Fandom: The Hunger Games
Characters: Cinna/Haymitch
Rating: M
Summary: Cinna needs to hold onto something real.
Notes: Written for Porn Battle 2014. Prompt: lost. Circa Catching Fire, the night before the Quarter Quell.
Cinna made his way through the victors' quarters unimpeded. Outside, the Capitol was going mad with the bombshell Peeta had dropped—a revelation, Cinna knew, that was entirely fabricated. Clever boy, to fuel sympathy like that for him and his beloved. But the pandemonium outside didn't echo here in the Training Center, where the tributes and their mentors were spending their last night doing...whatever they needed to make it through to the next day.
Katniss would be with Peeta, most likely, and Cinna would see her in the morning anyway to dress her for the arena. He had a different destination in mind.
"Yeah?" The voice inside drawled when he knocked on the apartment door.
"It's Cinna," he said, keeping his voice steady.
After a moment the door slid open, revealing a scowling Haymitch. "You lost? Thought you got sent home with the others."
"I know people. And I told them I needed to check Katniss' measurements for her outfit tomorrow, in light of her newly revealed delicate condition." He felt his lip quirk with amusement despite himself. "But no, I meant to see you. May I come in?"
Haymitch let out his own breath of ironic laughter before shrugging and stepping back to let Cinna enter. "Why not. I was just about to toast to the tributes. Just one," he added hastily, as if Cinna had anything to say about it. "Want a glass?"
"Certainly." The wine would be good, here in the victors' quarters. Cinna accepted his glass and raised it in a silent toast, mirroring Haymitch. Wishing for hope or luck really was irrelevant at this point.
Haymitch eyed him curiously after they'd both taken a sip. "So. To what do I owe this visit?"
They both knew it wasn't to discuss their secret business, not here in the Training Center where there might be monitors everywhere. Heavensbee had used his power and influence to arrange quick meetings in carefully scanned locations where they made their plans. And at this point, everything that could be done was in place. The rest was up to Katniss and Peeta, unknowing pawns in a much larger game.
Cinna closed his eyes briefly, wishing for half their courage. He opened them again to look Haymitch directly in the face. "I don't want to spend tonight alone."
Haymitch's mouth dropped open, and then he snorted in disbelief. "You want to fuck a victor, go find Finnick. Playing the pretty concubine is his gig, not mine."
"I don't want pretty. I want something honest and true." Cinna took a breath. "Tomorrow our girl goes back into the arena and I...I'm a walking dead man for what I've turned her into." He stared at Haymitch, willing the man to hear what couldn't be said.
Their plans were in motion, unstoppable now. Cinna could see his death barreling down on him, could practically smell it. He needed someone to take him out of himself, to fill what he feared were his last hours with something other than sketches of treasonous costumes and visions of dead children.
Haymitch was looking at him with something like compassion. Better than pity, at least. "You don't want a broken-down old drunk. You could have—"
"Anyone in the Capitol?" Cinna spat, his voice thin with tension. "I don't want to wear a mask for what could be—"
He stopped, swallowing hard. Haymitch was still looking at him, brow furrowed with uncertainty. Cinna cleared his throat and tried again. "Everyone here has been wearing a false face for so long, they wouldn't know how to express a sincere emotion if they tried. When we were on the train, you—at least you don't try to hide what you are—" He passed a shaky hand over his eyes, determined not to weep. "Ironic sentiment from the costumer, I know."
"No, I—" Haymitch looked down, biting at his lip. "I get it. I gotta say, though, I kinda wish...I could offer you better. Be better. 'Cause if I'm your best option, there is something seriously wrong with the world."
"Only everything," Cinna murmured, but he could smile now at the absurdity, and Haymitch was grinning too.
"I won't be gentle," Haymitch said, like the warning was his last attempt to turn Cinna from his course.
"Good," Cinna told him fiercely.
And it was good, as Haymitch stripped Cinna of his clothes carelessly, delicate fabrics dropping to the ground in a forgotten heap; while Haymitch prepared him with rough slick fingers, insufficient to quell the burn of his first thrust; when Haymitch put his big hand around Cinna's throat and squeezed just enough, so that Cinna's air became thin and his head swam and all thought dispersed.
Afterward, as Haymitch sprawled senseless and snoring across his bed, Cinna slipped out into the Capitol night, quiet at last. He looked up and saw stars, shining down endlessly to illuminate everything dark below, and he felt at peace. His Mockingjay would fly, spreading the fire of rebellion. His imagery would be inextricably linked to the revolution and that, he thought, was a fine legacy to leave behind.
They'd be coming for him tomorrow. Tonight, Cinna was free.