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Infume never thought that he would make it out of the arena, and now that he did, he wasn’t sure what came next. The ballroom was dripping with opulence, Capitol guests milling around in their costumes. They reminded him of tropical birds he saw once on the old television their teacher rolled out of the supply room when he wanted a break from teaching. Infume remembered looking at them with disbelief, tuning out the droning voice of the man narrating the documentary. Something so colorful could never exist in Three, with its factories and sky always covered in factory fumes. Right now he really wished he could fly away, far from the Capitol and the whole of Panem.
While he was distracted, a woman dressed in light blue sidled up to him. Infume couldn’t stop himself from flinching away when she gave him a smile, full of teeth. Fortunately she seemed to find it amusing.
‘Awww, you’re even more precious in person’ she cooed at him and he felt himself flush with embarrassment. On some level he was aware that each victor became defined by their behavior during the interviews and in the arena, but the distant knowledge couldn’t measure up to reality. With the way everyone was treating him, it felt as if he really died, and what remained was just a distorted impostor, used only to amuse the same people who sent him to death in the first place.
‘Thank youu, thank youu’ he mumbled in response, making an effort to make his voice softer, the way his escort, Derapchu, told him to. While at first Infume wasn’t planning on speaking to him at all and found his whole demeanor off-putting, his advice proved helpful. The Capitol citizen wasn’t even upset with his interview performance, despite the fact he couldn’t manage one full sentence, terrified by all the eyes on him and aware of his approaching time in the arena. After Infume left the stage and stopped himself from throwing up, he appreciated Derapchu’s reassurance that people found him adorable, even if he didn’t seem to understand that it wasn’t just pre-interview nerves that were making him almost incoherent.
He was brought back to reality by the woman pushing a fancy looking flute glass filled with neon blue liquid into his hand. He tightened his grip on the stem, grateful to have something to hold onto. She was looking at him expectantly, the smile seemingly permanently plastered onto her face, so he took a cautious sip and instantly started coughing. It tasted horrible and he felt his throat burning when it went down. He managed to avoid getting electrocuted during his work in the factories back home, but he imagined that must be what it would feel like.
The woman laughed again and Infume suppressed the urge to throw the glass at her face. Ever since he woke up after getting lifted away from the Cornucopia by the helicopter everyone seemed to want to poke at him and watch his reactions, finding him cute and pathetic in equal measure. It felt horrible, and a few times he realized he was looking back at his time in the arena with certain longing. It was the freest he felt in his whole life, secure in the knowledge he would die soon and he didn’t have to worry about impressing anyone. It was so different from the overseers in the factory and the Peacekeepers posted at every street corner of his District.
‘Hello Delfi, your dress looks so beautiful’ Infume recognized the man currently smiling warmly at the woman, who seemed very taken by him. He didn’t understand why Couriway, one of the Mentors, would want to be anywhere near him. Infume’s presence was a stark reminder that only two days ago he watched the death of his own Tributes from the control room. You wouldn’t be able to tell though, from the way he was talking to Delfi, seemingly with no care in the world.
‘Yeah, it was a bit chopped, but we did our best, and I’m happy with my comms. We weren’t prepared for the terrain, all those cliffs, that was unlucky, but what can you do? Next time we’ll do better’ they seemed to be talking about Seven’s performance in the Games, and Infume felt bile rise in his throat. He couldn’t image himself watching even a second of the upcoming games, and here Couri was, just days later, dissecting the deaths in detail.
Delfi seemed to have lost interest in Infume, busy with the Mentor, and he watched on gratefully as they walked away, still stuck in conversation. He could swear Couriway looked back at him with an unreadable expression, but it was so quick he didn’t manage to meet his eyes.
He wasn’t left alone for long. Almost immediately he was accosted by Derapchu and Ghostie, one of his stylists. They complemented the light blue suit he was dressed in for the event and led him around the room, picking out snacks for him to try. They all tasted like ash in his mouth. They kept talking around him, gossiping about the other guests and the Capitol’s response to his victory, and he felt himself once again drifting away. It was nice, not being expected to answer any questions and not having to worry about upsetting anyone important. Derapchu and the stylists were becoming his favorite people in the Capitol, no matter how messed up that felt.
After a while he excused himself and left in search of the bathroom. The lights were making his head hurt and he wanted at least a moment to himself. He left the ballroom behind and started following the glowing signs pointing further into a side corridor, leading him deeper into the building. He heard two voices from around the corner and stopped, preparing himself for some Capitol socialite wanting to talk to the newest Victor, but when he peered around the wall, he saw two people he would least expect to be standing there.
Infume recognized the man leaning against the wall opposite Couriway. It was Feinberg, the Mentor from District Two. Infume remembered him from the training montages that were sometimes part of the mandatory viewing, shouting at his Tributes to ‘lock in’. He heard that the Capitol crowds loved his post-games analyses, which they found entertaining. He’d never liked watching them– most of the time Feinberg would insult all the Tributes and their decisions, boasting about his own abilities, which gave him his decisive victory with a record-breaking number of eliminations. There was probably already a clip floating around of Infume’s own game, but he didn’t want to look for it. He was aware he wasn’t much of a Victor. Derapchu excitedly told him before the gala that he was now the second person in history who won without taking a single life. It didn’t feel like much of an achievement.
‘What took you so long bro?’ Feinberg leveled an unimpressed stare at Couriway, who only huffed in response. ‘I managed in less than an hour.’
Infume tensed up, anticipating an argument. All the Mentors behaved professionally in front of cameras, but he wasn’t delusional enough to think there wasn’t any bad blood. He could remember that this time it was one of Feinberg’s tributes who eliminated the last living member of Couriway’s team, only to fall to his death later.
‘Yoo, that’s actually tech. I should’ve just ignored all the important people talking to me and went to find you. I would actually love to get executed by the President, that would be awesome’ despite his annoyed tone he was looking at Feinberg with… fondness? Infume was very confused. He expected an argument, maybe even a fight, not whatever this was.
‘Yes, bro. It would make it so much easier for my Tributes if you weren’t there to tell your two absolute bricks what to do. You’re fucking up my averages.’
‘Sorry that I can use my brain. Maybe you’re just terrible at coaching?’ Couriway joined Feinberg in leaning against the wall, shoulder to shoulder. For a while they simply stood next to each other. It was strange to see the two men, usually so loud and confident, existing in silence together. Infume almost decided to just come out and walk past them, no matter how awkward it would be, but the moment was broken before he could.
‘Couriway, I’m so fucking sorry’ Feinberg’s voice was full of raw grief, so unlike anything Infume has ever heard him sound like. There was no answer, but he saw Couriway reach out and join their hands together. He became painfully aware he probably shouldn’t be watching this. He moved to go back to Derapchu and the others, but he must’ve made a noise, because Feinberg’s head shot up from when he was leaning it against the wall. Their eyes met and he tore his hand away, as if burned. Couri was also looking at him, eyes full of fear.
Infume stammered out an apology before stumbling back to the ballroom. When he returned, Derapchu offered him another drink, a deep dark blue one this time, and he downed it, grateful it didn’t taste anything like the last one. He couldn’t get the moment in the corridor out of his head. After a while, Feinberg came back, followed a few minutes later by Couriway. They did their best to appear unaffected, but Infume could see the looks they kept sending his way. He tried to pay attention to what Derapchu and Ghostie were talking about, but found it impossible to stop thinking about the moment he witnessed in the hallway. A man practically dripping blue jewels from his costume came up to talk to him, and he let himself drift away for the rest of the night.