the dinner club | aurora&flynn

a u r o r a .


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"Aurora, you have a message in the office," the art's teacher, Mr Johnson, tells me as the bell rings, signalling the end of the school day. Students around me slapping pencils down as they begin to pack away their stuff. I had asked who it was, though I already knew that it would be my mum. The school would have contacted her about the disruption this morning, as well as the mandatory detention I was supposed to attend at the end of the day.

Slipping my sketchbook and pencils into my back I give Mr Johnson a wave before exiting. There weren't many teachers that I liked- or should I say had the patience for me- but Mr Johnson was always good to me. He always let me stay back if the class was before lunch, letting me have lunch and continue working on whatever project we had been assigned in class. Every now and then he would even join me, giving me tips, or silently reading in the corner.

I began to notice that he hung around on the days where my face, or arms were dusted with more bruises than usual. As if he was looking out for me, making sure that my injuries were only on the surface. Sometimes he would ask me about them, but I would avoid the questions, usually changing the subject to his dog. Which, by the way, was one of the most hideous looking pups I have ever seen. He often said that it had a face that only a parent would love.

"Miss Emerson, a message from your mother. One moment." The lady behind the desk hand me a note, barely looking up for a moment before her thinking being to loud into the keys on her keyboard. I don't need to hear my mother voice to know that the words scribbled roughly on the paper were written with frustration and aggravation.


I fight the urge to roll my eyes, Aurora, why am I getting a phone call that you got the Victor- the victor- into detention? The clock is barely past nine o'clock before I'm receiving a message from your school. Sighing, I chew on my lip as her rant continues on, after the first couple minutes I had stopped paying attention, my focus on a couple of kids who were playing a game of birth bulldog in the school yard. If only mum would shut up, then I could challenge them to a game-

Mr's Baxter walks past me, fingers tapping her watch impatiently. Tucking the note into my pocket I give the lady behind the counter a nod before I follow Mrs Baxter from the office. She does not speak one word until we reach the classroom where she demands me to take a seat. Scowling behind her I move deeper into the room, taking a seat by the window.

Shortly after I have taken my seat Just Flynn saunters in and I am sure to stare at him with eyes that were as sharp as daggers. It's your fault we are here. It's all your fault. They seemed to say. I think what has made me even angrier, as I stared him down, was how mum had made a big fuss about how I had gotten the victor detention. I'm sure she would be displeased by the way I flip him off underneath the table.

”I need to go to the principle’s office, I will not be long. Both of you remain silent!” Mrs Baxter calls as she hurries from the room leaving just myself and Just Flynn.

”They are probably doing it.” Just Flynn murmurs, barely loud enough to reach my ears, but it does, and I snort because I hadn't noticed the way Mrs Baxters cheeks had been flushed, or the way she had moved with determination. Also the thought of Mrs Baxter and the principle sort of makes my stomach feel odd, and not in a good way. Sort of like I want to throw up.

"Are you jealous?" I tease, playing with his words from this morning.

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Flynn doesn't even look at me, his attention more focused on not looking at me. Which I found to be pretty amusing. I found that the anger that had been lingering begins to slip away, my focus moving to the way Just Flynn seems to haunch over the desk, his chin resting on his palms, almost as if he refused to even allow himself to see me move in his peripherals.

Being the petty, stubborn child I was, I pick up my backpack, before shoving my chair back loudly. I close the distance between our desks, taking the seat directly in front of him. ”Of course not, Mr Laher is an old man…” As he speaks, his body seems to squirm as he visualised himself and the principle in a close passionate embrace- ugh, yuck, I couldn't even visualise it without my stomach churning uncomfortably. Though I try to hide my discomfort from Flynn, unwilling to allow him to see that my own jibe had sort of backfired.

”Mrs Baxter said to be quiet anyway," he says as he buries his head in his arms, resting it against the wooden desk. He demands that I shut up as he attempts to block me out, using his arms as walls, high and solid. But I'd be damed if I had to sit here for the next hour in silence, ignored by the boy who had the audacity to call me a bitch. Though, to be fair, I had provoked him, and I more than likely deserved the title- but that was so not the point.

I turn my chair so that I could tuck my legs under his desk, I prepare my soldiers to break down his walls. "Oi," I give his head a flick, knowing that my action I could possibly be poking a bear. "Don't tell me to shut up." I pause for a moment, resting my chin on my hands. "She's not here. She might be a while. You really just want to sit here in silence?" I pause again, sighing loudly. I had been in this room enough times to know that staring silently at the wall only made time tick by slower. I also had been in this situations enough times to know that Mrs Baxter would come wandering back in just a few moment before that clock hit 4.

I sigh loudly again, pouting as I stared down at Just Flynns bushy dark hair. Where all boys our age this broody? I mean, most of them weren't keen when I pestered them, waiting for them to take a swing. But with Flynn, I hadn't wanted to feel physical pain. I had been bored, and he had seemed like an easy target, making the mistake of taking the seat next to me. Did that make me in the wrong? Was I the one who owed him an apology? Nah, that didn't feel right. Well, not fully. Maybe I was partially at fault, and maybe I did owe him some sort of apology.

Scrunching up my nose, I try and force my voice to sound somewhat sincere, "look, princess- I mean, Flynn. I'm sorry." Yeah, nah, that didn't sound quite right.

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He pulls himself off the desk, sitting up so straight that if he leaned back ever so slightly I was sure that his chair would topple over, taking him with him. He was being so dramatic, acting like a child, as though if he got to close he might get cooties. I had thought the victor might be a bit more mature, after all he would have more life experience than most of us who sat in this very classroom each and everyday.

"Stop being a child," I chide him, rolling my eyes, hoping that he did rock back to far and tumble to the ground. There was no doubt that I would laugh as he stared up at me with pathetic angry eyes. "I don't have cooties." Then to prove the point I lean further over the table, so that my chest rested against the desk, my arms folded in front of me, my chin resting comfortably on my forearms. "Be careful, if you push back any harder you might fall on your butt."

He crosses his arms across his chest, looking down on me with a face void of emotions- expect maybe the flicker of annoyance in his eyes. ”And what do you want to talk about exactly?”

Ooooh.

Now wasn't that a fun question. It posed no limitation, nothing was out of bounds- well, until it was spoken and mostly shot down my Mr Sourpuss over here. I raise a brow at him, mischief in my eyes as I look up at him and his stiff shoulders. "What do I want to talk about?" I lift my head, unfolding my arms to rest my chin on the palms of my right hand, my fingers lightly running my jaw. I look at him quizzically for a moment, running through questions that were running through my mind at warp speed.

I wanted to ask him why he came back to school. I wanted to know if what happened to him in the arena keeps him up at night. If he thinks about the lives he has taken. If it hurts. I wanted to know if he believed he was better than us because he had survived the games. I wanted to know how much it hurt to be shot, to be cut. I wanted to know that if I was the one in the games, would it hurt for me to have my body ripped into, broken and burnt. Would I cry like he had? Most likely not. Would I scream in pain like his allies? According to the doctors: no.

So I settle on the first question, "why did you come back to school? I didn't think victors would have to sit through maths."

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I don't know if he could hear the genuine question behind my words. I wouldn't blame him if it was lost due to the way we had treated each other throughout the day. The way I had been treating him, pushing at him and poking with words and petty behaviour. Maybe I deserved a fabricated answer. But I genuinely wanted to know why he would choose to sit here, rather than explore a world that had suddenly opened up to him. I knew that if I had a choice of school or something better I would chose the second in a heartbeat.

Just Flynn takes a moment to answer, most likely trying to decide if he was going to answer me seriously or spread a tasteful like. ”The Capitol want to make me their master surgeon and well, I need to learn all of that mastery. Though I don’t think Mrs Baxter is going to give me any of it…” For some reason it hadn't occurred to me that being a Victor wasn't exactly a full-time job. When I thought of them, I never really thought of the other jobs that they might have.

"Does that mean... You're going to live in the Capitol eventually?" I wondered what it might look like to live in the centre of Panem. I wanted to believe that I would hate it, hate it because growing up in a world where the hunger games exist should make it almost impossible to love the place that celebrated the massacre of children. But... But I feel like once I stepped foot in the city that I might fall in love with it.

As I think, lost in my thoughts, I kind of forget about the tension between us, mostly caused by me and my agitating behaviour. I feel my shoulders relax, my face softening the grin into a thoughtful smile. "What was it like, the Capitol?" Did Just Flynn associate only negative thoughts towards the Capitol due to his experiences? Or had he managed to look past them and fall in love with a city of light and life?