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chapter two

NEW FRIENDS
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They started at District 12. Lenore's District. While there was certainly more green to catch the eye, trees and mountains towering toward the sky instead of bricks and factory smoke, Yelena couldn't help but feel a strange sense of familiarity. And that familiarity came from the people.

Just like District 8, they looked exhausted, drained, starved and frail like paper. Their jaws and cheekbones were cut like the blades she used in the arena due to malnourishment. Then there were their eyes. Gray as the mist that clung to their mountains. Each time Yelena took a glimpse of the crowd as she read the cards from Cersei, she was reminded of Lenore. It was like she was staring right back at her.

And in some ways, she was. Lenore's picture flickered along a hologram behind her family. Her father, soot stained to his hands and cheeks sunken in. Her mother, shoulders hunched and eyes still weary with tears. And her two brothers she mentioned, both tall and proud just as she said they would be. But when Yelena said her name, their bottom lips still quivered.

District 11 was just as depressing. Dahlia left behind only her father. Yelena's stomach churned at her former ally's image, her mind warping it with the sound of the giant crab mutts that used their claws to break her bones and tear her flesh in the Coves as they hid from the Careers. Judging by the dazed gaze of her father in the distance, it seems the memory of her gruesome death plagued him more than the memories of her alive and smiling. She silently wished she could take that away from him.

As soon as Yelena was done reading the cards, she hurled almost all her guts behind the doors of 11's Justice Building. That tradition followed her in District 1 as well after facing Tassel's family, their vengeful and disgusted looks causing her to shrink. It was clear they wondered how a girl from 8 could have outlasted their son who had been training for this moment since he was six. The newest Victor wondered herself.

Yelena stares blankly at the wall, scalp burning from the relentless brushing from her prep team. Her legs still sting from the waxing, the scent of Jasmine lotion wafting in her nose. She sits quietly, fingers drumming the arm of her chair as they finish applying the finishing touches to her makeup.

"Stunning!" Juno coos, taking a step back from his work. "Absolutely stunning!"

"Isn't she always?" a cool voice adds, her heels clicking through the doorway. Yelena's ears perk at the familiarity. She swivels in her chair as her stylist Greer Lovelace strides toward her. Her violet lips part into a charming smile. "You look lovely."

A quiet nod. "Thank you."

Greer clasps her hands together as she inhales sharply. "Well. Your beautiful work is done, and mine is beginning." She gently but firmly guides the prep team toward the door as they fumble for their materials. "If you could please leave us to work in peace."

Juno scowls, bitter hurt slipping into his tone. "Always rushing us off. You do know we know what we're doing, right?"

The young and new stylist hardly even flinches, just smiling again. "I've never had a doubt."

That barely appeases him, but it's already too late, the older team crossing the dressing room's threshold. Juno attempts to sputter once more, "You should know she has—"

Before another word can be spoken, the door is shut and locked. Both Greer and Yelena release a heavy breath. Their dark gazes find each other, smaller but genuine smiles tugging on their lips.

"You've gotten more assertive," Yelena comments.

Her stylist almost beams, but stifles it as she strides forward. "You think so?" Before Yelena can answer, Greer clears her throat, straightening firmly. She nods as she places her hands on the back of her Victor's chair. "Yes, well, I am in charge. They're going to have to get used to that for the years to come."

Yelena nods. Greer has changed since the Games. She remembers the first time they met, the older girl unsure of herself in her new and first position as a District stylist. The two young ladies holding that weary eyed gaze, like baby fawns attempting their first steps in a new world. Both just trying to find their way and survive, some aspects more literal than others.

"So, what do you have planned for me tonight?"

"Well," her stylist sucks in a breath. "Depends. We could do one of your designs—"

Yelena's dark brows knit into an immediate frown. "No."

"Are you still mad about the napkin thing?"

"No."

"Well I think one of your designs could really show the real you, present to the Capitol who District Eight's latest victor truly—"

"I said no."

The two girls just blink at one another through the mirror. Yelena's knuckles clench the arm of her chair, and her chest feels tight, almost flailing as she fights back the hot tears that threaten to spring in her eyes. She doesn't know why she's crying. Well, yes she does, but it feels ridiculous and real to her all at once.

They don't deserve to see every part of me.

She remembers her sketches hidden in her notebook beneath her pillow at home. The embarrassment she'd feel if her mother even glanced over her shoulder while she drew them. The mindless drawings she'd make on Capitol napkins between her final feasts prior to her Games. Her cheeks flushed that same scarlet from her mother's glances when Greer did the same, complimenting her designs too loudly for her taste. Even mentioning they'd be adored in the Capitol in front of her entire team. Yelena had ignored the high opinion of her stylist, the whole interaction making her feel bare and open. She hated that feeling.

While she thought that napkin was thrown away and lost, it came back to face her in violet layers of tulle the night of her interview. Despite all the fabric, she felt naked on that stage. Greer has apologized incessantly since.

Just like now.

Greer squeezes Yelena's shoulders in a comforting attempt, sighing. "I'm sorry."

Not many Capitol people apologize sincerely. The Victor takes it better than the compliments. "It's alright." She forces a smile to lighten the air. "Besides, I'd rather be dressed by Panem's youngest designer. "

The older girl rolls her eyes. She steps aside from their reflections, striding toward the closet of the dressing room. It slides open with a smooth swoosh and illuminates what waits behind automatically. A content and proud smirk tugs at her lips the same time that Yelena's brows raise.

"So what do you think?"

Her eyes almost burn from the blinding vibrancy of the gown. Radiant scarlet stares back at her. Not the same shade of blood— if it were she might become hysterical. Instead, it reminds her of the dawn. The same dawn Reed Twill believed would come to District 8 one day, their home where the sun rarely broke through their factory smog. His optimism stirred many mangled emotions in her chest even six months after his death. She feels the skin along the back of her left shoulder blade burning and tingling again.

A corner of her lips twitches upward, and she just stands, preparing to untie her robe. "Let's put it on."

Greer readies the gown as Yelena steps onto the fitting stand. She allows the robe to slip to the floor, and she gnaws on her bottom lip nervously.

"I chose red— well, this shade of red is actually called scarlet, not that that's a very obscure color, you know it's scarlet." Greer shakes her head, a raven strand slipping from her sleek and tight bun. "I chose it because you are a survivor, clearly, and you are bright and vibrant, and, and filled with life despite it all—" They both wince at the way she sounds like the Capitol reporters that pretend they can truly sympathize with all the trauma Yelena has been through.

"I don't feel very vibrant or alive," the sixteen year old mutters.

Greer grimaces. "This speech was supposed to sound so much more moving, I swear."

Yelena nods. "I believe you." She anxiously waits for Greer to look up, knowing it's only a matter of time before she notices them. But with all her rambling, she's not entirely sure it may happen. The uncomfortably warm pain from Patch's needle has long subsided over the past few days.

"Step in," her stylist coaches, this time sounding more professional.

Yelena obliges, the smooth sensation of satin slowly encases her frame. She can see her reflection in the mirror now, her stylist's brows pinched together in concentration. It's as she begins to zip up that she finally notices the ink forever etched in the Victor's skin. Her dark eyes widen.

Both of their gazes pour into the reflection. Greer has concocted a shining satin and scarlet dress, vibrant as the dawn. With a corset bodice and a sweetheart neckline, the satin clings to Yelena's frame until it slowly begins to fan away like a trumpet. Beaded straps hold the dress up. But they don't conceal Patch's artwork in the slightest.

"Oh." She stammers, blinking and darting her stare between the three tattoos on her flesh. "Oh my, Yelena."

It took her some time to decide how she would want their memories imprinted into her flesh. While they haunted her, the rest of the Capitol would never know their ghosts. Until now. Now they would have no choice but to face them too.

A freshly bloomed dahlia to represent her intelligent ally named after the late summer flower along her right forearm. A canary below her collarbone, a bird from the mines Lenore's brothers worked in, its song declaring safety. And finally, that sun rise Reed always talked about so favorably brightening her left shoulder blade.

A twinge of pride and bravery flickers in the Victor's chest as she locks gazes with her stylist once more.

"So what do you think?"

━━━━

The party at Snow's Mansion is lavishing, but not surprising. It's just as Yelena expected. Crowded. Bright and colorful. Filled with enough food to feed an entire District. And completely and utterly uncomfortable.

After an hour or so of speaking to strange Capitol people who she doesn't know, and attempting to satisfy her hunger with delicacies, she's managed to sneak away. Slip through the shadows. Away from the dance floor, the tables of food, and the giant ice sculptures. Not to mention the curious and hungry stares from many pairs of eyes, scouring her body like vultures. She notices the way they all flicker to her tattoos.

Shrubs and fountains separate Yelena from the crowd of the party. Some people linger, the sixteen year old not entirely alone. But they seem more interested in their company or plates than her at this moment, conversing in the distance. Chatter and music float through the air, and her brown gaze shifts to the crescent moon glowing in the sky as she clings to the ivory garden fence.

It doesn't fail to amaze her still. How many stars there really are. How clear the sky can be. Or how there's actually a shape to that eerie and fuzzy glow that hides behind the smoke in her district. She would appreciate it even more if this moon didn't shine on the Capitol brighter than her home.

"Do they not have moons where you're from?" a voice calls.

Startled, Yelena jerks, her gaze whipping toward her right as someone's leisurely footsteps approach. She simply blinks at the familiar figure drawing toward her. A face she's used to seeing plastered on her television stares at her with a curious amusement.

The newest Victor straightens, clearing her throat. Her gaze flickers between him and the glowing crescent. "Not like that." Her manicured nails drum once along the wood. "The factory smoke covers most of the sky."

Finnick Odair, the Capitol's Darling and Victor of the Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games, continues to approach her with those painfully slow strides. He fashions a pair of black slacks with a silk teal button down... Yelena noticing that nearly all the buttons are down. His lips turn into a thoughtful frown. "Sounds miserable."

She averts her gaze from his chest and back to the moon. It's starting to hurt, staring at it. "Yes, well, home does have its comforts."

He inhales sharply, hardly wasting a breath. "You know, trying to hide in a red dress is futile." Her weary brown find his dazzling sea green. "Draws too much attention to the eye."

"I suppose you know something about that," Yelena says, straightening.

His green eyes seem to brighten at that. A corner of his lips tugs upward into a charming smirk. There's a fluttering in Yelena's chest that almost makes her pale. Wow. There's no wonder the Capitol is so head over heels for him.

He seems to enjoy that.

The District 4 Victor draws himself closer, sidling beside her before the garden fence. "You know what they call you?" Silence. Yelena simply blinks at him. He smirks bigger, sweeping his gaze across her for what feels like dramatic effect. "The Revenant. You're the first tribute to die in the Games and still win."

The title brings an uncomfortable shiver to her spine. The raven-haired girl gnaws on the inside of her cheek, straightening a bit as she stares ahead once more. "And you're the youngest Victor at fourteen. Look at us with our medals."

"Being memorable is a good thing," Finnick insists. She feels his stare boring into her cheek, and dares herself to side-glance him briefly. He's stepped even closer now,  warm breath tickling the top of her ear. She falters in surprise when he begins drumming loudly along the white railing almost mindlessly. "Because it makes it harder for him to have you disappear."

Yelena barely makes out what he says, but still manages. Her stomach knots at the word "him." She knows exactly who he is referring to. The "him" with that beady gaze boring into her timid one as his hands placed the Victor's crown upon her head. His glare was as bitter as his breath. She assumed it was because his bets were on the Careers, not a girl from Eight that should technically be dead.

She didn't ask to be revived.

"Us Victors should look out for one another." Finnick has slowly ceased the rhythm of his knuckles drumming against the wood. He clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth. "I meant to meet you on your stop at District Four. But, my adoring fans desired me here. And I can't keep them waiting for my presence too long."

Yelena attempts to turn her head toward him, almost knocking noses. She exhales, taking a small side-step to create some more breathable distance. She attempts to find something in his face that matches the eerie tone of his words, something clearly buried there, but the glimmer in his eyes hasn't faltered in the slightest. That doesn't get rid of the bubbling unease in her gut.

He sweeps his eyes along her again. There's that fluttering once more. "What's with the tattoos?" She inhales a sharp breath when his fingertips brush lightly against her right forearm, and she yanks her arm and drops it to her side, out of his reach. "Apologies— a dahlia." Her eyes narrow now. His stare finds her collar bone. "A... sparrow?"

"Canary," Yelena corrects tightly. She doesn't dare to look in those eyes again as she glares sharply back into the night. "They're for my allies. Eight, Eleven, and Twelve."

Finnick straightens, folding his hands behind his back comfortably. He combs her tattoos with a new gaze. "You're very sentimental."

Irritation makes her cheeks burn. "Someone ought to be."

"Of course," he agrees whole-heartedly. There's a new seriousness to his voice, the arrogance softening. "Just know it's best not to get attached."

Yelena chews on the inside of her cheek, almost feeling threatened. She can't tell if he's trying to help her, annoy her, or intimidate her. His charm is charming, there's no doubt, but it feels like a net threatening to scoop her up. That's how he won his games, right? Catching the other tributes in his handwoven nets, his trident following shortly after.

Is he attempting to do something similar now?

"So much advice in one night," she quips. Her dark brows raise, and she turns back to meet him with an even gaze. His bare chest nearly collides with her nose. Yelena doesn't falter though. "Anything else?"

"Yes," he beams, hardly missing a beat. Those eyes. They glimmer and gleam, and Yelena can't help but silently admit they're beautiful. He extends a hand, tilting his head to the side. Every move he makes feels like it comes out of a playbook. "Join me for a dance."

Yelena blinks. Then she blinks again, her bewildered gaze flickering between the ocean in his eyes and that tanned hand. Her heart hammers against her chest bone as a corner of her lips tugs upward in mild disbelief. The way he stares back down at her, patiently and confidently waiting, she can tell he feels he's already won.

"No." Finnick eyes narrow slightly with mild confusion. That's the only sign he's faltered. Yelena returns her gaze to the moon again. "Thank you for the offer, but I'm sure there are plenty of Capitol women waiting in line."

The District Four Victor blinks, slightly stepping away from the wooden ledge. He traces her features over and over again.

"Have a good night, Finnick Odair."

━━━━

Finnick was right. Hiding in a brilliantly bright red dress was futile, because only twenty minutes later did her escort Cersei Fontaine find her.

"The guests will not take to your avoidance of them," she chastises, thin fingers wrapped around the Victor's wrist like a manacle. She feels as if she's back in school, a student being chastised by her teacher. "They are here for you, and they find it incredibly rude."

Yelena stumbles after her, blisters forming at her feet from the heels and her knees and ankles aching from trying to support herself at such height. Cersei has always reminded her of a strict school teacher rather than a shrill airheaded Capitol chauffer. She is poised, elegant, and ever so serious. Instead of shrieking in outrage at poor manners or signs of disrespect, her voice gets quieter, words carrying more weight than her tone. To Yelena, that seems more frightening.

The Victor barely stifles a huff. She knows not to. "I didn't exactly sign the invitations, Cersei."

"I know you didn't, because I did," her escort coolly shoots back. Her lavender gaze squares the younger girl. "At least half of them."

Yelena quirks a dark brow. "Did you invite Finnick Odair? Because he was something—"

"No." Cersei releases her wrist, now folding those thin and nimble fingers neatly in front of her. "You will need to dance with one person tonight. At least. It would only be polite."

Yelena's feeling daring. "Thank you for the etiquette lessons but—"

"Lessons would imply you've learned something." The older woman cocks her head to the side, hardly blinking. Yelena clenches and unclenches her jaw nervously as her ankle wobbles again. "Find a dance partner. Smile. And pretend to be grateful even though you clearly are not."

Cersei still hasn't blinked yet. Yelena parts her lips, voice cracking in her throat to protest, but quickly clamps her jaw shut. She's not winning this one. And her attempted banter has only made her escort even more frightening. The older woman gives a painfully professional nod before swiveling on her heels with a sharp grace. She glides toward the dessert table without glancing over her shoulder once.

Yelena grinds her teeth together, releasing that huff she so desperately held onto once she's sure her escort won't hear. Her scalding glare bores into the dance floor of twirling skirts and suits. The discomfort continues to gnaw at her. That feeling she felt in the arena returns. That feeling of just desperately longing for home. Even if she can't see that pretty moon she's spent the last few hours admiring.

None of her potential suitors interest her. They all look alien, their bright and unnatural colors accessorizing their bodies. The idea of one of them touching her waist, twirling her around like a trophy and attempting small talk about the brutal murders she witnessed or committed makes her skin crawl. Perhaps she should have taken Finnick's offer to dance. At least that would have fulfilled Cersei's quota.

"Excuse me, Ms. Hart," a voice to her right greets. Yelena nearly jumps, practically stumbling out of her shoes.

Her wary brown gaze sweeps across the owner of the voice. It belongs to a tall and and broad-shouldered man, his features mundane and familiar. His normalcy startles her more than anything else. No bright colors or fancy clothes, just a plain black suit, plain black hair, and plain but kind brown eyes. He looks to be in his early fifties.

"Hello," Yelena finally murmurs.

He extends his large hand to her. "I'm Caspian Steele." A small and genuine smile spreads across his lips. "I hear you are in need of a one-time dance partner?"

When he mentions Cersei's chore, Yelena glances over to the dessert table again. Her escort pops a cream puff in her mouth, eyeing the girl evenly. Of course. Making sure she upholds her promise that she had no choice in making.

Yelena turns back to the older man. "Yes." She takes his hand. It's callused for a Capitol man. Slowly and gently, he pulls her toward the dance floor. "I do."

Her ankle wavers in the heel, and she barely catches herself. If Caspian notices, he doesn't say a word. Her heart hammers against her chest bone like a frantic drum. She's never danced before. At least, not like this. And definitely not with a man more than twice her age. He puts his hand along Yelena's upper back rather than her waist. That brings her some relief as they begin to move to the music chorusing through the night air.

"How are you enjoying the party?" he asks politely.

She clears her throat, forcing a smile along her lips. "Oh um, it's lovely. Wonderful."

Caspian nods knowingly. "Parties aren't my thing either."

Yelena straightens a bit at that, blinking at him dumbly. He only smiles lightly. But then his smile quickly turns to a grimace, her toe stepping on his. "Oh, I'm sorry," she apologizes. "I'm not good at dancing."

The man recovers, continuing to move us along. The song is nearly drowned out with the pounding in the young girl's head. "That's alright. Took me a lot of practice. I used to be the one stepping on my wife's toes."

"Is your wife here?" she asks, trying to maintain the conversation. If not, then they'll just be forced to stare at each other. Things are already uncomfortable as it is.

His face almost seems to darken. His voice drops several octaves, barely above a whisper. "No. She uh, passed several years ago."

Yikes. She immediately regrets her conversation tactic. Guilt and mortification make Yelena's jaw fall agape, awkward tongue sputtering for words. Her lashes blink repeatedly as she shakes her head. She really should've danced with Finnick. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have asked that."

"No that's alright. It's a fair question," Caspian insists.

A pause. Her lips form an apologetic and tight line. Then she practically ducks her head, nodding and focusing her gaze on her clumsy feet. Music continues to play. Each note feels like a grain of sand in the hourglass until she's finally free. Cersei's stare bores into her back, watching every second of it to ensure she fulfills her duty as the supposed guest of honor. Yelena is surprised she hasn't mentioned a word about her tattoos all evening.

"So uh," Yelena glances back up to the man. "What's your reasoning for coming tonight? The food or..."

Caspian chuckles lightly at the question, brows furrowed. "I thought that was obvious. I came for you." His brown eyes beam. "After all, I did sponsor you in the Games."

That catches her off guard. Her sponsor, right before her. Gifting the former tribute with supplies throughout the Games unexpectedly. She almost freezes completely, and he accidentally drags her with him as she stumbles to catch up. Bewilderment plagues her tone. "That was you?"

While she had earned a respectable 8 in the scorings with her knife throwing, she didn't expect to have anyone rooting for her, not with the Careers scoring perfect 12s. But like a gift from heaven, they rained on her and her allies consistently throughout the Games.

If it weren't for those gifts, she doesn't know if she'd be alive.

He nods with pride. "I like a good underdog." The song begins to slow, and so do his steps. "My bets weren't misplaced."

"Oh."

Really? That's all you can say?

Yelena blinks, straightening again. His grip slips from hers as the dance ends, the final note dying. "Well thank you."

"Don't thank me," Caspian says, shaking his head. He adjusts his jacket. "Just enjoy the rest of your evening."

And with that, the man turns on his heels. Weaves his way through the less crowded dance floor as she simply watches him go, the shock and disbelief still trembling through her. She trails his mysterious figure for as long as she can, until eventually she loses him. Her dark brows remain furrowed in thought, and she wraps her arms around herself.

"So." Yelena jumps, this time finally falling out of her heel. She stifles a groan at the pain shooting up her ankle, and she stumbles into a bare chest. Annoyance makes her scowl as Finnick stands proudly, following her gaze toward the path Caspian Steele once took. "Who's your new friend?"

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Thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed!! Please feel free to comment what you think! I'm excited for you to see Yelena grow into herself as a character as well as her relationships with Finnick, Rudy and Chenille :)

Any ideas on Caspian?

Word Count: 4405