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𝑇𝐸𝑁 ᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ғᴏʀ ᴄɪᴠɪʟɪᴛʏ
❦
The tributes had left for the testing centre at ten that morning. By noon, the mentors, along with the stylists and Eirlys, had gathered by the TV, and settled amongst the plush cushions, Flickerman's voice filling the spaces between chatter.
Neither Cillian nor Johanna could bring themselves to speak at first. The anxiety was building high, ready to be knocked down the moment their tributes returned again to watch the reveal of their test scores. It didn't help that the talk show on the screen gave reruns of all of the test scores of this year's mentors, and it certainly didn't make them feel better with Eirlys' hysterical recount of the scores of those tributes she'd lost.
Cillian couldn't stay in that place any longer, not with Eirlys' inane chatter and Johanna's sarcastic, angry retorts beginning to fill the air. He loved the younger girl as much as a sister, but he could not deny that her blatant rebellion would land them all in trouble soon enough. He only hoped that when the day came for their wrists to be bound and backs whipped, his family was far from reach, hidden in whatever lay beyond Panem.
Because there had to be something. Despite the history that had been taught in school, Cillian believed there had to be more than the regime they lived in. How could one civilisation alone survive the droughts and conflict and all that lay in between, of which they'd been lectured on?
Cillian was pulled from his thoughts as his eyes landed on a figure at the end of the hall. A figure of the man who'd sought him out too often for his liking. His eyes didn't move from Finnick when he realised he wasn't walking in his direction, but walking to the elevators.
A smirk formed on his lips. "Getting ahead of the game?"
It was a low blow, he knew, to suggest such a thing. A year ago, such words aimed at himself would have sent Cillian reeling, eyes glaring and jaw clenching in an effort to keep contained. Yet here he was provoking Finnick with such disgusting insinuations. There was something easy, about the words that came from his lips when he was around the district four mentor. As if he was speaking to himself sometimes when there was no reply.
There was a flash of something cold behind Finnick's eyes- a sharp glimmer than made Cillian uncomfortable. Nothing about the boy suited such iciness. Not like it did Cillian. Without the crimson warmth, Finnick looked unnatural and so unlike himself.
"Sorry," Cillian found himself saying, eyes directed away from the golden figure at the end of the hall and instead to the stuffy, rolled cigarette that he'd forgotten lay between his fingers. "Smoke?"
"No."
It took a moment for Finnick to say anything more. With hands glued to his sides, he stalked forward, slipping through the shadows of the midday sun, and sat beside him by the window, letting the harsh rays of light glide down his skin. For once he wore a shirt, but even that was flimsy and mostly transparent.
