*saturated sunrise. Indigo/Whitney {clue}

On his way back to his room after dinner, Indigo had gotten distracted several times, wandering into the kitchen where he’d quietly munched on a handful of grapes while alphabetizing the spice rack, and then the game room, where he’d amused himself by calculating billiard shots before finding the bar and getting captivated by the artwork that adorned the walls.

Landscapes for the most part; The ocean outside district four, fields of grain in what had to be eleven. The Capitol skyline. Probably all places Malcom had visited at one point or another.

As he inspected them, he thought about what the banquet had revealed about his fellow interns. When Fiora had announced that she was a supernatural detective, he’d had to resist the urge to say something. Really? She might has well have announced that she sold essential oils or something equally inane.

It was disappointing. She was so nice that to be so useless was a tragedy. If she was interested in dead people, she should have gone into archeology, anthropology or the morgue. He shook his head. Then there was Poppy. Where Amrin was ice, that girl was fire.

If he even attempted to talk to her, he was liable to end up a pathetic puddle on the floor or wrapped around her finger. She wasn’t one to be trifled with. The other redhead, Coralie, acted like she already had the run of the place, though he wondered how hard it was to run with that silver spoon wedged so far up her ass.

Harvey was on the opposite end of the spectrum. The kid in high school that took out his anger at the world on the first person to bump into him in the hallway. Or by stabbing his food. At least he had more character than Beryl though, who was probably the only intern that had grated on his nerves immediately.

Who announced that their only redeeming trait was being nice with a laugh? Either he was truly as dense as a sack of hammers or he was up to something. His parents had probably paid Nox to take him along. Either that or Mr.Nox’s standards were lower than Indigo could have imagined.

Which brought him to Blaine, the lame-brain that thought he was a comedian. Newsflash, he wasn’t. He was full of himself. Indigo knew his type well. They never amounted to more than anything but a jail cell.

Indigo got up on the counter and swung his legs over, interested by the bottles and their lack of clear organization. But how best to rearrange them? By bottle shape? By alcohol content? Alphabetically from absinthe to zinfandel wine?

But then his musings were interrupted by someone entering the bar. The girl that had sat across from him at dinner. There was a kaleidoscope of colorful stains adorning her jeans. Told him she was the type that preferred being comfortable. Passionate. Or intense, as she had described herself.

Clearly an artist. That was something he could appreciate. There were a great many subjects he’d studied, but art wasn’t one of the ones he could put into practice all that well.

You could learn how to sail a boat, cook a meal, or fix a clock from any number of manuals, things he had indeed taught himself how to do, and you could study the masters all you wanted, but art required that spark of well, creative passion.

In any case, he straightened his bow-tie and smoothed out a wrinkle in his jacket. A quick whiff of himself told him that he still smelled faintly of weed, but ah well, it wasn’t like he’d tried very hard to keep it a secret.

Indigo gave her a friendly nod as she approached, turning to the bottles.  “People can be so boring,” he remarked as he studied the wine. There were many fine vintages alongside the whiskeys and the rums. “Seeing what they want to instead of what is.” He spun on his heel and turned to face her again.

“Whitney, right? Witty Whitney. The white island. No man is an island. No woman either!” He declared, quoting some long-dead poet as he clapped his hands together. God, he was so smooth when he was high. Why the fuck had he tried to talk to Amrin sober?

“Well, I’m here because I don’t want to see my roommate just yet,” he continued, trying to find a pattern in the stains of her pants. “Talk about being uptight.” He punctuated his statement by miming a stick going up his butt. Adam was a man of very few words, and Indigo got the impression that the dealer would like to keep their interactions minimal.

That was fine, it wasn’t like they were going to be sharing a room for the next twelve months.

Haha

Indigo pulled a napkin out of his pocket and unwrapped the chocolate tart that he’d pilfered from the dinner table. The raspberries on top had gotten squished, but not enough to seep out into his clothes. He took a bite, enjoying the rich ganache with a sigh. He munched quietly for a few seconds and then spoke again.

“What about you?”