Dressing up the tributes from Twelve was always something of a joke. No designer really wanted to do it, so it was usually the newest designer that got the short end of the stick. Cinna wasn't new, and neither was Portia, but he'd already decided to stick with her, rather than the rest of the vultures and so they knew they wouldn't get any of the Careers. Of course, he hadn't specifically asked for Twelve, but that was more because he truly didn't have a preference. He was dressing children for slaughter, draping them in their funeral shrouds for their last hurrah. He would rather he got the districts that rarely, if ever, won, so he wouldn't get his hopes up for nothing and could keep a distance.
Of course, that plan is shot out of the water the moment he first lays eyes on one Katniss Everdeen.
He thinks, now, that it was probably fate. He, bored with his life, passionate only for his creations, and she. The Girl on Fire. His Girl on Fire, even before he really knew her at all. But there was something about the girl, naked and shivering in the middle of a room and still having the guts to look him in the eyes and judge him that made it impossible to ignore her. He knows she will be his greatest masterpiece. She will light him on fire like nothing, no-one before her has quite managed.
He does not want to get mixed up with rebel plots, no matter what Haymitch says to him, he never has. He did not think he ever would. Until her. For her, he might do it.
It is at this moment that Cinna decides to really, truly go forward with the idea he's been toying with for a while now, the costumes he prepared with Portia. Her fellow tribute is only awarded a very brief moment of consideration. The girl in front of him is still looking at him, still burning him with those eyes, but he doesn't care. He's found a goddess, a fierce deity of war. Her eyes are filled with the lazy hunger of a wolf, the piercing talons of birds of prey and fire. He could look for a lifetime and he would not find another whom he could dress in flames.
He loves her. Not for her, not yet, that would come later, when her disgust and anger and wariness were worn away to reveal the sun-warm sand beneath, but for now, Cinna truly loves this frail slip of a girl with her eyes on fire and the body of a forest-nymph. So he tells her to put her robe on and follow him, throwing one last subtle look at her before turning around, but the feeling of loss gnawing on his chest -like every second he isn't looking at her, worshipping her perfection with his eyes, is a second wasted- keeps his eyes sneaking glances at her as they move from the room.
It is later on, when the girl, the goddess, Katniss, wears his clothes without a shred of fear, the trust implicit in the action, that he truly begins to look at her as something other than his muse. She still has fire in her eyes and her body still carries the unconscious grace of a predator and she is still wreathed in flames, their light dancing on her skin, but now… Her hands tremble at times, but when she holds a bow, they are steady as a rock. She makes very little noise when she walks, barely the scuff of a boot on linoleum. She dislikes the scent of roses. And she is completely unaware of her own beauty.
Perhaps it is shallow of him, but were she not so beautiful, Cinna doubts he could be capable of loving her so much. He loves her fire, even if it promises to burn him and all he's achieved to ashes, but he is a lover of beauty first and foremost. An artist. Much more so than many other designers who design the tribute's outfits simply for the money.
As he watches her enter the arena, his heart catches in his throat. His bet is on her, yes, always will be, but the Games are deadly, and he is not sure if he can survive without her there to warm him with her fire.
Cinna watches the Games avidly, not taking his eyes off the screen in her apartments, feeling the burn of flames on his own skin, delirious with worry from the tracker jacker stings. When she pulls out the innocuous berries, his stomach flips even before he recognizes them - the threat of her death twists his throat closed and he prays like he hasn't prayed in years, incoherent mumbles to anyone who might save her.
When Cinna next lays eyes on her, she in unconscious. It doesn't matter that she can't open her eyes and see him just yet; he comforts himself with the steady beat of her heart against his palm. He likes to think that when he leans over her still body and gently kisses her, she sighs his name, but he doesn't quite dare believe it.
It is only when she is dressed in soft, flowing fabric and girlish ribbons, clinging to the boy that she outshines so very easily, the one that only survived because she cannot kill someone she truly cares about, that Cinna feels the jealousy writhing black and heavy in his gut. She kisses him so freely, sits so close to him, and glows for him. Cinna keeps looking at her, because he promised and he can ignore the boy better this way.
And soon, she is gone. A simple beat of her mockingjay wings, and she wasn't there anymore. He is listless, wondering around the Capitol, designing somber, boring outfits, until Haymitch delivers her number to him.
It is murder. Those days, weeks, months when he can't see her, and only hears her voice on the phone. He's always noted that she has a pleasant voice, but when one night -when the moon has set and it's more morning than night- she quietly sings for him, he feels the last shards of his heart fall into her hands. His only hope is that she'll keep the embers of the heart that burns for her like no other near her, a private treasure just between the two of them.
Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins, none of the characters belongs to me and I make no money off this fic. Hope you like it, reviews are always appreciated, for those of you who expected me to update either Silent stories or Definitions, I'm very sorry, but I'll get around to them some time soon. Ish. I think.