Watching Slate play the role of the perfect Victor so well was getting under his skin, grating at his nerves. All of those tributes had died saving him in the name of the Rebellion, and for what? For him to become Snow's favorite pet and poster-child for Capitol loyalty?
He had already unbuttoned the top two buttons below the collar of his starchy shirt, pushing open the door to a patio overlooking the Presidential Gardens with his shoulder as he worked on undoing the tight cuffs of his sleeves, too.
Unfortunately, the patio was smaller than he'd expected, and he wasn't alone. Of course, he recognized Sheen-- he recognized all the Victors anymore-- but they'd rarely, if ever, spoken. He froze in the doorway, unsure of whether or not he should retreat back into the overheated ballroom and take his chances with losing his mind in there, or with potentially pissing off a Career for getting in his space.
He cleared his throat. "I'll uh-- sorry, I can-- I can go."
The world outside was growing cool in the pleasurable way autumn offered, still temperate enough to be enjoyed. And Cress, feline creature she was, was poised up on the thick bannister railing of Nerissa's back staircase -- the marble one descending into the gardens, which were beginning to wither and fade. She was watching a couple work their way through the maze, the tall shrubbery cloaking them as they weaved left, then left again, then right.
She peered down from her perch, drawn by a blur in her periphery. Sheen, slipping from the warmth of the festivities into the cool night. "Well hello, you," Cress cooed, head tilting curiously as she watched him from above. "Disappearing so soon? There's no escape, you know." True of these gardens, of the maze, of the party. True of their worlds, endlessly repeating. "Only reprieve, if that's what you're seeking. And even then, it's only fleeting--" She gestured up, palm opening, as though she were releasing smoke. Something incorporeal, unattainable. It would dissipate, or melt, like snow.