"Such an intense Games," Verde murmured as the Capitol anthem died. "I had chills from start to finish—especially at the finish. Tell me, when you went head to head with Syrah in that final fight, what were you thinking?"
Nezumi crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair, a deliberately contemplative look on his face. He had already worked on an answer for this question with Gran. "To be honest… I was thinking of Sylva. Of what Syrah did to her."
"Oh?" Verde cocked her head. "But you couldn't have known then that it was Syrah who hurt Sylva—you've only just seen the replay."
"I knew. I had my eye on District 1 from the beginning; I recognized her signature."
"And so in those last moments you were thinking of Sylva?" Verde bit her lip as if she were trying to hold back, but a second later she asked what they were all thinking. "Were you and Sylva perhaps… more than just District partners?"
"What?" Nezumi furrowed his brow, a trace of surprise dancing across his face. "No. No, that's not it." He dropped his eyes to study his interlaced fingers. "Sylva and I… We weren't in a relationship, but by the end… We were close." He looked up at Verde. "To be honest, I didn't even know who she was until Reaping day. But once we were chosen for the Games and started spending time together, I realized we had a lot in common. I started thinking…" Nezumi dropped his eyes again to hide his distress, "that this must be what having a little sister is like."
The audience made an assortment of compassionate noises.
Verde whimpered along with them. "That's right, you don't have a family, do you? Oh, you poor dear!"
Gee, thanks, Verde. Your sympathy is a balm to my orphaned soul.
"That's why when I saw what Syrah did to her, I just… I completely lost it. It was like losing my family all over again. I was so angry I barely remember doing those things to Glint and Syrah."
Verde laid a hand on his lap and Nezumi let her touch coax him into raising his head again. "You won," Verde said softly. "I'm sure Sylva would have been proud of you. I know we are." She smiled out at the audience, who murmured in agreement. "There, you see. I know you've had a hard, lonely journey these past few weeks, but you've gained so much as a result. A seat among the most honored victors in our history, pride for your District, and most of all, a new a family—the family of Panem!"
The audience burst into applause and adoring shouts. Nezumi smiled gratefully. He realized he should appear more sycophantic, but his tolerance level was dangerously low after the recap.
Keep it together. Don't lose the smile, he reminded himself. He had to present himself with the proper amount of emotion when Fox presented him with the crown.
Fox rose from his chair in the front row. His small dark eyes gleamed at Nezumi as he mounted the stairs. A small boy trailed behind him, red-faced with the honor of carrying the victor's crown alongside the most powerful man in Panem.
"Congratulations," Fox said, placing the gold circlet atop Nezumi's head.
"Thank you, sir." Nezumi hoped the gruffness in his tone sounded like quiet pride, rather than the barely repressed hatred it truly was.
Fox tilted his head, and Nezumi could've sworn he saw his ears twitch. "You should be proud, Mr. Singer. You played a good game." He reached forward and Nezumi flinched instinctively. Fox smiled pleasantly and tucked a lose strand of hair behind Nezumi's ear. "The people are quite enamored with you. Keep up the fine work," he finished quietly. Then he gave Nezumi a congenial slap on the back and arranged himself by Nezumi's side so the photographers could get a photo.
Nezumi's heart raced, but he held his smile as they rushed him off the stage amidst thanks and declarations of love. He let it drop the minute they'd shepherded him safely into the car headed to the Victory Banquet. Only then did he let himself feel sick.
Shit. Nezumi leaned down and pressed his face between his knees. What was that? The panel between the front and the back of the car was blacked out, so he had a few minutes to freak out in private before he had to put on the mask again.
What did Fox mean? He was insinuating something unpleasant, obviously, but what? Was Fox just complimenting him on his acting ability, or hinting at something more sinister?
Why does everything have to be wrapped up in ambiguities here? Nezumi almost missed the cut and dry atmosphere of the arena. At least there you knew when someone wanted you dead. Even District 7 was preferable. Capitol politics were exhausting, and now he had to play their games for another four hours.
Nezumi eyed the door, wondering how far he would get if he threw himself from the car. Better yet, what would the guards do to stop him? Tranq him? Drag him kicking and screaming to the banquet? That wouldn't look very good, now, would it?
But as fun as it was to entertain, Nezumi knew it was useless. There was no point in making a scene when he had spent all this time and energy making himself amenable to everyone. Besides, the car had no handles on the inside.
Nezumi took a deep breath and released it slowly. He could do this. Only four more hours of smiling and schmoozing and he would be on a train back to District 7. Everything else he could figure out then.
The car slowed and Nezumi glanced out the window. The President's mansion loomed white and bright against the dark sky. Droves of finely dressed people climbed the steps, chatting excitedly in their lilting Capitol accents. A footman opened the car door and instructed Nezumi to follow him up to where his team was waiting.
Nezumi surprised himself with how relieved he was to see Rou and Gran again. Rou looked almost young in his dark gray suit and tie. He was pushing forty-five or six, but you would never guess it, even in spite of his gray hair and sun creased face. He held himself with quiet composure at most times, but he looked especially mindful amidst the Capitol fare.
Gran was the complete opposite. She seemed decades older than her thirty-six years and held herself so rigidly you'd think she'd calcify at any second. Her full name was Granny-Smith Grey, but no one dared call her anything but Gran in District 7, otherwise you'd find yourself sent home with a piece of rancid meat. She was as tart as her namesake, and her nickname fit her crotchety demeanor just as perfectly.
She, of course, at least looked like a proper lady in her dark blue dress, but the moment she spotted Nezumi heading toward them, her eyes turned hard. She was in one of her moods; socializing in general had a poor affect on her. Nezumi couldn't help but smile, which made her look darken further.
Gregor fluttered excitedly as Nezumi approached. "Nezumi! You look fabulous. Very tasteful, in fact. I'll have to compliment your stylists..." His gaze raked up and down Nezumi's figure, but in a refreshing deviation from the norm, he seemed to actually have eyes exclusively for his clothes. In fact, Nezumi was pretty sure Gregor had been talking directly to his suit jacket the whole time.
"You did well today," Rou said.
"You did adequately," Gran sniffed.
"Thank you," Nezumi said, knowing that both comments translated to approval according to his mentors' idiosyncrasies.
Rou offered Nezumi a small smile, and looked about to say something more, but Gregor had recovered from his envious leering and began to speak to Rou at breakneck speed. It was all Rou could do to nod.
"You got sloppy at the end."
Nezumi turned toward Gran. She had maneuvered herself at the edge of the fruit display beside him and pretended to pick through the berries. Nezumi slipped his hands into his pockets and sighed.
"And you're still being sloppy, I see," Gran growled. "What did I say about the sighing?"
"No one's around to hear but you," Nezumi said.
"One person is all it takes, boy. You know that."
Nezumi repressed another sigh. But Gran was right, as she usually was. "I just need a second."
"You don't have a second. This is your party, boy—at least officially." Gran piled her plate high with tropical fruit and made her way back to the standing table she shared with the rest of his team. She stabbed an appetizer fork into a pineapple slice and speared Nezumi with a look. "Go network."
Nezumi pursed his lips at her, but moved away towards the center of the room. The President had spared no expense on the decoration. Everything screamed refinement, from the chandeliers to the silky chairs and chaise lounges scattered around the room for partygoers to sprawl on.
The banquet was even more excessive. There were breads, and nuts, and not one, but two large boars dripping juices on a spit. The mountains of food appeared to have no regard for the season; plump pumpkins shared a table with bowls of blackberries and livid strawberries. At the end of the room, a myriad of drinks meandered down the center of a table like a liquid rainbow. Their contents shimmered and winked in their crystal glasses, and Nezumi narrowed his eyes distrustfully, watching a guest take two glasses of clear liquid and scurry into the bathroom in a fit of drunken giggles. He turned away to find himself face to face with a table of immaculate sweets tiered around an ice sculpture of the Panem crest.
The spread was impressive, sure, but Nezumi couldn't help but think of the wastefulness of it all. Even with the amount that the Capitol ate, they wouldn't make a dent in the food and drink provided.
"You have a sweet tooth?"
Nezumi wilted inwardly. He knew he'd have to do a fair amount of hobnobbing, but he had hoped it could wait until he had eaten. He wiped his face clean and faced his addresser.
It was a young man—or teen, actually, probably within a year or two of Nezumi's age. His hair was stark white and unkempt, long enough to cover his ears and forehead. Large, deep red eyes shone from beneath the boy's bangs in poorly concealed excitement, and Nezumi noted an odd pink marking on his right cheek, tapered to a rounded edge that was not likely natural. It must be a piece of some kind of tattoo; Nezumi could see another band of pink wrapped around his neck above his dress shirt.
His look was comparatively reserved for Capitol fashion, but to a normal person it was still a lot.
The boy's smile was friendly, but there was a touch of shyness in the way he held himself. It was apparent to Nezumi that this was a fanboy. He was a little younger than the standard guest at the party, but then he was probably some rich socialite's son dragged along for the revelry.
"Depends," Nezumi answered truthfully. "But not usually."
"I'm partial to cherry cake," the boy peered at the dessert table over Nezumi's shoulder, "but it seems like that's the only thing they don't have. Surprisingly."
Nezumi hummed noncommittally. The boy fidgeted. Nezumi watched him grapple for another line of dialogue for the next few seconds.
"I'm Shion, by the way," he finally managed. Shion held out his hand to shake.
Nezumi glanced at the proffered hand and squashed the initial impulse to swat it away, and the secondary impulse to ignore it. He took Shion's hand and fixed him with a pretty smile.
"Nezumi. But then, I think you already know that."
"Well... Yes. I'm actually here because of you." Shion's smile turned sheepish.
You don't say, Nezumi thought drolly, and withdrew his hand.
"Normally, I wouldn't be able to get within a thousand feet of the President's mansion. But all sponsors are invited as a courtesy."
Nezumi's smile shrunk a fraction, and Shion started guiltily.
"Oh! I didn't mean it to sound that way," Shion said quickly. "I didn't mean for it to sound like I was using you to get to the banquet. I don't even really care about the banquet, I wanted to sponsor you because I wanted to…" Shion trailed off near the end, rightfully realizing that he sounded like a bumbling idiot.
Sponsor? This kid? He must be very rich then, even if he didn't look like much.
Nezumi placed an amiable expression back onto his face. "I always expected sponsors to be older. But then I guess I owe you a thank you."
"No, you don't." Shion shook his head. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it to sound like that. And I didn't say it to get a thank you either. I just wanted to talk to you." Shion sighed. "But I'm doing a horrible job. I'm not very good at talking to people in general."
I'll say, Nezumi muttered internally. He decided now would be a good time to ditch this kid and duck into the bathroom for a few precious seconds of quiet time. He turned toward the bathroom and locked eyes with Fox. He and a tall, spindly man in white were hanging by the soup table, which Nezumi would have to pass to escape to the bathroom. Fox held his gaze for a tense second then dropped it back to his companion.
On second thought, let's keep Shion talking.
Nezumi turned back to Shion. "How about this? I'll forget you mentioned how you got into the banquet, and in exchange, you tell me what that tattoo is."
"This?" Shion touched the pink stripe on his neck. "It's a birthmark—well, the cheek part is. The rest is a tattoo. The doctors wanted to get rid of the mark when I was born, but my mom wouldn't let them. But after a while people started making fun of me, so I had it covered up with a—" He paused, and his face flushed so that the pink smudge almost blended in. "Uh… A snake… tattoo," he finished quietly.
Nezumi laughed. He didn't even have to force it, because the thought of this awkward youth trying to be edgy was ridiculous.
"I know." Shion mussed his hair and huffed. "But I was twelve. It seemed like a cool idea at the time."
"I bet," Nezumi said, arching an eyebrow. "And at what age did you decide the red contacts were cool?"
Shion stared wide-eyed at him, his blush growing deep enough now to contend with his eyes. Nezumi smirked. Maybe he could have fun at this party after all.
Nezumi took a step back and gave Shion the once over. "That blush is actually a good look on you. Maybe for your next touch up, you could dye your skin tomato red."
"You can stop now," Shion mumbled. "I get it."
"I'm only joking with you," Nezumi said, still feeling pleased with himself. These Capitol people are too easy. "So why did you come over to talk to me? I doubt it was for fashion advice."
Shion had dropped his gaze to stare mulishly at the floor. "I came to apologize."
"For what?"
"For what happened to Sylva."
Nezumi's amusement evaporated. Shion was still staring at the floor when he continued.
"I didn't realize you and Sylva were close, but after what happened, I understand why you… Why you reacted the way you did. What Syrah did to her was awful. No person deserves to be treated like that." Shion released a ragged sigh. "I know it doesn't mean much, but I just wanted to say I'm sorry for what happened. No one should have to say goodbye to a friend in that way."
Shion raised his head and went instantly white. Nezumi knew he had lost his composure, but he didn't care what expression he wore; he felt venomous.
"You're right. It doesn't mean much," Nezumi said, and Shion flinched. "Tell me, if you cared so much about Sylva, why didn't you sponsor her?"
Shion swallowed thickly, and although he opened his mouth, he seemed unable to say anything.
"What? Not enough money in daddy's bank account?"
"I…"
"No, that's not it. Probably didn't even occur to you—why should it? She was never going to make it, no point in blowing money on a losing bet. Right?"
Shion stared at him and Nezumi felt a curl of hatred in his chest at the guilty, dumbfounded look he wore. "You don't care about Sylva. While we were starving and bleeding to death in the arena, you were busy enjoying your perfect little world, dying your hair and stuffing your face with cake. It must feel good to step off your pedestal once in a while and throw us District kids a bone. I understand how you'd think I would be grateful for your cheap sympathy, but don't flatter yourself."
"I'm sorry," Shion stammered. "I didn't—"
Nezumi pushed past him. "Enjoy the banquet. You worked hard to get here, after all."
