Blaine Abernathy: A Canary Caged
Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games
Chapter 64: Worrywart
Blaine's POV
Never get your hopes up, my mother would say.
Therefore, I never gave too much hope that I would see completely for the rest of my life. Although it felt nice to see it fully, it was only temporary because the Scope is only used for emergencies and missions. Will there ever be an opportunity to wear the Scope again? One of my fears is becoming blind. If anything were to happen to my other eye, my chance of blindness would be high now.
Many thoughts were running through my head that I forgot I was in another private appointment with Dr. Caduceus. Usually, we just sit down and talk about my dreams and episodes. I hadn't had an episode in a few weeks, not since the announcement of my death in the papers. I wonder if it was because I could have a fresh start. That Blaine Abernathy was dead. The idol that the Capitol wanted me to be. The Canary in a cage.
However, it did not stop the headaches and migraines. The headaches linger despite the medication given, the dark rooms, and meditations. Dr. Caduceus continued the conversation, thinking the hallucinations held a symbolic meaning in my life. As we went over the first hallucination, the giant albino snake, it was clear it was my mind's interpretation of President Snow. With Snow's snake-like appearance with his eyes, his pale complexion, and the use of poison…Snow was a snake.
I sat on the lounge, legs tucked under me as I leaned against the armrest. Dr. Caduceus scribbled more notes down of our previous conversation about last night's nightmare. The nightmare was about Peeta, him being tortured the same way I went through as Damon carved his skin…skinning him alive. The doctor suggested I fear for Peeta's safety, worried that he'd be tortured. Though the knives and daggers were an interesting subject. The hypothesis about blades was that to kill somebody with sharp edge objects is more personal than a gun or arrow could define a simple mercy kill.
"I notice you're clean." Dr. Caduceus noted. "Have you accomplished your fear of water?"
"Yeah," I breathed.
"Can I ask how?"
I paused for a moment, "I had help."
Dr. Caduceus wrote this down, "Who helped you in this accomplishment?"
"Cinna," I answered.
I gave a summarized version of the pool incident, the shower, and the bathtub. Excluding the intimate moment. Cinna and I did not have sex, yet touch was used. I could feel Cinna's hands caressing my arms. However, Dr. Caduceus raised his brow, giving an accusing look in his warm caramel eyes. I informed him there were clothes on, but he waved it off, muttering, 'Quinn needs to get you on birth control.' Seriously, why does everybody think about sex when a sentence involves two people and a bathroom?
Nothing happened!
"So, you're saying Cinna washed away your fear?"
"Something like that," I chuckled, readjusting the eye patch.
After that night, it brought us closer. Our trust is improving. Then again, all the secrets and lies that have been exposed in a torture chamber. We had a serious talk, and Cinna told me everything on his side. Why he did the way he did. Yet there was still more that we were both holding back on. But we discussed more than necessary. We were rekindling, and there were no more lies or secrets. Yet, there is something we need to be ready to say.
Dr. Caduceus paused hesitantly as if debating until he sighed in defeat. "Blaine, has Cinna talked to you personally?"
"What do you mean?"
He sighed, combing his fingers through his aging beard. "Lately, Cinna has been, shall we say, eluding in his previous sessions."
"Eluding?" I repeated, feeling concerned, practically sitting up properly.
"Yes, eluding. He hardly talks about his mind or feelings with me."
"Don't guys have some code to not talk about their feelings?" I asked, trying to avoid where this was going.
Dr. Caduceus chuckled a little, then got back to being serious. "Yes, however, not most men were tortured. An event such as that should leave some psychological scarring, a relapse, a nightmare, or post-traumatic stress disorder. Yet he acts calm like nothing happened, and focused on others' wellbeing."
"…Cinna likes to channel his emotions into his work," I said.
"Yes, I recommended returning to old habits, working on his designs, and showing me the sketches. However, all I find are ripped pages and incomplete drawings."
When I went to his studio, I found the trash bin filled with crumbled paper or fabrics that were not being touched, still neatly folded. The room was spotless as if it had never been used. Then I thought about him always focusing on me as if I were his objective outside of training. I also remembered how he hugged me longer and tighter, as if afraid to let me go.
"He… told me he had some difficulty with his left hand," I answered, though my answer sounded doubtful.
"Blaine, it's nothing you should worry about."
"Sir, when it involves my friends, I worry."
.o0o.
After the session, I left the doctor's office and wandered down the halls, deep in thought. Cinna hasn't been cooperative in his therapy sessions. It's impossible for somebody to go through hell and come back completely normal. Nobody could be a hero or godly figure to be perfect at everything. I needed to talk to him and ask him if he was really okay.
When I got to Cinna's studio, I knocked on the door. A moment later, the door opened to reveal an irritated Cinna ready to speak, but he stopped when he saw me and returned to his relaxed posture. I wonder if Jason has been bothering him or others.
"Blaine, what are you doing here?" he asked. "I thought you had training?"
"Just thought I could drop by for a visit," I answered with a small smile. "Am I intruding?"
"No," he said, opening his door and letting me into his studio.
"So… what have you been doing?" I asked, seeing the room in the same condition, minus a mannequin tipped over on the floor. Wearing muslin, the design doesn't seem to be in Cinna's style. There were needles and pins all around it. Indicating the mannequin was tossed down.
"Working on a new design," He answered, closing the door.
"Can I see?" I hope Dr. Caduceus is wrong about the assumption.
Cinna's body tensed for a brief moment, "Maybe later."
"Oh, okay," I sighed, taking a seat on the metal table.
The room was engrossed in awkward silences—silences that said nothing was alright, yet unsure how to start. Instead, Cinna walked up to me and took a seat. "Are you excited about your new eye?"
"The Scope is interesting," I replied, "Kinda freaked me out for a moment to have all my vision."
"Really?"
"Yeah, with one eye, I only see two-thirds of what is in front of me," I explained, holding my hand up and lifting it to a blind spot. "Where my hand is is my blind spot."
"Interesting," he murmured with a small smile.
My eye is a sensitive subject between us. Cinna was forced to watch as I went through the experience of it being gouged out. I still get nightmares of Damon hovering over me, telling me it will take a moment. I still remember the sharp pain, the metal sliding in, and the pull. A painful shudder went down my spine, yet I acted like the room was cold.
This visit wasn't about me. I was here to check on Cinna. I know he is trying to focus on me instead of himself. It is what I have always done since losing my mom. Especially when I became a victor. How the Covey kept asking how I was doing. Or when I'm around Mike's mom.
We were silent yet again until I spoke, "I had another therapy session with Dr. Caduceus."
"And how did that go?" he asked.
"He says I'm progressing well, although my nightmares are becoming more detailed." I answered.
Cinna nodded, taking my hand and giving me a reassuring squeeze, "What did he say about your episodes?"
"Well, I haven't had an episode in weeks. Some subconscious stuff, since changing my routine with training and self-discovering crap," I said. "I'm not keeping my hopes up." I paused, needing to add something, or the conversation would end. "Though, he misunderstood about you helping me with my fear."
A snort escapes his complexion as an amusing expression covers his face. "Most people would think like that, especially men. At least you're not afraid of water," he says as he combs his slightly good hand through my clean hair. "I'm proud of you."
"All thanks to you," I murmured, then sighed.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his hand cradling my cheek while his thumb grazed the cheekbone. Concern was written in his green eyes.
"He told me about you," I confessed. "That you weren't doing well."
Once more, silence engrossed the room. Minutes passed by, our eyes never leaving each other's. He sighed, stepped away, and walked to his desk, sitting on the stool. He traced his bad hand through his copper hair, messing it. I took a moment to analyze him, noting the bruising under his eyes, the slight uneven scruffs on his face, and the paleness. I know that expression, having seen countless times of fresh victors on a victory tour. The nightmares were getting to him to the point he was waking up in the middle of the night and not going back to sleep.
"Cinna, how bad are your nightmares?" I asked.
"Bad," he breathed in defeat. "But that's the thing, when I wake up, I don't remember it. What's the point in telling Caduceus if you can't remember it?"
I sighed, getting off the table, and walked to him till I knelt down, taking his hand. "There's more?"
Another sigh escaped as he stared at the trash bin full of crumpled paper and grabbed the sketchbook on the desk afterward. He shoved it in my hands. I opened the thin book to find countless pages ripped, smeared with angry scribbles, and unfinished designs. All the dresses had either interesting skirts or unique tops, yet what could have been intended to be a mermaid gown or sheath failed miserably, along with the color palettes of black, red, orange, yellow, and gold. Writers would call this a block, singers a funk, but for Cinna, in this case…he has lost his spark. Cinna started out with a burning passion, a flame…but the dark moments poured water on his fire.
"I thought I was going to die, leaving my last design in Katniss's Mockingjay uniform," he murmured sadly. "I put so much effort, so much of my soul, into it that I thought it would be my last. And now here I am… alive…with no muse."
I settled the book down and took his hands. "Cinna, you're just going through a phase. I went through it countless times; it's normal for an artist."
"I just feel useless," he muttered.
I paused for a moment, not sure what to do to encourage him. He wasn't useless; he was very important. In fact, he was the man who created the spark. He was the man who created the Girl on Fire. He's the one who showed revolution by burning the allusion…. the fantasy on stage to show hope. Cinna Pontmercy is one of the people who led Katniss Everdeen to her destiny. Everything about him, from his work to his heart, showed me there is more to him under his masked demeanor. So, leaning up, I pressed my lips against him, kissing my emotions about how much he meant to me. How he is not useless. How he plays a significant role in everybody else's lives.
Cinna was more to me for what he did. He slowly pulled me out of the darkness. Tentatively pointing out the flaws in our society. Allowing me to feel emotions I have not felt. To know what genuine affection and love feels like. I hadn't worn color by choice, as black became my comfort color. Yet he introduced colors and designs that suited me more than any previous designer has done. A friend I had almost forgotten. A supporter I didn't know I had growing up until now. The man I wanted to love.
The kiss surprised Cinna momentarily before he wrapped his arms around my shoulder and waist, pulling me up to straddle his lap. We haven't been this passionate in a long time, and I can barely remember when probably before the Games. We had chaste kisses and simple pecks, but nothing like this for so long. He licked my bottom lip, asking for permission, which I gladly permitted, opening my mouth slightly and granting him entrance. Our tongues danced and tangled, not fighting but sharing equality. Cinna broke the kiss, resting our foreheads together.
"You are not useless, Cinna," I whispered. "You are the spark."
"Thank you," Cinna breathed, pulling back but not letting go. We stayed like this, holding each other when something inspired him. He gently set me aside and sat down next to him, pulling out the sketch pad and pencil. "Tell me what you like and don't like?"
"What?" I asked, confused.
"Tell me what you like in fashion and what you don't like. I think I have an idea for a new outfit."
"Cinna, you already know what I like and don't like," I reminded him.
We collaborated on outfits for when I was in the Capitol. Then again, he hasn't seen what I usually wear in Twelv. During the colder seasons, I simply wore pants, a basic shirt, and a sweater.
"Anything…dress, uniform, anything!" he said excitedly.
"You're not gonna set me on fire?" I asked just to be cautious.
Along with the inside joke between us.
"No, I can't do that to you, Lady from the Ashes." He murmured.
Now I see where he was getting. A smile lifted my lips. "I hate ball gowns and mermaid dresses. There is not enough room or too much restriction."
Cinna nodded, writing this down. We went through a list of what I like and dislike. He was surprised when I told him my favorite color was blue and that I hated fully covered sequin gowns; it drove me insane, let alone irritated my skin. Once we were done with gowns, we went through a mission outfit. Cinna didn't like the concept of me going out to the field, but I will have to go out sooner or later. So, he started sketching a concept design of a one-piece jumpsuit. I gave him a look that said no. Cinna chuckled a little, realizing he overused the jumpsuit concept. Let alone, I don't want to wear anything Katniss will wear. From the disruption of Katniss's Mockingjay Uniform, I don't want that.
Therefore, he drew black fitted pants, a grey short-sleeved shirt, and dark-colored boots. For protection and sheathing, the weapon was a body armor bodice protecting vital organs and had a special reinforcement over her heart. A multi-strapped belt is attached to hold any weapons or tools needed. My favorite part of the outfit was the jacket, with small accents of yellow. Since I continued using my code name, Canary.
"Stylish yet deadly," I murmured.
"And protective," Cinna agreed.
"Are you planning on going out?" I asked, sensing something was wrong.
Cinna sighed, setting the pencil down. "Depends. Varick and Dr. Caduceus are considering keeping me hidden until the war ends. Nobody other than the Insurgents knows I'm still alive."
Jason had mentioned that Cinna was trained. He knows how to use a gun and the combat training. Which made sense anytime Cinna had to restrain me. But being hidden and declared dead was a struggle. As our friends and family think, we were dead in the bombing.
"Then come to training with me?" I suggested.
He snorted, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head until pop. "Maybe."
"Hey, I still haven't forgotten about the rose garden and the train compartment," I muttered, arms crossed. On the first night of the Victors Tour, when I was spying on Katniss and Haymitch, it turned out that I had used Cinna's designer cart, not noticing he was there. He heard the discussion and knew about my predicament, so he attacked me from behind and used chloroform, knocking me unconscious. Cinna feigned innocence after he confessed to the incident a while back.
"Wipe that smirk off your face," I sneered.
"Afraid I'll beat you?" he asked.
"Come to the gym, and we'll see." I challenged.
Cinna shook his head, leaning forward, and kissed me on the lips. A quick peck before whispering, "Maybe."
.o0o.
The bedroom where Miya and I shared was quite transitional. The walls were painted in neutral colors, espresso-colored wooden furniture, and the two full bed beddings were white. The visual screen of a window was set on the late-hour open country fields of District 10. Miya struggled through her homework, typing away on a miniature laptop, growling or groaning occasionally. It was at least late at night, close to bedtime. I come out of the bathroom, drying my hair, to see her biting her lower lip.
"This is hard!" she exasperated.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Hacker gave me this game saying it'll help my communication," she answered.
"Really?" I asked again, sitting down next to her on the bed.
"Hacker thought in case of an emergency I should learn about computers." She grumbled bitterly, like she hated her lessons.
I chuckled as I went through the computer and tried out the computer game. I realized that I wasn't controlling the game; it was on its own program, a reenactment. "Miya, Hacker made you a video so you can understand."
Miya raised a brow as she grabbed the computer and watched the reenactment. She listened to the characters asking for orders, only to be shot by an animated bullet. She blushed, slightly embarrassed, put on headphones, and spoke quickly to direct the team through the madness. After the third attempt, she managed to save the team.
"Thanks," she cheered.
"You're welcome, but now is time for bed," I informed you, taking the computer away and setting it on the desk.
Miya got under the covers, grabbed the visual window remote, and turned it off. Shiloh meowed, curling up to her companion's side, purring for attention. The young victor petted the gray kitten's head and asked, "Do you miss your dad?"
I stopped, "What do you mean?"
"I was just wondering if you missed Haymitch?" she asked.
"Sometimes, "I sighed, taking a seat on her bed. "However, learning the truth is hard. Miya, I loved my father, but you should focus on those you love. When this war ends, you can return to your older sister if you like."
Miya nodded, though she had a lot of questions. With more goodnights, the lights turn off. I was accommodated with the dark while the bathroom light remained on underneath. Taking a moment, I headed back to my bed, pulling out a small vial of sleep syrup. Although I despised the sweet sleep syrup to help me through my insomnia, it was the only way to relax. So, taking a sip, I went to bed.
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