#thread: dinah klein.

[brutcllysoft]

@selfmademythology / dinah & cyrus

Dinah should be sleeping. The tribute parade is only a matter of days away and she is already stressing about it. Their stylist teams this year seem even dumber than usual, and Dinah has been having visions of their tributes slathered in coal dust with headlamps on — not a great look. She tries to remind herself that there is nothing she can do about that and she should focus on the things she can influence — coach them through their interviews, schmooze sponsors, teach them how to handle a knife or make a fire. But her mind can't seem to move past the parade to get her to that point yet, the Capitol seemingly taking away her usually impeccable ability to compartmentalize and prioritize but what else is new? She never feels like herself here, not really. The closest she gets are the nights she lets herself find comfort in Cyrus, sneaking into his room and pressing close to him. But right now it's still early enough in the festivities that Di is pretending to have her shit together.

So she has her moments in private, like now. Holed away in the bedroom that has been hers for over a decade now and still feels as foreign as it had on night one. She wants to go home, wants to see her brothers but for now a restless nights sleep in a bed that is far too soft for her. She'd lost track of how long she had been tossing and turning when a knock has her jumping out of bed, heart racing and fingers searching for a weapon that isn't there. Warning bells are going off in her head — not safe. No where is safe, especially not here. But she forces herself to take a breath, reminds herself that if the President had caught wind of the rebellion they wouldn't be knocking on her door nicely. They'd be barging in to haul her off to a torture chamber.

Breathe. A slow inhale and exhale leaves her, fists clenching together to stop her hands from shaking as she opens the door. She'd been expecting a tribute, maybe. Their boy this year is young — maybe he'd been looking for company. But instead she's greeted with an all too familiar sight, her stomach dropping as she takes in Cyrus in all of his battered and bruised glory. "For fucks sake, Cyrus." She reaches out, fingers tangling in the bloody mess of his shirt and tugging gently. "It's been one night. How could you have possibly pissed someone off this badly already?" But she isn't surprised in the slightest. This is an old song and dance for them and while she's usually quick to call Cyrus on his shit when he needs it, she also knows that he isn't always entirely at fault in these incidents. "Get in here."

[classysandwichcollection-world]

Black Halo Long-Sleeve Ruffle Ponte Column Gown, Navy

Details

Black Halo ponte gown with ruffle detailing.

Caftan neckline.

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Made in USA of imported material.

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[brutcllysoft]

After a decade of doing so, Di is an expert at arguing with Cyrus. The two can bicker until they're blue in the face — and they have, thousands of times, but she knows it's typically pointless. He's the most stubborn person she knows and worse than that, he actually seems to believe his own bullshit, so there's really no getting through to him. "Sure you're not," she responds, honeyed eyes rolling. "You're practically ancient by district standards." The way she says it, it could be a joke but they both know it isn't really. District Twelve is the poorest of the poor, and half the population starves to death before they reach adulthood.

Regardless of how many times Dinah has been here, she isn't sure she'll ever be really comfortable in their training centre apartment. She isn't even really comfortable in her home in Victor's Village, if she's being honest. She'd spent the majority of her life in a two bedroom shack in the seam, their father passed out in one bedroom and her brother's piled into the other while Dinah slept in the saggy excuse of a sofa they had. It had been a glorified shack that none of her brothers had been sad to see go, but Dinah always felt like she was intruding there. Like it wasn't hers — it belonged to Snow and that meant it would never really be safe. The apartments in the Capitol are no different, of course, her distrust of them amped up into the millions but she feels a little less out of place right now. The bathroom feels less foreign with Cyrus in it, bruised and bloody while they go through a routine they've perfected over the years.

And yeah, maybe a part of her feels a little better knowing where he is now. She worries about him when he's out — though she would insist it's only because he's going to do something inevitably stupid, putting both himself and her (and by extension her family) in danger. It has nothing to do with whatever feelings she may or may not have been vehemently shoving down for years now.

She uses a damp washcloth to dab at his bloodied hairline, using her free hand to tilt his head into better lighting, thumb brushing along his jawline. "You don't need stitches but I think you have a little concussion," she admits to him, listening to the slur of his words coupled with his unfocused eyes, even if he denies it. "Should be alright soon enough. We can have the avoxes bring something up for you to take before training tomorrow." Di has never gotten comfortable using Avoxes, if she's being completely honest but they don't have many options here and she doesn't love the idea of Cyrus trying to train their tributes with a head injury. They might as well take advantage of the medical advancements while they have them at their disposal, God knows they don't get them once they go home. Her tongue clicks when he explains his night, jaw clenching as she resists the urge to roll her eyes at him again. "Why do you always let them get to you?" Because he's an idiot, she reminds herself.

If his head wasn't throbbing and the room wasn't spinning, Cyrus would have insisted he kicked their ass -- That this was nothing compared to the beat down he'd given, claiming not one but two men were lying bloody in an alleyway. It wasn't uncommon for him to embellish, depending on what his ego warranted. (Even though Dinah easily saw through his bullshit stories) "Fuck you, I'm not old." He insists instead, grumbling as he spoke. There's not much heat behind it, given the state he's in, but it offends him regardless. She's not wrong, but he doesn't want to hear it. As far as Cyrus can tell, he's going to be on his own until the day he dies; He can't slow down. Even if he's pushing 40 and his knees weren't what they used to be. It's not like he'd exactly been kind to his body over the course of his life.

Cyrus wordlessly follows her lead, a combination of the exhaustion settling into his bones and knowing exactly where they're headed. This bathroom may be far nicer than hers at home, but it's the same means to an end. He'd lost count years ago how many times he'd shown up at her door with various injuries. At least she didn't have to drag him in by the ankles this time. Sitting on the edge of the bathtub steadies him, gripping the cool porcelain with his hands. It's oddly comforting, given how many times he's been in this position -- Knowing that the next step is Dinah grilling him for details while helping put him back together again. He'll always be grateful for, finding a deep sense of comfort that he doesn't dare speak of each time. Too tired to fight back, he leans with her as her hand on his jaw moves him for examination. He already knows he's going to be stuck hearing a whole monologue from the District 12 Escort about how irresponsible it is to get into a fight when such an important event is about to take place -- Before being covered in a pound of make up by their idiot prep team, to hide any bruises.

"My eyes aren't fuzzy," He quietly insists, staring up at her with half-lidded eyes. It's far too instinctual for him to deny things, to push back against even the simplest comments. Now, it's more half assed than anything -- He's in no state to try and act sober and uninjured. All he wants is to crawl into bed and never leave. It wouldn't hurt if Dinah was there with him, too. As cliche as it is, he'd rest easier knowing she was only inches away. He knows better than to voice that thought, though. "M'sure I'll be fine by morning." Cyrus shrugs, his grip on the side of the tub keeping him from falling over. He leans into the touch, savoring the feeling of Dinah's cold hand against his warm skin. It grounds him a bit, keeps him from doing his typical means of dealing with injuries. (The 'If I just fall asleep instead I don't have to deal with it' route.) His nose wrinkles at the mention of what happened, a wince following. "Some asshole got what was comin' to him." He answers simply, as if that explains anything. "Peacekeeper was lookin' at me wrong so I set 'em straight." He elaborates a bit further, before pausing to close his eyes and take a deep breath. "My head is fuzzy." He points out, brow furrowed. "Do I need stitches? I don't want stitches."

[brutcllysoft]

Dinah has lost count of the amount of times she's cleaned Cyrus up over the years. It isn't even something limited to their time in the Capitol. There have been many times her brothers have had to carry him into their home in Victor's Village and sprawl him out on the sofa or the kitchen able so that she could patch up the array of wounds he'd acquired. She rotates between being furious at him for being so stupid to sympathy because, really, this is all that he's ever known. The two of them hadn't crossed paths until she was Reaped but she was vaguely aware of the reputation that he had more for himself in District Twelve, the one that had gotten him Reaped in the first place. Of course, she hadn't bothered to give it much thought. Whatever sad backstory their one victor had, it wasn't high on her priority list. Not when she had four hungry mouths to feet at home — five if you counted her father. Six if it was during one of her mother's brief stints in their Seam home. She was too busy trying to keep them afloat, she didn't have time to keep up with District Twelve gossip.

And then her name had been called. She shouldn't have been surprised. Her name was in the Reaping bowl a borderline absurd amount of times, having taken tesserae for all of her brother's in an attempt to keep them from wasting away to nothing. It hadn't been an ideal choice, but what other choice did they have? What other choice did anyone in District Twelve have? Even their wealthier class was poor by the standards of the closest district. They were all just trying to keep their heads above water and Dinah had no choice but to hope that everyone else's multitude of reaping slips would keep hers from being picked. No such luck. The minute they had arrived in the Capitol she told Cyrus he needed to get his shit together and figure out how to make her a winner. She'd been scrawny with no combat training, a far cry from a potential victor, but she was willing to get her hands as dirty as she needed to in order to come home — and she had. Thanks to him. The two had gotten close while he mentored her and now she finds her life completely intertwined with his, the two connected by something that no one else could really understand. She alternates depending on the day whether or not that's a good thing.

She scoffs, honeyed eyes rolling at his words. "One guy did this to you?" She asks, already taking mental stock of the injuries. "You really are getting old. It used to take at least two to get you this fucked up." She's seen him in worse states than this, a memory of his back torn apart from a lashing playing somewhere in the back of her mind, but she refuses to let herself dwell on it. She pulls him into the bathroom, pushing his shoulders gently to sit him down on the edge of the bathtub. One of her hands finds his jaw, tilting his head so she can look at the bruises littering his cheek bone and temple. "Your eyes are all fuzzy," she points out, "You probably have a concussion. You wanna tell me what happened?"

There were quite a few things that Cyrus hated, so many that he'd lost count -- But Peacekeepers would always be at the top of the list. Or at least, always floated around in the top three. It was practically genetic for him at this point, it's in his blood to pick a fight with an authority figure of any kind -- Especially one who was always itching to tie him to a whipping post. Like most nights, he'd been drinking. Being in the Capitol always had him itching for liquor, even though he was supposed to be focusing on their hopeless tributes. Instead, he'd found himself in some fancy bar, one where the bartender was happy to keep pouring him drinks, if it meant he got to spend time with a Victor.

After a few too many, he'd picked a fight with a Peacekeeper. It was like clockwork for him, whether he was in 12 or the Capitol -- A familiar itch arrived any time he held eye contact with one for two long. It was never for a noble purpose, nothing altruistic -- No, the Peacekeeper gave him a dirty look, and Cyrus was itching to blow off some steam. Had he been sober, he probably could have handled himself better. Stuck to a snide comment or two, maybe throw a liquor bottle at the bastard before taking off. There was an odd flair to his reputation when it came to the Capitol -- The citizens loved him, deeming him a "Bad Boy" (a phrase that made him outwardly cringe every time he heard Cesar Flickerman use it), but he knew better than to think that bought him any sort of safety. If it weren't for public favor, he knew he'd have been found dead in his home back in 12 years ago. He always made an attempt -- A pour one, but an attempt nonetheless -- to be on his best behavior during the Games, which loosely translated to not starting fights and focusing on getting sponsors.

If we he were sober, maybe he would have gotten a few hits in. All he needed was one hard enough to knock the asshole off his feet, and things would be settled. No Peacekeeper wanted to explain why they'd gotten into a fight with a Victor days before the Tribute Parade, so it usually made for a quick adrenaline rush before he'd get back to the training center apartments. But he'd had too much to drink -- Which led to him stumbling when going in for a second hit, and resulted in a knee to the face. Needless to say, it was all pretty downhill from there. He's not sure how long he'd laid on the ground, with the cool dirt against his cheek offering some sort of relief as he tried to gather his bearings and will everything around him to stop spinning. Truthfully, he definitely fall asleep at some point -- The voice in the back of his head, the one that sounds just like Dinah, tells him he's a fucking idiot for that, and he probably has a concussion. It's not the first time he's been unconscious in an alley way in the Capitol, and certainly won't be the last. Though, once consciousness finds him again, he's slightly less disoriented. Slightly.

But it's something, enough to get him back on his feet. Feeling the depth of his injuries now that he's not a completely drunken mess, Cyrus stumbles his way through the dimly lit street, and back to the training center apartments. It's a route he could do blind folded and backwards, but tonight -- He does it groaning, as he clutches his side and tries not to think about the fact that his rib is definitely broken. Fuck. Getting through the prep for the Games is going to be a nightmare. He tries to make a mental note to bother their Escort, who's name he'd yet to learn, for some Capitol medical bullshit to get him on the mend. The Games are depressing enough, he doesn't need to be physically miserable through them as well. Though, the idea of spending the entire time high on morphling was tempting.

He manages to get into the elevator, grateful for the empty halls thanks to the hour. There didn't need to be witnesses to him struggling to stay awake on the way up to the twelfth floor. He knows he should deal with his injuries himself. He's stitched himself up more times than he can count. But instead, his feet lead him to Dinah's door. He tells himself it's because she's always done a better job at stitches than he does -- Thanks to her idiot brother's getting hurt left and right as kids. That's the simple answer, at least. Plus, she's not pissed at him right now, so there's less of chance for her to tell him to eat shit.

The less simple answer, one he tries not to dwell on often if it can be avoided, is that she's the one person he trusts. Especially here. He's got a handful of friends, acquaintances -- But there's few who understand him better than Dinah. She's the only one he can let down his guard with, not feel the need to look over his shoulder. They share a bond, one forged after her games, connecting them in a way no one else would understand. They're the only two victors left standing in 12, after all -- It's not like they've got much of a community with shared experience. Dinah's wormed her way into his heart, no matter how much they fight or scream at one another. It's a truth he refuses to focus too much energy on, though it always haunts him around this time of year. Especially on the night before the Games start, she when inevitably winds up in his bed. He finds himself lying awake every time, haunted by the time he spent as Dinah's mentor, and how quickly he became invested in making sure she came home. It left him wishing he wasn't about to send two kids to their graves, that he could simply take her hand and get past the fence in 12. Anywhere but where they were sounded like a great idea.

It's easier to avoid all of those thoughts on a night like this, thankfully. When his head aches, his nose is dripping blood, and he's having trouble breathing without wincing. It serves as a good distraction, as he leans his head against the door frame and prays she answers. The familiar sound of her berating him puts a smile one his face, followed with a far too casual greeting: "Hey, kid." He speaks quietly, not wanting to deal with waking up one of the tributes, or worse -- Their idiot prep team. He's grateful she doesn't waste any time, his feet move as she tugs him forward. With a hand against the wall to keep himself steady, a small (and pained) laugh passes his lips. "You should see the other guy. I kicked his ass." They both know it's a lie, given the state he's in -- But his pride would never let him admit to the defeat.