Disclaimer: All characters are the property of Suzanne Collins. It is not intended to infringe on any copyrights held by Suzanne Collins or Scholastic Press. Any original story directions and plot lines herein are the property of the author. This work is written solely for the enjoyment of exploring that world in new ways.

Author's blog: gkkstitch-gkkmouse(dot)blogspot(dot)com

The "tickler" that sparked this drabble was based on the fact that Cinna requested District 12.

#2. One man can (try to) make a difference

CPOV

I stretch out on my back, hands behind my head, staring up at the ceiling. The cool sheets drape over my waist and legs, and I wonder what kind of bed Katniss sleeps on. Citizens are not allowed to visit the districts, and as a stylist only if your tribute wins will we be allowed to go. Even then we will be on a very tight—and controlled—schedule.

I hear the shower turn off and know that Myka has just stepped out of our bathroom in a cloud of lavender-scented steam as he towels himself dry. His blond hair will still be wet and scrubbed into every direction making the light reflect with a gentle glow. I hold the image of his easy intimacy with me close to my heart, even though every thought now is a comparison to the girl hundreds of miles away. Where does she bathe? Who does she love? Where is her safe place that she keeps close to her heart?

Myka, his skin still damp from his shower, lifts the sheet and crawls into bed with me. I gaze through my thoughts as if they are written on the ceiling over my head. He rests his head on my shoulder, holding me loosely around the waist and my arm comes down to curl around his head.

He presses a kiss to my bare chest and whispers, "Where are you?"

With my lips against his brow, I murmur, "District 12."

"The girl who took her sister's place?" Myka asks.

I'm feeling overly serious, so I decide to tease him. I already know how he will respond, but I pull out my best acting and say it anyway. "No, the boy. He's just adorable and you know I have a weakness for blonds." I impress myself. Even to my own ears I sound like I am seriously considering it.

Myka does not disappoint me, and even though I am tensed and ready for him to poke my ribs, I still flinch, chuckling.

"You," Myka says, crawling on top of me, and trapping me between his arms and legs, "are not funny. You're gorgeous and brilliant, but not funny."

Laughing now, I pull him close, enjoying his warm skin from the heat of the shower. We have lived together for more than eight years and it makes me happy that we trust each other enough to enjoy playful banter about fidelity. I love it when Myka is jealous. He is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, but he is constantly and playfully jealous about me.

He runs his fingers through my hair and I watch him letting it slowly slip from his fingers. "I could get you a pass to the presidential dinner tomorrow night, before the tributes arrive," he offers.

His casual offer feels so homey, as if he were noticing a hole in my sock and was offering to darn it. I love him even more when he says things like this, like it is the easiest thing in the world for him to take care of me. Myka works in the President's office as an assistant to the public relations officer, but when we are together all he wants to do is take care of me.

"It's fine." I look up at him with a smile, needing to show him how much that means to me and pull him down to my kiss.

I feel him melt against me and feel his warm sigh against my cheek. When he moves away from my lips, he lays his cheek on my shoulder like it's a pillow with his nose buried against my neck. Chest to chest, I want our hearts to merge into one beating thing. Nothing makes me feel more powerful and more vulnerable than the man in my arms. He is the most precious thing in the world to me, and that realization—something I think about every day—makes me think again of young Katniss and what she is willing to do for those who are precious to her.

"I'm going to request District 12," I say softly.

I don't worry when Myka does not reply at first. I know my words are being mixed to fit into everything he knows about me. He knows my beliefs about religion, science, fashion... even politics.

"Do you think that's a good idea?" he asks.

I don't answer right away, either. This is how we talk, carefully thinking before speaking. Besides, I really don't know if it is a good idea or not.

"I'm just wondering why you would make a decision like this with your career," Myka adds, more quickly than I would normally expect from him. "This is your first year being a stylist for the Hunger Games, and it's an enormous opportunity for visibility and reputation."

He's right of course. District 12 is never forced on anyone, but it certainly isn't a district anyone covets, either.

I trace my finger over the raised filigree pattern embedded in the skin on his shoulders and back. Unlike many others in the Capitol, Myka and I prefer to keep our physical appearances understated and minimalistic. One of the things that drew us together in the first place was a profound appreciation for the human body, just as it is.

Although, some accentuations are acceptable if done well.

I feel him tense in my arms and realize my continuing hesitancy to answer is upsetting him. "You're not going to make this political, are you?" he asks as quietly as he can.

He lifts his head to see my expression. I don't know what he sees, maybe it's simply my resolve, but he is pressed so close to me I can feel his heart race in fear. He takes a breath to speak, but I silence him simply by putting my fingers on his lips before he can make a sound. I can't stand to see fear in his eyes, so I stare at the pad of my finger as it traces over his soft pouty lip.

"Cinna," Myka says, making the single word a plea.

I need to reassure him. I need him to know how much I love him. I need to apologize to him.

I kiss him hoping I can roll all of these things into this touch. The quiet sob he muffles into my mouth as he cups my face and deepens the kiss tells me that he knows. When he pulls away, he presses his forehead to mine and I breathe in his sweet breath as his tears splash against my cheek.

"They're just children," I try to explain, and even to my own ears my voice sounds soft and strained by my conscience.

"I know," Myka replies.

A/N: Thanks to my friends LolaShoes, IrishGirlTaken, BrookeLockart and masenvixen for helping me discover "The Hunger Games" trilogy. And a special thanks to everyone who sent out retweets to their friends to encourage them to take a peek into Cinna's life.