THE GIRL WHO CONQUERED THE MOUNTAIN - Chapter 1 - surgeoninspace (2024)

Chapter Text

Every wisp of air has been stolen from your lungs, too stunned to even pull in a breath. It’s as if someone dropped an anvil on your chest - frozen in your spot, knees locked, and thoughts having come to a halt. A rumbling fit for a freight train escalates in your ears until you’ve been fully deafened, your nerves replaced with nausea that drains your face of color.

Even with the mic’s piercing feedback through the speakers, the blare of your name was unmistakable.

With a throat made of cotton you fight a dry swallow.

The only thing that offers a sliver of an opportunity to ground you was the peacekeepers’ harsh, demanding grip on your upper arms. They support your full weight, practically dragging you along as you fumble the simple task of putting one foot in front of the other.

The stairs to the temporary stage creaks under legs made of lead. You’d fully collapsed into yourself once the escort extends her hand to guide you to center stage, entirely sucked into a fever of denial and shock.

The escort rambles on, but her words are lost to your ears.

The adrenaline already courses through your veins, blood audibly pumping in your ears and eyes sprung open. You are wide awake, but you can’t shake the feeling that this must be a dream, that there must be some mistake. It doesn’t feel real.

You never thought it’d be you. It was always a ‘what if,’ but it never seemed likely. There are thousands of slips in that big glass bowl and only a handful read your name.

Your lips part as you struggle to work in heavy, wheezing breaths, staring out over the densely packed crowd - an ocean of drab colors and hollow silhouettes. Just moments ago you were lost in this crowd, one head in a sea of thousands.

What are the odds?

You start when the back of the escort’s hand nudges your shoulder, ripping you from your haze.

“It’s customary for the tributes to shake hands, dear,” she whispers to you out of the mic’s range.

It takes you a moment to register her words, to understand what she was even trying to communicate.

You didn’t hear her call the male tribute, too engulfed in a blackhole of dread and horror. Your doubled vision flits to catch the gaze of the male tribute, swallowing hard when you find half-lidded eyes. Immediately your heart sinks, stomach twisted as you stare at the menacing figure before you.

The Mountain.

You didn’t know him. You didn’t even know his name, and you had missed your opportunity when the Capitol’s escort read his slip of paper from the big glass bowl. You knew his nickname, though. Or at least - the name he was taunted with. He’d been relentlessly teased for his size, nearing seven feet tall with an intimidating frame to match. Always looming above the crowd, commanding attention whether he wants it or not. The particularly unruly kids torment him, the rest are afraid of him.

The district’s outcast.

You’d had an encounter with him once before, for just a moment. You hadn’t even exchanged words, but you’d thoroughly embarrassed yourself.

Through vision that warps with each beat of your heart, you find his arm, extended and waiting patiently to shake hands.

You try to find a response to the escort’s instructions and also give The Mountain an apology for making him wait, but your words come out mumbled and on top of either other. You shuffle unsteadily towards him, having to reach your arm up to press your shaking palms to hands that sit much higher than yours. His calloused, monstrous hand swallows yours with a sturdy grip. He’s carrying the work, your arm gone completely limp to his as he shakes your hand. You meet his eyes, devoid of expression and staring down at you, half-lidded eyes unreadable. You’re not sure if the moisture is coming from you, him, or both, but you have the sense to refrain from wiping off the sweat off on your nice reaping day clothes in front of the crowd.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the tributes from District Nine!”

The escort raises each of your arms as the crowd looks on, yours by your wrist, his by the crook of his elbow, as far as she can reach when his arm is fully extended. There’s no applause, but people do break into overlapping, indecipherable shouts.

Judging by the way the escort’s face sinks, it wasn’t a positive reception.

You’d already sunk into yourself again, wrist limp against her hold and arm dropping loosely to your side when she releases it. You get a brief second to glance to your feet, a moment to pretend you were slipping through the stage and out of existence before you’re roughly ushered away, tripping over yourself as the peacekeepers push you and The Mountain into the district’s hall.

Your loved ones were more emotional than you were. You couldn’t bring yourself to be in the moment to give them a genuine goodbye, clouded by a numb fog, completely dissociated from your body and thoughts. You wish you could remember their heartfelt parting words, but you’re not sure if it would make it easier or harder to leave, most likely never to return.

When your time is up, the guards swoop in to take you both to the train station, where you’re escorted through a swarming crowd with a hundred cameras trained square on your face. You catch a glimpse of yourself on one of their screens, long enough to see your face has entirely drained its color.

Thirty minutes pass on the train ride to the Capitol when you finally regain control of your body, the racing thoughts returning.

The escort is rambling about something, you can hear her voice but you’re too exhausted to tune in to her words.

Your eyes flick up from the floor of the train to find crystal chandeliers, upholstered furniture, golden decor. Extravagance you’ve only ever seen through the static of a television. The colors were vibrant. Dyed a rainbow of saturated and bright colors you weren’t used to seeing in your district. You follow the path of intricate etchings into the sturdy wood, mesmerized by the swirled designs.

As your eyes scan the room you feel the stare of The Mountain, arms crossed and legs fully extended to support his deep slouch on his opposing bench. He quickly glances away when you meet his stare, giving his attention back to your district’s escort. You take the opportunity to close your parted lips and make a futile attempt to keep your emotions off your sleeve.

The Mountain had you beat in that department - unreadable in every sense of the word. That’s the smart move, keep your opponents guessing. You’re sure you read as pathetic, smelling of weakness and as helpless as a fawn.

He’s got you beat in every department, actually. The Mountain looks like he was engineered for this. Height designed for intimidation, built like an ox, muscles that protrude even from under his clothes.

You wouldn’t stand a chance in a one-on-one with him, let alone him in the company of twenty-two other tributes.

You’re dead.

After soaking in the escort’s ridiculous outfit, busy with deep red ruffles and gems, you finally tune into her words. She’s going on about what the upcoming days will look like, her misguided optimism and excitement a grated ringing your ears. You don’t bother to stifle the way your cheek bunches with a snarl.

The train car’s doors part with a smooth zip, your irritation briefly distracted by a burly man making his entrance.

John Price - a winner of a game that took place around twenty years ago. You’d never met him, but you knew of him well. A man that’s straight to the point, doesn’t take bullsh*t, and isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. The kind of man you can deduce with a onceover that he’s been hardened by life’s cruel nature. Harsh lines around his eyes and forehead, always dawning a furrowed brow and an everlasting squint, appearing as if he both dislikes and distrusts just about anything he looks at. He’s spent his life as victor mostly in his own isolation, dulling the pain with whiskey and the occasional prostitute. Aside from a plush stomach, courtesy of indulging in his winnings, it’s clear he still retained most of his strength over the years.

Price crosses his sturdy arms and interrupts the escort mid-sentence, “Ruby, give the kids a minute to breathe, would’ya?” His voice gruff and tone shaming, giving the escort, Ruby, a look that conveys the room’s annoyance with her.

She’s taken aback by his interruption, nose crinkled and mouth pulled back in disbelief. She mumbles under her breath as she exits the compartment, leaving you and The Mountain alone with your mentor.

Your gaze finds the floor again, staring in the space just in front of The Mountain’s boots, his ankles crossed and heels dug into the train’s floor. If the circ*mstances were different, you would have thanked Price for silencing the escort, but you’re in no mood for courtesy.

From your peripheral you watch Price uncross his arms, digging his palms into his hips as he looks you both over. He takes his time eyeing up The Mountain, just like most do. You already know what he’s thinking - that District Nine might actually have a chance. That someone that fit, that strong, that big would have the best odds of leaving with the crown.

The burn of Price’s stare is brief. He doesn’t linger on you as much. You know what he’s thinking - that a weakling such as yourself was destined to die in that arena, that you don’t stand a chance to even last a day. Giving up on you before you even started.

Not that you could blame him.

Price says nothing, turning his back to you both. You turn your focus out the window, watching the trees whiz by faster than you can get a good look at them, a green and blue blur of foliage and sky. You’ve never gone this fast before.

There’s the sound of clinking glass, the pour of liquid.

Price wordlessly moves in front of The Mountain before stepping to you. He nudges you when you refuse to return his stare, extending a short glass half-full with an amber drink.

“You’ve earned it,” He says when you hesitate, his offering outstretched for an awkward few seconds before you reach out, carefully wrapping your fingers around the crystal.

You inspect it closely before looking over to The Mountain. You meet eyes again, both of you checking to see if the other will accept the offer. You raise an eyebrow at him, acknowledging the shared hesitance.

It felt like a trick.

Alcohol was a luxury you wouldn’t have been able to afford in your district - even if the merchants were unethical enough to sell to the underaged.

You bring the glass just under your nose, wincing at the pungent smell that singes your nostrils.

“Don’t be shy,” Price says at you both, “It’ll ease the nerves.”

That you could get on board with.

You ignore The Mountain’s stare boring into you as you bring the glass to your lips, taking a meager sip. An audible gag leaves you when you swallow, face contorted in a wince at the fire that laps against the back of your throat. You can follow the warmth as it makes it way down, finishing with a bloom throughout your chest.

Price gives a chuckle at your struggle to take the whiskey down.

You narrow your eyes at him, the heat under your skin turning to that of spite. You hold his stare while you bring the glass back to your lips, impulsively downing the whiskey. Your body fights each swallow, forced to override the clear signals that strongly suggest you don’t let it go down. Stinging tears well at your eyeline and threaten to spill, but you don’t break your glare even after you slam the empty glass on the bench next to you with an obnoxious thud of crystal. You hope he can’t tell you’re fighting back the overwhelming urge to vomit, the warmth crawling up your throat instead of down this time.

“Atta’ girl,” Price says with an amused huff. He draws closer to top off your glass while you force down a coughing fit.

You’re good, you think, but you’re too busy choking on your stomach’s threat of retching to object to his pour. You catch The Mountain swirling his glass before taking his first sip, eased by your bold display.

Price lets out an exhausted grunt when he sits, hands on his thighs as he drops onto the same velvet covered bench you perched on. If he’s noticed your clear discomfort as you fight to hold in the burn of the whiskey, he doesn’t comment on it, thankfully. You surely would not be able to handle another round of spite-chugging.

The three of you brood in silence for at least twenty minutes. It’s not an awkward silence, more of a solemn one. The silence that blankets a burial as you watch a loved one being lowered into their grave. There was nothing any of you could say to dull the harsh reality unfolding before you.

You can feel the loosening effect of the alcohol. Price wasn’t kidding. The world felt fuzzy, but easier. Your thoughts slowed, inhibition lowering. You change your mind on the refill after all, returning to small yet confident sips.

Once Ruby returns, you’re well past tipsy, checks flushed and a noticeable dip in coordination. Your steps feel uneven as the four of you make your way to the dining car, putting an unusual amount of focus on your strides.

Ruby continues to break the silence with her casual conversation, sitting across from you and going on like half the table wasn’t being sent to their death.

The Mountain’s legs brush against yours under the cover of the table’s exotic wood, but the spirits have given slack to prior reservations. You’re not bothered to point your knees towards Price. You can feel The Mountain’s stare out of the corner of his eye, annoyed you weren’t making room for him.

You stopped caring.

Your entire life you’ve been so focused on pleasing others, making yourself smaller to conform as you were expected to fit the order of the districts. You most certainly were going to die - what could you gain for continuing the charade?

The Mountain can deal with your outer thigh, you decide.

Dinner is more lavish than the train’s fixtures. Enough food to feed your family for a month spread out on the table in front of you for just one meal. Golden brown and fluffy rolls in a neat stack, perfectly roasted and seasoned greens, tender beef and potatoes stewed in rich broth.

You didn’t think you would have much of an appetite, but the smell is so enticing you can’t help but sample. Hesitant bites quickly turn to greedy scarfing - you’d never tasted anything so extravagant.

You’d feel bad, but the booze has dulled your worries and The Mountain seems to be putting it away faster than you were. Through the fog settled over your mind, you briefly wonder how much food it takes to sustain one of his size. The financial strain he must have put on his family. How many times was he was forced to put his name in that big glass bowl in exchange for extra rations?

After nursing your second glass of whiskey to completion, cheeks flushed with warmth and thoughts beyond muddled, Price doesn’t hesitate to pour you another.

“I don’t think that’s appropriate, John.”

You watch as Ruby’s lips purse, Price not even giving her a glance as he tips the decanter, silently defying her suggestion.

“It’s unbecoming of a mentor to get his tributes intoxicated,” Ruby scolds.

“It’s unbecoming to send these kids to their death for no good reason,” Price shoots back, voice gruff as he sets the decanter down. He returns to his fork, the the screech of metal across his plate echoes through the car as he gathers some greens.

“You know very well it’s because of the rebellion.”

You and The Mountain share another unsure glance before you offer him a lazy shrug and a soft roll of your eyes. Something to remind him that nothing mattered anymore, remember?

The combination of what remains of your nerves, whiskey, and rich food does not bode well, your stomach churning as it catches up with your appetite. Beads of sweat seep from your pores and underarms, your clothes suddenly twice as constricting.

You slide your chair out from the table with a drawn-out, obnoxious scrape. You’re followed by all three sets of eyes as you wordlessly rush out of the dining car with clenched fists, the train’s doors opening for you automatically.

You make it to the bathroom, thankfully, but miss your opportunity to lean closer to the toilet - a mixture of the rich stew, whiskey, and bile spraying over the porcelain. You drop to your knees, another twist and heave of your gut launching into the bowl. The whiskey burns just as bad up as it does going down, if not more, and this time it takes its opportunity to scorch your nose for good measure.

When you’re finished coughing out the final bits of half-digested food that threaten to lodge in your windpipe, you lay back with a groan, back flush to the cool tile.

You’ve never been in a bathroom so extravagant. Sinks made of marble, golden fixtures, embroidered towels. Not a single fleck of dirt or grime. The bathmats are made of an elegant, plush fabric encompassing stuffing that substitutes a pillow for your spinning head. You felt bad for defiling a bathroom so lavish, but shelved the feeling when you think maybe it could be a form of revenge.

This is what you get for sending me to a fight to the death, Capitol. Puke on your fancy toilets.

You lift your arm to wipe vomit from the corner of your mouth before letting it fall back onto the tile with a thud, eyes pinching shut in a desperate attempt to rid the dizzy spin.

You sneer at the sound of heavy shoes approaching, not bothering to sit up to greet your visitor.

“I don’t want to hear it, okay? Just-“

You peek with one eye when the footsteps stop, bailing on your sentence when you see The Mountain filling the doorway with his massive frame.

“Oh,” You sit up slowly, knees folding in front of you, resting your head on the bathroom wall. You close your eyes again with a soft wince, “Thought you were Price.”

“They, äh,” You noticeably flinch at the sound of his voice, enough to snap your eyes open with a shake of your head. You’d never heard him speak before. It was intense - grating almost. Not like Ruby’s voice. His was deeper, harsher, as if he was forcing each word with a hiss through a filter of crunching gravel, “Wanted me to tell you that dessert was being served.”

He rubs the back of his neck, eyes looking to the ceiling to avoid your stare.

You appreciate the gesture - partially because you didn’t need your opponent to see you even more pathetic than he already has - tears and snot staining puffy cheeks, curled up in a ball next to a vomit-stained toilet. Mostly because the thought of a rich Capitol dessert makes you gag, and you’d rather he didn’t watch as your limbs scramble for the toilet before making another splash in the water. It’s followed by desperate spitting in an attempt to remove the bitter taste from your mouth, and when you pull away to sit on your knees, you’re relieved to see the doorway empty.

You return to leaning against the bathroom wall, taking deep, exhausted breaths as you wish away the nausea.

The footsteps near again, and you pull a face at the second disruption. You don’t look, but you can hear the footsteps approach, pause, and then peter out again. You raise an eyebrow at the lack of mocking, opening your eyes to find only a glass of water sitting on the marble countertop.

“Hey,” You call out with a slight slur, rubbing your brow unsurely. You continue when you hear the footsteps stop in acknowledgment, a plead layering words exclaimed to the next room, “Don’t tell Price?”

You didn’t want him to know your spite-chugging had blown up in (out of?) your face. You’d already embarrassed yourself in front of The Mountain, you didn’t need to ruin whatever scrap of dignity Price might hold for you.

“I won’t,” The harsh voice echoes back.

You don’t form words, but you do hum him a single note in the tune of ‘thank you’ before he leaves you be.

You’re not sure how long you rest on the ground, soothed by the cool tile. When you regain your strength, you stand on wobbly legs, and help yourself to a pure white towel embroidered with gold thread stitched intricate patterns. You wipe your face before cleaning off the toilet to the best of your ability, ultimately deciding that whoever was responsible for cleaning the toilets most likely did not have any influence on the decision to send you to your death.

The Mountain’s offering of water was a saving grace. You give a thorough rinse of your mouth, stripping the repulsive taste from your tongue before making your way back to the dining car.

“Welcome back,” Price says dryly upon your return.

You give a light grunt in response, still embarrassed about failing to hold your liquor. You’re hoping he was oblivious to your defeat.

“Would you like to see your rooms?” Ruby asks with her posh Capitol accent, ending her question with a high pitch.

Ruby shows you to your rooms, each of you having your own private quarters.

“Help yourself! Anything in here is yours for the taking. If you need anything, just ring the bell and someone will be at your service,” She gives a bright white smile, “Goodnight you two!”

Ruby’s shoes clack obnoxiously as she walks off, one of her arms folded, holding her hand near her head with a folded palm.

You and The Mountain share another glance, a raise of an eyebrow at Ruby’s incongruous mannerisms.

Maybe you could blame it on the whiskey - but his presence, while intimidating at first, is starting to grow on you. As selfish as it is, you’re relieved you weren’t alone in this. Someone to check-in with, someone who was just as lost as you, just as unsure, and just as knee-deep in the same abysmal circ*mstances.

He served as a reminder of home, too. Maybe not incredibly familiar, but he was a pleasant contrast from the Capitol way of life, even in his nice reaping day clothes. A piece of District Nine to be at your side, at least until you get to the arena.

You don’t last long once you’re back in your room. You brush the awful taste from your mouth, have a warm soak in the shower in your private bathroom, enjoy the scents of fancy soaps. Once dried and underwear replaced, you crawl into the lush bed, only minutes passed before you’re drifting off.

———————————————————-

It’s the growl of your hollow stomach that wakes you. A cramp that tightens in your lower half, aching for food. It’s accompanied by a mild headache, a punishment for your dehydration and irresponsible drinking. The hangover had you feeling dirty, even though the shower’s water pressure and fancy soaps and scrubs had you cleaner than ever before. You groan at your abdominal muscles, sore from the arduous task of vomiting.

After a half-hearted attempt to pull yourself together, you meander to the dining car, hoping for food. The smell hits you as soon as you step through the automatic doors, eyes lulling and mouth watering at the inviting aroma of a generous breakfast spread.

Ruby and The Mountain are already sitting at the table, halfway through their meals.

“Good morning!” Ruby says in a pitch that makes your headache throb. You don’t let it show, “Sleep well?” She asks.

You hum at her in response, polite but reserved. Avoiding her gaze, you eye up the dishes spread on the table as you take your seat. Bacon, sausage, and ham spread neatly on a tray. Eggs, seasoned potatoes, ripe and brilliant fruits. Bagels, muffins, and toast paired with an assortment of jams. Never had you had so many choices for breakfast.

When you bump into The Mountain’s knee this time, you cross your leg over the other, giving him the space he needed. Maybe it’ll make up for the disgusting display you subjected him to last night. You avoid his gaze too, now inhibited without the confidence the booze gifted you.

You don’t hesitate to load your plate, rolling your eyes in satisfaction as you take your first bite. While you chew you pour yourself orange juice, following your swallow with half the glass to satisfy your overwhelming thirst.

“Today’s going to be very exciting,” Ruby starts with her cheery tone, “We’ll be arriving at the Capitol!”

You keep your attention to your plate, secretly wishing she’d give you time to wake up, time to pretend that what was happening wasn’t happening. You wonder if Price would have staved her off if he was here.

“The opening ceremony is tonight!” She practically squeals. Her hand goes limp on her wrist as she leans forward in her chair, dropping her voice as if she’s sharing a scandalous secret, “So, when we get there, you’ll both head straight to your stylists. They’ll prep you and make sure you both look perfect for the audience.”

You can feel the intimidating, half-lidded stare coming from the direction of The Mountain. You resist the urge to meet his gaze, the shame making it difficult to meet his eyes. You tilt your chin down to rid him from your peripheral in an attempt to focus on breakfast instead of the stylists, the ceremony, or The Mountain.

He was a reminder of home, a reminder that you were not alone in this nightmare, but he was also a reminder of the nightmare you were both trapped in. You wanted to at least have a belly full of food before you dug into reality.

“Coffee?” Ruby asks after she’s finished topping off her mug.

Coffee was another luxury you wouldn’t have been able to afford in your district. You flick between her gaze and the pot before you find a matching mug in front of The Mountain’s plate.

“Sure,” You mumble, careful not to brush your fingers against the heated glass while you take the coffee from her. You fill the empty mug next to your assigned dish, and warm your fingers around the mug. Your hesitant sip leads to a wince at the bitter taste.

Apparently having watched your reaction, The Mountain wordlessly slides a ceramic jar and matching pourer filled with sugar and cream respectively. He looks to Ruby, who gives him a proud nod, as if he correctly implemented something she had taught him.

You don’t say anything, don’t meet his gaze even when he pulls away his hands.

After a moment of hesitance you do take his suggestion, and find he’s right. With the sweetening of sugar and mixed with chilled cream it is much better, tasting more like a dessert than a drink you’d have with breakfast.

Keeping your mouth rinsed from vomit, bettering your coffee.

After you’ve downed your first sip, you have the thought that he might be trying to get you to ingest something. Maybe the hangover was not the only thing to blame for feeling lousy this morning. A poison, or even just something to make you sick before you get to the arena, mixed into the water and the cream.

You set the mug down on its saucer like you were handling an explosive.

While The Mountain is busy clearing his plate, you survey him. His eyes are still half-lidded and unreadable, body relaxed casually.

Maybe too casually.

“Morning,” Price says on his entrance, stealing your attention.

“You’re late,” Ruby says strictly.

“You’re loud,” Price cuts back, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

You raise a brow.

At the very least, watching Price and Ruby bicker was entertaining. Something to distract you from your imminent death, drawing closer with each minute that ticks by.

Ruby’s face pinches, but she doesn’t respond, “We were talking about the opening ceremony tonight.”

Price grunts, loading a scoop of potatoes onto his plate with a large silver serving spoon.

“This will be the first time you get to show off to your sponsors so make sure you make a good impression!”

You and The Mountain have paused eating to give your stomachs a chance to stretch around your appetite. The sound of Price clinking dishware fills the silences in between Ruby’s excited words.

“Big smiles, head high, don’t forget to wave! Remember - you’re proud to be apart of such an important part of history!”

You slam your glass of orange juice down onto the table, the juice sloshing up the side of the crystal launching droplets from the glass that splatter on the tablecloth. You command the table’s attention, but only meet Ruby’s eyes with a pointed, icy glare.

She looks back at you in bewilderment, as if you’ve not been provoked into your outburst. You don’t have words for her, just a stare full of daggers and flared nostrils. You’re not in the mood to play nice this morning.

“Well, you certainly have a lot to work on between now and the ceremony,” She says, taking a sip of her coffee as she holds her saucer underneath.

You roll your eyes, roughly smearing a glob of jam over a piece of toast. In your irritation you forget you didn’t want to acknowledge The Mountain yet, shooting him an annoyed glance. His brows lower, almost like he’s apologizing on her behalf.

You find it even more annoying that he’s not as bothered by the implication that the two of you should be proud you were chosen to be slaughtered. You look back down to your plate, tearing off a corner of your toast, too busy mulling over Ruby’s words to enjoy the sweet taste of jam coating your tongue.

A full stomach helps dull the rage and eases your hangover.

“She’s right, you know,” Price says, low and toward his meal after a long silence.

“That it’s an honor to be such an important part of history?” You ask, voice sharp with malice.

“No,” He starts, and Ruby’s mouth co*cks back, “That you need to make a good impression on the sponsors.”

He slides a piece of ham off his fork, not bothering to swallow as he continues, “Play their game. Wear the corny costumes, be a beacon of positivity, act honored to be there.”

“Whatever,” You say, bumping your knee against The Mountain’s leg when you slide out of your chair to stand. You drop your cloth napkin over your plate, exiting the car without so much as a goodbye.

Back in your room, your pointed frustration boils down to reveal nothing but a heavy ache in your chest. An exhausted sob leaves you when you flop down on your bed, finally giving yourself the space to cry, to let out all of the overwhelming emotions you’ve been trying to heed off. The tears flow mercilessly, the droplets rolling off your nose before staining the silken sheets a shade darker. You don’t even try to stifle your cries, too occupied thinking about home, about your loved ones, about how you’ve only a few days left to live - and you can’t even live them how you want too. Forced to be a puppet to the Capitol, dolled up and pretending like you’re not the lowest you’ve even been, just to give them a good show. A desperate bid to have some rich schmuck buy you the difference between life and death in that arena.

When you awake for the second time, your eyes are puffy, mouth dry, and there’s a hearty knock flooding your room that only exacerbates the dehydration headache nestled just behind your eyebrows.

Ruby’s calling in a sing-song voice through the door, “We’re here!”

You give a small whine into the sheets, lifting your head to find your temples pulse with movement.

You rub your red eyes with a loose fist and stand to make a last minute attempt to look presentable. Walking around like you’ve just woken from a nap you cried yourself into surely doesn’t say, ‘I’m proud to be such an important part of history,’ does it?

You do what you can, fixing your hair and brushing your teeth, but there’s nothing you can do to hide puffy cheeks and swollen eyelids.

When you open the door, you flinch when you see The Mountain, not expecting to see his daunting figure standing in the hallway between your doors.

His eye twitches when he sees your swollen face, a stare you had to tilt your head back to meet.

You let out a long exhale as you regain composure, one hand slowly returning from your instinctual brace to the doorknob.

You give him a raise of a brow in question at his lingering presence while you creep the door shut.

For a moment those hooded eyes widen, his hands pulling up to the space in front of his chest. He fumbles the start of his sentence, looking to the floor before he spits it out.

“I thought we should go together.”

You give him a small, slow nod, not sure what to make of it.

Your first thought is that he wanted a look at you, to see if his poisoning had any worthwhile effect.

You’re surprised he’s doing it by letting his nerves show, being so open about leaning on you. You didn’t think he would allow himself to be vulnerable in front of an opponent - he’s been nothing but unreadable so far.

Maybe he’s comfortable letting his guard down after he saw you such a mess yesterday, not worried about showing weakness to someone who’s more than truly pathetic.

Maybe he’s relieved to have someone just as lost and just as unsure at his side, too. His fidgeting hands drop to his side as you walk past him, his heavy boots following in your wake.

Maybe he’s just trying to lure you in so that you’ll be an easy kill in the arena. Trick you into thinking he’s not a threat so that the knife impales smoothly through your back.

You lead him to the car with the velvet benches, where Ruby and Price sit. Your attention is immediately pulled to the windows, a perfect view of the twinkling Capitol approaching in the distance. A massive city with skyscrapers and lights that dot the sky like stars. An infrastructure unlike anything you’ve ever seen, thousands of vehicles flooding the grid-like streets - streets made of concrete, not of dirt.

As you near closer to the city, train beginning its smooth stop, you can see crowds of Capitol citizens flooding the space near the tracks.

“What are they doing?’ You can’t help but ask, face warped in confusion.

“They want an early glimpse at the tributes!” Ruby answers enthusiastically.

“They’re here for us?” You ask, a mixture of genuine confusion and patronization in your voice. They’re cheering, open mouth smiles, jumping up and down, waving handkerchiefs at the sight of you and The Mountain through the window.

You both stare dumbfounded at them, soaking in the rainbow of bright and busy outfits. They all looked like they were dressed up in costumes, dawning puffy gowns, huge wigs, and dramatic makeup. They’re gone in an instant as you pull into the train station.

The four of you are ushered quickly into the remake center, where you share one more panicked look with The Mountain before you’re lead down different halls.

——————

In the remake center, there is no stone left unturned. You are roughly scrubbed, plucked, and slathered in a hundred different creams and elixirs. Teeth whitened, nails picked clean of dirt, filed down and oiled. Hair washed, combed, and styled.

You can’t help but feel violated, all of these hands on you, transforming you against your will. In an attempt to soothe yourself you close your eyes, trying to take yourself somewhere you’re not. It’s difficult to do so when every few seconds there’s a rip of a hair from its follicle, a yank on your scalp, or the gritty scrape of a hard sponge along your skin.

Your thoughts drift to The Mountain.

You wonder if he’s having a similar experience, or if his prep team is taking it easier on him. Will they wax him? Or let him keep his body hair since he’s a boy? Are his nails getting filed? Is he being scrubbed head to toe with a rock that feels like it’s made of sandpaper?

Without his presence and to your dismay, you find yourself even more anxious without him by your side. You wish you could share another unsure glance with him, to remind yourself that you’re not alone in this.

Not yet anyway.

Once the prep team has measured every curve and inch of your much too exposed body, they decide you’re ready and haul you off to your stylist.

Your stylist is a tall, thin woman named Mauve that doesn’t seem to be too interested in you at all. She refuses to meet your eyes, attention glued to a tablet supported by her stomach and resting on her forearm. Her free arm pokes at the screen.

She lets out a sigh, and then speaks, not to you, but to the room, “District Nine. Grain. What am I supposed to do with that?”

It’s tradition for the opening ceremony outfits to reflect the main industry of the districts. In previous years, the District Nine tributes were usually dressed as farmers. Not particularly remarkable or fashionable.

“Farmers?” You ask.

She sighs again, this one drawn out, and then exits the room.

You are left in this room for hours, alone with your own thoughts. Your fingers tap on the bench you’re perched on, legs swaying anxiously a foot off the ground.

When Mauve returns, you have already managed to dive headfirst into a full spiral, nothing in the room to distract you from the impending games, and more pressingly, being put on display for thousands of Capitol citizens as if you’re cattle to be auctioned off.

She’s got a long, flowing beige dress in her hands. It’s covered in wheat, stems and wheat flowers arranged in intricate patterns along the upper half of the dress, swirling on the bust. The lower half of the dress is made up of what must be a thousand oversized wheat heads that fan out at the hem, giving the impression of feathers weightlessly bouncing at the bottom of the skirt. She fashions a matching crown on your head and pins it in place in a way that puts an unpleasant pull on your scalp.

In terms of opening ceremony costumes, it’s actually not the worst. It’s not particularly flashy or remarkable, but it’s certainly an improvement from overalls and straw hats.

“It’s pretty,” You say, running your fingers over the fabric.

“It’s the best I could do,” She scoffs again, “Grain. What a joke.”

If only the dress was as comfortable as it was pretty. You might as well be wearing a bale of hay, scratchy and poking you with each movement you make. You find yourself holding your arms up to avoid the prick of fake wheat on your inner bicep.

The shoes are the worst part. A beige high heel that squeezes your feet too tight and digs into the back of your ankles. You hope you won’t have to deal with fresh blisters in the arena.

She does your nails, a matching beige with a dotted design that give the appearance of wheat florettes. It lends your nails a glossy, bumpy texture that’s quite pleasant to run your fingers over.

Mauve applies your makeup in silence. After sitting in isolation for the last few hours, you’re happy to have her painting and poking your face, now able to focus on the smooth swipes of a brush or the smear of a heavy cream instead of… everything else.

When you look at yourself in the mirror, your breath is stolen, a gaped mouth and sprung eyes looking back at you.

You don’t look like yourself at all. The girl standing in front of you is a stranger. You’ve been completely rid of the evidence of your life in District Nine. You might as well be a Capitol citizen with your glowing skin, outlandish outfit, and hair silkier and fluffier than ever.

Mauve went heavy on the make-up, the flesh of your face already begging for the touch of fresh air, but you can’t help but admire the artistic nature of your eye shadow. A simple, classy even, light beige on your eyelids that transitions to a creamy rich brown on your eye sockets. The highs of your face shine with a radiant golden shimmer, the lows darkened to give your features a more striking appearance.

“Wow,” You say breathlessly, at a complete loss for words.

Mauve checks her nails, looking bored. She takes her time before she gives you one more gloss over and leaves without a word.

This time, instead of mulling over the games, the ceremony - you stare at yourself, mesmerized by your own appearance. You’re particularly interested in the way the wheat flowers on your hem dance and flutter when you sway.

You’re relieved to see Ruby when she comes to retrieve you with Mauve. You’re eased by her familiar face, even if she has a tendency to be incredibly ignorant.

“Oh!” She gasps, “Don’t you just look just marvelous!”

“Thank you, Ruby,” You say, genuinely appreciative of her compliment.

You have to cling to Ruby’s folded arm, making slow, shaky steps as you get accustomed to the shoes.

When you meet up with Price and The Mountain down in the stables, it confuses you when another wave of relief hits at his presence. You were relieved to see Ruby, but you actually let out an audible sigh at the sight of The Mountain.

You lock eyes almost immediately, and you find yourself smiling at him. Actually smiling, you think for the first time since Reaping Day. You catch yourself quickly, stifling your expression with a fold of your lips as you look him up and down. The only thing that makes you feel better about your readable emotions is watching him dull his smile, too.

He’s wearing a matching beige suit, but his are not covered in wheat flowers. Instead he is accented with them, the florettes blooming along his tie, the seams of his suit, his jacket pocket. There’s a bundle of long stems fastened between his shoulder blades, giving him a collar made of florettes around the back of his neck. It resembles peaco*ck feathers, the wheat blossoms fanned and fluttering behind him with the slightest movements, much like the skirt of your dress. A crown similar to yours is fashioned to his head, but his is thicker, less daintier than yours.

“Well, don’t you two just look good enough to mill and grind,” Price says.

“How long did it take you to come up with that one?” You say, arms still raised awkwardly to avoid the stab of wheat stems.

Price just huffs, looking away. You follow his gaze, and your face immediately sinks in dread. This is the first time you’ve seen the other tributes, and even just standing in the same open room as them is enough to intimidate you. If it were not for the painted-on skin of your makeup, you’re sure everyone would be able to see the color drain from your face.

Price must have noticed, because he snaps his fingers with a quiet whistle to catch your attention. He points to the floor in between the group’s four pairs of shoes, wordlessly ordering you to focus on the task at hand.

You give him a weak nod, eyes still filled with unease. Any other time you would have been miffed by the disrespectful gesture, one that reminds you of how one would treat a dog that has a habit of running too far from his owner, but you understand Price has your best interests in mind. You’re thankful, even, that he is there to ground you, to keep the fear from bubbling up and boiling over.

Ruby unintentionally helps distract you with her last minute coaching. She gives a light but firm smack to your upper arm, “Don’t hold your arms up like that! You look like a chicken.”

“It’s itchy,” You object.

“Good! All the more incentive to wave at the crowd. Remember - happy faces, chin high, big smiles!”

After a light roll of your eyes, you feel the burn of The Mountain’s stare again. When you look to him, he flicks his gaze to his dress shoes.

You’re surprised by how much it stings.

Maybe you were already becoming too dependent on him. This will only be a weakness in the arena. You cannot afford to get accustomed to his presence, to lean on him for support, because it will soon be ripped away from you. You may be in this together now, but the moment that gong sounds in the arena all bets are off.

You swallow hard, mouth suddenly dry.

Shortly after they load you and The Mountain into a chariot rigged to two unattended, tan-colored horses. Ruby offers her hand for support as you pull yourself into the chariot.

Standing next to The Mountain this closely, you can’t help but soak in how he dwarfs you. How the several extra feet and limbs like tree trunks remind you of just how puny and weak you are.

You don’t want to think about The Mountain anymore. About his unmatched size, unquestionable strength, mutual reassurance. About his stupid matching suit and collar of wheat flowers that compliments the flecks of gold in his eyes.

You pinch off your vision and let out a long breath through your nose. When you open them, your attention is immediately taken by the tributes in their chariots in front of you.

The boy and girl from District Eight stand as far apart from each other as the chariot allows. They’re dressed in colorful, busy outfits made of weaved ribbons with contrasting designs. Textiles is their district industry, you think. The girl is tall, but has a thin build and little muscle. The boy is average in stature, but you can tell he’s lean. You can’t help but imagine how you’d fare against a fight with each of them. The girl you might stand a sliver of a chance against, the boy not so much.

Through the gap inbetween them, you can see District Seven’s tributes, chatting with each other. They’re actually smiling, going on like they’re not about to be paraded in front of thousands of people in a debut for their deaths. Lumber, you think. Your guess is confirmed by a look at their arms, toned and muscled by years of swinging an axe. You wouldn’t stand a chance against either of them.

The large metal doors open with a grind, and you can hear them - the Capitol citizens screaming in an anticipation. A thunderous roar made from thousands of whooping cheers and clapping hands. It’s loud enough to vibrate the floor of the chariot. Your heart skips when the music blares over the speakers and the first chariot pulls out. The crowd triples in volume at the sight of District One, in their outfits that reflect like the sun and will surely leave a lasting impression on the sponsors.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until it’s too late, having to take several deep, shaky breaths through your mouth. Your pulse has made its way to your ears, sweat working its way through layers of thick make-up. The dress is not helping, its pricks and jabs a constant reminder of its presence. It seems tighter, somehow, as the cut of the waistband digs into your ribs and constricts the air from your lungs. You’re hyperventilating, squeezing heels clicking anxiously under the shuffle of your weight on each foot.

You desperately fight the urge to look to your left, to share this moment of stomach-churning apprehension with The Mountain. The only way you manage this feat is by pinching your eyes shut.

You’ve think you managed to cut off the support The Mountain has been providing you so far, until the chariot lurches forward and rips the floor from your feet. With a gasp your eyes open, hands instinctively shooting out to steady your balance, already hindered by lifted shoes you’re not accustomed to.

Once steady on the floor that slipped from underneath you, you give something of a nervous laugh before you realize one hand is gripping the front of the chariot, and the other is firmly wrapped around The Mountain’s forearm. He has already braced in the space around you, primed to catch you if you fall.

Great, now you’re literally leaning on him for support.

You jerk your hands back to your sides as if you’d touched a blazing oven. Wheat stems stab into your inner arm as you meet the gaze you have been trying to avoid. You mumble out a sheepish apology to him, but he surely can’t hear it over the boom of the crowd, his hands retracting slowly to his sides.

You force your focus back to Ruby’s instructions, lifting your chin and plastering a big, toothy smile on your face. It feels too forced but you hope it doesn’t show. You arms spring to wave quickly, having already being overextended to avoid the scratch of fake grain.

Once you catch sight of the packed stands, you black out. Your hands are still moving to follow orders, feet still planted unsteadily in your spot, but your nerves have pried your very soul from your core and dropped it right through the chariot and floor, sending it to a black void.

You return to your body and mind during the Capitol anthem, the muscles in your face burning from your forced, clenched teeth smile. You’d completely missed the president’s speech.

It’s not until all of the chariots have been lead to the training center when you realize that your arm is folded at the elbow to meet a hand that sits much higher than yours.

Your fingers are intertwined with The Mountain’s, squeezing him with a grip strong enough to choke the life from a man.

————————————————————

It’s all you can think about - the hand holding. You wish you could remember who initiated it.

The worst part was the look on his face when you had jerked your sweaty palms back to your side. He looked as if you had just spit in his face and accused him of violating you. The rejection that spread across his features gave you a pang in your chest that still lingers with a heavy weight on your heart.

You wish you hadn’t pulled away like that. It was so fast, though, the jarring realization that you had been relying on him to ground you - once again.

As you look to your glossy, too-tight shoes, the only thing you can see is his horrified expression flashing in front of your eyes.

Suddenly you’re brought back to the first encounter you had with him, that day in District Nine. A nauseating heat of shame and regret washes over you.

On the elevator ride to your district’s assigned suite, you try to give him a look through the wheat collar that partially obscures his face. One that would hopefully convey an apology, but his gaze is fixated on the bottom of the elevator doors. His brows are sloped, the space between his eyebrows scrunched, and he’s gnawing slightly at his lower lip.

When the elevator doors part, you suck in with sharp inhale.

Ruby gives an excited squeal, “Isn’t it so exquisite!

Her voice takes on an air of superiority, “I bet you’ve never seen anything like this back in District Nine.”

You’re too distracted to be annoyed with her, proving her point by taking in the room with open mouth awe.

The ceilings must be fourth feet high, large beautifully crafted marble columns stretching from floor to ceiling. The furniture here puts the furniture on the train to shame.

It is a disgusting display of extravagance.

Ruby gives you a tour that ends at your quarters, where she instructs you both to get changed and unwind until dinner in an hour.

You’re happy to follow her instructions, eager to get out of the wheat dress. Your door has barely closed when you kick your shoes off hard enough for them to fling into the frame of the massive bed with a thud. The dress peels off and you’re quick to shower, eager to rinse the stuffy layers of makeup off your face.

It takes you too long to figure out how the closet works. There are so many fancy appliances in this room, and the closet is controlled by a screen that you have to select your outfit on. You figure it out, finally, and an outfit whizzes out from behind a curved, frosted glass panel. You grab the clothes as if the glass was about snap back into place and take your arm with it.

You don’t trust this closet.

For the first time since the morning of the Reaping, you are able to dress in clothes that remind you of home - that remind you of you. You’d opted for something on the more comfortable side, desperate for a breathable, light outfit after that uncomfortable dress.

At dinner, you find yourself thankful for Ruby’s chatter. The energy was definitely off, the air just as stale and constricting as the dress. She filled the silences you would surely choke on if it were just you, Price, and The Mountain.

“Oh, you two did better than I could have hoped! And those outfits,” she gasps for emphasis, “Well, I have to say it’s the best thing that’s come from your district in a long time. I wouldn’t be surprised if you both have sponsors already lining up!”

You know she’s just humoring you. Many of the other districts blew your outfits of the water. Yours were average, at best. Somehow it seems even worse than the awful outfits, which are at the very least rememberable.

“And your waving? Perfect!”

“The hand holding was,” Price pauses, as if chewing on his thoughts while he actually chews his food, “Interesting.”

There’s a harsh scrape of dishware followed by a stark silence as you and The Mountain come to a grinding halt. You don’t dare look up from your plate, but your peripheral reveals Price’s sly, half-lidded stare that pierces through your flesh and draws heat to your cheeks. His smirk is unmistakable.

Ruby - oh Ruby, you are so sorry for brushing her off before. She rescues you from the most painful three seconds of your life with her optimistic Capitol accent.

“It was perfect! It will surely play with the audience, and if they think you two may be in the works of forming an alliance in the arena, the sponsors will see that as an advantage!”

An alliance?

You hadn’t considered that before.

The Mountain doesn’t need an ally. Especially not one so useless and will offer little help in the arena. You had no doubt that you would only hold him back.

You don’t look at him. You want to look at him. You so badly want to see what he thinks of Ruby’s implied proposal. If it’s his turn to reject you, to wear a realized scowl at the very thought.

Maybe his eyebrows would be raised in interest. A glint of consideration in his eyes at an idea he hadn’t given thought to before.

No.

Surely he would not want you as a partner in a fight to the death. He will have his pick of the litter when it comes to allies, and you will be nothing but dead weight.

The rest of the meal goes as smoothly as you could hope. Ruby rambles on, you keep your gaze to your meal. Once plates are cleared and drinks are emptied, Price leads you to the sitting area where he strongholds you and The Mountain to share a couch so comfortable and soft you could melt into it.

“Alright,” Price says with a push in his voice, “I’ve let you two wallow long enough. Let’s get down to it.”

Your eyes flick to the floor, hand stroking the soothing fabric of the upholstered sofa. You didn’t want to think about the games, but Price had given you plenty of time to digest your circ*mstances. He didn’t deserve the attitude you instinctively wanted to give him. He’s just as much a victim to these games as you and The Mountain are.

Price lets out a grunt that suggests his bones were fighting his squat to his chair.

With your head still angled to the floor, hair curtaining your view, you can see Price mashing buttons on the remote.

It’s the replay of the reapings.

The careers are nothing short of cruel. Throwing themselves onto the stage to volunteer. All of the tributes from District One and Two are fit and muscular, wearing expressions that leak brutality and a disturbing amount of excitement.

By District Three’s contestants you’re already queasy, and can hardly focus on anything as your vision blurs. It’s like you’re already in the arena, imagining all the different ways the careers will end your life. The boy from District Two, Titan, who has canines that come to a point so sharp it makes his smile look twice as cruel, could easily knock you to the ground with one swing. The girl from District One, Sapphire, piercing you with weapons so sharp you can’t feel the punctures until it’s too late.

Without moving your head, you side-eye The Mountain, who the careers couldn’t hold a candle to. You can tell even over the television that he’s got them all beat in size, and surely strength if judged by pure muscle.

Maybe an alliance wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.

The other tributes are a blur. You tune back in around District Seven. The District Seven tributes expressions do not match the ones you saw on the chariot. They look much more solemn as they climb onto the stage, staring hollowly out into the crowd.

Next is eight, the tributes that had stood miles apart in their chariot.

To your surprise, the boy had volunteered.

He doesn’t look particularly equipped to fight, but there’s a look in his eyes you catch for a moment, a look of pure rage so powerful it radiates through the screen.

“Look out for this one,” Price says, “Something ain’t right with that boy.”

You quirk a brow, but you can’t help but agree. Even through the screen he’s tying your guts into a knot. The feeling is accompanied by an almost primal urge to run.

And then there’s you.

Frozen in shock, hauled up to the stage by peacekeepers. You look as weak and pathetic as you’d suspected. Clearly distraught, pale in the face, knees shaking. You know it’s bad when you feel Price’s pitied gaze out of the corner of your eyes, looking at you like a wounded fawn.

Surely the other tributes will see you as easy pickings.

And then you learn his name.

Konig.

The Mountain’s name is Konig.

When the camera’s find him in the crowd, there’s a brief moment of fear. That look of uncertainty welling over in his eyes before he wipes his expression clean and makes his way to stage.

Konig’s hand had waited outstretched for yours for an uncomfortable amount of time while you were staring blankly into the crowd.

It takes a lot for you not to look at him the moment your hands meet on screen.

You want to apologize for ripping away from him on the chariot so harshly.

The rest of the tributes aren’t particularly memorable. You’re too distracted and have already decided you had absolutely no chance of winning. Doesn’t matter who shows up on that screen, you are going to be slaughtered regardless. You didn’t think making note of the tributes would be particularly relevant.

You tune back in as you watch the replay of the opening ceremony. Ruby joins for this, letting out an excited squeal as she plops herself into an empty chair.

She makes commentary on the outfits, clearly downplaying the better costumes, and insulting the particularly worse ones for you and Konig’s benefit.

“There’s my tributes!” She announces proudly as you and Konig ride into frame.

He really does tower over you.

The camera has to take a wider angle than they did with the other chariots just to get you both into frame. Your smile is clearly forced, the corners of your lips barely perked up as you display your teeth unnervingly. Your eyes show your true emotions and your brows slope in worry.

There’s no mistaking your fear. You’re still waving to the crowd but you know that your soul was miles away in that moment.

Konig’s wheat collar flutters as he waves. He’s much more reserved, keeping his hand close to his body.

The camera zooms out so there’s four chariots in the frame, and the horses trot a few more yards. Still, you can very clearly see your hand reach up and frantically nudge the same forearm that you gripped onto when you lost your balance. You’re practically hitting him, the back of your open hand thwapping him in quick succession in a desperate blind plea for his comfort.

You watch as Konig, without even looking at you, slides his forearm back so that he can take your hand in his. For a moment he even lowers his waving hand so he could lay it on top of yours in a reassuring fashion.

Your fingers move to your temple in a futile attempt to rub out the sick feeling swirling in your gut.

It makes your heart sink twice as low, knowing that you had initiated the hand handholding. Used him for comfort that he was in no way obligated to give you, just so that you could thank him by ripping away from him with disgust.

You have to look to the floor for the rest of the opening ceremony replay, only Ruby’s gushing to distract yourself from the guilt.

Price switches off the TV when the anthem begins to play, and shifts in his seat to face you both with a grunt.

“You have a decision to make. You want to be mentored separately or together?”

There’s a beat, and you resist the urge to look at Konig.

“We’d have more mentorship time if we trained together,” Konig says, quickly but quietly from behind you.

You hesitate before giving a small nod in agreement.

“Alright then. The next few days you kids will be doing group training. So,” He clears his throat, shifting in his spot, “What’d’ya got?”

Price looks at you both expectantly, raising his eyebrows when he’s met with silence. The remote swirls in his hand.

“Nothin’?”

You shrug at him.

“She can fight,” Konig quietly offers on your behalf.

So he does remember.

You whip your head around him, pulling a face. Your voice comes off more defensive and pointed than you intend, “No I can’t!”

For a moment he shrinks into himself, his eyes flicking between each of yours before he leans forward to find Price.

“I’ve seen it,” He says with a nod.

Price quirks a brow at you, “That so?”

“It wasn’t even a fight!” You blurt out, “He didn’t even-“ You cut yourself off with a growl, face burning.

“He?” Price perks up.

“It doesn’t matter! Because it doesn’t count!”

You cross your arms over your chest, and Price gives something of an amused huff at your outburst.

“If you say so, Plucky.”

Your brows furrow at the nickname.

Price nods his head at Konig, “You?”

Konig gives him a shrug.

“Oh, you’re kidding, right?” You say with an eye roll, your open palm pointing at Konig, “I mean look at him!”

Konig flinches, but Price pushes forward, “Any experience with weapons?”

The room goes silent again.

Price lets out an exhausted sigh, “Not giving me much to work with, kids.”

He leans forward in his chair, hands knitted loosely together, “Tomorrow they’ll start group training. You’ll be with the other tributes,” a finger shoots up, “ Don’t let them intimidate you.”

You look to the floor.

“Ignore them. They don’t even exist.”

He continues, “Maximize every minute you have in there. I want you to focus on food first . Purifying water. Snares, fishing, edible bugs and plants, starting fires. Dedicate the entire day to learning how to feed yourself in that arena. You understand? Food first.”

He waits until you both give confirmation before he moves forward.

“First aid next. Learn how to wrap and care for a wound with what natures gives ya’. Got it?”

He waits for another nod.

“Shelter next. Figure out how to keep warm. Learn to tie a good knot, camouflage techniques.”

“Defense last. Get used to handling some weapons. Throw some knives, learn hand-to-hand combat.”

Price takes a swig of his drink, and he takes a minute to survey you both. One of his eyes narrows slightly at you. He points at Konig, before flicking his finger in your direction.

“I want you to keep an eye on her.”

Your face warps into a wicked scowl, “What’s that supposed to mean? I need a chaperone?”

“It means,” Price starts, stare boring into you, “I don’t want you getting into trouble.“

Your head shakes, “Wha- Trouble? What trouble?”

“Don’t push it, Plucky.”

You’re not sure if that was an answer to your question or a warning to not get on his bad side. You don’t shoot back, but your face clearly displays your displeasure.

“Alright,” Price pats his knee before standing, “Training’s at ten tomorrow. Be ready.”

He shakes his fingers at you once more before disappearing down the hall.

Your frustration wins out over guilt, and you shoot Konig an annoyed glare in disbelief. You were hoping for him to back you up, or at least be equally irritated, but he offers another apologetic stare.

“Well!” Ruby claps her hand together, “How productive. You two make sure to get to bed early and get a goodnight’s rest!”

Unfortunately Ruby does not hear your silent plea to not leave you alone with Konig, her shoes clicking obnoxiously as she leaves the sitting area.

Once she disappears down the hall, the room immediately goes silent, your own breath deafening you.

What did Price mean about you getting into trouble? Did he mean that the other tributes would pose too much of a threat? Does he think you’re too weak to handle yourself? Or did he hear Konig’s interjection and now thinks of you as someone who likes to pick fights?

Any way you slice it, it doesn’t sit right with you.

It’s impossible not to feel his presence.

Konig is frozen, he doesn’t even dare fidget in his spot, staring forward with slightly widened eyes. You can tell he’s afraid of setting you off, as if the slightest movement would provoke you.

This irritates you even more, like he was proving Price’s point about being trouble.

“What?” You ask with a sneer.

He fumbles for his words, looking terrified of your questioning.

“Ich - äh,” He clears his throat, his voice a mumble, “I’m sorry. About Price.”

This is an effective technique on his part, because it successfully redirects your anger.

“It’s demeaning!” You exclaim, “Do you not feel that way - forced to play babysitter?”

“I don’t mind,” He blurts out, and then he stops to choose his next words very carefully, “Maybe we could help each other with training.”

You huff.

When you speak again, your voice has relaxed, confused over defensive, “I don’t understand why he said that.”

There’s a pause, and then one corner of his lip perks up, his tone dawning a playful hum.

“Didn’t you hear?” He says, “You’ll find trouble.”

You roll your eyes and blow air out your nose, but the ghost of a smile does creep onto your face.

“Not sure if I’m the trouble or if the trouble is waiting for me in the training center.”

“Probably a little of both,” He says, still wearing a remnant of a sly smile. His body has visibly untensed, posture a bit slouched and fingers returning to their soothing fidget.

Konig actually made you feel better.

Again.

“Hey, um,” You trail off for a moment, avoiding his gaze, “Thank you. For keeping me steady today.”

After a pause you awkwardly add, “On the chariot,” just in case he’s not sure what you’re referencing.

He shifts against the back of the sofa.

“Ach, äh,” He clears his throat again, “Of course.”

There. Now you can be relieved of your guilt for yanking away from him and looking at him in disgust.

“Sorry if I-“ he starts quietly.

“No,” you cut him off, “You didn’t do anything wrong. All those people, the noise, it just- it freaked me out.”

You omit the real reason you pulled away.

“Me too,” He says, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people at once, especially not with them all looking right at me.”

Another air of silence falls over you both. This air is less stale, easier to breathe. You’re feeling much better now that you’ve apologized for being so harsh about the handholding.

It is frustrating, though, how you find yourself leaning on him time and time again. Even now, you’re letting him make you feel better about the implications of Price’s request. About your own guilt of being harsh with him about the handholding.

You need to sever this tie, sooner rather than later. This is not a luxury you will be able to afford in the arena.

But you are so scared, and lost, and unsure, and angry about everything. Having Konig there, sharing in every emotion, his presence there to remind you that at the very least - you are not alone.

You don’t say it, but some part of you is actually relieved Price is making him your chaperone. Whatever the implication, it’s giving you an excuse to keep hanging around Konig, contrary to the brutal truth. You were not ready to let go of his reassurance, and you can’t shake the idea that the longer you lean in to him, the harder it will be to pull away.

As the cold world beckons for your attention, he is the warm blanket enveloping you, dangerously comfortable. His siren call pleads for you to stay wrapped up in him for just five more minutes. Ignore the cruel reality waiting for you. Forget about everything else. Slip back into the sweet embrace of sleep. With Price’s request that Konig keep an eye on you, he has just pulled that blanket to your neck, tucked you in, and gave you permission to put off the world just a little bit longer.

Does Konig even know what his presence is doing for you?

Does your presence do the same for him?

You don’t ask.

You both sit in silence, listening to the sound of chests rising and falling.

You can’t help but wonder if it’s all a ploy.

If Konig is purposefully drawing you in with the basis of his comfort. If this just another trick to make sure you end up on his kill list.

It is certainly possible, but the idea invokes such a gut-wrenching feeling you have to stifle it like an ember under your boot.

You take a deep breath, and the thought that’s waiting for you on the exhale is knowing you’ll have to see the tributes face-to-face for the first time. It ties your stomach in knots, heart pounding against your ribcage at the very thought.

“Are you nervous?” You ask under your breath.

“About tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” you say, absentmindedly swirling your fingernails across the fabric of the sofa.

He doesn’t say anything, but he gives a shaky nod.

“I don’t want to do it,” You admit at a whisper.

He nods again.

After a tense beat he says, “We’ll do it together.”

It terrifies you, knowing the other tributes will be there, watching you fail to accomplish skills they’ve been experts at for years. Sizing you up. Planning how they’re going to slaughter you in the arena.

But at least Konig will be by your side. You will go through it together, and maybe they will not be as focused on you with such a fierce competitor towering next to you.

“Thanks,” you say breathlessly.

“Of course,” His cadence matches yours.

Another cozy silence drapes over you both, sitting in each other’s company. You get lost in Konig’s fidgeting fingers, watching them mesmerizingly lace and unlace, swirling as the pads of his thumb runs over the side of his index finger.

When he notices you staring, he stops at once, setting his palms flat on the sofa.

You know you should try and get some rest, but there’s no way you’ll get sleep, and you don’t want to go to your room.

To be all by yourself.

“Have you gone out on the balcony?” You ask.

He looks to the crystal sliding doors off the dining area before finding your eyes, “Are we allowed to?”

You shrug, “They didn’t tell us not to.”

He looks at you with those unsure eyes.

“What are you afraid of?” You goad with a raise of a brow, “Afraid they’ll send you to your death?”

He’s clearly against the idea, but you can see he doesn’t have a defense. Flicking over your mischievous features with wide eyes and furrowed brows.

You grin as you stand from the couch, making a show of catching his stare as you slide the glass panel open, disappearing between the curtains that flutter now exposed to the wind.

The view is breathtaking.

You can see light pouring from windows in the neighboring skyscrapers. It reminds you of the night sky, stars dotting an industrial landscape. Shaky hands lay themselves on the guard rail, not daring to lean your weight on it as you peer down to the streets below.

You can hear them, the Capitol citizens, the honks of noisy cars and rowdy evening shouts below, their words lost to the unusually powerful wind. They look like ants from up here, walking the unnatural grid-like pattern of the streets.

The balcony is furnished, a huge wicker U-shaped couch with abstract patterned cushions. You nestle yourself into one of the corners, pulling your knees to your chest as you lean back into the cushion’s hold.

You hear Konig carefully sliding the glass door closed. He only makes it two steps into the air before he stops.

You watch him marvel at the sight, just as you did, but he doesn’t dare near the edge.

He silently sits on the other corner of the couch, both of you looking ahead at the twinkling lights of the opposing buildings, listening to the Capitol night life below.

You find yourself peering into windows, glimpses into the world of a Capitol citizen. Nothing is muted, elegant furnishings and big screens as people settle in for the evening.

It’s cold out here on the balcony, the muscles in your face stiffening at the harsh chill of high winds, but it’s welcome.

It’s grounding, refreshing even, something to keep you in the moment and out of the grueling whirlpool of your thoughts waiting to pull you under at any lull.

About fifteen minutes pass before Konig wordlessly slips back inside.

You thought he was turning in for the night, so you’re surprised when the glass doors part again, returning wearing a black jacket, another in his hand.

He leaves generous distance as he sets a jacket on the cushion next you.

“It’s from my closet,” He says, just loud enough to be heard over the wind, “Sorry if it’s too big.”

He carefully retracts his arm and nestles back into his spot.

You stare at his offering with squint eyes, examining it to figure out his motive.

You nod slow, hesitantly grabbing it and slipping your arms in.

You drowning in it. The sleeves hang well over your hands and the hem falls to your knees. You zip up and pull the hood up, having to position it on the crown of your head so the extra fabric doesn’t hang over your eyes.

It’s nice, the cozy warmth of the jacket to protect from the cold.

Unfortunately it’s also a reminder of how much bigger Konig is, how much stronger he is, how you would not fair well against him if the time comes in the arena.

You curl your legs in front of you and pull the jacket over your knees.

The steady white noise of the wind, the ambience of the city below, the night air, it has a soothing effect on you. You slink further and further into the couch, until you commit to laying on your side. Your socks worm their way into the crevice of the corner’s cushions as your body curls up on the middle of the couch. Your arm comes up to prop under your head, crown pointed in Konig’s direction.

You let the hood fall over your face, blocking out the wind and enjoying the sense of privacy it gives you.

———————————————————

You wake to the sound of Ruby yelling.

“How do you lose a pair of tributes?!”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Price shoots back.

You squint at the bright sun, raising your palm to block out harsh rays from sensitive eyes.

“Do you have any idea how much trouble we’ll be in if they don’t turn up?”

“They’ll turn up,” He says definitively.

Price gives a hum as if he thought on it a little more, a retraction of his statement, “Well, if she got a bug in her brain she could have convinced him.”

Your brow quirks at that. You rub the sleep from your eyes, turning your head towards the glass doors, shimmering in the sunlight.

Ruby lets out an exasperated inarticulate noise of disapproval.

Your attention is stolen, though, by Konig. He’s curled up on the patio sofa too, his head next to yours, a strong arm resting over his eyes. His long legs are stretched out on the other side of the couch, his top half sharing the same bench as you.

The glass door of the balcony slides open, and Ruby drops an arm dramatically.

“What are you two doing out here?!” She scolds frantically, “Were you out here all night?!”

You prop yourself up on your hands, a deep inhale of morning as you transition to wake.

Konig’s arm uncovers his eyes, raising his head and sitting up with stiff joints.

Price slips out to the patio, quirking his brow at the sight. He bites back a smug grin, and a scowl plasters on your face in response.

You look down and see yourself still wearing Konig’s jacket, and roll your eyes, averting your gaze when you’re finished. You’re hoping Price can’t see the faint glow that flushes your skin, because you know how this looks.

“It was freezing last night! And you don’t even have the heater on,” Ruby smacks her lips, “You two are going to catch a cold!”

“There’s a heater?” You ask, voice still low with sleep.

She squeaks out an annoyed noise as she gestures to a switch on the wall.

“It’s not going to be very fun participating in the games with a cold, you know!”

You stretch your arms and speak through a yawn, “I don’t think it’s going to be very fun participating in the games at all.”

She co*cks her jaw and squints at you, “You’re late for training!” She turns to Price and adds with a swing of her arm, “Deal with them!”

She then stomps off, heels clicking as she disappears in the suite.

Price crosses his arms, standing straight and pushing out his chest as he inspects you both.

You and Konig don’t look up, staring at your laps as you soak in your scolding and mentally prepare for training.

Price lets out a heavy sigh before he speaks, “The stylists set out outfits for you both. Both of you - dressed and ready to go. You got five minutes.”

His voice is stern, and you can’t help but roll your eyes at his exertion of authority.

When Price steps inside, you and Konig share a look, and it’s clear you’re both anxious about today.

After a deep inhale in a failing attempt to steady yourself, you force an uninterested shrug.

It’s not convincing.

You avoiding Ruby or Price’s stare as you make your way back to your room to get changed. The outfit waiting for you consists of a pair of black athletic pants made of a silky, sweat-wicking material and a shirt to match. The shirt’s sleeves are generously trimmed and have the number ‘9’ stitched on the back.

You clean your teeth, fix your hair, and change before you meet Ruby and Konig, the latter dawning an identical outfit, by the elevators.

“Really, it’s just irresponsible!” She fumes with crossed arms as you wait for the elevator.

You would normally let out an amused huff, because it’s hard to take the Capitol accent seriously, but you’re too distracted by the churning in your stomach.

Konig seems genuinely regretful on the otherhand, clearly disappointed with himself for letting down Ruby.

“Sorry, Ruby,” He mumbles sheepishly, and her face relaxes, head tilting slightly.

She nods, pleased, and says softly but proudly, “That’s alright, dear. You both just had us worried.”

His apology seems to quell her, and she returns to her normal cheery self by the time you’re deposited by the elevator.

“Okay you two, make sure you follow Price’s instructions! Listen to the trainers and - Be. Good.”

Ruby smiles brightly before she saunters off.

You and Konig share a deep breath and an unsure glance before you enter the gymnasium, buried underground beneath the tower of district suites.

The trainer center is a massive gymnasium, uninviting concrete walls with training stations lining the room, each with their skill that contain anything from knot tying to sword fighting. Each station has an instructor, an expert in their craft, to teach the tributes last-minute survival skills. Obstacle courses fill the middle of the room, pull up bars, sparing rings, weightlifting.

On an open balcony high above you there’s a room of gamemakers, perched and observing like hawks in their nest. They’ll be watching you all train, and after an individual assessment you will be scored on a rating of one to twelve, the higher the score, the better the tribute’s potential.

With one look, you know you and Konig are the last ones to arrive. The entire room turns their attention to you as you both enter, and you have to stifle the urge to turn and run.

You don’t look up from your shoes as the head trainer gathers you all into a circle and gives the run down on the stations. She releases you all, and as the other tributes turn their backs you can’t help by size them up.

“What do you want to do first?” Konig asks.

You don’t answer, distracted by the career pack, quickly engaging the deadly weapons and handling them with ease.

You jump when Konig says your name.

“Huh? What?”

“What first?” He asks.

“Oh,” you do a quick scan of the room. “Edible plants?” You say with a slight crackle in your voice, mouth dry from nerves.

He nods, and you let him lead you to the station.

You follow Price’s instructions.

You pull your focus to the trainer, and try to ignore the ravenous grunts echoing from across the gymnasium as the careers skillfully drive weapons into dummies.

You also try to ignore how much taller Konig seems when you both stand right next to each other. He makes you feel like a child, having to crane your neck back to see his face.

Your thoughts are loud, stomach tossing, and limbs gelatinous. The fluorescent lights illuminating the gym are bright and harsh, the sounds of weapons tinging with each clash of metal makes your stomach turn, the overlapping voices of tributes and trainers are a grated ringing in your ears, and the observation by tributes and gamemakers that you will soon be at the mercy of - absolutely gut-wrenching.

It’s too much.

Your chest tightens and you give an involuntary gasp for air.

The trainer pauses her ongoing speech to quirk a brow at you, and Konig turns to look down at you.

“Oh-“ You give a nervous laugh that turns into a wheezing coughing fit, distorting your face as you try and choke it back.

You manage to wheeze out, “Excuse me,” before you rush off. You didn’t have a plan, but your brain was telling you to get away, to run and run far - away from prying, judgmental, predator eyes.

You duck behind the unused boxing ring, folding over once out of sight.

Your breathing is out of control, nearly hyperventilating as you slide against the ring and to the ground. You can feel the tears of anxiety welling at your eye line, the sore ache of a lump in your throat.

You don’t want to be here - you don’t want to do this!

You bury your face in your knees, trying to wish away the tears as you pray for the floor to swallow you whole. The last thing you need is for every last tribute to see you weak.

“Did you find trouble?”

You sit up with a flinch, shoulders relaxing when you find only Konig. He’s already seen you crying and unredeemably pathetic, so there’s not much concern for putting a show on for him.

“Because that was impressively fast,” He adds.

You give a scoff, and a hint of a smile breaks through.

You hate him for it.

“Yeah,” You say with heavy breath, a low vibration dragging your voice down. You use the inside of your wrist to wipe away any tears that threaten to spill.

He sits down next to you, letting his legs stretch out as he leans his back against the sparing ring. He lets out a sigh, his head lulling as he looks down his nose to a far wall in the gymnasium.

He doesn’t say anything more.

“You don’t have to wait for me,” You mumble at the floor, resting your chin on your knee.

“It’s okay,” He says.

A few minutes of silence pass before you speak again, your voice just a wisp.

“Do you ever just want to disappear?”

He answers without hesitation.

“All the time.”

Your eyes find the floor.

Once again, you find yourself benefiting from his comfort.

He waits, seemingly with patience, for you to get your bearings. He extends his hand in an offer to help you up, but you pretend you didn’t notice.

You spend the rest of the day moving from station to station, following Price’s instructions, listening intently to the expert’s instructions on survival.

You try to avoid making eye contact with Konig for the rest of the day. You want to prove to yourself that you can do this without his comfort. You keep the conversation strictly to the task at hand, and do your best to ignore the glares of the tributes and gamemakers from across the gym.

You hate to admit it, but having Konig by your side does make it easier. He seems to be a lightening rod for the attention of the other tributes. Even if a tribute wanted to look in your direction to get a scope on the girl from District Nine, it would be more than easy to get distracted by the behemoth standing next to her.

It’s hard to ignore the stares in your direction, but when you turn they’re usually fixated on Konig, not you, before they feel your stare and snap their heads away.

Konig doesn’t seemed fazed.

At first you assume it’s because he’s too powerful, too confident in his strength and ability to be intimidated by opponents clearly weaker than him.

But then you consider - maybe he’s just used to this? The boring stares that come with someone of his unusual stature, the taunting from your particularly rowdy peers in District Nine - maybe it gifted him the ability to be unaffected by others.

But that doesn’t quite make sense either, because last night he seemed genuinely influenced by your annoyance, by your goading, and this morning, by Ruby’s disappointment.

You itch to understand your competitor, to figure out his motives, his strategy, the mind games he’s playing with you.

The rest of the day brings mediocracy, and little else is uncovered about your fiercest adversary.

You actually learn a lot about plants and knot tying, but your snares and fire starting skills leave something to be desired. At dinner, Price grills you both about what you learned, filling in any gaps in your memory.

Avoiding Konig is harder on the second day.

At the first aid satiation, the instructor is happy to have a duo join her. Aside from the career pack, who are too focused on playing with weapons, the other tributes wonder around the gymnasium solitarily. It’s clear the attendant is tired of tributes touching her, so she has you practice on each other instead.

After fascinating you both with a type of moss that can be used as an antiseptic, she has you take turns using sticks to make splints on each other’s arms.

You both sit on the ground, and he holds his arm out for you so you can snap the twigs down to the appropriate size for his forearm. It’s hard to ignore how his massive bicep is bursting out of the pitiful, generously-trimmed sleeves of his shirt. Tanned and sculpted over countless days spent in the fields of District Nine, performing jobs only the biggest and strongest could handle.

The close proximity to him is making you nervous, and you can feel the burn of his stare as you work. You force yourself to keep your focus solely on wrapping strips of fabric scraps tightly around either end of the sticks, but you can’t stop thinking about how easy it would be for the arm you work around to hurt you. How quickly it could snap a bone, knock you unconscious, or choke the life from you, all with minimal effort. Your entire body would not measure up against this one arm, let alone the rest of him.

It’s hard to stop once you start on this train of thought, and now you’re trying to think your way out of an altercation that starts in this position, kneeling on the ground.

How far could you run before he managed to get hold of a scrambling limb? Could you kick him in the ribs hard enough to break away? If you landed a hit square to his nose, could you break it?

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding when you sit back on your legs upon completion, wiping a sheen of sweat off your forehead.

When it’s his turn, you hold out your arm and turn your head away, staring at anything other than Konig. You have to push the impulse to pull away from hands that could crush you to dust at any moment.

It’s hard to ignore the brush of his fingers against your skin, the gentle hold on the underside of your arm as he steadies you to secure the strips of fabric.

It’s even harder to ignore the warm feeling that blossoms in your chest at the human contact.

This is nothing new for you. It means nothing, simply explained by ravenous, seething hormones that don’t know their place.

Once the trainer is satisfied, she gives you the advanced task of making the splint on yourselves.

You repeat this process as the trainer teaches you how to make a tourniquet. She instructs you not to tighten it as you would in an actual emergency, because it can cause injury anywhere from muscle damage to complete limb paralysis if placed incorrectly or for too long.

You suck in a breath, swallowing at the idea of being at Konig’s mercy. You’re don’t trust him enough to not jump on the opportunity for sabotage.

How long would he be able to hold you down before a guard could rip him off you? He’s strong, you’re sure he could easily take out at least a few while also fending you off - long enough to do some hefty damage to your arm.

You’re extra careful as you tie the tourniquet around Konig’s forearm, hoping that if you use gentle hands, he might return the favor.

It’s ridiculous, his proportions. You hope neither Konig nor the trainer can see the heat on your cheeks as you work around his arm as carefully as you would a deadly weapon.

When it’s your turn, you can’t bring yourself to look away. You watch his large hands work and wait with bated breath for him to go in for the kill.

As he twists the tourniquet in practice, your arm tenses in anticipation, priming your other arm discreetly in case you need to push him away.

He stops long before the fabric indents your flesh, meeting your stare for a moment. His eyes that were narrowed in focus relax when he meets your eyes, and before you can avert your gaze he turns to look over his shoulder, waiting for the instructor’s approval.

She nods assent, and immediately you feel flushed with an embarrassed heat as he undoes the knot around your bicep. You’re almost ashamed at your paranoia for suspecting he’d try and hurt you before the games.

Of course he wouldn’t hurt you here.

He was nervous just to step out on the balcony, he’s not going to break the clearly stated rule to not combat with other tributes before the arena.

He’s waiting until it’s fair game. Drawing you in with the basis of his trust until he’s granted permission to tear you limb from limb.

The instructor has you both practice on yourselves, and then wraps out the lesson by teaching you about more plants with medicinal uses, from bug bites to burns to infections.

Konig and you move from the first aid station to knot tying, to shelter building, to camouflaging.

To your credit, you really giving it a fair effort, brows furrowed and tongue pressed to your teeth as you focus on retaining as much information as possible. The anxiety is making it hard to focus thought, thoughts buzzing like insects gnawing at you from the inside out. It’s like you’re already in the arena, flinching at any noise and fighting the instinct to flee when any eyes glance in your direction.

On the final day of group training, as per Price’s instructions, you focus on the physical aspect of the competition, handling weapons, avoiding injury, and learning offensive maneuvers.

Weapons are illegal in District Nine, so besides the sickles and scythes loaned out in the wheat fields, you’ve never seen one in person before - let alone held one.

The sight of them are intimidating. You do not instinctually imagine yourself at the handle of the weapons, but on the brunt of their sharp blades and serated edges. Your eye twitches at the thought of each of them tearing through you.

It does not help that the career pack doesn’t stray far from the weapons, and so far you’ve been doing the best you can to avoid them.

You turn to Konig and pull a face contorted with displeasure.

“I know,” he whispers. He glances around the room, “We could start small?”

Your face remains unchanged, so his hand comes up to rub the side of his jaw as he continues to search the room on your behalf, “Weightlifting?”

You actually let out a laugh at the suggestion, “Oh yeah?” Your chest still rattles with the aftermath of your own amusem*nt, “Bet I can lift more than you.”

His eyebrows pinch for just a moment before he realizes you’re only kidding. A reserved smile creeps on his face.

“I’m sure.”

You flex your pathetic bicep at him and give it a hearty pat, “No, really.”

You swivel your wrist around for emphasis, a mischievous, cheeky grin on your face.

He gives you a warm smile, his shoulders lifting with each huff of a soft, inaudible laugh.

“Let’s see it, then.”

When you move toward the weights, you catch the stare of the careers, having paused their training to watch the two tributes who dared to near them.

You don’t have the forethought to hide your fear, and they don’t look away once you meet their gaze like the other tributes.

They look at you like a pack of hyenas salivating over their next meal, challenging your stare, deadly eyes and smug smiles plastered their faces.

You get the feeling it wasn’t because they were amused at your stupid joke.

Your stomach tightens, brows sloping as you shake them from your sight.

Konig glances over his shoulder to check on you and you make an awkward little jog to catch up to him.

“Thought you and your fearsome muscles chickened out,” he says as your footsteps catch up to his.

“Pfft, never,” You say, voice lacking confidence as you resist the urge to look back at the careers.

You’re not sure what you can stand to gain from weightlifting other than showing off how weak you are, but you don’t object. Not only is it an excuse to put off weapons training, it is an opportunity to see what Konig is actually capable of. Maybe you could even find some sort of weakness to use against him if the time comes, a bad knee or a tricky shoulder.

You sit down on one of the benches, a slight kick in your feet, planting your palms firmly into the bench’s padding.

It becomes clear almost immediately that the monstrous boy from your district has no weaknesses.

For his warmup, he prepares weights that are significantly heavier than your entire body, lifting them into the air without so much as a grunt of resistance.

The nausea hits like a crashing wave, consuming you in an uncomfortable heat that brings sweat to your skin and threatens to boil your stomach over. You pull on the collar of your shirt as you watch the muscles in his arm bulge and tighten with each curl.

You’re dumbfounded, face scrunched in mixture of confusion and horror, but you can’t look away. You swallow with a dry mouth as he moves to stack more weights onto the barbells, eyes flitting around the sight before you in a panic.

If Konig wanted to, he could pick you up like he was scruffing a kitten.

As you watch him deadlift what must be twice his body weight, you can’t stand to watch anymore, face drained of its color as you imagine him using that strength against you.

It’s as you’re turning away that you realize the gym has gone silent. Not a clash of a weapon, not an instructor teaching, not even the murmur of a gamemaker.

Your breathing cuts off entirely as you catch every eye in the room staring in your direction. More specifically, in the direction of the boy who seems to defy human nature. The tributes, the instructors, the gamemakers high in their post, all stare on in a spectrum ranging from amazement to fear. Some of the tributes look just as nauseous as you, pale in the face and fists clenched at their sides, surely imagining facing his strength in the arena.

The careers look less smug. Not afraid, but annoyed. Angry, even. Looking down their nose with snarls on their lips.

The boy from two, Titan, is the exception. His pointed canines are displayed proudly, his hands rubbing together in giddiness because the game is actually getting interesting. He laughs, his laughter the only noise harmonizing with the metal clunks of Konig’s weights.

Your head snaps back into place, staring at the floor, mouth parted and face burning.

Konig sets his barbell gently on the ground, faces you with his hands on his hips, and says, “Alright, your turn.”

His face sinks when he meets your eyes, as full as moons and pooled with dread.

He looks around the gym, sees all of his competitors, his evaluators leering at him. His face relaxes but reveals nothing to you. He nods before meeting your stare again.

He lifts one of his hands, pointing all of his fingers at you, “Just to be clear, you are chickening out, then?”

You blink a few times, and then you let out the ugliest snort, a string of guffaws following.

He gives you a dopey smile with that silent, breathy laugh that makes his shoulders bounce. It’s the most of a laugh you’ll be able to pull from him, you think.

“No way,” you say, standing up from your bench.

You approach the barbell he placed on the floor, and stick your shoe out to give one end of the weights a shove. It barely rolls a centimeter under the weight of your foot.

“Y’know, I would,” You say, rubbing your fingers together to suggest grubbiness, “But I got butter all over my hands at breakfast, so I probably won’t be able to get a good grip on it.”

“Mhm,” He says, his lips pressed into a smile, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Be pretty rude of me to dirty the weights for everyone else.”

“Very,” He says, “What next, then?”

When you glance around the room, most have resumed their activities, but the careers and a large percentage of the gamemakers seem to be lingering their stares on the District Nine tributes. You clear your throat and try to shake off their burning stares.

“What about that?” He offers after he sees you struggling to decide. He points over your shoulder to a large structure - two bars that stretch horizontal over a long fall to the mat below. Rings dangle from ropes in rows along the bars. It’s an exercise to see if a tribute can swing from ring to ring, using only their upper body strength to get from one end to the other without touching the ground.

“Nope,” You say definitely, “I’ll just fall and end up being thrown into the arena with a broken leg.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll stand underneath and catch you if you fall.”

“What?” You ask through a thrown off laugh.

“You’ll be okay,” Konig encourages, “Just see how far you can make it.”

For a minute you consider if this is a trick. If he would pretend as if he was going to catch you, but instead lets you plummet below, taking precaution to make it look like a genuine accident.

“Maybe later,” you say with a tent of your brow.

“Hand-to-hand?” He offers.

You nod at the suggestion. This is a skill you are certainly lacking and could stand to sharpen, and it doesn’t require using the intimidating weapons.

The instructor is not sure what to make of you both at first, eyeing you curiously before he digs into his lessons. He goes over the basics, encouraging you to avoid solely throwing punches and reminding you to use all the parts of the body that can do damage.

He does go over the proper way to land a blow with your fists, how to get out of a restraint, the vulnerable places to strike on an opponent.

You’re only listening halfheartedly. Four days of non-stop training is catching up with you, and you’ve still got one foot in the mentality that you don’t stand much of a chance anyway, so it’s hard to feel motivated to make an effort.

As soon as you wrap up the lesson, you catch the career pack huddled in a circle near the ring, far from their usual post at the weapons.

Immediately you know something’s up, keeping a careful watch on them from the corner of your eye as you and Konig exit the ring.

“Want to try the weapons again?” He asks you.

“I’m kind of over it,” You say quietly, still side-eyeing the careers, “I’ll just follow you around.”

“District Nine!” That laugh, Titan’s laugh, is truly sardonic. An almost squeaky, attention-grabbing cackle that somehow bears condescension, “You came to play this year, huh?”

Both you and Konig tense as the pack approaches. Konig’s arm shoots down in the air in front of you as he takes a few steps toward them, as if already holding you back from a confrontation.

You would normally be annoyed by this, but staring down a pack of trained killers is enough to keep you from arguing.

Konig says nothing, dawning those uninterested half-lidded eyes, chin raised as he stares down at the boy with fangs for canines.

Titan holds out his strong arms, that wicked smile spread thick as he meets Konig’s eyes, “How’d you like to play with the big boys?”

It takes you a moment to realize they’re asking Konig to ally with them.

To your surprise, your body immediately ignites with jealousy.

You can’t pin why.

Jealous that Konig is so superior he got the attention of the elite tributes, and you didn’t?

Jealous that the careers are worthy of Konig’s consideration, that they could benefit him in the arena in a way you could not?

Jealous that they were also trying to benefit from the comfort he provides with his presence?

A boy’s reassurance can only spread so thin, after all.

Maybe all the above.

“I’ll think about it,” Konig says evenly.

Your expression immediately twists.

He is considering it.

What a slap in the face, even entertaining the idea of allying with the careers. The tributes that, statistically speaking, are going to be the ones to end your life.

Your face is burning with betrayal, rage, and disgust.

You can’t believe this is the boy you find comfort in. They don’t take too kindly to those friendly with careers back in the districts. If he wins, he will be ridiculed twice as much back home.

The boy from two gives him a drawn-out full body once over, looking him up and down before he flits his eyes in your direction.

His eyebrow quirks and you swallow hard, but your face keeps your scowl.

Konig makes a casual sidestep to stand directly between you both, cutting off your view of Titan.

Maybe this was what Price was talking about. About you being trouble, and wanting Konig to keep you out of it. The boy from two was big, not as big as Konig, but enough to still tower over the majority of the tributes, physically superior in every way. This does nothing to relieve the urge to run your mouth and maybe even get a few good scratches in with your fingernails.

Your scowl thickens when you realize Price actually had reason to suspect you needed a chaperone.

You hear the boy huff, and without another word the careers leave you be.

Konig does a full turn, head tilted down to meet your stare. When he sees your clear displeasure his brows shoot up.

“I want to talk to Price before I turn them down,” he explains.

Anything but a harsh no is unacceptable to you.

Traitorous, even.

You can’t believe he’s considering it.

He sees that this does not qualm you, and adds, “Maybe he has a strategy to use against them.”

“Whatever, Konig,” You say with a roll of your eyes, a tone that clearly suggests you’re not buying what he’s selling.

This would be a good time to sever the tie between you. The comfort of him being by your side has been tainted by his conspiring with the careers. Clearly Konig has moved on, if he had even been reaping the benefits of whatever it is you two have.

Maybe you were naive to think he was ever your partner in this.

Of course he’s not. He is your opponent, always has been. Only one can come out of that arena. He knows it. You know it.

He was just smart enough to keep his distance, to not let his emotions get tangled up in someone who will be dead in a week, whereas you have been foolish enough to let your heart bleed without caution.

He doesn’t need your comfort like you need his. He will be self-sustainable in that arena. He actually has a chance, and a good one at that. You know it. The careers know it.

What could Konig have possibly gained from a partnership with you?

Your blood is boiling, body perspiring in the brutal heat of humiliation. You can’t believe you’ve let yourself get this attached to him, that you looked farther into worried glances then you should have, that you’ve allowed yourself to become so reliant on him that the thought of him not being even a little reliant on you makes you feel this inadequate, this jealous, this stupid!

You knew this was coming, you could see it from a mile away, but it doesn’t soothe the searing sting. It’s only frustrating you more knowing this is your own fault.

Konig doesn’t owe you anything, he’s just doing what’s best for himself, which is what you should be doing.

He opens his mouth to say something else, choking out the start of a syllable before he stops himself.

At least he looks a little hurt at your displeasure. That makes you feel a little better.

You huff, turning on your feet.

“Wha - where are you going?” He asks.

“Anywhere,” You say with wave a hand over your shoulder.

“But, Price-“

“I don’t care what Price said!” You blurt out, whipping around to face him, hands springing up aggressively.

Konig’s shoes squeak to a stop, and you catch a couple Capitol guard priming to intervene. You can feel the stare of a few tributes looking in your direction.

You sigh, forcing your voice to a quiet yet harsh grit, “It’s not like you can look after me in that arena, so what’s the point of looking after me now?”

He doesn’t have an answer for you as he dawns those hurt eyes, the same eyes he wore when you ripped your hand away from him in the chariot.

Even in your rage, it makes your heart throb with guilt and regret at your outburst. It’s confusing, so confusing, how you can be so angry with someone and still care about not hurting them.

You can’t stand to look at him anymore, both in your rage and guilt, so you turn on your heels and leave him in his spot.

Training is technically optional, even if most tributes aren’t stupid enough to skip out on the life-saving advice, or in the career’s case, an excuse to throw weapons around, so no one stops you when you march right out of the gym. You fume the entire elevator ride up to your suite. If fury was steam, you’re sure you would have released a cloud of it when the elevator doors part.

Price is sitting at the raised table in the dining room, leaning back in his chair at your arrival.

“What’d’ya doing here kid?”

You don’t even answer him, marching down the hall without so much of a glance in his direction.

“What’s wrong?” His voice calls.

“Ask your victor,” You spit, slamming the door to your room behind you.

If you’re being honest, the worst part is not knowing why it hurts so much. How could you be stupid enough to give Konig this much control over you? Why do you feel so churned up inside over a boy you’ve known for a mere few days and only exchanged a handful of words? And why, even after recognizing that your anger isn’t rightfully pointed at Konig, are you still so mad at him?

You have to put your face in your pillow and scream to let it all out. All of it, the feelings about Konig, the feelings of inadequacy, the feelings about the games.

Price gives you five minutes, five minutes of stewing in the anger, chewing and splitting and dissecting every contridicting emotion before he knocks on your door.

You ignore the first few knocks, and after a second round of rapping he calls your name through the door.

“Go away!” You yell.

He gives a softer knock, maybe with just a knuckle or two. His voice drops low and persuading, a hint of a playful tease, “C’mon Plucky.”

You let out an overtly-dramatic groan, “I don’t want to talk about it! Just leave me alone!”

“Who said anything about talking?” His gruff voice carries through the door, “Let me pour you a drink.”

That… actually doesn’t sound too bad.

Even after the incident on the train you’re itching to relax, to get that feeling of easiness again . You let of a huff into the sheets, begrudgingly standing and dragging your feet to the door, by no means gently swinging it open.

“There’s my ray of sunshine.”

You try to shut the door in his face, but his shoe shoots out to catch it.

“I’m sorry,” He says, not entirely genuine. He then nudges in the direction of the dining room with his shoulder, “C’mon.”

You let out a heavy sigh and step into the hall.

“‘Atta girl,” He says, leading you into the dining table.

You plop yourself down on the chair, and Price stays true to his word. He fills up a crystal glass with the decanter, and he doesn’t get too close when he sets it next to you, scraping the glass across the table and into your reach.

He takes his place at the head of the table. For a while you both nurse your whiskey in silence. You take in as much as your body allows, eagerly anticipating the warmth that blooms in your chest as it goes down. You stand to get another drink to wash down the offensive taste and Price has the sense to not make fun of you for it.

When your cheeks are flushed with heat, when you don’t feel quite yourself anymore, your mouth opens to speak and the words slip out without your permission, voice low and fixated on the tabletop.

“I don’t want to die.”

Price presses his lips together, and taps the tabletop with a few fingernails.

“Then don’t.”

You shoot him a glare, “Everyone knows I don’t stand a chance.”

“I don’t know that,” he says.

You face warps in a look that’s begging for him to drop the act.

His eyes roll, almost annoyed, and let’s out a huff, “I don’t care for quitters much.”

“Can we be realistic for a second?” You say exasperatedly, “I have nothing. Not the strength, not the skill, and no chance of getting help in that arena. I am not the smart bet.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” He says.

Your words flip from hot to ice cold, eyes narrowing at him, “It means everything.”

“Look, kid, tributes scrappier than you have won the games before. Stop counting yourself out and get your head in the f*cking game.”

The harsh tone he ends with makes your lower lip bunch and your eye twitch.

He sighs with a long blink, a slight shake of his head, and when he speaks his voice is much softer, “I get it. Yeah? I get the disdain. But it’s happening and I need you to get it together.”

It hits you all over again.

Your reality, the mere fact that you are going into that arena. You will have to survive, you will have to defend yourself, and you will most likely have to kill.

The booze seems to amplify the emotion, doubling the weight of the anvil that drops on your chest and steals every last wisp of air from your lungs. A sore lump forms in your throat and your mouth goes dry, tears welling in your eyes.

Price looks almost shocked, and then his forehead wrinkles and his arms cross as he leans in.

The tears are rolling now, big droplets that fall before catching on the height of your cheek, streaking down your face and your neck.

His hand reaches out to give a pat on your forearm before resting there, “Oh, c’mon now Plucky.”

He sighs again, his voice gentle but persuasive, “I know a feisty girl when I see one. Before you even spoke I knew that you had a fire in ya’.”

You look at him with eyes red and glossed, your sight warped through tears.

He removes the hand on your forearm before giving a point in your direction, “You’re angry and I need you to use that. I need you to be a fighter. This is going to be the hardest thing you’ve ever done but I believe you can do this. I’ve seen a lot of kids come and go but there’s something about you.”

You scoff, voice slightly nasal, “I wouldn’t stand a chance against Konig, let alone any of the other tributes.”

“I know you’re smarter than that,” Price kicks back.

“Smarter than Konig?” You ask with a sniff, wiping your nose.

“No,” he gives a tilt of his head and perks his eyebrows, as if negating the ‘no’ before he continues, “I meant smart enough to realize that everyone else is going to overlook you. You don’t think that boy is going to have a giant target on his back? He’s a huge threat to the others and they know it.”

You hadn’t considered that, actually.

He sighs, “I’m not saying the kid doesn’t have a chance, but you are gonna find some sense, hunker down, and wait it out. They will underestimate you.”

Your eyes flick around his features, trying to decipher if his encouragement is genuine. The tears have stopped flowing, and you give a sniff.

“You’re going to put that fury, that fire, and you are going to channel it into survival. Even if you have to do it out of spite. Just don’t let anyone use it against you, okay?”

You give a shaky nod and take another sip of your whiskey with a wince.

“Yeah,” you whisper.

There’s another pause, Price tapping on the glass table as you both nurse your drinks.

The words come tumbling one after another without thought, “The careers want to ally with Konig and he didn’t say no.”

Price raises his brows again and gives one slow nod.

“Ah,” He says in understanding. You can tell he’s pin-pointed the actual reason for your outburst, not the underlying one, “He said yes?”

“Well, no,” Your eyes dart away, “He said he wanted to talk to you first.”

He nods again. “I’m not saying that wasn’t the right move, but I can see why you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset,” You say, face puffy from crying.

“Of course,” He says.

You shoot him another look with narrowed eyes.

“I’ll talk to him,” Price says, raising his palm off the table, “But you need to promise me you’ll go back down to training and give it your all. Forget what I said before, learn whatever you want for the rest of the day. And Konig doesn’t have to babysit.”

You nod again.

“Let the whiskey settle first,” He says and he stands, and he wags a finger at you, “And drink some water, Plucky.”

Price saunters off with his drink, and you follow his advice without pushback. You let your face filter out the evidence of crying, hydrate, and wait until your cheeks drains of the tipsy heat before making your way back to the training center.

Konig’s eyes find you immediately. An instructor is speaking to him, but his head turns and locks on you. You catch a frown before you turn away. You can’t stand to look at him, he’s making all the complex and knotted feelings resurface.

You head to the opposite side of the training area, and you’re find you’re not as intimidated by the weapons anymore. You pick up a handful of knives, following Price’s advice about channeling the anger. Whipping your arm with a grunt as you practice throwing at some dummy’s across the line of fire. Your aim’s not great, but for the most part they are sticking into the dummy with satisfying thuds.

Everytime you get lucky and manage to hit the target, you take a step back to throw a few more from a farther distance.

Archery takes you a while to get accustomed to. You’d never used a bow before, you’re not sure how to hold it, and your positioning is all off.

The trainer does step in to help you out, and while initially overbearing he does prove to be quite helpful, guiding your positions and showing you where to pull the string.

You miss more times than not, but the trainer gives his best effort.

The spears are a bit heavy, and you don’t seem to be doing great at long distance throwing, but the short range throws are hard to mess up.

You curiously poke over swords, what remains of the booze in your system giving you confidence the draw closer to the careers. You follow Price’s instructions on ignoring them. Pretending they’re not even there. The dirt beneath your feet.

“Done with your temper tantrum?”

A career, no doubt, each word knotted with arrogance.

You have to bite your tongue so hard it almost breaks flesh. Your expression goes sour, but you don’t whip around right away.

You so badly want to explode on them, let out your anger on the owner of the voice.

Instead you lick your lips, plaster a face drenched in curiosity and turn on your heels.

As innocently as possible you ask, “Which of you three do you think is going to die in the arena?”

Their faces immediately fall, the boy from one’s eye twitches and the girl from two gives you a wicked scowl.

“Well, only one of you can win. Have you talked it over?” You shoot back a sweet smile and a shrug.

Titan lets out a maniacal, cackling laugh, actually grabbing his knees and doubling at the core.

His demeanor is enough to shake you, your face falling.

The other careers, with their loathing and hatred, are expected. That you can handle.

It’s clear Titan’s a wildcard, completely unhinged. That laugh is not that one someone who is entirely sane, hysterical enough to trigger the instinctual urge to run, dread knotting up your insides.

“I like you, Nine!” He says with a gulp for air. He lets out a final sigh through his wicked smile, “I think I get it now!”

He claps his hands together with a crack like thunder, and takes a step forward. You don’t have the courage to refrain from taking a step back.

“Funny girl,” Titan coos, his voice suddenly low and silky, eyelids fluttering in your direction, “You want to join the winners?”

Your face immediately twists. You go to speak, but your tongue is frozen.

Are they asking you to ally with them?

No.

“What is this?” You ask, a lot quieter and broken than you would have liked.

When Titan explodes into another fit of laughter, small droplets of his spit fly from his mouth and splatter onto your face. Your eyes close in a flinch, face pinching in a grimace.

“Don’t play shy, Nine!” He says after his fit. He drops his voice again, to an almost sultry voice, as if he was trying to flirt his way into an alliance with you, “We want you on our team.”

“Right,” you say when he confirms your suspicion, wiping his spit off your face. The notion is ridiculous enough for you to regain some of your confidence, “f*ck off, then.”

Titan explodes into laughter once more, and the boy from one sweeps him back with a push of his arm, clearly over the display.

“We can protect you in the arena, Nine,” One says gruffly.

“From who? You ask, making a show of checking your nails, still dotted with wheat florettes, “From you?”

The girl from one perks up, “You won’t go hungry with us.”

“If you want my opinion,” you start, ignoring their offer as your finger points at the girl from one, “You.”

You point at the girl from District Two.

“You.”

The boy from one.

“And you.”

You hold his stare when you finish, voice taught as you jam your thumb in the direction of a hysterical Titan, “A weeks worth of bread says Hoo-Hah over here stabs you all in the throat while you’re sleeping.”

Titan finds this hilarious, his cackling escalating as his hands clap together.

The boy from one takes one step backwards. He looks over your shoulder, cranes his head, and growls, “Keep your dog on a shorter leash.”

Your eyes roll and a long breath escapes you. Not at the insult, but at the realization that Konig is standing right behind you, still adhering to Price’s instructions.

Keeping you out of trouble.

Successfully.

The careers’ pointed stares bore into you as they walk away. Titan’s still laughing, and he calls out one final, “I’ll be seeing you, Funny Girl!”

His words send a shudder down your spine, but you stifle your twitch as you finish picking out a sword. You only turn to face Konig once they’re out of earshot, jaw co*cked and head craned to meet his stare, “I talked to Price, and he said you didn’t have to chaperone me anymore.”

You inspect the sword casually in your hand, as if disinterested in his presence, “So, feel free to do your own thing.”

He swallows, eyes darting around your face, “Did- Did I?”

You drop your voice to an icy whisper, running a finger along the flat of the sword’s steel, “I’m not really interested in someone who fraternizes with careers. So.”

As awful as it is, you want to be mad at him. To make him feel how you feel.

His brows pinch and his head lowers, “I didn’t, I’m not!” His eyes dart around, and he lowers his voice, “It was on the spot and- I didn’t want to get on their bad side.” He gives you just about the saddest eyes you’ve ever seen, “Bitte -“

He cuts himself off, his arms at his sides and slightly lifted, begging for your forgiveness.

You give an annoyed huff, but not at him, at yourself, for immediately being tempted to forgive him. You’re aching to curl up in the arms of his comfort again, you don’t want to finish training all by yourself.

“I won’t do it, I won’t even mention it to Price. It was never-“ He cuts himself off with a deep breath.

“It’s okay,” You whisper as you lower the sword and run your thumb over the top of handle of the sword. A drawn out sigh leaves you, “I’m sorry, it’s me. It’s just been hard.”

“I know,” He says. There’s a pause, and he looks down to the sword in your hand.

“Want to spar?” He asks.

“Uh,” You follow his gaze as you think, “Okay.”

He takes his time looking over the swords, keeping his eye trained carefully on the weapons as he asks under his breath, “What was that about?”

You look over your shoulder and eye the pack that convenes in a huddle, speaking to each other in hushed voices.

You step closer to him in an effort to keep your conversation unheard, “They asked me to ally with them, I think?” You shake your head, “I think they’re just asking everyone. Trying to lure in anyone they can for an easy kill? I have no clue.”

He gives a hum, giving a glance over his shoulder that was probably more discreet in his head than it was in real life, “What’d you say?”

“A lot. The gist was ‘f*ck that and f*ck you.’”

Konig draws a sword and holds it at his side. It seems much lighter in Konig’s hand than it does your own.

“Must have been funny,” he says, his eyes lingering on the careers.

You blow out a huff of air, “Easy crowd.”

You make a gesture with your index finger that suggests Titan’s not right in the head, swirling it next to your temple to mimic scrambled brains.

He nods carefully, and ceases his line of questioning.

Sword training is more enjoyable then you thought it would be. The sword is heavy in your hands, and by time you finish your wrists and forearms are more than sore, but it is satisfying to swing and thrust the blade at targets.

You round out the day without disturbance, and you both make your way back to the suite.

Price is less lenient about his questioning. At dinner, he coaxes every word of your interactions with the careers from you and Konig.

He’s less pleased with your responses, “Taunting them? Are you nuts?”

“Not as nutty as the boy from two,” your tone is curved and paired with a flare of your eyelids as your teeth slide a perfectly cooked piece of steak from your fork.

“Even more of a reason to steer clear of them!”

“Hey!” You say, mouth still full of half-chewed steak, “They provoked me.”

“I don’t care, that’s not how you handle it.”

“What happened to being fiesty?” You say, throwing your arms up.

“The last thing you need is attention drawn to you,” Price shoots back.

You roll your eyes, “Whatever, it’s too late for me to fix it. Not like I’m gonna see them again anyway.”

“You’ll see them in the arena,” He says gruffly.

“John’s right,” Ruby interjects.

You blow a dismissive puff of air, but underneath it you wonder if he’s right. Your stomach turns at the thought you made a life-threatening decision by running your big mouth. If even Ruby agrees with Price, maybe he truly does have a point.

“She stood up for herself,” Konig blurts out on your behalf, “She did the right thing.”

Your eyebrows pinch, lips pulling back.

Price wears a matching expression, the wrinkles in his forehead deepening as he looks at Konig with shock and confusion torn through his features.

Konig’s briefly confident façade fades as he takes turns shifting his gaze between you and Price, his posture deflating.

“Well,” Price says, his brows perking for a moment as he returns his attention to his plate, “That’s that then.”

You continuing holding Konig’s stare, trying to figure out why he would say that. What he stood to gain for getting Price off your back.

For making you feel better.

Encouraging you to pick fights with the careers to ensure they hunt you down and pick you off in the arena?

You don’t have an answer.

“Tomorrow they’ll be doing individual training,” Price starts, “Now’s the time to pull out all the stops, got it?”

“Aye aye,” You mutter, not at all genuine.

Price points his fork in your direction, “Be good, Plucky.”

“Not likely,” You say.

You’re certain you’ll be unremarkable. Wedged in the tail end in the middle of the pack, destined to be overshadowed by those that come before and after you. There’s nothing notable about you. No size or strength or skill to draw anyone’s attention.

After dinner, Price dismisses you and Konig so he, Ruby, and the stylists can go over strategy. As you you turn to your doors, you utter a weak, “Thanks.”

He pauses for a moment before nodding his head slow, “Of course.”

Ruby lets you sleep in until late morning, and by time you wander in for breakfast, everyone’s nearly completed their meal.

“Morning, Sunshine,” Price says.

You grunt in response, loading your plate and taking a seat.

Training starts a noon, so you have a few hours of free time after you down a hearty breakfast.

You spend it out on the balcony, soaking in the sun and watching the clouds roll by. You nurse a glass of orange juice as you take in the noisy city below.

Just before noon, Ruby collects you, has you change into your training outfit, and leads you and Konig down to the gymnasium.

You and Konig share a look as Ruby shoots back up in the elevator. A Capitol attendant leads you to a sterile, concrete sitting room with rows of benches, half full of tributes waiting to be evaluated. You sit towards the back, Konig following and plopping down next to you, leaving you a generous amount of space between you so he can spread his legs.

The room is quiet aside from the careers, sitting together and rowdily chatting. Every so often you hear Titan’s maniacal laughter, his cackle knotting your insides.

It doesn’t last long. They pull you in order of district, so the careers are drained from the room one by one, and they don’t return. The room goes quiet shortly after Titan is pulled from the room.

It’s a heavy air you all breathe, in a room full of people who will be trying to killing each other in a matter of days.

As the number of tributes dwindle, the air is easier to draw, but the lack of stimulation has your thoughts racing.

So you do what you’ve have been when you find yourself spiraling.

“Did you bring a token?” You ask Konig, voice as low as you can manage in this stiff room.

“No,” He says at a whisper, “I forgot.”

“Y’know, it’s stupid, but I kind of wish I brought one. Something to touch in the arena. I can’t help but feel like a reminder of home will help me keep some sanity in there.”

He nods slow, and you worry you’ve overshared.

“I don’t want to think of home,” he mumbles, scraping his shoe along the concrete floor.

Your brows pinch as you find him.

His elbows are planted on his knees, leaning his weight on them. The pads of his fingers rub together slowly, mesmerizingly, as he fixates on a spot on the floor.

You realize, and it took you longer than it should have, that District Nine is two different places for you and Konig.

District Nine had its glaring problems. The majority of the population poor, overworked and starving. Unjust laws and cruel punishment. A society run primarily on fear.

But to you, it was still home.

Your friends, family, and every good thing that has ever happened you have resides in District Nine.

You knew it was not a place that was kind to him - it is a place that rejects anyone that is different, that does not fit the mold of district expectation.

But did Konig have anything waiting for him back home?

Did District Nine offer Konig any distraction, any love, any shred of light in the dark dismal place it was?

You don’t ask.

When it is your turn, you stand, legs made of jelly and a slight tremor in your body.

“Wait,” Konig blurts, and you turn on your heels. He fumbles through his words, “Be- Be good.”

You blink, not sure what to make of Konig reinforcing Price’s demand. You nod slow, lips parted to release terrified breaths.

Standing in front of the gamemakers with no crowd to hide behind is beyond intimidating.

You announce your name, your district, and they let you begin.

You take an edible plants and bug test, make a makeshift splint, make short-range tosses with a spear, swing a sword, and throw knives around with about 35 percent accuracy. It’s subpar all around.

Once again, you find yourself at dinner with Price grilling you about every detail.

You already know you’re getting a low score, but you’re sure it’s still going to be a blow to your ego.

You all settle in the sitting room for the announcement of the scores.

The careers do well, obviously. Scoring in the 8-10 range.

Everyone else settles on an average of 5-7.

As the boy from eight’s score of ‘7’ fades on the screen, the room draws a collective breath.

You see your solemn headshot, and after a painful few seconds, the number ‘5’ flashes on the screen.

“Others have certainly done worse!” Ruby chimes.

Price gives a light, encouraging bump on your shoulder, “Not bad, kid.”

You rub out your shoulder, which doesn’t actually hurt at all, and stare at the floor with wide eyes. You realize in this moment that Price’s opinion of you might actually mean something to you, because you can tell his compliment is only half genuine, and it stings. You wanted to do better for him. To be a tribute he could be proud of.

Not a five.

Below average.

Your score fades, and Konig’s intimidating headshot flashes on the screen, those hooded eyes staring menacingly at the camera.

“From District Nine we have Konig,” There’s a pause, everyone in the room holding a collective breath, “With a score of ten .”

For a moment, the room is silent, faces made of stone as you all process his score.

Ruby lets out a squeal in excitement, and Price actually lets out a pleased laugh. His pride for Konig twists your gut.

Your lower lip clamps between your teeth with a roll as your thumb rubs circles in your palm.

“Atta’ boy,” Price says, his fist stiffly pumping in the air.

This praise is genuine.

When Konig finally takes his eyes off the screen, he lets out a breathy laugh of relief, his body untensing.

Ruby is behind him, squeezing his shoulders and giving him an excited shake.

You’re happy for him, really.

You are.

You’re also jealous, disheartened, and nauseous.

You have both been evaluated by professionals, and he blew you out of the water. He did twice as well. Ranked superior in every way. You knew he was, but it didn’t ease the blow of seeing the undeniable data.

You hate not excelling. You crave to be above-average, to get a perfect score, to be on the end of the room’s, the country’s, adoration.

Your score was broadcasted to all of Panem, and now everyone knows how average you are. How weak you are compared to the all these worthy tributes.

Your confidence has surely taken a hit.

He will be the better bet, he will get the sponsors, and he will get Price’s affection.

It’s fine.

“Congratulations,” You mutter as you meet Konig’s stare.

You can tell he’s noticed your lack of enthusiasm, and for a moment his face wavers, his eyes showing a glint of that unsure look before he looks away with another nervous, relieved laugh.

“We should celebrate!” Ruby says in her high pitched squeal.

Konig nods absentmindedly, staring at the television but not retaining what’s on the screen, wearing the widest grin you’ve ever seen stretched on his face. He’s riding the high of the praise, the joy of receiving the highest score, of being a winner.

It’s pissing you off.

Taking pride in scoring highly in a test designed for a fight to the death.

He should be ashamed.

While everyone’s busy gushing over Konig’s score, you quietly slip out of the room and isolate yourself in your quarters. Face down on the bed and groaning into the soft duvet.

An oblivious Ruby grabs you for dinner. You’re not hungry, and you don’t want to be subjected to Konig’s celebration, but you’d do good to put on a few pounds for the arena.

Konig’s score is all anyone is talking about at dinner, and his accomplishment makes it easy to be disregarded. The only input you offer is the sound of a fork scraping around your plate as you inspect some roasted greens.

You don’t say much of anything, keeping your focus to your meal and doing your best to tune out the team’s adoration for Konig.

You can feel the burn of his stare every so often. You don’t have the ability to decipher the expression he wears from just your peripheral, probably pity, maybe annoyance for the lack of praise.

Now is probably a better time than any to sever this tie. You know the feeling of inadequacy, the jealously, the anger inside of you - it’s all misdirected. Konig, once again, is just doing what he supposed to. A victim of the games and these unfair conditions just as much as you. But the feelings are there, and your introspection does nothing to quell them. Might as well make use of them and take your opportunity to shed the security he blankets over you.

You are officially done with him.

No more reassurance, no more babysitting, no more Konig.

He is the male tribute from your district.

Your opponent.

That’s it.

You excuse yourself before dessert is served, retiring to your room for the night. You take a long shower, steaming yourself under the intense pressure as you stare blankly at the glittery gold swirls in the marble walls.

From outside the bathroom, you can hear someone knocking on your bedroom door, but you make no action to answer it. Eventually the attempted visitor goes away, and after a thorough soaping you let the heated driers dry you off. You get dressed, climb into bed, and drift off.

Ruby’s voice rouses you early in the morning and instructs you to report for breakfast to go over today’s plan.

You’re slow in doing so, and when you take your place, everyone’s already sat. You avoid meeting anyone’s eyes as you load your plate and dig in.

Ruby claps her hands together, “Alright, so tonight is the big interview!” She lets out a squeal, “Very exciting!”

“Very,” Price says, obviously sarcastic.

Ruby either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care, pushing on, “We’ll each have four hours with you, I’ll be training you on stage presence, and John will be working with you both on content. Konig, you’ll start with me, and then we’ll switch. Your stylists will collect you at the end to get you dressed, and then we’ll head to stage. Sound good?”

There’s a pause before Konig clears his throat, speaking for the both of you when Ruby’s words go ignored, “Yes. Thank you, Ruby.”

She gives him a proud smile, and swirls a glass in her hands, “Such a polite young man you are. It’s surprising someone with as much decorum as you is district.”

You roll your eyes at your plate when you feel her stare.

Ruby’s unsubtle dig at you, casting a light on Konig to make you stand further in his shadow, the way she speaks of the districts as if you’re all just ravenous animals in the jungle - it all sparks a simmering heat under your skin, your eye twitching and lips warping into a snarl.

It makes you want to prove her right. Show her just how ravenous the districts can be.

Your grip on your fork is tight, white knuckles shaking around pure silver.

The mood at the table shifts when Price gives a hearty snort, amused by the snide remark and particularly, your rage.

You don’t contribute conversation, angrily stabbing into roasted potatoes, the metal of the fork roughly grating along your teeth with each furious bite.

You get it, okay? Konig is superior in every way. You can’t even beat him at being nice.

You know your place.

He’s their golden boy, their favorite, their victor.

And you are the rude little brat from District Nine who will be dead and forgotten in less than a week.

You don’t speak for the rest of the meal, ignoring the small talk and Konig’s periodic stares in your direction.

Once breakfast is cleared away, the group splits up, Ruby disappearing with her golden boy while Price leads you to the sitting room.

Price plops down with a grunt and begins to wordlessly study you.

“What?” You ask, already defensive.

“I’m trying to figure out how to put this,” He sighs, “So far in the competition, you have flown under the radar. And I advise that during this interview, you do the same.”

“Be forgettable,” You say dryly, slicing through to point he was dancing around with a roll of your eyes, “Got it.”

He sighs again, looking to the ceiling, “You didn’t make an impression at the reaping, the opening ceremony, or with your score. It helps that Konig has been taking the heat off your back.”

“Oh, it helps that I’m overshadowed and forgettable in every way?”

“Yes, it does,” He shoots back impatiently. He rubs his temple before he speaks again, forcing himself to lower his voice, “I want them to underestimate you.”

“I have not been underestimated,” You say with an exasperating swing of your arm, “I have been estimated! I have nothing to offer!”

“Kid, I need you to trust me on this one.”

“So what do you expect me to do, go out there and flop?”

“No,” he says, “You don’t flop, you don’t shine. You will answer the questions honestly, nicely, and humbily.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, “That’s not going to get me sponsors.”

“Neither will the attitude you’re currently peddling,” He stands with a grunt, “I’m not going to bother going over the interview questions with you. I’m this case - the less preparation the better.”

You raise a brow and suck in an air of superiority, “You really think that’s a good idea?”

You’re met with a shrug, “Probably not.”

“Fine. I’ll wing it. But don’t come crying to me if you don’t like my spontaneous answers.”

He sighs in defeat, “Just be good, will you?”

You narrow your eyes at him, “I’ll be better than good. I’ll be forgettable.”

“Atta girl,” He says, and heads for his quarters, “Enjoy the next three hours and fifty-five minutes of free time.”

“Wait,” You say, too eagerly.

He stops and turns to you, and you immediately shrink in on yourself, eyes darting to the side, “How’s Konig going to play it?”

The corner of his lip perks up ever so slightly, “Does it matter?”

You look to the floor.

No, it doesn’t.

Konig could spit in Caeser’s face and condemn the Capitol entirely and still have sponsors lining up to send him gifts.

Price saunters off, and you stare into the intricate pattern of the carpet long after his door clicks shut.

You wish you hadn’t asked.

You take the opportunity to try and nap, but you can’t. You’re too nervous about the interview. Even more nervous that you have no answers prepared, no idea what the interviewer, Caeser Flickerman, is going to throw at you. You wish you could have pushed back on Price’s lack of preparation, too flared up by his suggestion that you’re forgettable to get your priorities straight at the time. You linger on the thought that maybe Price didn’t prep you for your benefit, but for his own. Spare him the trouble of dealing with his insolent, weak, pitiful tribute.

You’re still embarrassed about him seeing you cry. Bleeding where you shouldn’t, once again.

Ruby comes to collect you once she’s done with Konig, ready to train you for stage manners.

It mostly consists of Ruby having you practice walking in heels and a gown, shredding you on every one of your imperfections.

“Smile - oh, not like that!”

“They’re just high heels, dear, everyone wears them!”

“Shoulder back!”

“Don’t scratch yourself in front of the audience.”

“Don’t sit like that! You look like a shrimp.”

“Keep your legs crossed! It’s unladylike .”

“Stop fidgeting so much.”

“You’re slouching again!”

It’s grueling work, and she’s not as lenient with the free time as Price. You’re suddenly thankful he dismissed you early.

Your lack of stage manners only doubles the weights of inadequacy strapped to your ankles, which is making it difficult to have a confident posture and be agreeable, but you grit your teeth and get through it.

You wonder how Konig’s session with Ruby went.

Probably better than you.

Once she’s done with you, clearly not happy with the final result, you find yourself face down on your bed again.

Ruby collects you once more to usher you to Mauve and her prep team, who will be completely transforming you for the interview.

Mauve offers little reassurance as she gets you dressed, does your makeup, and styles your hair. She doesn’t look as bored today, much more attentive as she puts on any final touches. You have the feeling her silence is derived from focus more than it is indifference.

Your stomach is bubbling, your insides knotted up and underarms pouring buckets of sweat.

When she pulls away from you, she has you stand, only a slight wobble as you move to the mirror.

Once again, Mauve has transformed you into an entirely new person.

The dress is stunning. A baby blue a-line that brushes against the bottom of your thigh. Layers of tulle gently puff out at the skirt like rolling blue clouds. The bust is decorated with intricate patterns of sparkling silver lace that resemble leaves climbing up your ribcage. Matching baby blue flowers bloom along the dress, each with their own perfect blue pearl stitched directly in the center. The petals sit in patches of the shimmering lace, mostly on the bust of the dress and up the see-through straps that rest delicately on your bejeweled shoulders, but a few sprout in rare patches along the tulle skirt and on your matching shoes.

Mauve has attached matching jewels to your body, and smaller, daintier flowers that appear to have climbed from the dress and propagated onto your skin. One side of your face is dotted with the blue blossoms in the shape of a crescent, starting just above the end of your brow and curving around your eye, the flowers stopping just below the height of your cheek. They sit in a cloud of sparkling silver glitter that reflect like early morning dew in the moonlight.

A string of blue pearls adorns your neck. Your hair is simple and girlish, but still elegant. Soft curls with more flowers pinned into stands of your hair. Heavy, fluttering eyelashes that partially obscure your vision, accented with a soft peach lip and sparkling silver eyelids.

You look beautiful, no doubt about it. But it’s so soft, so gentle. It seems almost too innocent and pure for you to be wearing it.

While the sensation of jewels and flowers glued to your skin is unusual, it’s a big step up from the wheat dress in terms of comfort.

Mauve arranges some of your curls, repositioning some of the flowers as she sees fit.

“Thank you, Mauve,” you say, still staring into your own reflection.

She sucks in an audible breath, meeting your eyes in the mirror. This might actually be the first time she’s made eye contact with you other than to evaluate her make up.

She gives you a shaky nod, and then returns her attention to arranging the tulle on the skirt of your dress.

You’re led to backstage, where you’re met with the tributes, waiting impatiently in their refined dresses and sharp suits. Your stomach does summersaults at the sound of the audience, already boisterous before the interviews have even started.

It’s all too real, all too fast, having to be interviewed with every last citizen of Panem hanging on your every word.

You want to run, run and run far but there’s no where to go. You shift anxiously on your high heels, sweaty hands fidgeting at your sides, trying to quell the nausea.

And then you see him.

Konig was already staring at you when you meet his eyes. In his baby blue suit, a silver tie with steel-colored glitter sparkling in the pattern of leaves. Pinned on the lapel of his suit is a boutonniere, perfect blue pearls stitched into the center of each baby blue flower in the bundle. They’re arranged in a bundle that sit in a tuft of smaller, soft white flowers.

You’re both stunned, lips parted and eyes blown as you soak each other in.

You are the only two tributes dawning matching outfits.

What were they thinking?

Are you supposed to be continuing this act that you and Konig are going to be allies in the arena?

Because that would have been nice to know before, instead of having this strategy sprung on you last minute before going live in front of the entire country.

Konig blinks his wide eyes a few times in rapid succession and then looks away to find his dress shoes.

You look away from him quickly, eyes darting around the ceiling as you take a dry swallow.

The rock that’s been sitting in your stomach since you woke up this morning has seemed to double in weight. You’re sweating under layers of makeup and tulle, rubbing the moisture on your dress.

Ruby corrals you both together, giving last minute pointers. You can barely hear her, your heartbeat pumping loudly in your ears. She tells you to stop chewing on your fresh set of nails, which Mauve transformed with strokes of baby blue, silver swirls accented with flower designs.

You’re shaking with fear, your breath catching on each exhale.

A stage crew member claps his hands and announces that the show will be starting soon. He has you line up in order of district, so you’re standing in between the terrifying boy from eight and Konig, both doing little to make you feel better.

You try not to acknowledge him, but his presence is a burning heat behind you. He’s impossible to ignore, towering over you only a few inches behind.

You want to look at him, to share this moment of terror with him, to talk to him.

But you are done with the boy from your district.

You pinch your exaggerated eyelashes shut, thoughts swirling. The frustration of yearning for his comfort but denying yourself the satisfaction, the frustration of even yearning for his comfort in the first place, it makes your cheeks burn and your fists clench.

Caeser Flickerman warms up the crowd, and each cheer that vibrates beneath your feet threatens to make you gag.

The districts tick by one by one.

The girl from one, Sapphire, with District One’s standard blonde hair and eyes that pair with her name. She’s more than charming, but there’s a hint of intensity to her words, a sense of determination.

The words coming from a perfect smile and dimpled cheeks turns your stomach. She is not a competitor to mess with.

The boy from two, Titan, seems to match her charm and determination, but there’s a layer of humor, of thick, chaotic irreverence. He punctuates his sick jokes with his killer smile, showing off those canines as he laughs through his own brutality. He’s huge, no doubt one of the monsters in the competition.

The boy from three is awkward, the girl from four a wild card, the boy from six stoic, the girl from seven high-spirited.

The girl from eight is afraid. Terrified.

Not even Caesar’s impressive skill of putting his tributes at ease could relax her, she looked like she was about to throw up during the entirety of her interview.

The boy from eight does not answer any of Caeser’s questions, a painful three minutes that offers little to distract you as you shuffle nervously on foot to foot on deck.

You take a deep swallow, looking to your shoes.

“Up next,” Caeser starts, “We have lovely young lady from District Nine!”

He announces your presence, your name, and the audience screams in anticipation.

A stage hand ushers you onto the stage in front of the crowd.

Dizzy, blinded and sweating, you stumble forward, your own breathy pants deafening you with each step.

Caesar grabs your wet hand once you’re in his range, cupping it in both of his. You’re back to reaping day, standing in front of the crowd with a blank mind, shaking with fear.

“Wow, don’t you look just stunning!” Caesar says, using both his hands to make a dramatic gesture in your direction. “Like a princess!” He adds, eyeing your intricate dress.

You give a shaky laugh with a sheepish, “Thank you, Caesar.”

You blindly reach behind you, not so gracefully sitting on the ornate chair as you eye the crowd, but you do remember to cross your legs.

“So, tell me, are you enjoying your stay at the Capitol?”

You take a deep breath, voice choppy and hitched, barely over a whisper, “It’s certainly extravagant.”

The audience gives a far too generous laugh.

“My dear, I’ve been meaning to ask you, are there any special skills you’re hiding from us that might give you an edge in the arena?”

You look over to the crowd again, “Um,” You swallow, your mouth dry as you look to Price, “Well, my mentor thinks I’m feisty?”

“Feisty! I love it!” He looks out to the crowd, “Don’t you just love that?”

The crowd gives a cheer, and Caesar continues, “We love a passionate tribute, don’t we folks?”

You give a small smile at his reassurance, eyes genuinely lightening and shoulders relaxing as he works his magic. You know it’s just for show, but Caesar is skilled at instilling confidence in his guests and putting them at ease.

He crosses his legs, using his cue cards to loosely point in your direction, “Speaking of your mentor, I was actually chatting with him backstage earlier, and he shared with me some very eye-opening things about you.”

You don’t even have the sense to hide your blatant confusion and worry at what he’s going to say next.

“You did? Oh no,” Both Caesar and the audience seem to find this funny, though.

“That’s right!” He says with a knowing, cheeky grin. Caesar leans forward in his chair, and his voice goes serious, as if he’s sharing a secret with you.

“He says that you’re a very bright young lady,”

You let out a breath of relief as Caesar continues,

“-and he also shared with me your nickname.”

You let out a laugh, looking down at your lap.

“Would you tell us about that?”

You nod, an embarrassed smile on your face, “Price calls me Plucky,” Your eyes find Caeser again, who’s listening very intently, “He probably told you it’s because I’m determined, but I think it’s just his way of saying I’m a huge pain in his ass.”

The room explodes into laughter. Caesar’s arm darts out to grab your shoulder while he leans forward, as if you’ve made him nearly fall out of his seat from laughter and he needs you to help him up.

You can’t help the smile that spreads on your face, bunching your cheeks as you smile at the audience you’ve put in stitches. The camera cuts to Price, who gives long, drawn out nod to the camera to confirm your statement.

“Language! Language!” Caesar tuts when he’s caught his breath, but it’s clear he’s not the slightest bit serious, “All of Panem is watching, my dear!”

Your hand comes up to cover your mouth, eyes wide and looking around like you’ve been busted. You’re both still giggling like school children, though.

“It’ll be our secret folks,” He says with a wink, “but it’s certainly a nickname you’ve earned, I see.” He gives you a sly side-eye, and before you can respond he softy hits his cue cards against your arm, “Oh you know I’m just teasing, I’m just teasing.”

“Price isn’t,” You say dryly, and the crowd loses it again.

When they finally lull, Caesar’s shaking his head, pleased, “Very funny! He was right about you being a bright young lady.”

You shrug modestly, “And a pain in the ass.”

He thwaps you with his cue cards again, shaking his head as he joins the chorus of laughter, “You are bad, you are bad!”

You give him a wave of your hand, a cheeky smile on your face, “I hear that a lot, actually.”

“I’m sure!” He gives a quick laugh before his next question, “Do you think your wit will translate well in the arena?”

You think on this a moment, your voice not exactly conveying confidence, “I hope so. Maybe if I make the other tribute’s laugh they’ll be distracted long enough for me to get away.”

The audience responds well to this, another hearty laugh filling the room.

Soft crowd.

He settles the rambunctious crowd with a few gesture with his palms, “Alright, alright we’ve got time for one more question folks.”

He leans close to you, his face serious as he cups both of your sweaty palms in his, “Do you think you’re feisty enough to have what it takes to win this thing?”

You don’t.

You absolutely don’t think you have what it takes to win this thing. You’re not even sure you want to win this thing, let alone have the means to actually do it.

Your stare finds Price, who gives you one more nod, this one nearly indistinguishable.

You find Caesar again, gnawing slightly at your bottom lip. When you speak, your voice is low, serious.

“I do, Caesar.”

He gives the top of your hand a firm pat, “I think so too,” He says, and gives a slow nod.

He stands, guiding you from your seat. He drops one of your hands and lifts the other up for the crowd, “Give it up for District Nine!”

The crowd goes crazy at the second announcement of your name, whooping and hollering and clapping in a thunderous applause that goes on long after you’ve left the stage.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding after you’ve disappeared behind the curtain. You put a palm to your forehead as you laugh in disbelief. Not only that it was finally over with, but it actually went sort of well.

You hear Ruby before you see her, presence announced by a squeal fit to break glass. “That. Was. Amazing!”

She unclips your mic from your dress, “They loved you, dear, they absolutely loved you. You were fantastic!”

“Thank you,” You’re practically heaving breaths of relief, hands shaking out what remains of your nerves, “Thank you.”

Caesar finishes his segue and announces, “We have another very fierce tribute up next, a young man from District Nine, Konig!”

As the audience erupts, your head swivels over your shoulder to get a look at him. He’s shooting you one last nervous glance before he steps off the stage. As Ruby pokes her nose over your shoulder, you find a screen backstage showing the broadcast.

“Woah-ha-ho! You’re even taller in person!” Caesar’s starts with a laugh. He makes Konig stand back to back so the audience can compare their size, which they adore.

Konig gives a polite smile, but he is clearly nervous.

“Haha, alright,” Caesar says when he’s had his fix, prompting them both to settle onto the chairs.

“Tall, handsome guy like you. The girls must throw themselves at you in your district!”

Konig shakes his head, a one-note breathy laugh leaving him, “My district doesn’t care for me much.”

You frown, and you hear the audience give an ‘Awhhh.’

“And why ever not?” Caesar asks with a tightness in his brow, suggesting the very notion is ridiculous.

“They don’t seem to care for my size,” He answers with a shrug.

“Well, it’s a good thing we love that here in the Capitol!” Caesar’s voice gets louder to fight the escalating cheer of the crowd, “A big, strong tribute like him? Isn’t that right? We love it!”

The crowd erupts, and Konig gives a smile, noticeably untensing. Caesar really does try to help the tributes out, he knows how to defuse your anxiety like no other.

“You go out there, you win this thing, and your district will have to change their minds!” The audience clearly agrees, their shrieks overlapping.

Konig gives a humble smile and a coy nod, and Caesar gives him an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

“I think we’re all very eager to talk about this ten you got in training,” Caesar starts as the crowd settles, “A score that high is uncommon for someone in an outlying district. Can you give us some idea of what helped you earn a ten?”

Konig’s arm crosses over his chest to rub out his opposing shoulder, “I guess the gamemakers like a big strong tribute, too.”

Big laugh from the audience, from Caesar as well.

“District Nine seems to have given us a pair of comedians this year!” Caesar says to the audience with a big smile, “C’mon, give us a flex, would you? Let’s see it!”

Konig’s face turns pink, and after a moment he hesitantly obliges, lifting his arms to flex his biceps to the crowd.

He gets more confident as the crowd roars in approval, whooping and blowing kisses in his direction.

You find yourself smiling at the screen, amused huffs of air blowing from your nose.

“Stand up! Stand up!” Caesar hollers.

Konig laughs as he stands, switching up his poses for the crowd. Every time he moves the audiece goes nuts. He’s picking up an air of confidence, arrogance almost.

It’s a good look on him.

“Careful now! Careful now! Wouldn’t want that suit to tear at the seams!” Caesar exclaims.

The crowd roars at the very idea. Konig bows his head to the crowd and graciously takes his seat, but he still carries a proud smile.

“Alright, alright,” Caesar says, swinging one of his legs over the other, “I know you’re much more than a nice hunk of meat.”

This brings on another round of cheering and whistles from the audience, and Konig plasters a genuine, cheesy smile on his face.

He waits for the crowd to settle, “I’ve been meaning to ask you about the opening ceremony.”

You such in a sharp inhale through parted lips, eyes wide as your stare locks on to the screen.

Caesar continues, “I think we were all very touched to see you comforting your fellow tribute.”

Your face immediately drops, and suddenly you’re too aware of your breathing. Your stomach triples in weight, its demanding presence dropping low in your abdomen.

They are talking about you.

“I think that speaks to your character, wouldn’t you say?”

The question, directed at the audience, earns overlapping landslide approval.

“Tell us, is there a teddy bear under that grizzly bear exterior?” Caesar asks him, brow raised, his head tilted slightly to the side, and a cheeky smile plastered on his face.

Konig looks as panicked as you, frozen in his chair and muscles stiff.

“I- Well,” He gives a nervous laugh pointed at his lap, “I do what I can.”

“And you do it well! Were you two friends in the districts?” He asks casually.

Your teeth are grit in unease, fists clenched as you wait for each word. Why is Caesar using Konig’s time to talk about you?

Konig’s palms rest on his knees, his fingers tightening around his dress pants. He stumbles through the start of a few sentences, turning pink.

He seems just as caught off guard as you are.

Did Price not prepare either of you for the interview?

Did Price think that’s what was best for you both or did he just want to drink alone in his room, away from the two brats he’s forced to mentor?!

Did he not even bother to know what questions you were going to be asked?!

Konig doesn’t know what to say. The silence has stretched on far too long, your nails are digging into your palms so tight it’s leaving behind crescent-shaped indents on your skin.

“I’s okay,” Caesar says with a laugh, “Even I get nervous from time to time.”

He gives a shaky nod, “Äh, no, we weren’t. I knew of her, though.”

You blink in rapid succession as you try to make sense of what’s unfolding before you. You can’t help but feel stunned. It’s must be a joke, a prank, a dream, because none of this seems real.

“There’s been buzz in the Capitol about a possible alliance. Are you planning on going at the competition alone, or will we be seeing some teamwork from you?” Caeser says, enunciating carefully.

“Äh,”His eyes linger toward backstage before he returns to Caeser, “It’s up in the air.”

Konig’s fingers are searching for a loose thread to pull, but his suit is brand new and too high in quality to have loose threads.

“I see,” Caesar moving on.

“Do you think you’re ready for this competition?”

You look to your shoes and let out a breath of relief that the subject has passed.

He asks a few more questions about his skill, about his strategy to stay alive.

Konig keeps it surface, with minimal fumbling through his answers, but his cheeks remained noticeably flushed, and unease stitches into each sentence.

The crowd doesn’t seem to notice, showering him with adoration.

You’re less jealous. Maybe because you’re still riding the high of doing well enough on your interview.

Caeser has him give on last parting flex to the crowd before he leaves the stage. The moment he’s off screen his hand finds his head, letting out deep exhales through parted lips.

For a moment his wide eyes find you before they flit down to his dress shoes.

Your hands stop shaking somewhere around District Eleven’s tributes, and you’re all dismissed once Caeser closes out the show.

When the elevator deposits the tributes from District Six, you and Konig are left alone in the elevator.

“What the f*ck was that?!” You ask, more panicked than angry. He knows it’s not directed at him.

“I- I- I don’t even know,” His hands raise, “Price didn’t tell me they were going to ask that.”

He seems just as frantic as you, but his is swirled with nervousness while yours is engulfed with anger.

“He made us look stupid!” You hiss.

“I froze,” He says, using him palm to rub his face, “I looked weak.”

“Wha-“ You cut yourself off, brows furrowing.

Konig is worried about looking weak? He’s the biggest, strongest tribute out of all twenty-four of you. Looking weak should be the least of his concerns.

Does he regret offering you his comfort on the chariot, now that a spotlight has been placed on it?

You don’t ask.

“You didn’t look weak,” You say, low and quiet to the floor.

You can see him tense from the corner of your eye. After a moment his shoulders relax.

“You didn’t look stupid,” He says, matching your cadence.

Your eyes find him, and for a moment you

stare at each other. Caught in this awkward moment as you try to dissect what the other would stand to gain from complimenting an opponent.

The elevator doors parting breaks the stare, and you both make your way into the suite, finding it empty.

You grunt upon the absence of the people who hold the answers you’re looking for.

“Why did they match us?!”

He shrugs when your eyes meet his, palms raised.

You let out another frustrated noise, stepping over to the decanter and helping yourself to a glass.

After the day you’ve had, you’ve earned it.

The metal tray clunks unhappily as you replace the bottle, taking a hearty, painful sip.

Konig hesitantly steps closer, pulling out a chair for himself and sitting at the dining table.

You let out a noise of disgust at the repulsive taste, and then your eyes find Konig. His forearms rest on the table, his fingers stitched together and thumbs circling around each other, watching you intently.

“You want some?” You ask, gesturing the glass in his direction.

He shakes his head, and you go in for another sip. You pace for a while, fuming and dissecting as you nurse your drink.

When the elevator doors open, you don’t hesitate.

“What the hell was that?! What happened to being forgettable?!”

“I could ask you the same thing. You did a little too well, if you ask me,” Price says evenly, unfazed by your outburst.

“Maybe I could have done what you wanted if I’d actually gotten some coaching.”

“It went perfect. You both acted how you needed to,” Price says evenly.

“You call that perfect? Why would Caeser bring attention to me when the whole point was to keep me under the radar?! And why didn’t you tell either of us about it?! We looked stupid!”

“Kid!” Price finally bursts, “I’ve been doing this my whole life, will you just trust me?”

You scoff, “Oh yeah, how many victors have you mentored again? Because last I checked every last tribute you’ve coached is six feet under!”

It is clear immediately that you went too far.

The room draws a collective sharp inhale, the air gone ice cold.

You can see it, the pain he usually hides behind generous amount of whiskey and a a gruff exterior flooding into his eyes.

For a moment he is stunned, his constant squint loosening as he combs through every tribute he’s mentored, all of their faces flashing in front of those sad blue eyes.

He gives a heavy sigh.

His voice is low when he speaks, solemn, pained even, a bit of a crack to it.

“Kid, I did you a favor. If you can’t see that, then, well, I’m sorry.”

Your heart immediately sinks, and you wish you could stuff the words back into your big mouth.

You realize in this moment you have been seeking out a fight. Ever since you got here, all you have wanted to do is let out your anger. To not have your energy matched, to have hurt instead of riled, it wracks you with guilt. It weighs on your shoulders, in your stomach, in the sore ache of your chest.

You pinch your eyes shut, fists clenching at your sides.

“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

You meant the apology, but the words feel foreign in your mouth, having to coax them up with force.

His eyes lower back into his signature squint, and he nods slow.

After a beat, a small, sad smile appears on his face, and he offers a wink.

“It’s okay, Plucky.”

You huff through your nose, a faint smile on your face.

A pain in his ass.

Dinner is stiff and awkward, but the room has relaxed by the time you settle in to watch the interview replay.

You have to block it out, you can’t stand to watch yourself being interviewed. It’s too embarrassing, your body folding in on itself at the sound of your own voice.

You’re relieved when your interview is over, and shortly after Konig is announced.

He seems to be having the same problem you did, unable to watch his own interview, staring at the floor as he slips further into the couch’s cushions.

You find yourself pinching back another smile at Caesar and Konig’s bit at the start.

When Konig is asked about you, your face drops when the shot cuts to you. You hadn’t realized there had been a camera trained on you in that moment.

On screen you can see your genuine stunned reaction, face slack. Your wide eyes glued to the stationary shot of Caeser and Konig, hanging on to every word.

You can feel Price’s stare out of the corner of your eyes, dawning that sly, knowing grin.

The camera cuts back to Konig, his features flustered and stained pink.

The whole interaction, it just feels off. Uncomfortable, awkward, tripping Konig up on tough questions instead of building on his confidence.

“You both did so well!” Ruby chimes as Konig is dismissed from the stage and Caeser introduces the next tribute.

Neither you nor Konig bother to respond, eyes fixated on the screen but not paying it a lick of attention.

You’re still lingering on Konig’s interview. It’s bothering you, like the interview is implying there’s something between you and Konig. His response, his lack of definitive answer, the shocked features, the lack of preparation, the cut to you.

There’s something so slimy about it all, and your stomach can’t seem to digest it.

When Caeser closes out the show, Price switches the TV off and Ruby skips off to check in with the stylists.

“Tomorrow,” Price starts, “They’ll wake you early. We can’t accompany you to the arena, it’ll just be the stylists.”

You almost managed to make it the entire day without thinking about tomorrow. The interview was a huge distraction, but now there is nothing to worry about except for the games.

“Listen closely,” He snaps his fingers, demanding eye contact from you both, “Do not step off your pedestal until the sixty seconds are up. Do not even think about going into the cornucopia. Turn and run, you understand?”

You press your lips together, pinching your eyes shut, trying to block out his words.

You don’t want to think about this.

After a pause, he drops the stern voice, rubbing the back of his neck, “Look, uh, kids. I’ll be with the other mentors. I’ll still be there for you, every step of the way.”

Your stomach twists in knots. You hate this, you hate how Price is dropping his tough guy act, letting his pity pour out and slosh against your shoes.

“I, uh,” He trails off, clearing his throat, “I know you can do this.”

He goes to say more, but the inhale saved for his words gets freed with a heavy sigh.

“Just-“ He cuts himself off, sitting back from his lean and ripping his hands apart. His feet squirm against the rug, clearly uncomfortable, “Be good, kids.”

There’s a million snarky things you think of to say, but you have the sense to hold them back, because it’s not his fault, and he is trying.

You nod, stiff but genuine.

Price stands with a grunt, and points his finger back at you, “I’ll see you tomorrow for breakfast. Go to bed.”

He heads back for his room, but stops without turning his back to either of you.

“Now.”

He’s trying to execute his authority with a stern tone, but his voice breaks on the word. He waits, back still turned to you both, until he hears you and Konig rise from the couch and move to follow his instruction. Price disappears to his room without looking over his shoulder.

Before Konig and you open your respective doors, hands lingering on the doorknobs, you share a worried, unsure look.

You give him a forced, assured nod, and you both part.

Being alone in your room, alone with your own thoughts the night before the games, it’s torture.

It’s swallowing you again - the fear, the anger. The thoughts tearing over one another, a hurricane of anxiety meeting a tornado of anxiety that only strengthen and enable each other.

Mumbling unintelligibly to yourself, trying to deflate the anger, to expel some of the racing thoughts so that they’re not clouding your mind. It’s useless, shoveling out buckets of water from a ship that’s already half submerged.

You pace your room, fists clenched at your sides, fuming to the air. Your hands press to your ears to stop the overwhelming and overlapped trains of thought that barrel at you from any direction.

The tears flow mercilessly and without warning.

Price must be punishing you for your nasty comment by sending you to bed early, because this is unbearable. He had to have known you wouldn’t have been able to sleep tonight regardless.

Long after the tears have stopped, you find yourself sprawled on the bed, the back of your hand supporting your head as you stare at the wall. A knuckle lightly sheened with your spit absentmindedly plays with your lips. You’ve boiled yourself out, exhausted from crying and working yourself into a frenzy.

Numb.

Your eye catches on the line of light shining from underneath your door, interrupted by two evenly sized streaks of darkness.

You instinctively roll your eyes, a movement that makes the space behind your sore eyes ache, waiting for Ruby or Price to call out.

You anticipate the knock, the shout through the thick wood of your door, but it doesn’t come.

The shoes make a light shuffle outside your door, and after the pause goes from awkward to uncomfortable you stand, wiping the spit off on your shirt and stepping towards the door.

When you pull the door open, hand still clasped on the doorknob, it’s not Ruby or Price on the other side.

It’s Konig, half-turned like he was just about to leave without making his presence known. At the sight of you his hands pull up with a slight stumble, clearly startled by you.

You raise your brow at him.

“Ach, I-” He looks to the side, his fingertips rubbing together at his side. He takes a breath, closing his eyes tightly before finding your stare. His mouth is open, primed to say something, but the words won’t come out.

“It’s okay,” You say, giving him permission to relax. Konig doesn’t need to explain himself. It’s the night before the games, and that is the golden excuse for any unusual behavior.

For not wanting to be alone.

You open the door so it’s fully gaped, turning your back to him and crawling into your spot on the bed.

He lingers in the doorway, a slight sway as he watches you.

“You coming in?”

He finally accepts the invitation, stepping a few paces into your room and softly clicking the door shut behind him. He doesn’t dare move closer, standing stiff in his spot a few paces from the door.

The corner of your lip perks up ever so slightly.

“You can sit,” You say, voice both nasally from crying, and somehow still bordering on patronizing. You give a pat toward the other end of the massive bed.

His hand pulls up to his chest again, flicking his gaze between you and the empty space of mattress. It’s the same look he had given you when Price gave him the whiskey on reaping day. As if you were setting a trap for him.

You give him a nod and a roll of your eyes, your ghost of a smirk blooming into a half grin at his coy reservations.

You don’t even feel the bed shift under his weight when he sits down on the Capitol’s extravagant mattress.

You both sit in solemn but comfortable silence, each of you staking your claim on a point in the room to unfocus your eyes, mulling over what tomorrow will look like.

“I wanted to thank you,” He says after a long pause, breaking through the silence with his blurted words to admit the reason for his visit.

“For?” You ask evenly.

“That day,” His eyes quickly shift to the side, “In District Nine.”

You immediately cringe at the memory, “Oh, don’t- I was having a really bad day that day. It was - I’m not usually like that. I can be mean but, not. Not like that.”

“I needed to say that,” He blurts out over top your words, “Before tomorrow.”

Your gaze flicks down to the floor.

He continues, his words coming out smushed together, like one long word, “I think about that everyday. You were the only person back home that ever stood up for me.”

You look to him, face soaked in confusion, almost horrified. He thinks of that memory you’re ashamed of everyday? And he thinks fondly of it?

“I’m sorry,” You say with a dry mouth, “For how they treated you. You didn’t deserve it,”

You pause, swallowing hard as you pick at a loose thread on the pulled back covers, “And I’m sorry for now. You don’t deserve this either.”

“Neither do you,” he says.

Another round of silence before he rubs the back of his neck, clearing his throat, “I also, äh ,”

He pauses for a moment, and you stare at him expectantly.

He gives a shaky laugh, “It’s dumb, sorry.”

“Go on,” You goad with a flick of your hand.

He’s gone pink, features flushed and eyes adverted as he retrieves something from the pocket of his lounge pants and shoves it into your hand.

“A token,” He mumbles, “For your sanity.”

You sit up from your sprawled position on the bed, hand sliding along the sheets as you rise.

He’s purposefully avoiding your gaze, worry plastered on his features as he looks to the covers.

Your brows relax as you inspect his gift. It’s a golden locket, a shiny clasped rectangle, about the size of the nail on your thumb. You rub your thumb over the front as you inspect it. It reminds you of a small, thin book. The metal is slightly warmed from living in Konig’s pocket. Your nails pry open the locket, and inside reveals a dried wheat florette, cut from his opening ceremony suit, curled up and sloppily pressed inside.

For a moment you stare blankly into the locket’s insides, even breaths as you process the gift, the intentions behind it, and the cozy warmth that’s blooming throughout your body.

When you look to him, lips parted in shock and stars in your eyes, he’s shifted his gaze to his fidgeting hands.

“Ruby helped me,” He mumbles, “She let me borrow it.”

You blink at him, looking down to the gift that sits so delicately in your palm.

“This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me,” Your words come out a lot breathier than you intended.

He finally meets your eyes, both of you wearing matching, stunned expressions.

There’s a tense pause before you utter, “Thank you.”

He scans your face and nods, looking away.

You stare down at the golden token in your hands, trying to figure out why. Why Konig would go out of his way to bring you comfort in the arena. Why Konig would give you such an extravagant and thoughtful gift.

This game you’re playing, it’s killing you. Trying to dissect the underlying strategy in every interaction you have. The bittersweet taste of getting the comfort you crave, while knowing you’re being lured further and further into his trap.

You want to accept it. You want to believe everything. You want to take him at face value, because the act he’s playing is uniquely tailored to your needs, and never in your life have you ever needed so badly.

He knows exactly where to apply pressure, rooting for weak spots and pressing generously. He knows where to slice you to get you bleeding freely, to get you to stop resisting the temptation.

“We could stick together,” Konig says, “In the arena.”

Your head shakes, in the same way it did when you heard his voice for the first time. Taken aback and with an almost horrified look on your face.

“What?”

“We could look out for each other,” He says, a little more sure, a little less lost.

This.

This is why.

He thinks he can buy your trust so that he trick you with the promise of allyship, only to stab you in the back the moment you turn around.

“I would just hold you back,” you say carefully.

“No. Not at all.”

“What could you possibly gain from teaming up with me?” You gesture at yourself, top to bottom, clearly referencing the lack of athleticism and survival skills.

“We can keep watch for each other, share supplies. You- you’ve always been smarter than me. Braver than me. You can make the plans, and I can be the muscle.”

“I am not brave! You-“ When he recoils, you realize you’re speaking too aggressively, and cut yourself off with a breath before continuing with a softer volume, “You don’t know anything about me.”

He primes to say something but stops himself.

He lets the moment pass, and after another round of mutual brooding he tries again, his words whispered and unsure, “We could still help each other.”

A faint yet dangerous scoff leaves you.

“You- You understand why I can’t do that, right?” You quirk your brow, looking at him like it’s obvious.

He looks confused, so you continue, one hand moving to emphasizing your words.

“Imagine you’re in my shoes. How could you trust someone so much stronger than you, so much bigger than you? As soon as you decide the truce is up you could snap my spine like a twig. I wouldn’t stand a chance against you.”

His face sinks, his body deflates on itself, and instantly you understand your f*ck up. That you were counting him out for the exact same reason everyone at home did.

Your fist clenches, and you let out a grunt at yourself, “No, Konig, I didn’t mean- It’s just-” You trail off, searching for the right words but coming up empty, another frustrated grunt leaving you instead.

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” He says, in his harsh voice that’s spread thin and quiet, as fragile as glass.

“Okay, try this,” You start over with a hard blink, repositioning yourself so you’re facing him with your legs crossed in front of you, “What’s the best case scenario, Konig? We manage to protect each other until the end - until it’s just us? And then what?”

He stays silent, shoulders slumped and gaze finding the stretch of mattress that sits between you.

You press forward, “Have you ever thought about what happens? After the win?”

He doesn’t say anything, but he looks at you with pessimistic expectance.

“The guilt? The memories of gruesome death? Knowing twenty-three have sacrificed themselves so that you could live?”

You sigh again, your voice dropping to a sharp, cold whisper.

“The best case scenario would be for me to die in that bloodbath. Quick and done.”

His muscles tense at your words that fill the room with a chill, but he remains silent.

There’s another long pause, and then you whisper again, your voice devoid of its edge.

“I don’t think I can do it,” You swallow, looking up from the inch of bed you had fixated on, “Kill someone, I mean. I don’t think I’d be able to live with it.”

“Hopefully you won’t have to.”

“Yeah,” You say, breathier than you intended.

You don’t push back. You don’t remind him that no one wins the games without killing. That refraining from killing ensures your death.

“I could do it for you,” He offers, another bid to get you to be his ally.

You shake your head slowly, eyes weakly half-lidded. Your voice drops to a strained whisper, “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t push, just gives a disappointed nod towards the sheets. You hope that means he understands. Understands that teaming up with someone so powerful is a risk a weakling couldn’t afford. Understands that being allies is an agreement that can only ever be temporary.

There’s another long pause. Your thoughts feel so loud you’re sure Konig could hear them.

“Should I go?” He asks, voice low and broken.

“No,” You say, too quickly.

That ‘No’ is heavy with the weight of many things unsaid.

Please don’t leave me.

I can’t be alone right now.

I am terrified, I am lost, and I am going to die.

I need someone by my side tonight.

Someone just as unsure and just as lost.

He rubs the pads of his fingers together.

You look to him, eyes swelled in a pathetic, desperate plea.

“Would you stay here tonight?”

His brows raise, a sharp inhale as his posture straightens out. He looks surprised, as if that was the last thing he expected to hear from you.

“Of course.”

You wonder if his words are held down by the weight of things unsaid, too.

You slowly lay back down on your side, letting your head rest on the pillow this time.

Konig very gently lays himself down in your wake. He keeps himself right up to the edge of the bed, leaving as much space between you two as possible. He nestles into a pillow, lying with his back flush to the mattress, hands folded over his waist.

You’re not sure how long you lay like that for. Hours maybe, Konig staring up at the ceiling while you switch between the wall on the other side of Konig and the back of your eyelids.

“Do you think you could kill someone? And live with it?” You ask softly.

He thinks on this a moment, “I’m not sure about living with it, but I would kill if I need to.”

You don’t see the point in telling him he will need to. You’re sure he knows.

“You could win,” You whisper into your pillow.

He doesn’t say anything. Just shakes his head.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s Konig’s broken eyes, maybe it’s the imminent death - but you find your arm dragging across silk, fingers inching over the sheets and towards Konig. Your eyes flutter shut again, and after a long painful pause, a large hand tentatively cups yours.

A spark ignites at your finger tips and shoots up your arm at once, a dizzy heat blooming in your chest and making its way to your cheeks. You don’t dare open your eyes, hoping Konig is oblivious to the warmth.

You’re both still, neither of you daring to move in fear of scaring the other away.

His hand is so warm, his palms and fingers fully encompassing yours. It makes you feel dainty, his hands being nearly twice the size. You don’t pull away when you start to reflect each other’s body heat, a thin layer of sweat forming on laced fingers and palms.

It‘s like he’s grounding you, that if he were to let go you might float away or slip into a dark oblivion.

When you finally dare to open your eyes, you see Konig’s staring up at the ceiling with blown eyes. You lift your head a couple inches from the pillow and give his hand a light, reassuring squeeze.

Konig tilts his head to you, meeting your gaze as his cheek nestles into his pillow. He looks nervous, more nervous than usual on this night before the games. You’re sure it read on your face, too.

He squeezes back, and even though his strength is unmatched you can tell he’s trying to be as gentle as he can.

Your eyes flutter shut again, a ghost of smile on your face.

It’s a dizzy warmth. Cozy, but also electric? Exciting but relaxing.

It’s weird, how a simple gesture can feel so contradicting, so extreme.

Maybe it’s because you’re chasing the feeling, or maybe because it’s the night before the games, or maybe it’s because you‘re already in too deep, but without thinking, you slowly pull your intertwined hands closer to you, and give the slightest tug on his arm.

You hear him suck in a taught breath.

He hesitates, and you’re worried you’ve pushed it too far. That you’ve hit the boundary of the level of comfort he was willing to offer, and he was going to withdrawal it entirely.

You don’t dare open your eyes, you can’t bear to see his expression.

And then he inches closer. His hand squeezing yours a little tighter as he scoots across the mattress, arm tensing as he slowly makes his way to you.

He stops when there’s only six inches of mattress between you.

The silence in this room is loud, the only thing cutting through is uneasy breaths, the rise and fall of chests on otherwise still bodies.

Minutes pass and you work up the courage to slink closer, resting your head on a strong shoulder. He sucks in another shallow breath but doesn’t object. If he gives you a look, you can’t see it through shut eyes.

Your mouth goes dry, nervous about being so close to a boy like this. His body is radiating an intoxicating heat, you can smell his scent, the remnant of his shower, the laundry detergent used to clean his shirt.

Your head nuzzles into his shoulder, finding a comfortable groove in hard muscles to lay your cheek. Your nose presses right against him, inhaling his scent with each breath. It’s rousing and soothing all in the same, a wave of drowsy euphoria washing over you.

When his shoulder flexes and shifts underneath you and his fingers slip away from yours, you spring up, instantly sobering. Your eyes immediately search Konig’s expression, worried you’ve sufficiently made him uncomfortable.

His face stays even, only a slight plead in his brows as his arm raises and presses against the pillows, inviting you to nuzzle into his side.

You hesitantly accept, closing what little gap remained between you, carefully resting your head on his chest. You don’t put weight on him right away, worried he might pull back and tell you you’ve misunderstood his gesture.

When he doesn’t, you let yourself melt into him, let his breaths gently rock you. You can hear his heartbeat under your ear, rapid with nerves this night before the games.

The rest of your body followings shortly after, shifting closer to him and curling up into his side.

When he accepts this, and enough time has passed, a limp, closed fist moves from the tangle of your own limbs, resting on his side. It follows the billows of his ribcage on each breath.

You’re pushing it, you know that, but your arm still snakes over his torso, tentatively resting a forearm on his clothed sculpted waist.

You gnaw on your bottom lip, waiting for him to scoot away to the other side of the bed. After a careful pause he responds by reintertwining his fingers with yours.

His arm brushes against the height of your shoulder before you feel the ghost of fingers, and then a light hand tentatively resting on the middle of your back.

A hour must have passed, from the initial handholding to now, each of you half taking turns deepening the embrace, pressed your bodies closer and closer together.

Long after your eyes have fluttered shut and breathing evened, the hand on your back slowly trails upwards, between your shoulder blades, the pads of his fingers just barely grazing you over your shirt. It sends electricity up your spine and raises goosebumps on your arms, and you have to suppress a shiver.

He traces light, mesmerizing imperfect circles over the back of your shirt, and you can’t help the content hum that leaves you.

Konig’s scent, his heartbeat, his steady breathing, his gentle touches, it all lulls you into the purgatory between sleep and wake, disconnected from the world but still aware enough to feel him slink his fingers higher, soft touches getting lost in your hair. Combing through the locks, letting strands slide through the gaps in his fingers and sending tingles up your scalp.

You’re already in over your head. Might as well squeeze him for all the comfort he’s worth tonight.

Because tomorrow, all bets are off.