The expressions might change, but the message of the looks they share never do.
Cinna has many looks. An arsenal of them. As many different subtle shades of expression as his shining collections of cloth. With an arch of a meticulously shaped brow he can communicate volumes, so much so that some people he's only met very briefly aren't actually aware he speaks at all.
He never raises his voice. He doesn't need to.
His workrooms daily become bustling hives of activity, particularly around the Games. Of course he's the maestro, the mastermind - some might whisper the phrase 'queen bee' when they think he can't hear them - but every artist needs their support staff. And every one of them, in addition to being hand-picked from the Capitol's finest fashion design institutions, are well versed in the language of Cinna's nonverbal communication.
They can tell from the slightest slump of his shoulders or lift of his chin, the tilt of his head, whether a design has captured his interests, channeled his intent or completely missed the mark and fallen short somewhere on the floor. He doesn't reprimand even when this happens - again, he doesn't need to. If the pained, eloquent look of "dear God, what war are you waging with these sequins, please put this suffering garment out of its misery" doesn't bring about a hurried correction, the quiet way his face drops will. His students are ambitious, yes, but even more eager to please, and nothing motivates them more than simply seeing the hope, excitement and expectation fade from his face, leaving unspoken resignation or disappointment.
More than one fashion assistant and even prep team member has confided to their friends and lovers, tearfully inebriated, that "I think he was - disappointed in me!"
But these phases are fleeting. Cinna believes in second chances, and the moment a colleague finds their feet again and rises to the new occasion he always provides, his praise is warm and the incident forgotten. As before, such a forgiveness is delivered in the form of a slow smile, a spark in the corner of his eye, a hand on the shoulder.
Those are the myriad looks reserved for his assistants, the team of artists who help his vision become reality, and indirectly change the course of the future.
For Portia, he only has one.
It's always the same, and always something just for them. A flicker of private amusement out of the corner of their eyes, meeting for just a fraction of a second. A look that says that whatever conversation they're both involved in has a hidden dimension, something they both know that adds an entirely different level to the words.
"Vienna Mintleaf has promised to top herself this year, you know she always throws the most stupendous parties and if she's really, REALLY going to go all-out this time, it's going to be the event of the year! Aside from the Games, I mean, of course!"
Octavia's monologue is interrupted by her bubbly giggle, and Cinna shares a little glance with Portia; not one of their more significant looks, just fond amusement. Octavia is always inviting them to some ridiculous gathering or another, and it's as much an opportunity for her to be seen in Cinna's latest, most sumptuous designs as it is to socialize. Cinna and Portia rarely go along; the frivolous chatter at those high-society parties leaves them with more indigestion than the rich food.
"And anyway, I know you're not one for a lot of fancy soirees, but I was just thinking that this one really might be something to see, and I'd be honored, just absolutely honored, if the two of you could make it as my guests!"
"When is it?" Cinna surprises all of them by asking quietly; Portia hides her raised eyebrows behind a clipboard full to bursting of schedules, preliminary designs, revisions, and wild, coffee-stained sketches Cinna knocked on her door to show her at 3 AM last night.
Octavia is equally surprised, as well as delighted. "Not for a few months," she chirps, visibly encouraged by the opening. "A few weeks after the Quarter Quell, you know the deadly dull lull. Silly darling thinks her parties are enough to break up the monotony - but like I said, this time she might be right!"
A few months. After the Quarter Quell.
Now they look at one another. Just for a split-second, but it's familiar and practiced to the point of choreography. A wry, sidelong glance of solidarity and shared secret harrows. It often follows plans for the future as a kind of punctuation mark or punchline. And its meaning is always the same.
If we're still alive by then.
Portia gives an almost imperceptible nod and goes back to studying the clipboard. Cinna turns back to Octavia, over whose electric-green head this entire weighted exchange has gone, and favors her with one of his rare, warm smiles.
"We'd be delighted," he says quietly, and his last syllable is nearly drowned out in Octavia's joyful squeals.
"Oh, this is just marvelous, stupendous, oh, we're just going to be ravishing, you'll love it, it'll be such fun - save the date, now! I'll let you know the second we have a day nailed down. Now I really have to run," Octavia hitches up her heavy-layered scalloped skirts. "But I just had to ask, and oh, I'm just so excited! After the Quarter Quell now, don't forget!"
"I'm looking forward to it," Cinna says softly, and she rushes off in a whirlwind of lace and color so fast he's not sure she heard.
He watches her go, then turns back to see Portia watching him with an expression of - something he can't immediately identify. Grim determination? Restrained fury? There's an edge of steel in her eyes that he doesn't often see.
Around them, the workshop buzzes with activity and motion; people rush around them on urgent missions of art and finishing touches that make the difference between mediocrity and a new world order.
"Well?" He gently prods, and Portia reluctantly breaks off her strange, hard stare. She shakes her head and turns back to her clipboard with a clearing of her throat. "We've got a lot of work to do."
# # #
A/N: I just had... far too many Cinna feels lately. It was going to eat me up inside if I didn't get them down because I just kind of... love him so much it hurts sometimes. Brilliant artist, genius, rebelling with art. And Portia, gosh, I just. I don't ship them romantically, but my headcanon bond of theirs is profound. I feel like Octavia came off rather Effie-ish, but had to have her in there too, because hell. I love her and the Prep Team and just. A lot of heartwrenching feelings over here, that's all.
And it was an interesting self-challenge to write something that's referred to only covertly, and something like a second conversation happening beneath a superficial one.
Aahh. I feel better now.