An outtake of dynastessa's Hunger Games drabble/fic
Or part one. I haven't really decided. It's completely rough draft-y, but mostly it refused to stop talking inside my head. And is only the smallest bit of what her prompt woke up in there. I wasn't planning to write tonight, but apparently it was planning to exist. And my fingers live to serve.
"No, you cannot make a thorn into a rose," Cinna replied. Both too careful and too easy. Like everything else here. Guarded. What you saw was never what you go with The Capital.
"But," he said, with more emphasis, as his dark eyes settled somewhere in the expanse the balcony overlooked. Then his head tilted, slowly, considering, even though his hair didn't stir at all. For the movement or the breeze. "But you can make a thorn look like a rose to people who have never seen a rose. People who have been dreaming of the idea of a rose."
The Capitol, Cinna and Portia and Effie's world, twinkled beyond them. More enchanting than the vast explosion of stars above District 12 when the lights shuddered off each night. And never less than more deadly in its seduction of appearing innocent. Compelling. Racy. Dream fulfilling. The way the second designer's words tried to climb up and wind into Peeta's mind.
Who was having none of it. None of their pandering or poking. No kindness. They had taken him and stripped him bare. He wouldn't thank them for it. There was only bluntness, as he looked over his shoulder at the noise of another arrival. "And her?"
Her. Katniss Everdean. Hallowed and then shadowed by the door she'd yanked open, as it crashed back closed behind her. Sullen and scowling as she stomped toward the table, her hair, even tied back, trying to escape, screaming of its inability to even behave for her own brush.
And yet. There was something there. Something in the wildness of her anger, her fast movements, her utter lack of grace, her denial to even pretend conversation with her captors. In the way she glared at Haymitch and Effie alike. And tried her hardest to glare at the table with more food than either of them had ever seen.
She didn't play at all. She didn't conceal. All of her sharp edges, hatred and honesty, like the banging pots in the Black Market.
"Sometimes you have to force people-" Cinna's voice snapped him from the image, from Katniss Everdeen who always captivated him somehow, causing his teeth to grit, but never stopping, "-to see that the thorn is the rose they've been dreaming of," before he walked off to the table. All suddenly, brilliantly with a welcoming smile as he put himself in Katniss's way, with calm, even words about costume ideas, as though he had said nothing at all.
"No, you cannot make a thorn into a rose," Cinna replied. Both too careful and too easy. Like everything else here. Guarded. What you saw was never what you go with The Capital.
"But," he said, with more emphasis, as his dark eyes settled somewhere in the expanse the balcony overlooked. Then his head tilted, slowly, considering, even though his hair didn't stir at all. For the movement or the breeze. "But you can make a thorn look like a rose to people who have never seen a rose. People who have been dreaming of the idea of a rose."
The Capitol, Cinna and Portia and Effie's world, twinkled beyond them. More enchanting than the vast explosion of stars above District 12 when the lights shuddered off each night. And never less than more deadly in its seduction of appearing innocent. Compelling. Racy. Dream fulfilling. The way the second designer's words tried to climb up and wind into Peeta's mind.
Who was having none of it. None of their pandering or poking. No kindness. They had taken him and stripped him bare. He wouldn't thank them for it. There was only bluntness, as he looked over his shoulder at the noise of another arrival. "And her?"
Her. Katniss Everdean. Hallowed and then shadowed by the door she'd yanked open, as it crashed back closed behind her. Sullen and scowling as she stomped toward the table, her hair, even tied back, trying to escape, screaming of its inability to even behave for her own brush.
And yet. There was something there. Something in the wildness of her anger, her fast movements, her utter lack of grace, her denial to even pretend conversation with her captors. In the way she glared at Haymitch and Effie alike. And tried her hardest to glare at the table with more food than either of them had ever seen.
She didn't play at all. She didn't conceal. All of her sharp edges, hatred and honesty, like the banging pots in the Black Market.
"Sometimes you have to force people-" Cinna's voice snapped him from the image, from Katniss Everdeen who always captivated him somehow, causing his teeth to grit, but never stopping, "-to see that the thorn is the rose they've been dreaming of," before he walked off to the table. All suddenly, brilliantly with a welcoming smile as he put himself in Katniss's way, with calm, even words about costume ideas, as though he had said nothing at all.