Her fingers had run along the edges to straighten the paper, she folded it neatly, and slipped the content inside the envelope. His name and address had swung across the front in mesmerising penmanship which she had assured several times over to have written correctly. That had been two weeks before they would see each other again. Somewhere in between that time he had called, assuring to have received the message, and promising to arrive at the correct time and place. A letter had seemed almost presumptuous, but such a message carried a greater weight than inviting Mr. Heavensbee through a simple call. It was a special evening, after all.

Inviting him had come up after her husband had declined to come along, and she had been left with an open ticket. No one other than Mr. Heavensbee had sprung to her mind. The last time they had seen each other had been of the rather formal sort and since then they had only exchanged brief messages between each other.

Naturally, Virgilia had decided to wear one of her best dresses for the night, a sleek black one with the white rose attached to her chest, and redid her hair in an updo. At her plea, the staff left a few minutes earlier in case her guest would arrive by the minute. Following a long and hot summer, the weather had begun to turn cold again. A first this year. Requiring a longer coat, it wrapped tightly around her frame while waiting for Mr. Heavensbee to arrive outside the exhibition. Gratia moved somewhere in Virgilia's proximity, varying between talking into her earpiece and quieting to watch incoming guests pass by.

He had accepted her invitation not long after the message had reached him, and it had seemed a nice change to meet him elsewhere than the sun room. Perhaps here, tonight, she could see a different picture of him entirely. If he were to come, that was, as he had been all over the news following his first year managing the Games. Last time they had spoken, merely congratulating him on the victory, she had known far too little about the significance of such a winner. Relentless newspaper headlines assured the information was not forgotten to anyone within the Capitol. The sibling of the previous winner from District 1. Some deemed it favouritism, despite Mr. Heavensbee's apparent little involvement in the previous year, but the large majority celebrated such a heartwarming story. Either way, the Games had seemed a success. Enough for even her husband to offer a few favourable words. A rare occasion.

Gratia's voice disrupted her thoughts before his mere appearance called for attention. Raising her head and looking into the direction her agent had pointed out, he came strolling along to the entrance. The smile upon seeing him was immediate, irrevocable, and irresponsible. Virgilia bit her inner lip, and placed her gloved hands before her belly. Right before he came up the last stairs, where most visitors had stopped to chat, she could make out his lips pulling upward and lifting his round cheeks. He looked lovely, too, dressed in a suit different to the usual gamemaking attire.

"Thank you… for coming," she greeted him.

"Happy to be here," Mr. Heavensbee replied formally. His voice, not heard in a few weeks, seemed coated in honey despite its depth and ever so fulfilling to hear once more.

"May I?" she asked, stepping to his side and slipping her arm around his. A mere formality for the night as long as they walked side by side through the exhibition. No other reason. He didn't seem to mind, hence her free hand came to rest upon his arm crease. "I didn't know if you were interested in … the art displayed. But we hadn't seen each other in a while and I-I hadn't properly congratulated you yet."

"What do you want to congratulate me for?" he asked as they passed the large entrance hall. The exhibition already counted plenty of visitors, several of whom had arrived in colourful and extravagant costumes. Their chatter amounted to a greater echo resounding up to the round roof and moulded all conversations into one. "I haven't done anything."

"Oh? But-but…" She tried herself at articulating what for as it only seemed suitable to congratulate him - hadn't everyone else done so, too? - and her free hand tightened into her own.

"I wasn't fighting in the arena. She was the one who survived," Mr. Heavensbee stated. There was a dryness in his response all alike and unlike him at once.

The entrance offered a table of sparkling drinks. A welcome distraction; the sweet syrup touching her tongue, tickling down her throat, and leaving her with a strange notion of elation for as long as the taste remained on her lips. It was as much as pleasure as it offered room to think, to collect what she assumed was the appropriate response for someone interested in the Games.

"Surely… it wasn't her effort alone," she guessed. They moved in unison, feet hitting the floor at the same time, and moving toward the paintings displayed. Art in Panem was wonderful and terrible all at once. Liberating and constraining altogether. The subject tended to be the country itself; its utmost beauty held up for all viewers who dared as much as to forget. Grass fields stretching across the Districts, dusks and dawns kissing waters and forests while people mingled among nature and civilization. The pearl, the Capitol, often bursted in colours within its paintings. A city across the hill. A shining beacon of the country. Society which loomed across the lands. Those paintings were beautifully and carefully drawn, but most of all they were boring.

"No, it wasn't. The Gaming system is filled with many tiny gears spinning to create a new victor. Host, sponsors, gamemakers. Even your husband is part of the system. All the gears working together make the watch, wouldn't you agree? But you don't congratulate the hour wheel for making the time. It's the watch as a whole," he said.

Such serious nature, his tone calm and cold, yet, despite its stern message and mindful delivery, the watch reference warmed her cheeks and pulled her lips into a smile. Virgilia pictured herself understanding what he meant, here, albeit she far too easily had gotten lost in the smoothness of his voice than the meaning he had intended to convey, but the message was clear enough to understand even for feeble listeners. Or so she imagined, and concluded his thoughts: "The watch is the victor."

His curious brows pulled together and lips tightened as he tilted his head and looked at her. It was the same expression when she had explained to him the usage of different metals and their effects in crafting jewellery. Virgilia liked to think it had intrigued him well enough. The edge of his lips curled upward.

"Yes," Mr. Heavensbee said, "Have you watched this year's Games?"

"I have," she answered. It seemed unwise to answer differently in public, but, for once, and pride swung in her voice, she was not lying. Deciding a mere vocal answer was not enough, she nodded strongly at him and the painted boy raising a spear on top of a hill. On the horizon she could make out a thin line indicating an unnatural end to the landscape. On Mr. Heavensbee, she mostly noted his hands steadfastly slipping inside his trousers.

He had paused by her side, but did not look her way. Making out his gaze, it moved across the image. Never truly sticking to one place at a time, non, instead fleetingly taking everything in as if it were to escape his vision any second.

The silence ticked along, her feet shuffled along the floor without her body moving an inch. He was entirely silent, and Virgilia decided she hated the silence right this second. Another one passed, realising he might be waiting for an elaboration and, staring at the edge of the hill, she continued: "Those-Those Games were particularly special, I suppose? People keep talking about them and -" her lips pulled together "she was the previous victor's sister?"

"One after the other. Luck must run in the family," a nod. Mr. Heavensbee had shifted his weight, and her arm around his own had noticed the movement. But there was more, the flatness to his voice sounded strange and it didn't sit right with her. So much so that she wanted to protest, and so much so that it made her wonder why.

Winning the Games was a great honour. Every Capitol child had been taught as much and the careers, freely volunteering for the Games, were the living proof. Why would a family not feel honoured, then? Yet, he didn't spark the same enthusiasm as most other gamemakers she had met. People who seemed to enjoy discussing the difference between a spear and a sword (a discussion she had too often heard and blended out plenty of times). Had he already grown weary from working for the Games?

"Hopefully they don't have a third sibling, then," she attempted to conclude his observation.

Mr. Heavensbee looked at her oddly, but turned his view away as she attempted to return his gaze. His pupils once more moved to take in the painting as if he could understand it all at once.

"How is it?" She asked.

"Hm?"

"The-the work behind the scenes. The gamemaking, I suppose," Virgilia moved to hold onto the hand that so steadily rested on his arm. Nails lightly dragged along the skin's surface, stopped at her fingers and spread them enough to make room for her second hand.

He was quiet, initially, and she noticed his hand tap against the edge of his trousers' pockets before it slid inside again. Mr. Heavensbee in thought, she guessed, and she took steps toward the next painting. Her arm pulled him along as she granted him time to think.

"Head Gamemaker is a challenge," he began.

"One you … like?"

He didn't answer her question, but continued nonetheless: "It's rewarding to see the outcome. I follow the process from start to finish; design the arena and see the games play out until a victor emerges. Everything is connected," he looked at her in a serious manner. ''What environment I plan will change the gears for a future victory. Long fields offer an advantage for distance weapons. Fewer water resources increase the chance of a sponsored victory. Balancing each part correctly determines the Game's success."

Her head had grown dizzy imagining such a responsibility. Fingers squeezed tightly into each other, feeling each bone pressed together. The painting before them faded in its glamour to the way he had described his work.

"Is it a joyful occupation, then?" She asked, certain it was the most horrendous profession to take.

"It's what I'm good at," he rumbled, avoiding her question once more. She was no good at words or speeches, but far too often Virgilia had noticed that people didn't like to answer questions and he was no different.

"That sounds quite …" Virgilia began. What did it sound like? People being good at something were often invited to the mansion. Musicians, peacekeepers, gamemakers, advisors. All visited the President and his wife because they were among the best that were. Hadn't she ever married, was there something she could have been all so fulfilled by to become proficient at? "Quite consuming," she concluded.

The next paintings blurred together in a similar haze of Panem's landscapes. The Capitol remained present in the background or through flags or uniforms, but life had become idyllic, almost envious. She had never seen so much nature at once.

It was at a picture of people seated at a hill and the sun capturing their last moments of that day, her mind continuing to think about his joy for his work, when she drew a connection.

"A clock, you mean a-a clock," the words pushed out, all too loud for an art gallery visit.

"Sorry?" Mr. Heavensbee turned his gaze to her.

"Watches are… they are the same way, aren't they? Like your profession, Every piece needs to fit together to make a good watch function. If they don't, the watch is no good for anyone. You are a watchmaker."

Virgilia noticed his cheeks stretching rounder and redder as his lips motioned upward: "I hadn't thought of watches as such. Brilliant insight, Mrs. Snow."

"You are … f-flattering," Virgilia said and looked down at her hands. Him not having considered such a comparison? She refused to take his word for anything but a compliment. Then, she added, as to not forget her manners: "Thank you."

A slim figure in a ghostly dress slipped to their side and quietly exchanged their empty glasses for new ones. She had almost managed a thank you , but it seemed unwise around him. One did not talk to avoces, a rule she followed. For the most part. Sometimes. Yet, the quiet motion and exchange offered a break and a welcome one at that. Taking a sip allowed her to contemplate on what to say next. There were still plenty of questions she ought to ask him - several personal ones, too.

"You should visit the Gamemaking centre next year," Mr. Heavensbee spoke again and much faster than her.

An invitation? She had not thought much of their friendship, only when occasion allowed, and next year seemed quite so distant. Next summer, when autumn had only just announced itself and she had watched the leaves descend to the grounds in colours from yellow to brown to red. It seemed awfully far away, next summer, and yet at the same time … he planned to stay in contact with her until then?

" ?"

"Oh-" her lips shaped a silent yes, all too interrupted in imagining the surroundings. She had been to the training centre and sponsor area, but the deeper paths spinning into a labyrinth of paths and rooms had never caught her sense of adventure. The Snow family was not working at the games nor allowed to sponsor them, thus there had been little reason for her to stray from any public areas. She had other places to be at, too.

His eyes still looked into her direction. She could feel it, not like a burning fire that scorched at the edges of her skin until an answer revealed in the ashes following. No, he waited, patiently, and looked at her like he did when seeing one of the paintings; where his eyes moved all over catching every small detail. What was his final review?

Virgilia cleared her throat, nodded, and then replied: "I-I would like that."

Whatever it was, he tore his gaze away from her, which seemed odd, and she worried to have disappointed him. Was it the sort of event one rather politely rejected? His free hand moved from his trousers to his lips and she caught Mr. Heavensbee's smile before it was hidden away by his rather lovely looking hand.

They moved along the paintings in a natural flow, colours and themes blurring together as they mentioned their favourite art displayed. The messages within the art grew less evident, no more focused on figures and landscapes, no more Panem flag looming above, no more faces speaking about happiness or curiousity or admiration.

Where they had proceeded in unison, no one needing to wait for the other, she halted for longer moments, breaking their natural flow as Mr. Heavensbee waited patiently. Sometimes she felt his gaze on her, never burning, but enough to coax words from her as she explained why the art had required a longer observation. Then, their steps echoed in the same beat along their path, swallowed by the busy chatter around them.

The next art was a large crowd of people, reduced to mere brush strokes rendering them unrecognisable. There was colour, plenty of it, all of those she had caught in a rainbow and more. All those one would see when walking the streets of the Capitol, but they lacked expressions and emotions. All in a rush, not unlike the daily life in the Capitol, but -

"They don't have any faces," Virgilia observed. It was no staggering observation at that, and surely nothing that Mr. Heavensbee hadn't already considered himself. Still, an eerie painting, she thought, searching for a single emotion or reaction within the crowd, but there was none. "Almost as if-as if they don't exist."

It was a painting, of course they wouldn't exist , she wanted to add, wanted to convince him that she understood, but her throat choked on the next words and her hand held tighter to his sleeve.

"I'm .. I'm sure that the artist - they wanted to show that we are all the-the same. There's company in-in that. But doesn't it seem awfully depressing? No one has anything-anything to say or see or … we are blind and deaf and mute. There's nothing. That's … that's scary, no?"

Loneliness. Virgilia knew what depths that could fall into, and she decided to not fall in there. Her view tore from the painting and looked at him for answers or - at least - getting lost in the curve of his lip rather than the painting. Oh, she was no decent partner for such an art gallery. Shouldn't she much rather talk about the brilliant colours or the wonderful crowds of the Capitol?

He didn't respond, no, not as fast as she wished for. But he looked at her, at least, mouth slightly opened and eyes alive and curious.

"Certainly you - We can move…" Virgilia offered.

"You have an interesting view," Mr. Heavensbee finally said. His voice rang plain but certain, and she knew better than to argue. Gesturing toward the painting, his hand had moved from its pocket and followed the motion of the watercolours.

What followed was quietness on her part and a monologue on his part. He seemed most sophisticated when mentioning the perspective and the painting style. How all worked together in creating the painting. Coherent in his observation, she patiently waited for him to finish, following his hands for emphasis on the matter he discussed all while one question burned itself into her mind.

When he paused, she finally caught a breath: "Are you an artist?"

He blinked, held back from answering. Orange brows pushed together to create a wrinkle between each other: "I draw sometimes."

"What do you draw?" Virgilia asked. She stood a bit taller and leaned toward him. Her free hand came to rest upon the one interlinked with him and a quiet smile peaked her lips upward.

"Mostly sketches for-" scratching his forehead, his speech had slowed down "the arenas. In preparation and for design ideas."

"Oh."

"Oh?" Mr. Heavensbee asked. His voice heightened at the question mark.

"There's so much … beauty in the world," she began as they moved along the gallery "awaiting to be discovered and-and acknowledged. If I could draw… I would draw the flowers. Or the sunset. Maybe people, too. There's beauty in them if-if they have faces."

Mr. Heavensbee seemed confused. Not that she knew for certain, but he looked at her with half open lips and a lost gaze. A Hmm followed from the depth of his chest and she refused to wonder how that vibration would feel if she put her hand there. Of course that moved across all boundaries between each other, but she hoped for explanations to the peculiar expressions he displayed all too often.

"I used to. Sometimes we move on from past interests," he said.

She nodded: "Maybe there's only so many sunsets to draw."

That didn't seem true, but she thought it necessary to agree with him.

"Was it always your wish to marry a Snow?" He asked. She read the attempt of nonchalance in his voice, but the stark contrast from art to her marriage took her by surprise.

It was infuriating even! Virgilia would have rather talked about his art, asked to see some of his drawings, or even requested his judgement on more paintings. Her husband? The Snows? It had been nothing she liked to think about. Yet, her fingers brushed along their space on his arm and she tried herself at an answer for her friend.

"No.. No. It wouldn't have been my place to wish for someone," Virgilia drearily trudged along her reply.

"Why?"

"My parents chose. I was only lucky to have many …. admirers," It was easy thinking back to those days. Many suitors had seemed a proper choice and had there been equal spouses in status, she might have been allowed to weigh in. But the request of the President was not to be denied. The wedding was a good day for her family.

"Do you like their choice?"

She stared at him. What was he trying to ask of her? Find details about her marriage unknown to the public? What would it matter to him? Mr. Heavensbee was, as she had realised herself, not the type to gossip. A question too invasive, if only for the fact she didn't suppose it was suitable to answer to her marital satisfaction. Her right hand tapped onto his sleeve and believed itself to properly show the golden ring on its finger. Was this no answer enough? Coriolanus was always there, right with her. Did her opinion on that topic matter? No - then why ask?

Virgilia had convinced herself with the decency of her husband. Generous. Regal. He tried at their marriage, yes, until he did not. But those moments surely were rare. He had better things on his mind, leading a country and whatnot he did that he certainly did not need to tell her, either! The rare times spent together outside of - well, he did what he could, surely.

"I'm sorry. I didn't intend to cross any boundaries," his voice rang back to the all-yellow painting they stood in front of. It rattled her mind awake, reaching the very thoughts that she had considered so intimately hers. It had not been the first time he had that way with her: So entirely did he strip her bare with a mere inquisitive gaze and words. Virgilia refused to decide whether that was good or bad.

Lips pulled into a short line. No emotions, it didn't suit the presidential family.

"Thank you," she answered and looked down at her ring finger. It felt appropriate for Coriolanus, but not enough for Mr. Heavensbee, not for him, he deserved a better explanation. One day, she promised herself - and him, albeit he would not hear that promise out loud. "What about you … why - why become a Gamemaker?"

"My father was a Gamemaker. His brother, too," Mr. Heavensbee stated plainly. There was no excitement in his voice, least the same way when he had answered her questions on art. For what was he displeased, then? His family's name was one of influence and wealth - before and after the Dark Days. Not even her own family could claim that - despite having married into good hands.

"Then … then you followed the family … tradition?"

"It was hard not to," he glanced toward her. A fleeting and brief moment, fluttering away when she met a warm blue in return. Akin to a warm summer's day, staring up at the sky while clouds had moved past. It was gone just as quickly, but it left her with the very same softness she had felt back then.

He continued as if unaware of the effect his gaze had upon others, anyone else, surely: "My family always expected me to follow the path they laid out for me. I never considered something else, maybe I would have made a great watchmaker."

She smiled at that: "The best."

"Maybe," he didn't seem convinced. She wished he were.

Virgilia recoiled and looked downward. The ring was still there and the white rose against her chest, too. It was unwise to suggest any different road for him. Was she not any different? But more importantly: Had she blushed looking at him? Had anyone seen?

The remainder of the evening moved along more smoothly. They got caught up in a chat about the arts and future watches. Virgilia inquired about his plans for the next arena and listened intently on the ideas that she had to promise not to share with others. An awkward laugh shook his chest as he explained how little he was allowed to tell her before he told her all too much.

And then, when the darkness had hugged the city goodnight all despite its blinding lights, they parted outside of the gallery. Two brief smiles, a pair of arms that stopped short of hugging her and two laughs aired in misty clouds colliding with one another and rising into the night air. Just as he had appeared when she had waited outside for him, suddenly and taking up all of her view, he disappeared into the dark. Her gaze kept onto the spot, made up his silhouette and wondered when they would meet again. She wished he hadn't fainted away, but rather gained colour and substance again. Reappear before her eyes and spoke with a voice so warm it embraced her in the cold night.

The only sound that clung to her was a faint sight from her own lips. Desperate in its attempt at language as he faded from her.