit together.
“So, what… I mean…” Clasta stares at her hands on top of the table, twisting the ring around her finger. “It’s been five years and we didn’t… I thought you…” She looks up. “I thought we would never see you again.”
“How did Cherra take it?” Cinna asks, remembering Clasta’s last plea to Septimus to let them get Cherra to say goodbye.
Cinna’s father laughs once and shakes his head. “Worse. She didn’t say anything at all. She went upstairs and it wasn’t until three days later that she suddenly started crying.”
Cinna looks away. They sit silently for a moment then Clasta sits up straight.
“We saw Septimus on the Hunger Games.” Cinna turns to Clasta. “District five?”
“Yes.”
“He looked pleased.”
“He was.”
Clasta tilts her head. “So, is that it? You’re still… what? Working for him?”
Cinna nods. “For these past five years, yes; I’ve been designing for his shop. The Boutique.”
“The Boutique?” Clasta repeats.
“Designing?” His father leans forward over the table. “Actually designing all those things you used to try to scrape together here?”
Cinna nods. “Yes, exactly. In fact all those outfits I doodled away in my notebook? We made them, all of them and more beyond that.” Cinna smiles suddenly feeling some pride because he has done something. “And people in the Capitol have liked what I’ve done, The Boutique has become more popular and Septimus said right from the start I have a natural talent. I think I’ve even changed it a bit, brought an amount of sense to Capitol style in clothing at least. It really makes…”
Suddenly Cinna trails off because he sees his father and Clasta staring at him with confusion and surprise. Cinna clears his throat and the mugs behind them clatter.
“I’ll… um, be right back,” Bale mumbles and leaves the room.
“So, well,” Cinna clears his throat, “Septimus has been doing what he said when he came here.” Cinna has no idea where these words are coming from. “Nurturing my talent.” Everything sounds so flat, so ridiculous sitting here in his family’s kitchen.
“I see,” his father says.
Clasta sighs and nods. “Yes, I see.”
Cinna sees too because it is not pride he feels now toward him, it is disappointment.
“And now,” Clasta says, “the Hunger Games?”
“Yes, well… that is… I try to help.”
“How exactly?” Clasta’s voice changes, harder and less like his sister.
“Clasta, I can’t very well -”
“Say no?” she interrupts. “Because that man certainly hasn’t been keeping you locked up from the look of it.”
Cinna suddenly realizes how fine his clothes are - his shinny shoes, his tailored coat, and the gold eye liner on his eyes. Why didn’t he take that off? What was he thinking?
“It wouldn’t help anything,” Cinna retorts.
“I wouldn’t help to say, ‘No, I won’t work on this horrible thing; I won’t add to the misery by being a part of it?’”
“Clasta!”
“No,” she snaps, “no, those games took your sister! Your little sister died in those games and now you -”
“I was there with that girl!” Cinna shouts back. “I held Mara’s hand and let her cry because she had no hope! I tried to give her some before she was throw to the dogs and you know that no one else there would have felt anything to give her that! But I did!”
Cinna grips the edge of the table and breathes through his nose to calm his hammering heart. Clasta only stares back at him, her mouth shut tight.
“All right,” their father says, “we knew you would be different, Cinna, if you ever came back. We knew things would change.”
“We never thought you’d come back,” Clasta whispers.
Cinna wants to say ‘I’m no different’ but he knows with certainty that is a lie.
“Why didn’t you come back sooner?” Clasta asks.
Cinna glances down at the table. “I didn’t know I could until now.”
He doesn’t want to admit that just maybe he began to like the comfort of the Capitol despite the pretention and opulence. He hates himself for changing because he knows now that he cannot change back. There is no place for him anymore in district eight.
Cinna stays to have coffee. Bale returns and tells Cinna about the last spring festival, the streamers in town and how Clasta won one of the gift basket raffles. They tell him about families he knew, babies born. His father repainted the other room after mother died. Clasta’s house is painted pale red inside, two floors and they splurged after the wedding to buy two down pillows. Clasta’s students work harder every year; she’s been trying to throw in things like algebra for the smarter ones. The Peacekeepers have changed some, a few new ones who are less inclined to friendly conversation though there haven’t been many punishments in the square. Wages were cut in the some of the factories and demand seems to have grown, a lot of factory shifts and job changes. It’s odd but everyone seems to make due. They tell him about last winter and the sudden snowman contest which lasted for a week. Clasta and Bale built a pair outside their house with matching blue hats.
“It never stops being cold, does it?” Cinna says.
“Colder than it used to be,” Clasta says with a sadness that means more than just temperature.
“I suppose I should go,” Cinna says noticing the darkness outside. “I know you all have work and I certainly can’t ask you to stay up talking all night with long shifts ahead.”
His father sighs. “Back to the Capitol?”
Cinna looks around at the three of them. They all look normal; cotton clothing, sturdy shoes for working, Clasta’s hair tied up with just a simple band, slight scruff on Bale’s face. Then Cinna wears glossy leather on his feet with linen and silk above with that light touch of gold.
Cinna only smiles and they all know it together, too much has changed.
Cinna hugs Clasta and his father, a nod to Bale. “Belated Congratulations,” Cinna says with a smile.
“Find a way to keep in touch,” Cinna’s father says abruptly when Cinna’s hand touches the door knob.
Cinna nods. “Yes.”
“Goodbye,” Clasta says.
Cinna opens the door then stops and glances back. “I want you to know.” He stands just a bit taller. “I am going to change things somehow. I am.”
Then Cinna closes the door and walks back over the streets blindly until he hits the train station and - after a bribe to the conductor - hops on the night train with finished factory fabrics back to the Capitol. He can’t decide if it feels like running away or going home.
When Cinna opens the door to Septimus’ apartment, Septimus sits on one of the couches of the main lounge. The TV is off - no one else is there - as if all Septimus is doing is waiting which, Cinna knows, is exactly the case.
“So?” Septimus asks quietly.
“It was different,” Cinna answers.
Septimus nods. “I see.” He looks away at the bright green walls. “And you blame me for that?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Septimus turns back. “What do you know then?”
Cinna stares at Septimus. “That I don’t have a home there anymore.”
“Your home is here.”
“I’m not sure I’m happy about that.”
Septimus breathes in slowly and Cinna sees his fingers digging into the upholstery. “But you are happy here.”
“Maybe.” Cinna drops his bag to the floor and leans against the spiral stair case, arms crossed. “Maybe I also wanted to go home someday but it’s too late now.”
“You had to have known that -”
“Known how much I’ve changed? How much I’ve missed?” Cinna sighs with frustration. “Known how they’ve moved on without me and I’ve become…”
“Yes,” Septimus insists. “You had to have known all that before you left.”
“Well, maybe I didn’t, Septimus!” Cinna shouts finally. “Maybe I didn’t!”
He whips around the stairs, storms all the way up then slams the door of his own room. Inside he leans heavily against the door, breath coming in great gulps. All this time the reality of the Capitol never actually hit home. For a long time Cinna thought he would never see home again but he did not believe it. Somehow being uprooted and thrown into a new environment with no in between made the entire thing unreal. Even when the Boutique and the Capitol and the hunger games all became his life it was just Cinna part two - completely separate and unrelated to life in district eight.
What had he thought, that he could hop the train to district eight and everything would revert back five years? How could he ever go back? He told himself on the train that things would be different but seeing them, feeling them, talking to his diminished family and the meeting of their changed lives actually cemented into reality. Now Cinna understands the loss. Perhaps it’s even worse than death or ‘never to be seen again.’ He has seen them again and they have seen him and the bridge between them has crumbled away. Cinna is Capitol now and they are still district eight. His own family is a different world.
Cinna’s knees shake and he slowly slides down against the door until he sits on the floor. He knocks his head back against the wood and stares at his red curtains. Curtains. Even his curtains are fine, made of heavy fabric. If Cinna could stand up he would tear them down.
For the next few weeks Cinna works in a fog. He thinks of nothing, simply letting his hands move with the needle over cloth or pencil across the page. He draws simple outfits - loose pants to the ankle, one color dresses with straight sleeves, coats with three buttons and plain collars. He does a lot of menial grunt work which could go through the automatic sewing machine or helps Misty and Lilac dress mannequins. If he keeps his hands busy then his mind won’t dwell on what he’s become.
He hardly speaks to Septimus and Septimus lets him.
“Do you think maybe Lilac and I could come to the Hunger Games this year?” Misty asks one day as the four of them close up shop for the night.
“Oh!” Lilac gasps. “That would be amazing.”
“I am afraid not, dears.”
The both whine at the same high pitch, giving Septimus matching expressions of disappointment. Septimus folds a jacket in half and offers only a stern look in return.
“Cinna gets to go!” Misty whines again as though she is only ten years old.
“Cinna has a skill which is of use to the Games.”
Cinna freezes where he stands locking the door of the shop.
“Ugh! That is definitely not fair,” Misty groans, “there are prep teams aren’t there?”
“Not for clothing, that’s Septimus,” Lilac corrects.
“Exactly, Septimus, not Cinna. See?”
The girls argue on as Cinna stands still, staring out at the street. Snow covers the pavement right now along with patches of ice from the melted snow of yesterday. He thinks about throwing a snowball right at Cora’s head, perfect shot and the best scream of anger back. He thinks about wearing two pairs of socks to school because the heater in his history class never worked. He thinks about the half of his closet upstairs with fur lining and how easily he can pick up a heated street car if he needs to go out somewhere more than five minutes away.
“Cinna…” Septimus says.
Cinna turns around and walks toward the back stairs to the apartment, handing off the keys to Septimus.
“They have a bit of a point, Septimus,” Cinna comments as he passes.
“Cinna, wait…”
Cinna waves a hand back at them and imagines the expression on Clava’s face, how quickly her emotion turned to rage, how he defended himself.
“Cinna, please!” But Cinna ignores Septimus’ plea and climbs the steps.
Cinna thinks back about how he could have done things differently:
[“You go to the games alone, Septimus; I want to go back to district eight.”]
[“I’m 18 now, Septimus; that makes me an adult and the reaping are past this year. I can’t be ordered around like a tribute. It’s time for me to go home.”]
[When the train hits the station in the Capitol, Cinna runs, weaving through the crowds deeper into the city so Septimus loses sight of him. Cinna hides down alleyways, keeps quiet until night falls and then he creeps back to the train station. The next morning he checks the manifest, hides in the cargo car and rides back to district eight.]
[“I don’t care what that paper says; I am not going to the Capitol.”]
Cinna wonders if his family would even want to see him again now. Do they even see him anymore or do they only remember the sixteen year old boy who left? If he came back would it just be awkward silences filled with surface level comments - how was the winter this year? Is it just as cold in the Capitol? How was the spring festival this year? Did you do anything special for your birthday? Ridiculous questions with banal answers and never talking about how the puzzle pieces no longer connect. Is it easier for them to not see him, to forget?
Cinna and Septimus sit in the first floor lounge, Septimus staring at a book but obviously not reading it and Cinna staring at nothing, food half eaten on a plate beside him.
Then Septimus sighs and puts his book down. “Cinna, if you can’t have both and you can’t have eight then what are you left with?”
Cinna shifts his focus to his plate, pasta with too much sauce and not enough basil. No wonder he only ate half.
“You are left with the Capitol and despite your wallowing in despair you don’t live the idle privileged life most people here do.” Cinna looks up and frowns. “No, you’re not hungry or cold, but you also held on to Mara’s hand and I know you’ll do it again.”
Cinna looks at the floor. “How is that really helpful?”
“I’m sure it was very helpful to her.”
As is often the case, Septimus is right. Brooding does no good and the past cannot be changed. If Cinna cannot go back then he must move forward.
CHAPTER 4 - PART 2