“Hmph. Spare me. But if you don’t mind my saying so–power suits you well, Sansa. Don’t abuse it.”
“I could never even dream of such a thing. Besides, power best remains in the skilled hands of those who know how to use it well…an honor I could not possibly steal from you.”
Finnick couldn’t help but flashback a couple of years. Sansa didn’t know the reference she made felt like a knife in between the ribs, and he’d never blame her for it. He could see the man’s lime green, manicured nails running down his chest. He shook the memory from his mind as quickly as possible and returned to the charming peacock so many loved. He was a well trained circus animal.
❝ I’ve been wanting to meet you for quite some time, Ms Stark. I’m not quite sure how I feel about the buzz being all about you. Seems I have new competition.❞
With a threat toward her personal space, his hand reached out, though there wasn’t much distance to cover, to touch her long tresses. Her strands felt like silk – she’d obviously undergone the full treatment.
❝ Seems no one can stop whispering about you.❞
No, Sansa jested with fellow victors as readily as she did those who surrounded them. For all those who resented what fresh power winning granted Snow over their lives, as many or more found the profit well worth what price they paid. Districts like One, Two, and Four produced young men and women already predisposed to Capitol delights, creating distance between themselves and those from outlying lands, whose labors brought home only sawdust or coal rather than food or comfort. Luckier than many others, Sansa had known little suffering before the Arena, yet prejudicial caution remained.
“Your enthusiasm flatters me, though I must assure you all spirit of competition has long since left my bones.” Whispers to compensate for foggy memory and shattered pride, lofty clouds on which she floated, out of reach, desirable. No stranger to deliberate touch, a mere twitch of chin betrayed how Odair coveted that which inspired such furor. “And does it make you jealous then, hm? Come, surely we might exchange whispers — no one seems inclined to share talk of me with its subject.”
She gapes & gasps at the dress in awe, half of it fake and drawn from her never-ending supply of compliments. Her own garment made the victor’s seem pale in comparison, but she had always shot just a little bit over the top. There is a DRINK in hand and a sponsor on her arm before she dismisses him with a kiss on the cheek. She was only softening him for the next year. They stood no chance with the frail little girl hiding in the bushes.
Flattered laugh equally disingenuous floated across the crowded space, quickly swallowed up by clinking crystal and bird-like caws of glee. Her own escort had warned of these outer district types: trying a little too hard, achieving not quite enough, considered garish by even the lax standards of Capitol fashion. Perhaps she lacked an eye for such subtle gradations of excess, yet Sansa could find no difference between this glittering specimen and Tatty’s befeathered nightmares. All of them as blind as the last. But they mustn’t know, mustn’t catch sight of what disdain threatened to twist painted features into scowling rejection; instead, the girl beamed, head dipping in warm acknowledgment of such effusive flattery.
“My stylist had the gall to try and put me in puce this morning, can you believe it? Thank goodness someone reminded her this is summer, not some dreary fall out amongst the harvest. I do hope I wasn’t interrupting anything of importance…” Paired sapphire trailed after the retreating gentleman; though Victors and their teams stood out most prominently through gladiatorial spectacles, in many ways sponsors ruled those few blood-speckled weeks.
Sansa tried toremember how it had led to this, memory sluggish in current state. Keep-away. She had stolen a tie as he packed, finely woven silk of thread which gleamed jade, then silver, dependent upon the light; when she remarked on it Baelish explained that their dear escort often bid him wear it, a dashing accessory meant to bring out his eyes. In all their time together he rarely deemed any item essential to his packing — whatever one needed, the Capitol could supply it as readily, and far more fashionably, than any counterpart acquired within district boundaries. With a juvenile cry of glee she snatched it away, racing halfway down the stairs before realizing Petyr did not pursue.
Rare was it that Sansa failed to provide greatest jocularity in their little gang, lest a bejeweled and befeathered escort instead offer up her own brand of effervescence unrivaled by any challenger, Capitol or otherwise. Rarer still did she wallow in a mood most foul from evening’s start; though party-goers of even the greatest perception failed to discern any change to a crimson starlet’s demeanor, one so-named Baelish benefited from his greater acquaintance with the girl by way of daggered glares and derisive huffs whenever their paths crossed.
Her distress found its roots much earlier in the evening, when Victors and escort and those chattering birds considered their prep team came together to ready for that night’s soiree. Not for the first time, Petyr had absconded with her to the nearest bathroom hosting an obliging counter; a tryst she submitted to quite readily, quite enthusiastically, until together they slipped out from behind locked door only to step blindly into a sidelong glare from their bedecked escort. Though she knew Tatty would keep silent, standing to fall as far as her erstwhile charges should word of any indecency escape, Sansa felt a roiling mixture of shame and disappointment at having been caught out. They ought have been cleverer, more careful, less inclined to such flagrant disregard of risk.
Petyr should have known better.
Such was the mantra running over and over in her mind, a ticker tape through thoughts unclouded by drink, absolving Sansa of her guilt in the matter. And what matter, precisely? No damage done — none that lay beyond the reach of repair — and, in all other respects, the night stretched out full of possibility, an inky blue canvas awaiting splashes of gold and silver and copper. Yet Sansa had determined she would sulk, never mind that a quick rut meant man and girl could both take their time later; at last, beside the bar, ankles crossed, leaning on bent elbows as she awaited another drink, Sansa snapped. “Quit looking at me like that,” she hissed, watching as a lavender-suited barkeep fiddled with liquor and syrups behind the bar. How could Baelish seem so…pleased? “Tatty’ll notice, then we’re both done for.”
❝ It seems our tributes are getting along quite nicely this year, don’t you agree? ❞ Effie muses, side-eyeing the young victor beside her. ❝ Even Haymitch has said something about it, which is a feat in itself if you ask me. ❞
An alliance has very obviously formed and her observation is no coincidence, working with Sansa might just give her tribute some much needed help. She can only hope the alliance doesn’t go sour before they can officially set something up.
She oughthave recognized the woman on sight — Tatty had, in her boundless foresight, provided flashcards for her Victors on whom they might encounter that year, though the only attention Baelish gave them was a single derisive snort — yet Sansa found herself fumbling through an avalanche of names and titles and Districts. Essie? Emmy? Why do all their names end in -ee? Effie! An outer district’s escort, somewhat new…just like Sansa. Tentative smile broadened, relief and welcome intermingling on painted features; one should always veer too bright, rather than too dull, surrounded by such watchful company.
“Indeed I do, Ms. Trinket.” Children, both their tributes were; only Harrold, a boy her age already two years into working at the mills, appeared to stand any chance of advancing past the opening days. Petyr had deemed him their sole focus — You can only get one out, Sansa; trying for more just gets them both killed — yet all the practicality well-earned through repeated years of Reapings, Games, and funerals could not assuage an impulse towards rescue. “Though one should always leave such matters to their tributes, I cannot help but hope that we might have a burgeoning alliance on our hands.”
Though rarely did Sansa venture forth from a room shared with one born and raised within Thirteen’s confines, those in similar straits remained readily discernible amidst greater crowds. Bewildered looks, skin more pasty than pale, bodies hunting for the sun they had spent their entire lives under…within such creatures the girl found herself reflected, an unwitting refugee in a war she did not know was being fought. Sansa liked them better, though only just. Every day, or every other, she made herself wander towards the mess for a meal; so many clusters of strangers, groups of friends to which Sansa would never belong. Those sitting alone, surrounded by that vague sense of disorientation, like the slim, blonde-haired girl before her now, seemed a blessing, providing whatever narrow excuse she required to simply eat and leave.
“Well, I would be most honored to help you hone your talent–though I would hate to steal you from your Tributes or your former Mentor. Ah, it warms me, truly, to hear you say so, my dear. I trust you’ve been well?”
“My tributes are getting precisely what they require at the moment: rest. And Petyr? Tch. Even you would refuse to wager against the likelihood of his having one hand wrapped snugly around a drink, the other on this year’s most promising sponsor. Quite — Seven treats me well, as it ever has. You ought try it sometime, breathing the crisp air, escaping the city…a vacation, I think they call it.”
“I’m glad to see that sharp tongue of yours has not dulled. Practice makes perfect, Ms. Stark. Perhaps one day you shall be able to fool me. You can admit it–there’s no shame.”
“Alas, I have had so few on which to test it in your absence, Seneca. If only for the opportunity it presents to once again exchange such pleasantries, then yes, ‘tis quite heartening to witness your return.”
“—blackmail? i want nothing from another victor, you’re basically in my same situation so you can’t offer me anything interesting” she told her raising a brow. “mine was just a warning, because someone else could be interested in blackmailing you.”
“Then let us simply hope mine is never the most enticing gossip passed about all these little dinners and parties which so enrapture citizens of the Capitol. Though I fear such a trifling matter as blackmail would fail to interest them as well — however well-paid we are for such accomplishments, undoubtedly such fortunate souls have no need of even greater wealth.”
The storm, as many did in Seven, fell upon them swiftly. Storm clouds had been gathering, roiling in a silvery mess above the trees all afternoon. Sansa watched too many of them pass, an empty threat, to think of seeking shelter; perhaps Petyr felt the same. Yet combined experience did naught to keep them dry, nor shield the pair from wind-whipped debris as they rushed towards his door. At first only leaves clung to shins and arms, a papery wetness slithering along exposed flesh; as the gale rose, however, twigs and needles rushed up to sting at their cheeks. Sansa’s head remained ducked, hunched under upraised forearms, until Baelish’s door shut with a resounding crash behind them.
“Petyr!” Instinct barreled her forward, thumb smearing in the weeping line of red which trailed along one side of his face. “You’re hurt. Just…wait here, I’ll go fetch something to tend it.”
should an exclusive partner go inactive for 1+ month, then i will become tentatively open to interactions with duplicates. when/if they return then exclusivity may resume.
