Noise, noise, noise, noise--  Nothing but noise, blaring fanfares and empty chatter, endless endless endless until Taekwoon was sure he would go mad from it before they even had a chance to corral him in the arena.  If he couldn’t catch a breath soon, he was sure he’d kill someone before he was licensed for it.  See how much they’d cheer then.

He didn’t let himself think of how much he missed the quiet.  He did, once, and the gentle rustle of tree branches filled his mind and he could almost taste the tang of pine on his tongue; tears pricked at his eyes and he glowered ten times as fierce to hide them.  When trying out the switches and buttons in his room summoned a hyper-realistic (yet infuriatingly fake) image of forests all around him, he threw the remote across the room hard enough to dent the wall.

The only respite was their training, and even then only if he refused to let himself remember what he was training for.  He worked until each breath burned and his knuckles bled and his mentor scolded him for making his hands ugly.  The stylists gave him soft gloves decked with rhinestones to hide them.  He clenched his fists against the fleece lining until they shook.

It wasn’t until the fourth day that, by some miracle, he found himself alone at the apartment.  Taekwoon had been holed up in his room as usual, braced against the inevitable interruptions, but when half an hour crept by and no one barged in to drag him off to a party or press conference or parade, he grew suspicious.  Sliding from his perch beside the (fake) window, Taekwoon padded to the door and waved a hand over the sensor.  

The door slid open, and he let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.  Silence.  Stale, yes, and lifeless, nothing like the rich and earthy quiet back home (don’t think of it, don’t think of it), but he closed his eyes and drank it like water.  

Taekwoon stalked over to one of the couches (why did they have so many?) and sprawled out, taking up as much room as he could.  Long-limbed as he was, he barely took up two-thirds of its length, but threw a pillow or three onto the floor anyway before flopping back down and heaving a loud sigh.  And then another, louder.  The tension seeped out of him like poison leeched from a wound, but something stayed coiled hard and tight inside his ribcage.  He threw one arm over his eyes and with the other tossed another cushion to the floor.  A smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth as he imagined the fuss everyone would throw when they saw their precious furniture so messy.

The rest of the cushions were, sadly, out of reach; Taekwoon shifted, trying to stretch one arm down for another without having to sit up, until he was half-falling off the couch from the effort.  With a grunt of annoyance he reached for one that had already fallen to the floor and just tossed it further, watching idly as it flopped end over end across the immaculate carpet towards the immaculate wall--

--To come to rest at the feet of a young man.

Taekwoon sat up with a jolt, swallowing the startled sound that threatened to leap from his throat.  How long had he been standing there?  How could he have missed him?  Though to be fair his clothes were white (oddly simple to be found in the Capitol), the same as the wall, the same as the fluffy hair that swept low over his brow.  In a world where every fashion choice clamored and screamed for attention, everything about this one was designed to blend in with the scenery.  Taekwoon might have seen him before.  Serving the table they gathered at every night, maybe?  But if he had, he’d just been one more unwanted set of eyes to stare at him.

Annoyance that his time to himself was spoiled washed over any embarrassment Taekwoon may have felt.  He frowned accusingly at the man’s face, challenging him to scold him for making a mess or order him away to some event.  He caught his eyes for only a split second before the other’s were lowered; a chill ran down his spine as he saw a glimpse of the deadness he could feel eating through him reflected beneath the white fringe.  

“Didn’t see you there,” he mumbled, almost too quiet to even hear himself.  But the eyes sharpened and widened, flicking back up to his before returning to the floor.  The man’s hands tensed and e over the other--and then he was a statue again.  

The evening alone ruined, Taekwoon slid off the couch and stalked towards his room.  He bristled at the whisper of movement behind him, but when he glanced back he wasn’t being followed as he’d feared; the servant had knelt to gather the pillows strewn across half the room.  Taekwoon stifled a sigh.   He hated the Capitol and everything in it, but making more pointless work for the servants didn’t help anything (that split second of hollowness unmasked in those eyes had nothing to do with it).  He found himself crouched near the other, righting a fake potted plant he didn’t realize he’d tipped over earlier.  Another glance at the servant caught his gaze again, but this time confusion and curiosity and gratitude shone back.  This time Taekwoon was the first to look away.