A tense hush seemed to have fallen over the victors after President Snow announced the change in policy, particularly over the victors of non-Career districts. Capitolites were now back to mingling, and the buzz that Soleil had garnered from two glasses of champagne had quickly worn off after the announcement. She’d already sacrificed an enormous amount of her sanity for the sake of her district. Now they demanded even more. She could feel her face getting warm in frustration and grit her teeth to keep her emotions at bay, remembering the impoverished families she’d known back in Three who relied on tesserae to keep themselves fed each month.
A man approached her and she buried the frustration and smiled politely, tucking her arms into herself and folding them over her abdomen in defense; the usual, more predatorial men who approached her at these events were all blackout drunk at this point, and her stomach dropped at the approach of a new one. But she needn’t have worried, she realized with relief as he drew closer. Soleil knew who Dawson Danvers was, though that was partly because he’d won when she was a teenager, and partly because she’d spent a decent amount of time with Rory over the past couple of years.
“You got it,” Soleil nodded, taking the glass from his hand. “And you’re Dawson, I believe. Thanks. This is… needed.”
She lifted the glass to her lips and took a long sip, then looked back up at Dawson, laughing a little at his remark. “Trust me, you don’t want my stylist’s information. I haven’t been able to feel my feet all night since she insisted on putting me in shoes two sizes too small.”
there was no denying the strategic wit of their victories ; indirect forms of attack seemingly a go - to while in the arena, both will kill counts that were pretty significant for their games. victors, unlike many other citizens, knew what loss felt like. they knew what fear could do & what selfish intentions the capitol held when it came to the games. his triumphs left him unscathed, but he deems it a blessing in disguise. people feared speaking with him because of the big, scary scar that stretched from his cheek to the back of his shoulder. if he saw a guy like that as one of the main sources of survival in his district, dawson was sure he’d have lost hope by then. part of him felt bad. he survived, rory survived, but he had less to offer. he was selfish in a different way, lazy even.
“ it might be a little distilled. ” warning is given, but it’s accompanied by a flash of a smile ––– a genuine one. such emotions are a rare catch when it came to dawson, but only because grief had a way of weighing down his features with an uneasy pull. he wasn’t an alcoholic, but events like these made his mentors weary of the mixture between a victor & liquor. in most cases, he’d be stumbling back to a room drunk, but he figured ten years might have been enough time to let himself spiral. sobriety is both a blessing & a curse in his life now.
a glance towards her shoes makes him laugh, possibly for one of the first times that night. between the anxiety attacks & hallucinations, dawson wasn’t even sure if this conversation was really happening. “ i don’t think anyone would really notice if you went barefoot. ” a shrug graces usually slumped shoulders. “ i’m sure this is gonna be over soon enough, though. i can’t wait to get back to a bed. this entire thing is ... draining. it got old after the third year. ”
