Dim the Light in Your Head, In Your Heart, In Your Hiding Emotion [Closed]

[clotting]

WHO| Temple Drake-Stevens and Swann Honeymead
WHAT| Temple tries to make Swann feel appreciated
WHERE| D8 Suite
WHEN| A day before Temple's arrest
WARNINGS| Just Temple being an idiot.

Temple knew, somehow, that they were never going to get a win this Arena. She'd hoped, of course - she always hopes, and wonders how her brothers are doing, buoyed by her financial support but mired in the poverty of District Eight - but she has yet to see a winner in her seven years as a Mentor. It's a happy thing that happens to some other District, and she knows as well as if not better than anyone that all the Mentor and Escort and Stylist support in the world doesn't mean a sweet goddamn in the ring.

But she knows, too, that there are those that will take it personally, as some condemnation not just of the District but of their own capability, and so Temple does the only Mentoring she knows how to do; she tries to smooth things over and boost morale.

There are gift baskets for everyone, smaller ones for the Tributes and their frankly lackluster replacement for Trés Jolie, and a large one for Swann. Temple knows fully well that there's nothing she could give Swann that Swann couldn't buy herself, and so Temple resorts to a virtue in gift-giving that is more common among Districters than Capitolites, who tend to use gifts as much for benevolence as for advertising: thoughtfulness.

She dictates a card to an Avox, then copies it in her illiterate but mimicking hand onto the actual piece. The basket itself has a few chocolates and jewels, all pink or white or cherry, but also contains a warm, fluffy blanket, a box of antacids, a self-massage glove and some slippers to wear around the District Suite. Temple polishes it off with a hand-embroidered handkerchief with both Swann's pets on it.

All the boys are out of the Suite, and that just means waiting for Swann to arrive. Temple sits on the couch, applying another layer of lipstick and pondering whether the golden 'you tried' star stickers she has would be inadvertently seen as condescending. She doesn't end up using them.

Comments

[cigne]

Two. Two of them made it to the final week, and that's the best that Swann's ever gotten out of them. Jack and Maxwell, not exactly the two she'd have pegged, but she tries to keep faith in all of them.

It doesn't make the loss any easier, not with such a bland, innocuous Victor. It's like a sick perversion of the system, of what the Games are supposed to be -- she almost feels like it would have been easier to lose to Jason's vicious little demon girl, or China's freakishly agile assassin. At least those would be Victors who earned their wins, that there wouldn't be shame in losing to.

But Cullen Rutherford?

Swann's spent most of her time since the finale locked up in the Escort Suite, sending schedules and instructions by email. Her gift baskets still appeared for each Tribute, her breakfast pastries (generally decorated with little hearts and birds and things) still on the counter every morning. But Swann herself stays as far away as possible, because she doesn't want anyone to see the shell she's becoming, empty and dark inside, feeling more and more like everything she does is futile.

When she finally arrives, she's even dressed like she wants to hide, in a dress of red and black buffalo tartan, hidden mostly by a huge black marabou coat that hangs nearly to her shins. Her hair is all tucked in a big, floppy black wool hat, and sunglasses cover her face. Even her legs are in opaque black stockings, like she wants to just disappear into the background as much as possible, though her shoes are red tartan and have cat faces printed on the toes.

With a grimace, she tries to sneak past Temple unnoticed.

[clotting]

Temple never really overlooks people. She even notices Avoxes in a way that betrays how well she's adopted the Capitol's view of them. She always has an exact headcount for however many people are in a room and where the exits are, even when she's in a drunken stupor, even when the number goes higher than she can actually count to.

Before she sees a person, they're always a bulkier, shadowed version of themselves, with knives up their sleeves and fists clenched. They're always a threat, and Temple, despite all her airs and her perpetual drugged, tobacco-sticky, alcoholic haze, knows where the threats are.

She knows Swann's coming before Swann even enters.

"Swann?" Her head jerks up, red coiffed curls bouncing around the line of her jaw. She figured Swann would try to hide. She figured there's not much she can do about that, except to be that voice of reason to try and counteract all the negative irrational ones in Swann's head. "Do you have a moment?"