This is stupidly old - I don't even remember writing it - but I thought what the hell, there can never be enough Cinna/Portia fic so I might as well post it. Also, to anyone interested, Mockingjay gave me so many unexpected Cinna/Portia feels that I've started like three new fics for this ship. With luck they'll be finished before Christmas break ends so - until then :)
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for I'm still here hoping that
one day you may come back
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1.
(what could have been)
They would lay on the grass and listen to the forest; how softly the wind would blow, the almost inaudible sound the bugs would make rushing forward, sweet melodies of birds' singing, their own breaths steady, their heartbeats the most persistent sound.
She would trace his scars with her fingers; they remind her of a spider's web, twirling and twisting all over his hands and chest and neck. Her fingers would follow their pattern, trace each tiny scratch, and each time they would finish close to his heart, where she would lay her head and listen to its steady beat.
They would spend most of their time outside (they would hold a deep hatred towards closed spaces); they would rarely part.
Cinna and Portia.
Portia and Cinna.
All of the time in the world.
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2.
(what used to be)
"What on Earth do you think you're doing?" It really was more of a statement than it was a question, and it could have been scolding even, if she had put enough face into it; but she just couldn't keep it up, in the end bursting out laughing as he clutched her hand in his and continued on his breathless run to the glowing monster that was the Capitol's library. They burst through the gates, then rushed to the elevator, where they finally collapsed on the walls. Cinna pushed the top button.
"Look, there's this place at the top of the building that my mother used to tell me about. And I-," he held his hand in front of her in a hushing gesture, because she'd been opening her mouth again, "-I have recently decided to finally give it a try, and it really is a must see, trust me."
She shot him an annoyed glare that showed precisely what her opinion was on that matter, but then she concentrated on his eyes, those beautiful green eyes that had golden flecks inside, she was certain, as if gold was dancing inside of them, and her facade crumbled again.
The elevator arrived and even before the doors opened she could hear the birds.
She looked at the enormous garden (she's never seen anything like that in her entire well-bred life) and swallowed hard. Is he ever wrong?
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3.
(what is)
She grows her hair long. Bites her lips. Feels every little bone underneath her skin, every little scar or break on the surface. She never feels her heart for her heart is no longer where it should be, and it no longer is a heart at all.
When spring comes she lies on the ground curled into a ball with her legs close to her chest. She smells the grass but she never really smells it, she tastes the soil but she never really tastes it.
She dreams of blood and tears and stars that make the forest golden, and of loving hands that will never hold her again.
She grows her hair and looks for her heart, but she never finds it.
.
.
for I'm still here
hoping