For the prompt kuebiko from Amata le Fay.
Rue had died that day, died in Katniss' arms to the sound of a lullaby, and Panem was heartbroken, as were the District Twelve stylists.
Portia had tried to nap in bed, somewhat unsuccessful, most of the time tossing and turning, the song in her head with the cannon shot, the colors of the flowers dancing across the start of her dreams.
Finally, she went to find Cinna, in the main room of their apartment. He was at his desk, drawing, of course. Had she hoped to find him the mess she felt? It was a question she asked herself far too often.
He didn't notice her when she came in, so she walked up behind where he sat, wrapped her arms around him, a little too tight, buried her face in his shoulder.
Cinna jumped at first—who wasn't jumpy, these days? But he quickly relaxed, and placed his free hand over hers. "Couldn't sleep?" he asked.
She meant to respond to that, but what came out, a mumble, was: "I didn't think it could really happen to her."
"I know," he said, after a moment. He turned, pressed a kiss to the side of her face.
Portia straightened, pulled up a chair and sat next to him. "Just… makes you reconsider everything."
"No one could have seen it happening like it did."
Portia looked at what he was drawing, expression curious. She wasn't sure what she'd expected to see—a sketch of Rue, of Katniss, of the flowers, but… no.
It was a mockingjay.
"The birds are still singing her song," Cinna said as an explanation. "And we will, too."