THE PARADE
If there's anything better for a guy's confidence than being dressed in golden armor and paraded through a cheering crowd, Flynn can't think of it right now.
Sure, there are a few flies in the soup, metaphorically speaking. It's not how Flynn would have chosen to enter Capitol society, riding in a tribute chariot. Obviously, given his druthers, he would trade places with any of the Capitol citizens crowding along the sidewalks; safe and anonymous, and filthy rich to boot. Ah, to live out a life of quiet luxury in a modest penthouse. He wouldn't go for anything extravagant, of course. No unsettling tattoos or crazy-striped dinner jackets or solid-gold dishes, and only a small collection of expensive clothes and jewelry. Everything in the best of taste. It's a nice dream; on the off chance that he wins these Games, it could even come true.
Still, compared to scraping a living in the gray streets of District One, this is one hell of a way to spend an evening.
Their chariot is gloriously golden, burnished as brightly as their armor, and drawn by a matched pair of high-stepping horses as white as snow. Flynn actually tried to pat one of them, while they were waiting to begin the parade, and had to snatch his hand back in a hurry when the stallion darted its head out to snap at his fingers. Point taken. Who knew a big dumb animal would be so testy?
At least nobody but his district partner was witness to that moment of indignity; and the two of them are literally radiating dignity and beauty now, as their chariot rumbles along the streets of the Capitol. Their skin and hair has been dusted with gilt powder until they shine like a pair of metallic statues, and they've been crowned with real gold and diamonds. Flynn sneaks a glance at his partner; she's waving solemnly to the crowd, and her golden skin reflects the bright lights all around them in glimmers of rainbow color that slide softly across her bare arms and upturned face. Does he look that impressive and powerful, too?
"Flynn! Flynn Rider!"
Startled, Flynn looks up. High above on the balcony of an apartment, a group of girls with clouds of fashionable pastel curls are calling down to him. Their arms are full of flowers; one of them tosses an orange lily down to him. Flynn reaches up and catches it automatically, then - on a whim - winks up at her and plants a kiss on the brightly-colored petals.
The balcony girls let out a chorus of delighted shrieks. The next thing Flynn knows, he's being showered with flowers and shouted well-wishes and good-lucks and think-of-mes. The citizens in the stands near the street pick up on their excitement, and start a chant of his name. Flynn flexes a gilded bicep for them and grins, posturing shamelessly; the Capitol crowds respond with a roar of cheers and applause. Flowers and confetti patter around his sandalled feet.
Grinning from ear to ear, he nudges his district partner. "How about that, huh?" he smirks. "You know, I could get used to this."
"Don't," she advises him, flatly. The fixed smile on her lips doesn't falter, and she's waving to the crowd just as doggedly as he is, but there's no joy in her expression.
"Why not? This is a blast! Aren't you having fun?" Flushed with attention and applause, Flynn twists around and waves an arm jauntily back at the chariot from District Two, their future allies according to tradition. The girl is too busy blowing kisses to the crowd to notice him, but the male tribute spots him all right. His thick gingery brows snap together in a frown - almost a glare. And then he pointedly turns his face away, and ignores Flynn.
"We're not here to have fun," his partner says softly, distracting Flynn from his startled confusion. She's looking at him over one glimmering shoulder, and her large brown eyes are serious. "You know what we're here for, Flynn."
The cheering of the crowd suddenly sounds hollow and distant. Flynn swallows, and nods. "Yeah," he admits. "I know."
But it was nice, just for a little while, to forget.