Plutarch's fingers moved in between the fabric of the shirt's cuff and pulled it down to his wrist. The sleeves felt too short and the collar too tight - almost as if it had plans to suffocate him for this evening. Perhaps it wasn't too far from the truth. Any and all official ceremonies were miles from his favourite means of socialising and least knowing who attended. Gamemakers, aristocrates, celebrities and/or politicians. Indeed, some of them gathered reputation through titles as if their life depended on it.

Surely, for some it did and who was he to judge? Born with a good family name and more money than a toddler could have imagined. Not everyone was as fortunate as a Heavensbee.

Still, he dreaded tonight for several reasons. Those nights needed an extraordinary care applied to how he talked with the attendants. Plenty were invited because they stood close to the President's side. One slip, one wrong word, one ounce of irony too much, and he could significantly endanger the freedom project. His own life was less of a concern than the movement itself. He knew the sacrifices that others had made in history and today, but as long as the project was alive, that was all that mattered. Worse, he had never liked the mansion, a building seemingly of the olden days, haunted by all that this government stood for and all that it did not stand for; freedom, equality, democracy.

The one person who could have eased that dread had been terribly quiet in the past weeks. He had taken their contact for granted, enjoying the exchanges via mail when they wouldn't see each other, and meeting here whenever they could. Virgilia made the palace easier to endure. Since she had been quiet, he had allowed her to occupy more of his thoughts, mostly to worry about her, making her another reason why he felt rather nauseous in attending tonight—or whatever that quiet agitation in his stomach meant.

A beeping noise distracted from the image that had burned in his mind last time he had seen her, and he looked up. His exit. The mansion had no direct connection to the underground system, surely for security purposes, he assumed, so a short walk would allow for a brief moment of fresh air. Indeed, for a regime built on war, it must have been a strategic move to have the President's seat within the city borders but difficult to reach nonetheless. Bombing the palace would prove difficult if civilian life was valued and a siege could only happen if the city, too, was taken. Unrest within the Capitol was unlikely unless—

Plutarch heard the distinct music, lifted his head and could make out the cool light streaming away from the mansion. Hands by his side, he took a left turn and the path opened to the entrance. By the sides was intricate gardening work and a larger fountain ahead. Most of the grass remained frozen during this time of the year and further cool in the early evening. He shivered.

To be invited tonight was considered an honour one ought to take up on. The winter celebrations at the palace were only for important people considered close to the president or government, though both had little to no distinction, of course. Unsurprisingly, work was never over—least here—and he expected to talk with those gamemakers who were invited and, if the chance would arise, the president himself. There was another person he wanted to see, not for business, but he refused to be hopeful. The way she moved within a crowd was quiet, but certainly not unnoticed to his eyes and he wasn't sure if she was available for a conversation or if she even wanted one. He would like one.

Passing a few familiar faces at the entrance to the mansion, he wandered into the guest rooms on the lower levels. A formal living room and dining space were large enough for the thin guest list as Avoces moved along and in between to offer drinks and finger food. With a piece of food in his hands, he made an effort to let his gaze wander, seemingly unbothered, searching for vital groups of guests and faces. Few were in between the ministers and advisors, though mental notes were made to greet them while the evening passed. Keeping up an appearance was vital, both for what he was to them—the head gamemaker coming from an old family—and what he was not to them—plotting to make them all lose their careers.

While the outside had been shaded in a cool darker blue, snow glistening in the moonlight, the inside retained its warm colours. Light hovered among the warm yellow and warm furniture—whether couches or chairs or portraits—all paired well in their golden hues. He was offered a glass of something sparkly, but did not have time for a first sip.

"Plutarch," a bellowed voice rose from the chatter. Its source came from a group nearby, all clothed in similar dark colours with a hint of purple and all male, old, and rather well-off. The clothes of gamemakers were often used as a suit for formal events, and tonight was not any different. Not all of the figures were currently participating in creating the games. Rather, these had been the most celebrated and beloved creators in the past decades. His younger self had looked up to them.

Hands were shaken, congratulations passed along, and they arrived at the topic that surely must have been on their minds for several months. "Congratulations on your first victory."

"I've barely done any work. She's the one who threw the knives," Plutarch said, grinning, which felt too odd and not at all like him, and claimed the following laughter on a false sense of amusement.

"What a tragic tale to tell, is it not? Following in her brother's footsteps right the very next games. It's a pity you didn't lead the previous year, either. What were their names again?" An elderly gamemaker prompted. Nero, if Plutarch recalled correctly, had become famous around the mid 40s and had been advising the president ever since. Being in good favour with him was vital for a successful career.

"Gloss and Cashmere."

"Ah, right," he said. A twinkle of recognition flickered in Nero's eyes. "What a promising start for a head gamemaker. Many await more greatness from you." An 'Including me' swung, unsurprisingly, along in his voice.

"Thank you, sir," Plutarch said. The sense that he was being observed had been a staggering feeling during summer time, while the games were aired, but he had never felt the need to warrant his choices on the how and why of his arena planning—until now.

"A canyon hasn't been dared since-"

"The thirty fifth hunger games."

"What an interesting choice," Nero nodded. "I reckon the sponsor gifts helped Miss Cashmere in her final victory. She would have been mangled by her partner. What a bitter finale, so much blood spilled. Recovering her must have been a hassle."

"The medical team is excellent," Plutarch said "Three days."

"I have always wondered if lone tributes have a greater chance of surviving. Taking an ally has often been such an impediment."

What was this about? He frowned and raised a smile in a false demeanour of pure naivety. "Either can be beneficial. All depends on the circumstances and the ally one takes," he replied.

There was a longer glance, one he couldn't quite place. Nero was about to respond, but a familiar voice from the hallway called over. No, not only called over. Directly called for Plutarch's name.

He turned his head. Caesar Flickerman. The corner of his lip twitched in a slight grin.

"Excuse me. I am needed elsewhere," he said, containing his relief when walking away.

Caesar grinned, stretching his lips until his muscles surely must hurt, revealing his white teeth, and tilted his head watching Plutarch move toward him into the fine entrance hallway. He spoke only when Plutarch came close enough and despite usually being the same height, he stood a bit taller today. "I saved you there," Caesar bragged.

"Don't let it get to your head." A laugh came from Plutarch.

"I will, don't worry about that," came the quick and cheerful reply. Caesar strolled ahead, one arm loosely in the pockets of rather colourful trousers. He appeared almost too comfortable with himself here in the house that seemed to dampen Plutarch's mood wherever he walked.

"Did they pester you about the next games?"

"Not yet," he sighed. It was bound to come, whether tonight or through a convenient message sent at the worst time.

His friend stood still by the staircases that led to the private quarters of the family. The last time Plutarch had been there—no, her gaze still haunted him. He leaned against the windowsill, finally taking a first sip from his drink. Looking over, Caesar was illuminated through the cool light from the outside gardens. Dipped in blue, he seemed rather out of place.

Of course, appearances were not what mattered. "I'm relieved to finally have you here. All those years, I never knew what to do without you," Caesar joked, his lips widened in one of his famous smiles. Did this man ever stop smiling? "It's not as interesting as they make it sound. A bit like the usual celebrations, but less people asking for my autograph."

"They ask for your autograph? Here?" Plutarch's face pulled into a grimace, eyebrows raised and a chuckle shaking his upper body "I don't believe you."

"Exaggeration is the greatest way to tell a story," Caesar answered. Now, Plutarch was certain he was joking. "Maybe once or twice…"

"You mean the time I had to rescue you from Cecilia Highb-"

"Shush! I will never forget that stench," he gleamed, despite the rather strange encounter. Hadn't it been during the 53rd? Or the 54th? They had merely been acquaintances back then, Plutarch still considering his own plans of rebellion and needing someone close to the tributes. Caesar had been perfect—albeit he had only known him from afar. Much younger than today, even if his appearance hadn't changed much since then. A few investigations into his background, and he had found the first recruit for a rebellion that yet had to come to fruition. He didn't think to make a friend in someone who seemed to have five cups of coffee inside his body at all given times.

No, watching him now, they certainly made for an odd friendship. There were only a few people he could trust, Plutarch thought, and plenty more who kept him wondering what their true allegiance was. He had allowed her to occupy more space in his mind, and she took it over again with a suddenness he didn't welcome.

"What?" Caesar interrupted his thoughts "You are quiet tonight."

"I don't like this place," he mumbled. Better to keep their conversation low. The guests in the other rooms and around the mansion didn't need to hear any of that.

"You did not not like it here last time," Caesar observed. Did it almost sound accusing? Suspicious, of course, he knew his friend too well, and the same applied in return.

"I didn't see her tonight," Plutarch admitted. There had been a professional interest in her at first, hoping to grow closer to the family, absorb information, and get a seat at the table of the Snow's. He liked to think that was all his worry was about. Being on Virgilia's bad side could negatively impact his relation to the president, and, worse, make the rebellion a much harder ordeal.

"Plutarch—"

"I know I shouldn't care, but what if she got angered the last time I saw her? We might need her…" He knew what Caesar would say, he knew what his heart would say. Both were right, Plutarch cared too much about her, got entangled in a friendship or … whatever this was, it began to damage the rebel cause.

"I'm not surprised you didn't see her," was his friend's soft reply.

His head shot up. Why? Had there been some information he had missed? News that told something about her? He had been busy the past week, but surely, whatever happened, unless a true accident, his sources must have known.

"Why?" his voice trembled. A lost target. A lost friend. A lost—

"She's outside," Caesar nodded toward the source of light. He rushed to the larger glass doors that led to the gardens. The long staircase had been flooded by the moonlight and interrupted, briefly, by a thin frame. Not much to make out except for her signature braided blonde hair.

Plutarch cleared his throat: "I—"

"Go," Caesar replied, a far too delighted tone for Plutarch's taste. "I will tell everyone that you got your head stuck in a book or fell into the fountain."

Plutarch choked on a sympathetic laugh trying itself as a reply. Placing the now emptied glass on the window sill, he pressed the door handle down and felt a first fresh breath of air.

It was rather cold, not surprising for this time of the year nor its hour. An odd decision to sit down outside, but that wouldn't be the first time she had astonished him.

She must have noticed the sound of the door or his footsteps as her head turned just enough to see him. The light from the inside bathed her face in warm colours and he couldn't look away until finding himself seated next to her. The stone was cold beneath him and the snow further down lay shimmering to reflect the moon and stars above.

Both his hands folded in his lap and he cleared his throat: "It's good to see you again."

What a terrible statement. Was that all he could do? Caesar did flirting and apologising much better than Plutarch—he had seen both happen, and a few times simultaneously.

"It's … nice to see you, too, Mr. Heavensbee," she answered in a formal tone. Her pattern of speech had always fascinated him. Stumbling over some words, choosing them with a care that made him question the intention. Sometimes her sentences were clearer, her voice moving confidently from one syllabus to the next. Tonight was not the case, and he wondered if the cause might be in the visit she received now. Too much had been unsaid last time they saw each other.

He looked her over from the side. So stoic and unmoving. Yet, it was wise to tear his gaze away from her; wise for the rebellion and wise for his own heart. "Last time we spoke," Plutarch began, "This must have been a private moment for you. I hadn't intended to disturb. I'm sorry." But there was more, a formality that had bothered him for quite a while. In private, he had used her first name, but it mattered to do so here, too. Certainly, he could add his next sentence to a long list of wrongdoings against his own cause. "Call me Plutarch. We are well past surnames."

Had she safely looked straight ahead a moment ago, her head had turned. A pair of eyes that viewed him with a sense of suspicion and he was certain she would reject such an offer. Her lips shaped something, whether a rejection or anger he couldn't tell. She repeated this process twice and he refused to grow impatient with her.

"Plutarch," Virgilia said. The way she tested his name on her lips tugged at his heartstrings. An awful realisation. This was a bad idea, it had always been. There were far too many disadvantages that outweighed the advantages of becoming close to the family Snow.

"You may call me Virgilia," she added. He noticed her faint smile. Maybe he could balance both.

A nod: "Virgilia, then." Plutarch caught himself staring, but he allowed it. One time couldn't hurt, could it? Besides, was there relief to not associate her name with the president anymore? But was that not why he had befriended her?

She had turned her gaze ahead again and Plutarch followed to understand. The darkness cloaked the scenery ahead. Greenhouses looming somewhere there and the glass reflected faintly in the light. For the most part, everything was covered in snow. It stretched across into the darkness—much of nothing ahead of them and too much behind. What was she even seeing there?

The braided hair at the sides found itself tied into a knot on the back of her head. He had little idea where to start and what kind of twists needed to happen to make it look quite as intricate, but she always carried this or similar braided hairstyles. Except for that one time, the night that had shattered him all too much. Like a ghostly figure, hunting the insides of the mansion with a sense of pain in her eyes that he hadn't expected from her. She was pretty, too, no, beautiful. He was no poet, but there seemed better words to describe her than those two. Some words that he rather not used; it seemed unwise to think of her like that. Did she love Snow? The very man who was so much older than her and who had seemed to carry little affection for any matter or being. Did she care for the system they lived in? So few comments that he could interpret, so very little that she truly spoke on most political matters. Even in public she remained quiet. Akin to a pretty statue carried along. Was she underestimated or were her looks all that stood out? Maybe she was like him, perceived and praised for one thing when there was so much more.

The quiet silence between them had allowed him to indulge and wonder, but a movement of hers brought him back to reality. Virgilia's hand had wrapped around her bare arm, fingers pressed into thin flesh and rubbed at her pale skin.

"Are you cold?" he asked.

"A bit," she turned to look at him.

Undressing his jacket, beneath it a long suit shirt, he nudged momentarily closer to cover both of her shoulders. It was only appropriate to move back to his spot. Here, so out in the open he was certain someone was watching them from the many windows behind their backs.

"Thank you… Plutarch," Virgilia's voice cut through the cold. Her thin hands wrapped the jacket closer. She seemed to hide inside, head tilted into the collar and closing her eyes. What was she doing there? Her finger that had lifted the fabric to her lips, looking so absent-minded that he couldn't quite place whether she truly was thankful for the gesture.

Tearing his gaze away, he refused to look any longer. Any unprofessionalism would hurt the rebellion. The rebellion aside, how many stared at her? He didn't want to be the reason for discomfort—or one among many.

"Have you seen the stars already?" Plutarch asked, gladly tilting his head upward. "The lights are usually too bright for that."

Not too many clouds and enough to see a few constellations. This subject was not his strong suit, but he had picked up bits here and there in his childhood when cowering over pictures detailing constellations and their significance.

"It's very pretty," Virgilia's voice lightened. He refused to look, but tried to imagine the smile that took up so much of her facial features. The ones that touched upon her eyes and—no.

"I used to watch them when I was younger. See, there's Polaris. The northern star," he lifted a hand and pointed upward into the sky.

"Where?" She asked by his side. About to explain, Virgilia added an "Oh."

"Yes, see, and then if you move down the stars -" Plutarch pointed lower, then moved his hand in a square gesture "There's Ursa Minor. The little bear."

He didn't need to look over to know. The sound of fabric sliding along gave it away and if that didn't convince him, he saw small huffs of air rising into the sky. Their shoulders would touch if he leaned over.

"Why little bear?" she observed "Is the night sky filled with ... bears?"

He chuckled. He had never wondered about that. "Well spotted. But, no, there's only two. See—" Plutarch leaned closer. His shirt brushed against his jacket. Just this time, he wasn't wearing it. "She is much lower, right by the treeline. A similar shape as the little bear, but extended. There's her face."

Virgilia's hand lifted upward and she traced along the lines he had drawn himself. His view followed, little to add, and even remained when her hand motioned back to her side. She seemed so determined and lost all at the same time. What was she thinking right there? Picturing the bears in the sky? Still trying to take it all in? Her eyes were so wide open, akin to his younger self. When curiosity had gotten the best of him, trying to see and capture all in just a single gaze. As if he could learn about the world and its mysteries right this moment.

"Mother and son, then? She could be carrying him on her back. Look, quite so much bigger," Virgilia said. Her view turned and he felt her gaze burning on him.

His head quickly moved away from her. A nod while he cursed himself for having looked. Again. "Yes, some languages refer to the great bear as being female."

"She always looks after him," Virgilia concluded and pulled at an escaped bit of hair. "So close together, too."

"There's a mythology on them," he said. Without waiting for an answer, Plutarch continued: "The mother had been turned into a bear. An ancient goddess, if I remember. Nothing real, of course," he added "She found her son who had been a human hunter. He almost shot her. To avoid harm, both were turned into bears and cast into the sky. To roam the night, perhaps."

Nothing explicitly was forbidden in the Capitol and the definition of treachery was loose enough to allow for the tyranny to make its own assumptions ad hoc. He rarely spoke about historic events before Panem. Of course, Greek myths were an invention. But stories from the old days had their time and place, and that was to say they never had a time nor a place in the Capitol. If Virgilia kept this to herself—the implication certainly appealed more to his heart than his mind.

Her voice interrupted as she fought with words. He waited until she finally spoke: "That's … sad."

"Why?"

"They were never given a choice. Either to become bears or … or become constellations," Virgilia said.

"You are right. Maybe they would have liked to decide for themselves," he replied, hoping she would catch its meaning. What if he could dig deeper? Try to understand what her true loyalty was?

"Is there another constellation with a tale?" she diverted. She hadn't moved since then, he thought, and tried to ignore the feeling that carried such a thought.

"Yes, see, there is this one right there," Plutarch said. The story of Cassiopeia was that of a mother who had boasted that she and her daughter, Andromeda, were the prettiest. Plutarch pointed at the Andromeda galaxy, though he would later wonder if he had pointed at the correct spot—his concentration lacking its usual determination. Cassiopeia wished to avoid the wrath of the gods, thus she followed the advice of an oracle. Chaining Andromeda to a rock to be eaten by sea monsters raised protest by his right ear. She seemed in better spirits when he revealed Andromeda's saving.

Plutarch didn't remind her of the jacket that had still been wrapped around her shoulders and he pretended not to notice until long out of reach to make a return worthwhile. No, even Caesar's remarks couldn't distract him.

A choice—he recalled her words. How many of those did she have in her lifetime? Would she have chosen differently? A different life and, perhaps, different views?

Somehow, he survived the remaining evening of loud clashing drinks and chatty guests. Nero had tried to engage him into a conversation again and, for now, it seemed to be going well enough that he hadn't caused the gamemaker to think any worse of him than before.

Returning the same path he had come to the mansion, Plutarch found his way back into his home. The system activated. Lights turned on, ready for him to name any further wish he had, but he didn't feel like talking. Heavy steps made their way up into the bedroom.

Unbuttoning his shirt, he thought of her. Why did it matter to her that the bears had not been given a choice? Couldn't she have seen this as a prophecy? A path that one must take in life? No, it had irked her.

And her answer irked him. It contained too many riddles.

He undid his belt and slipped the trousers away. A sigh. Why had she leaned into his jacket? It didn't seem like her to act quite so informal. Were the remnants of their previous encounter still affecting her?

Replacing his underwear with a pyjama, he considered the possibility that he might have liked her for more than the rebellion longer than he preferred to admit. She had leaned into him and he had forgotten the purpose of this whole endeavour. Not only had Plutarch liked her moving close, he had left her jacket with her. He had told her about topics that others could surely interpret as treachery.

Slipping into bed, his mind spun around the way the moonlight had touched her and he wondered if under different circumstances and had she been given a choice, would she have chosen to fall in love with him?

A/N: I was really excited for this chapter and hope you enjoyed it as well! Switching to Plutarch's POV will happen ever so often, but it will remain rare in comparison. I figured it might be nice to read from his perspective ever so often, especially considering he isn't quite the open person in expressing his true thoughts and feelings.

I've also decided to get some art for this scene. Unfortunately, I cannot figure out how to link it here, so if you are interested, look up this fic on Ao3 and you can see the art over there!