He is sitting the wrong way on one of the chairs in mentor central, elbow resting on the arm, mouth and chin resting on his palm. (Or was he covering his mouth to hold himself together? Who could say.) He isn’t even sure if he is at District 4′s station. The boy who notices everything while pretending he doesn’t is unaware. His body is facing the screens but his eyes aren’t angled on them (his head isn’t really, either, a closer inspection would reveal if anyone cared to notice). They are looking at the wall but not seeing it. He’s spaced out, his upper body subtly swaying, his elbow on the arm of the chair the fulcrum.
But he can almost pass for fine--and that is the curse of beauty. His complexion is even, but that’s because the colour has vanished from his cheeks. His sleep has been fitful for days but the dark circles that ought to be there aren’t, his tan acting as low-coverage natural concealer. His famous eyes are bloodshot, but the red tendrils marring the whites of his eyes are not the first colour people see; no, that would be the famous oceanic colour of his pupils. They are far bluer and greener than usual, the red intensifying the blue and green streaks in his irises while downplaying the grey. And his cheekbones--oh, those disloyal cheekbones! Finnick hasn’t been eating enough for days. It’s been long enough that he is stating to lose weight in his face, but his gloriously traitorous bone structure hides that, too; his cheekbones look subtly more striking than normal.
He blinks and he’s back. Eye flicker up to the newcomer (or has she been there a while?). Muscle memory pulls up a dimpled smile. “Hey, Cash. Long day?”
@dulcettc