A Circus of Eagles [An HG Fanfic]

Token - Columbia

Columbia

"It was my grandmother's. I want you to take it, for your token."

Riffton presses the necklace into my hand, looking down at me with big pleading eyes. A designer rather than a model, his appearance is carefully monitored to be fashionable but not to stand out, and so he's kept his hair carefully untidy and his clothes edgy yet normal. His eyelashes are damp and his cheeks are bloodless beyond the foundation. He's always worn a shade too dark for him and in the soft lights there are tears glowing around his nose.

The Platinum Sector Centre is all understated elegance, the kind of building that brings the people inside it to the fore, the kind of building that I like. This room was never designed to hold tributes but it'll do. I'm perched on the little folding stool so that anybody who comes in can't see me shaking when I try and get my legs to hold myself up. I thought it would never happen. Not in the Capitol. Not to me.

But that's the past and there's no point dwelling on it. The distant future may not be an option anymore, though I don't see why I should discount it. So now there's just the present, and that's this small room where nobody is watching, and it's Riff, folding my hands, pure pale white against his, around his family heirloom.

"I can't take it, Riff."

He frowns. Long dark eyelashes above gorgeous dark eyes. A pretty face, not a modelling face, but a face that is good to look at. And unlike some of my co-stars, there's something behind it too. Riff and I go back a long way, right back to before I had my skin and lips and hair dyed, and he loved me then. He doesn't care what I look like as long as I'm myself inside. There are people who would kill for that.

"You can. I asked her. She's always liked you, you know..."

"No, Riff. I myself, personally, cannot take it."

Understanding fails to dawn. I know how this looks to him. I know how scared he is, not just of losing me but of seeing me suffer first. And I'm scared too. More scared than I have ever been, so scared that I can't feel a thing other than the chills creeping down my spine. But a good model never shows pain.

Riff crouches next to me and, after a brief moment looking into my eyes, lays his head on my knees, his hand still clutching mine. His warmth is comforting as much as I can be comforted right now and to show him how much I appreciate it, I tangle my other hand in his curls and drop a kiss onto his forehead. Instead of telling me off for ruining his hair, he sighs.

"Why not?"

"I already have a token." He stirs, hurt. It won't be the first time I've hurt Riff. Some things you have to do for your career and he's always understood that. But this is outside our control and both of us ache for it. Even though we're not offically together. 'On a break', the journalists say. Then they make catty comments. I try not to read the blogs.

"You didn't tell me."

"I didn't think it would be necessary."

"Can I see?"

He lifts his face, leaving my lap warm and damp with tears. He won't sleep tonight, or tomorrow night, or the night after that. Which isn't good; he's got deadlines to keep. They're expecting the first designs from his new collection soon.

And because I don't want him to see, I take his chin and lift it until he stands and his hands automatically smooth out the creases in his clothing. "Your new collection. Does it have a name yet?"

Raised eyebrows. Finally there's a trace of the real Riffton Normadel, doting son, media favourite, designer extraordinaire. The Riffton I sometimes think I love, and other times not.