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current series: No Evil Angel But Love | Victor!Treech x fem!Reader

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marauders headcanons masterlist - In which yours truly posits about the lives of everyone's favorite Hogwarts students.

the yellow pages masterlist - In which Peter Parker seeks out his MJ and nothing goes according to plan. (23k words - updating slowly)

lockwood & co masterlist - In which yours truly vents her admiration for a certain group of ghost hunters.

no evil angel but love masterlist - In which Treech and Y/N discover that to be a victor is to be cursed. (57.8k words - in limbo)

[bumblebugwrites]

chapter 8: abbey

Pairing: Victor!Treech x fem!Reader

Summary: When Hilarius requests to meet with you, you find yourself forced to make what might be the biggest decision of your life.

Warnings: Cursing, Suggestive Themes, Alcohol Consumption (All Characters 21+), Implied Prostitution (Canon Compliant Circumstances).

Word Count: 7.8k

Taglist: @nekee-lilac02, @mr-panda357, @yourfavmiki, @blackoutdays13, @dialuvsbangtan, @emgunther, @qirsupply, @melllll11111, @treechlvr

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A/N: Chat, we are so back (we are only a little bit back). Almost a year later, and I have risen from the dead to post another chapter. Obviously, the initial plan for this fic was to be finished with it many, many moons ago, but here we are, almost two years later, and, at this point, I very well might be yelling out into the void. For me, part of this fic has become about my determination to finish this fic, even if it's just to prove to myself that I can. I've had an outline for where this story was going from the beginning, so at some point, I just have to nut up and tell it. Before the Sunrise on the Reaping release, my plan was to have NEABL finished around the time the book came out. That time has clearly come and gone. Now, I am hoping to AT LEAST have it finished before the movie premiere. My goal is to hit one chapter a month, but who knows? Just thought I owed you guys an update. If you're still out there, thanks for sticking with me, and I hope this new chapter lives up to your expectations. :)

“I don’t understand.” Your mind is racing as Hilarius levels you with a cool stare once more. So the pattern has gone since your arrival: a near-constant ebb and flow of information and confusion.

“We believe District 13 is alive and well.” And though his first words are slow and careful, doing their best to impress the same intelligence as before upon your unreceiving person, the explanation that follows feels like a blur.

“Think about it: a District with singular control of nuclear weaponry, responsible for spearheading a rebellion– that succumbs to one round of bombs? No. There had to have been a plan in place. Some sort of failsafe.” The pads of your fingers press themselves deeper into the sides of the simple tin cup before you, the heat nearly unbearable. You force yourself to concentrate on the pain rather than the uneasy feeling in your stomach. A trick. This has to be some sort of trick. A cruel joke concocted by Snow and his Gamemakers to goad you into a misstep so large that killing you would be the only reasonable course of action. Your eyes, harsh and unblinking, flicker with the mistrust pooling in your gut. Hilarius only sighs. 

“You don’t believe me.” His tone is resigned as he shifts, turning to shuffle through his bag for something.

“I–” You open your mouth to disagree, but the words die in your throat.

“It wasn’t a question. Here.” The object he pulls from the depths of his satchel is larger than you had expected, but you recognize it immediately from your time in the Capitol. They were a more recent development; these nearly pocket-sized projectors, and you swallow hard as Hilarius powers it up, inserting a small rectangular object into the side before pressing play. The video is grainy at first, and the man in front of you takes a moment to fiddle with the dials, bringing the picture into focus. Your stomach drops. 

The place, you know, immediately, having left just this morning after pressing a swift kiss to your mother’s temple. You recognize the ornate, Capitol-made carpets and the open door to your own bedroom. It is the people who take a moment to register—one glorious moment before the punch lands. Your eyes begin to water as the version of you in the video pulls Treech forward. As your lips meet in a kiss. 

“What is this?”

“A show of goodwill.” You laugh, harsh and brittle, at the response, shoulders stiff, blinking back tears.

“This is the only copy,” Hilarius presses on. “It's all here. The whole Victory Tour, every moment you spent together.” He wrenches the key bearing the recordings from the player, and the projection dies in a flash. Then, he does the unthinkable. He marches his way over to the sink and drops it into the garbage disposal, flipping on the switch to grind it to pieces. Your mouth falls open in shock. Still, your thoughts race with the possibility that this is all some sort of ploy. 

“How do I know that’s the only one?”

“I suppose– I suppose you don’t, for sure.” He clears his throat then, and his eyes meet yours with an earnesty so jarring you almost feel the need to look away. “I suppose you’ll just have to trust me.”

“But why– Why do you care?” This time, the questions are quick to bubble up, to overtake you. Hilarius eyes you warily before seeming to steady himself to respond.

“I was a mentor, in the 10th Games. Did you know that?” The question is quick to pass his lips, though he does not wait for a response. “The little girl from 8, she was my tribute. She was fifteen, but God, she couldn’t have looked older than twelve.” Your mind reaches out for a memory, nearly forgotten– A small child, a tank of snakes– You swallow hard.

“She would have been five when the rebels attacked, too young to even understand what was going on. It made me sick, watching her in those Games. Made me sick to watch the Games at all. And then, this year, my husband and I– We decided to adopt.” He stops to chuckle, a soft, natural sound. “I have a son, I’m not sure you knew that either. Plutarch. And every time I look at him, all I can think of is her. Wovey. Of how she deserved better. I want a better world for him. Just like I should have wanted a better world for her.”

The silence is deafening between the pair of you, echoing out through the near-empty house.

“Why–”

“I just told you–” Hilarius huffs, patience clearly reaching its upper limit.

“No. I heard.” You snap, though regret is quick to follow the lash of your words as all traces of vulnerability evacuate his face. “Why me?” Your mind flits back to Hilarius’s initial proposal: We need you, the Victors.

“Why us? The Districts, they basically hate us now. You made sure of that: forcing the same faces to show up every year and cart away two kids who never come home. And it’s not like things are much better in the Capitol. Sure, they’re warming up, but there isn’t a single place we can go without being recognized, so why–” Your mind is going a million miles an hour as you try to fathom Hilarius’s seemingly baseless decision.

“That’s actually exactly what I’m hoping for.” He smiles a sly sort of grin.

“What?”

“Look, you don’t need to worry about contacts in the Districts. I have those covered. And I would have to be an idiot to assume you’d be of any use sneaking around with all the eyes on you in the Capitol. No. I want–” He starts, but the dots have already been connected.

“You want a distraction.” He smiles, and though there is a touch of sadness to it, there is something else as well. Pride. 

“Exactly. When the time comes for us to carry out this plan, I need something the Capitol can’t look away from. Something so distracting that they forget everything else.”

“You need a show, and we’ve been performing since the day we won the Games.” And now you are smiling too, eyes wide like some sort of loon.

“I knew I picked you for a reason. So what do you say?”

You are silent for a moment, the weight of the risk settling itself around your neck like an open hand. But then you think of Treech. Of Fawn and Lennox and your mother. Of your father’s corpse laid to rest under the Capitol’s watchful eye. You think of Teff. Of his daughter. Of every tribute to take the stage in the town square. Of the first two who had died under your watch. Bee’s hair falling like water out of your careful plait. Colt’s empty eyes.

“I’ll do it.”

There were six Victors on board then, though you wouldn’t know it until almost a year later upon your first meeting in the Capitol. Still, life plodded unforgivingly forward, and though every day brought gratitude for the continued absence of the ‘Gem of Panem’s’ limelight shining down upon your personal life, it also brought a growing curiosity. What kind of connections did Hilarius really have in the other Districts? How do you develop a plan for rebellion without a singular space free from observance? And most important, who else knew? It was that question, more so than any other, that clawed at your mind and caught you scrawling undelivered questions into the corners of your brain. Who exactly would you be working with? Teff? Trawl? Treech? You absently hoped so, aware of the danger but hopeful the burden might be lighter if it was shared.

It is April when you speak to Hilarius again, and this time, he comes to you. It is one of those days when the sky is clear, and the weather not so unbearable when he appears at a distance as you sit, back to a nearby tree, watching Bluebell graze not too far off. Your sketchbook is open, flattened across your lap as you pencil in a lazy outline of the horse, following the movement of her muscles. You barely lift your head in greeting at his approach.

“You here to call me back to the Capitol?” Your tone is light, though it is brimming with caution. Hilarius doesn’t reply, and his silence reeks of truth. When you lift your eyes to meet his, he only nods.

“Fuck. How long have I got?”

“About an hour. I’m here to collect you so you can get your things together and say your goodbyes. Train leaves at 2:00 pm.” Say your goodbyes. Stays in the Capitol were always temporary, still the invitations never came with the promise of returning home. You swallow the thick bile in your throat, mind traveling back to Hector. To his anger. To his lifeless body on a stretcher. You snap your sketchbook closed. 

“You bring a horse?” You question, and Hilarius grimaces distastefully at Bluebell.

“I don’t ride.” You snort at his unserious expression, lip pulled back in disgust.

“I could show you how–”

“I know how. I choose not to.” His tone carries a finality to it that you choose to respect, though not without casting a teasing smirk in his direction.

“You go ahead of me, I’ll catch up,” he promises, watching as you hike a steady foot into the stirrup before swinging the rest of your body atop Bluebell’s back.

“Whatever you say,” you chuckle, giving him a mocking tip of your hat as you pass by. A smile lights his face then, earnest and wide, and you feel accomplished in the dismissal of his cold exterior as you take off for the barn, heels digging into Bluebell’s sides. 

Riding to you has always felt like the closest human experience to taking flight, the wind peeling its way across your face, pinching at every inch of exposed skin. The first time your mother had ever watched you ride, she’d nearly forbid you from ever taking to the saddle again, legs tight around the horse’s belly, arms out like an angel. The men on the ranch called you crazy, but with that dull look of recognition in their eyes, like they were watching a ghost.

“Crazy like your father,” someone had finally admitted to you in passing, and the pride from the sentiment nearly punched a hole through your chest. But you’d never felt crazy, fingers spread wide with the air coursing through them. You’d simply felt free. 

You arrive at the train five minutes before its scheduled departure time, with Hilarius presumably having disappeared into another car. Still, you do not find it lacking in company, and in spite of the looming knowledge of your destination, you cannot suppress a smile as Teff turns to face you. 

“Well, if I’d known you were gonna be here, I wouldn’t have taken my time.” You are practically beaming when he stands to pull you into a warm embrace. Behind him, you note Reed, sending you a quick wave in greeting. You nod back. 

“Any idea what this is about?” Teff asks as he pulls away. You only shrug.

“The usual, probably, take us out of our boxes and show us off. Make sure nobody ever forgets about the Hunger Games,” you mutter bitterly before twisting your grimace into a smile. 

“How’s Seeder?” Teff is glowing with pride as he recounts his daughter’s latest misadventures, the girl teetering on the edge of her terrible twos. And for a moment, that’s all that matters: his soft smile, his beautiful daughter. For a moment, you indulge. And then the train lurches forward.

You nearly jump out of your skin when Lux boards the train, making a beeline for the place beside yours. Still, you allow her to wedge herself between you and Teff, stifling a laugh at the quick pat she delivers to his knee and the awkward look of surprise she leaves in her wake. 

“What the–”

“So?” Her question is pointed at you, eyes brimming with open curiosity.

“So what?” Her tone is lively, teasing even, and your shoulders tense at the seeming change in her demeanor. But she looks relaxed, at ease almost, as though she knows something you do not. 

“Please, don’t be coy; it’s not a good look. Even on me.” To her other side, Teff makes no effort to hide his prying gaze, which flits between the two of you in an easy pattern.

“Coy? I–” 

“Hello? The Victory Tour? Don’t think we all missed out on the fact that a certain somebody had to pay a visit to 10,” she chirps, a jovial sort of mischief practically pouring from her smile.

“Lux–” You hiss, suddenly conscious of every movement on board, slight or otherwise. Several seats away, Octavian shifts in his chair, smirking quietly at something Antonia has just said. Beau hisses in discontent as a drop of condensation from the drink he’d poured upon arrival hits the leg of his pants. Reed’s head doesn’t so much as lift at her comment, but Teff watches, his dark gaze calculating. You wonder what he’s thinking. Your chest feels so heavy.

“Seriously, were you dropped on your head as a child? What happened?” Suddenly, it’s all too much, and your fists open and close around nothing. Treech would know what to say, how to smile just right, and skirt around the truth; you only babble awkwardly.

“What ha– How do you–” You sound like an idiot. 

“Please, the two of you shared a room for years. You didn’t seriously think none of us would notice, right?” You swallow hard. She has a point. You only wish you were better at this. The game everyone except you seems to know how to play just right.

“Nothing– Happened,” you choke out, awkward and stilted. Just over Lux’s head, Teff scowls in disbelief. You want to give in, to confess. It would certainly be easier that way, for the time being at least. But Lux remains a mystery to you, and Teff, with all his sympathy, knew Treech was a mistake the first time around.

“It was awkward. Maple was nice.” So you feign bitterness, forcing your brows together in an ugly grimace, and you pray Treech will do the same, though the thought of his open scorn, blistering and harsh as it had been all those years, sends a shiver down your spine. Lux only groans in response before flipping her head in a vicious circle to observe you dead on, hair batting Teff in the face. 

“Have– Did Heavensbee come to check in on you?” Teff stiffens immediately, abandoning his futile attempts to pull her perfect blond tresses from the spots where they are stuck to his lips.

“Lux–” His tone is a warning of its own.

“What? I don’t see any cameras, and even if there are, it’s not like–”

“You’re being too bold.” Teff chastizes, and the remark seems to cut her down like a blade, all the ease she came on board with draining from her face, leaving the hardened exterior you’d grown accustomed to in your years of being acquainted. 

When she drifts off with a drink pressed between her fingers, she almost looks like a ghost, but it does not prevent the moment from playing over and over in your mind. Does not eradicate the sadness that pools in your gut at what you now know she has lost. A girl, curious and excitable, buried beneath a cool facade. You wonder how often she mourns the person she was. The train jolts, coming to a halt, and a woman’s voice, clear and crisp, announces your arrival in District 4. Mags boards first, with Trawl trailing just behind and you note the way his eyes linger on Beau before he makes his way over to you. You do your best to shake the look, to shake the recognition that passes through you like a wave, drilling yourself with a wordless reminder to keep your own face in check when Treech steps foot in the compartment. To be cordial and stiff. Unbothered with a tinge of resentment. To make the Capitol believe in the existence of nothing at all between the two of you.

Your indifference is mediocre at best and certainly not helped by the fact that you nearly choke on your drink the moment he fixes his gaze on you. He only looks away, practiced in playing the part, but his hand comes up to scratch at the back of his neck, and you know it's just for show, the tell-tale habit exposing his nerves. He makes the rounds, and you watch carefully from your place at the bar, gaze honing in on the easy smile he plasters across his face as he shakes hands and offers embraces. By the time he reaches you, you’ve already downed the glass of posca you were working on upon his entrance and are making quick work of a second. 

Treech speaks to Teff first, questioning Seeder’s well-being just as you had, before pulling Trawl into a half-hearted hug. And suddenly, there he is, standing in front of you.

“It’s good to see you.” His voice is stiff, eyes dark and unblinking. You couldn’t read a thing off his face if you tried. He stretches out his hand, and you eye it cautiously before placing your drink down on the bar to slide your palm into his. You almost wish you could look away, his cordial mask making your skin crawl, but then he squeezes your hand, a movement so slight you barely notice, and you relax into the touch, shoulders dropping as your face morphs to mirror his. 

“Wish I could say the same.” You squeeze back, and if you weren’t watching so intently, you might have missed the slight pull of his lips upward– The look of amusement pooling at the corners of his eyes. Beside you, Teff disguises the beginnings of a laugh with a cough, loud and resonant. Trawl only smirks. But none of it matters. The rest of the world has fallen away because Treech is still holding your hand. 

When he does finally release you, having kept you in his grasp just a moment too long, he is hasty in his departure, spinning on his heel to find a seat towards the front beside Maple. 

“I see things have gotten more tense?” Trawl teases as you shrink back into your seat.

“You have no idea.”

Press tours, as Hilarius calls them, are always the same– surprisingly apparent in their lack of actual press. Instead, the greater part of these visits to the Capitol are occupied by networking, another word Hilarius likes to apply. Late nights spent sucking in the muddled air of some club or other, sticky with sweat and alcohol, and praying for an escape. 

“Tigris.” The greeting sounds more like a sigh of relief passing your lips, and you sink back down into your chair, having started with anticipation at the sound of the door opening. She gives you a nod, eyes soft and sweet, before stepping to the side to allow Leto to enter with a rack of clothing. 

“They’re all so–”

“Short? I know. Look, they’ve been killing me with these requirements, but trust me, not a single one is under the length they’ve called for. Also, I’ve made some adjustments– Things like tulle and ruffles don’t actually count, so we’ve even managed to push the boundary a little.” Tigris gives you a meaningful look, and even Leto seems to pity your situation, having grown more gentle over the years. 

“Thank you.” And you are thankful, really, the gratitude shining from the wrinkled corners of your eyes. 

“What have you got for me?” Your nails drum listlessly against the side of the coffee cup firm in your grasp. Nights like this always go late, and though sleep has long since become a luxury you can never quite afford, it never hurts to be safe.

“Well, Fabricia–”

“Please, you know I’m not interested in that crap. What have you got for me?” Tigris stifles a smile, though you can feel the excitement radiating from her figure as she selects several pieces from the rack. It was always impossible to be too upset in one of her designs. 

“This one’s my favorite.” She flips the hanger, the dress splaying itself across her forearm, and you can’t help the grin that spreads slowly across your features. 

“It’s gorgeous.” The top is corseted, with several thick bones running through the fabric and a delicate piece of ribbon lacing it together. The bottom, though, is what draws your eye. In spite of its length, the silhouette of the saloon-style skirt is obvious. Your mind draws forth a memory, frayed around the edges, of your mother’s wedding dress, wrapped in butcher paper and stowed safely in a box beneath her bed. Of Fawn, nearly six, traipsing around in a pair of too-big boots, the fabric slumping off her shoulders and spilling onto the floor. It looks like home. 

“I know we usually try to avoid the whole cowgirl thing, and let me be very clear, this is by no means an open invitation to wear your workboots, but–”

“Tigris, I love it. Thank you.” 

There is something uncomfortable about the fit of the suit Titania has selected, and Treech wonders distantly if she meant for it to choke him as his hand comes up to tug at the collar. A collar, you know, like a dog? Your words from years before echo in his head, taunting him. The button-up feels stifling, and his fingers reach for his throat, itching his chin instead in some odd, avoidant pattern. He considers undoing the first few buttons. Considers granting himself some air. But in the same way, the shirt is a prison, it acts as a shield. He is no stranger to the lingering eyes of the Capitol– To the way they stick to any piece of exposed skin, hungry for more. Treech swallows hard, irritated by the mere thought. There is a knock at the door. 

“Just a second.” Absently, he thinks it must be time to go, taking caution to fidget once more with his shirt before turning to leave. The person on the other side does not wait, however, and he is nearly knocked over by its swinging open. 

“Titania, what the hell–” The words die in his mouth at the appearance of Coriolanus Snow, armed with his characteristic cold demeanor. “You.”

There is an accusation in the word, simply uttered, and if Snow were made of the same skin and bone as his fellow man, perhaps the sentiment would have struck a chord. Still, he smiles all the same, the wolfish expression wiping the humanity from his features, and Treech resists the urge to shudder. 

“Sorry to disappoint,” Snow chuckles, malice seeping from his tone. “It’s been a while, no?”

“Never long enough,” Treech speaks through gritted teeth, fists curling into two identical balls at his sides. Distantly, he recalls a night many years ago. One where Coriolanus Snow had found his way into the arena. He wonders how it would have felt to kill him then. Coral had come close, that much he knew. Still, he considers how it would have felt to sink his axe into Coriolanus Snow’s skull. Would he have smiled? Would he have watched his blood spill out onto the arena’s marble floor with a grin? He had taken no joy in the deaths of his fellow tributes, but some darker part of Treech tells him he would have watched Snow die with a sneer, wretched and angry, stretched across his face. Men like Coriolanus Snow didn’t tend to learn any other way.

“What do you want?” Men like Coriolanus Snow also didn’t tend to show up without demands. 

“I have a proposition of sorts.” Snow replies, his voice level and unemotional. He takes several steps across the small room, placing himself before the vanity pressed against the back wall. His fingers, long and delicate, reach out to trace a photograph, one Treech had meant to stuff in his pocket, to keep a secret. His sisters and his mother peer out from the image, seeming jostled in their attempts to crowd the frame. Treech remembers the moment with ease, himself behind the camera, his family in a fit of laughter. The corners are worn down, but the love is there. The love will always be there.

“Cute,” Snow chuckles, and it is harsh like the winters back home in 7. As he draws his hand back, Treech resists the urge to grimace at the soft flesh. In the Districts, an unscarred hand, one free of callouses and rough skin, would be seen as a sign of weakness; here, however, he knew it to be a point of pride. Pathetic. That’s what his father would have said. And yet here he was, back to the wall, rooted to the same spot he’d been in when the other man had entered.

“As you well know, we’ve been cultivating the Capitol’s taste for people like you for quite some time now.” People like you. Treech wants to scream. Wants desperately to become the animal Snow thinks he is. Instead, he does nothing. 

“And for the most part, our efforts have been a success. Recently, however, we’ve been encountering a new need. The people of Capitol desire your company. Private company.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Treech’s voice feels dangerously low, even to himself. 

“What do you think it means?” And really, he never needed it spelled out for him. The answer was there, lingering in the open space between them, hot and oppressive. He feels silly for ever thinking a couple extra buttons could protect him, but more than that, he feels like throwing up.

“You can’t seriously expect me to–”

“There would be benefits, of course, should you choose to comply. And, though I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this, consequences should you choose to become a thorn in my side.” Snow’s gaze lingers on the picture beside his fingers as they drum an eerie pattern. 

“Fuck you.”

“Either way, I’m certain you will eventually come to the right conclusion. Perhaps I could even stop others from sharing your same fate.” The implication is clear. He is talking about you. “Influence and power aren’t really so distant from one another. Try to see this as a positive.” Snow glances at the photo once more before turning to face Treech, the corners of his lips curling into the beginnings of a smile. 

“Oh, and don’t let this nasty business ruin your night. I’m sure you have plenty of fun ahead of you.” And with that, he is gone, and Treech is alone, resisting the urge to curl in on himself, to shed the tears brimming at the corners of his eyes. He wants to go home, but not to the Victor’s Village. He wants to return to a place where his father slept. Wants to hear the echos of his sisters’ laughter from another room. He wishes briefly he were still young enough to crawl into bed with his parents, wishes he could stay there forever. But it’s just a fantasy, and on the other side of the door, he can hear someone calling his name. Telling him it’s time to go. It’s time to go. It’s time to go.

The club is packed by the time you arrive, ushered in with the other Victors from your car. As you sweep through the entrance, you crane your neck in an attempt to catch sight of Treech, but he is nowhere to be seen. A tug at your elbow, however, informs you that you have company, and you square your shoulders, pasting the semblance of a smile to your lips before spinning on your heel. It is only Lux, and the relief that passes through you is visible in the way your frame shrinks, sinking back down into its natural state. 

“I need a drink.”

“Way ahead of you.” She tilts her head in the direction of the hand not laced around your arm, indicating a glass full of something you can’t quite identify. “C’mon, bar’s this way.” There’s nothing rough about the manner in which she pulls you through the throngs of people, her grip more of a guiding force than anything else, and you realize it is not often people handle you with this sort of care. When she finally releases you, you barely register the loss of her touch, its gentle pressure seeming almost to ebb away as the pads of her fingers lift. Behind the bar, a man barely disguises his grimace at your appearance, and you try to brush off the piercing look of recognition in his eyes as he grits his teeth.

“You got any white liquor?” He huffs out a laugh, presumably at the expense of your cheap taste, but moves for the shelf behind him nonetheless. 

“Neat. Please.” You manage, flashing a glance at your shoes, flimsy little things with straps winding up your calves. Your face is flushed with the embarrassment of it all when he finally sets the glass before you, and with little forethought, you lift the cup to your mouth, downing the liquid in a single, desperate go. Unlike the stuff you would snag back home, it travels down your throat with surprising ease, pooling in your gut with a biting warmth. 

“I’ll take another when you get a chance.” Beside you, Lux leans back against the bar, snorting softly into her own drink. 

“And I thought I needed this,” she jokes, her hair gathering in a pile on the smooth marble surface as she tilts her head back. 

“I don’t really get out much back home.”

“Frankly, I’d be shocked if anyone got out at all in that honky tonk town of yours.” She smirks playfully, and you know there's little venom behind the jab, but you choose to bite anyway.

“Excuse you, we happen to have a world-class dance hall–”

“I’m gonna stop you right there– There is no world in which you stomping around in some dilapidated building counts as getting out.” You’re laughing now, a rare endeavor, but you can’t help the way it bursts from your lips at her quick retort.

“It’s not– You can ask around– Really, it's more of a barn than a dilapidated–”

“And is there a bar in this oversized shack of yours, or just the stench of desperation and a dirt floor?” She quirks her head at this, goading you.

“I’ll have you know we laid a brick floor just last year–” Behind you comes the clink of your second glass of white liquor hitting the bar. Lux juts her chin in the direction of your cup, her lips curling into the beginnings of a smile. 

“Alright, cowgirl, I’ll take your word for it. Now, how about you finish that and I show you what a real dance floor looks like?” And it feels good, being friends with Lux. Like in some distant universe, you could have been nothing more than two girls in a bar, excited for a night on the town. As the second drink hits your tongue, you play at resisting, groaning in faux annoyance at the fingers that lace between yours, pulling you towards the floor, but really, it's a relief. At the bar, you’re a sitting duck, incapable of blending in and waiting to be approached. At least out on the dance floor, you’re a moving target. 

At first, there’s a heaviness to your motions, unaccustomed to moving so erratically, but slowly, you feel yourself loosen up. Before you, Lux appears almost entirely at peace, her body wrapped up in a gentle swaying movement, eyes shut. You fight a smile, dipping your head back and allowing the music to flood your senses. Time seems to slow, nearly grinding to a halt while simultaneously flying at an unprecedented pace. When you open your eyes once more, you’re unsure if it’s been minutes or hours, but suddenly, the room feels stifling and you’re drenched with sweat. Still locked in her own trance, Lux appears entirely unbothered as you jerk your head around, looking– no, searching for something. Someone. Treech. 

Several sweeps of the room reveal he is not on the dance floor or seated at the bar, so, squeezing Lux’s shoulder in warning, you begin pushing your way back through the crowd. You spot him the moment you break through the swarm of bodies, his gaze already fixed on you, an unreadable expression tugging at his features. He’s settled into a booth, arms splayed out across the back of the seat, and a woman on each side. The girl to his left tugs at the fabric of his shirt, her pointed nails like claws as she fumbles the top button, freeing it from its hold. Her eyes are heavy with a sharp sort of hunger, and for a moment, some irrational part of you fears she will unhinge her jaw and swallow him whole, licking him clean of muscle and flesh until he is nothing more than a pile of bones. She only leans in, appearing to inhale his scent deeply before pressing her mouth to his ear, words you cannot distinguish from afar passing her lips. His eyes never leave you, welling with some odd mixture of pleading and regret. And guilt. The guilt is what overwhelms you, the sentiment coming off of him in waves. It feels like a shot to the chest. 

And really, you knew it would be like this– That this is the way it has to be, but the sting it leaves is raw and biting as it burrows deep within your skin, and you feel the sudden urge to throw up. To curl up and sob and stomp your feet and scream and tug at your hair with the same ferocity you had as a child, incapable of stifling your own pain. You shake your head in a feeble attempt to make the image go away, eyes slamming shut, and your nose scrunching with the effort of it all. Nothing changes, so you school your features into the meanest grimace you can muster, forcing its weight upon him, before spinning on your heel in search of some quiet place where you can teach your lungs to breathe again.

There’s something angelic about the way you look out on the dance floor, Treech thinks, your features glowing with sweat, hair forming a messy halo around your face. You look lighter this way, the way you sometimes did when you slept, like the world was slipping away from you. Like you are slipping away from the world. It’s irrational, he knows, but some desperate part of him wants to watch you like this forever, arms spread over your head, chin tipped up towards the ceiling. It’s all he can think about, the image etching itself so deep into his skull he almost doesn’t notice that you’ve come back down. That you’ve turned to push your way through the crowd. That you’re nearing the edge of the dance floor like a wave cresting on the shore. And then it’s too late, because you’ve broken through and you are looking right at him.

If he wasn’t watching so intently, he might have missed the stagger in your step, hand dropping to your stomach as though you’d been shot. But he sees it all, feels it like a dagger in his chest when you square him with a glare. And it’s all he can do, not to reach for you in that moment, jaw clenched so hard he wonders if his teeth might split in two. Instead, he palms his drink, bringing the glass back to his lips and finishing off the bitter liquid inside.

“Can I get you another?” the woman to his right asks. He only nods in agreement.

You allow yourself a full fifteen minutes in the bathroom before leaving to rejoin the mix outside. Not long enough to arouse suspicion or saddle you with a punishment, but a welcome break all the same. The first five minutes are spent in tears, and the next ten collecting yourself. You use the pads of your fingers to blend away the wet trails forged down your cheeks and a hand towel to clean up the now smudged makeup around your eyes. All the while, you remind yourself to breathe. To forget. To let go. 

You accept the first drink offered to you as you push your way back into the crowd, barely eyeing the contents of your cup before downing them with a rather unbecoming haste. From then on, it's a blur. All you know is that the glasses in your hand never stay full for long. Sweat seems to cling to every inch of your body, pasting your hair to the back of your neck and keeping your dress glued to the tops of your thighs. Around you, every face seems to curl into the same disgusted leer. You don’t care. You push on, allowing your anger to drive your body. It isn’t until Teff catches you, swaying on your feet by the bar, that you realize how deep you are in it. He coaxes you into a seat and watches as your greedy hands wrap themselves around one glass of water and then another. Anything to negate the way the room seems to spin out of control, steadiness just out of reach. 

Eventually, time slows, and the crowd begins to thin. That is when the exhaustion hits, your shoulders slumping with defeat. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Teff coaxes, his face gentle and inviting. You only shake your head, keeping your eyes trained on your finger as it draws careful circles around the rim of your glass. Eventually, Lux finds her way back to you, settling into the seat on your left and allowing her head to dip forward and touch the counter. The slow rise and fall of her shoulders reveals that she is asleep moments after making contact with the cool marble surface. Around you, though, the music remains deafening. Suffocating. Again, you find yourself drifting towards the bathroom, craving the solitude and quiet. With your back pressed to the icy tile wall, everything feels distant, as though your head is underwater. A part of you wishes you could stay like this forever, isolated and numb. Someone knocks on the door. 

You don’t register the woman who pushes past you into the room, only that the tulle on her skirt itches your wrist as it brushes up against you. Still, you square your shoulders and set your jaw into an apologetic smile, dipping your head as you inch past her. You’ve nearly broken free of the back hallway when you feel it, someone pulling at the edge of your skirt, grasping at the fabric as you pass by. You expect it is the woman, intrigued by your presence, or worse, upset, but when you turn, there is only Treech.

He appears almost disheveled, eyes wet and red around the rims, and he reeks of liquor. You pull away, taking a quick step out of his orbit, but he moves faster, hand darting out to wrap itself around your wrist.

“Please–” 

“Don’t– Don’t apologize to me– I knew, we both knew this is how it has to be. I just– I didn’t–”

“No,” he is pleading with you now, all his walls lying in rubble at his feet. 

“Maybe it was better before– Maybe that’s how things should be, how we should have stayed.”

“Don’t say that.” 

“What else is there to say?”

“I spoke to him. It can– I can make this work, make it better–”

“You spoke to him?” Hilarius, it must be, you think. Then a jolt passes through you. “We can’t talk about this here.”

“Who cares where we talk about this?” And there’s a carelessness in his words that jerks you back into reality. 

“You’re drunk.”

“It’s not like you’re sober.”

“No Treech– You’re hammered– What–” 

“I’m gonna fix this–” He keeps pressing on, and you can’t suppress the concern that spreads itself across your face. 

“Yes, yes, I know, I talked to him too, but you can’t just–”

“You talked to him?” Something between panic and rage flickers in his eyes, and suddenly, he appears almost wild.

“Yes, but– Look at me, we can’t talk about–”

“But he promised– Well, maybe he didn’t, but he said–”

“What?” 

“He can’t– He can’t make you, I won’t let him–” He’s panicking now, the force of it causing him to shake, and it’s all that you can do to reach out and steady his shoulders. To pray that the warmth of your palms will bring him down to Earth once more. “Let him? What are you–” But it doesn’t get any farther than that, because before the full sentence can leave your mouth, the man in front of you is doubling over to throw up. 

“Oh my god.” 

When he stands back up from the hunched position he fell into, you note the pool of vomit at your feet, but it’s not what concerns you the most. Treech’s eyes seem almost to have emptied out, as though the life itself has left his body. His face is entirely blank, gaze fixed on some distant scene you’re all but certain doesn’t exist. 

“Treech–” You begin to speak once more, but it doesn’t matter because a tug at your elbow reveals Teff and Lux, and you know without asking that it is time to leave. Distantly, you’re aware you may never have the chance to have this conversation again, but then you are tugging Treech into a Capitol car, and the city is streaming by in a strange mix of blurred lights, and the moment is over, buried beneath the dirty floor of a club you’ll never visit again. All that remains is his labored breathing against your shoulder, forehead doused in sweat as it rests against the crook of your neck, and the feeling in the pit of your stomach that this is the beginning of the end.

The days in the Capitol all seem to blur together, and you find yourself craving the return home in spite of the task set before you. By the time the meeting rolls around, you are struggling to keep from flitting about your room and have to clench your hands in two identical fists to keep them from shaking. One wrong step and it’s all over. You slip carefully from your apartment before riding the elevator down two floors to Hilarius’s suite. The Peacekeeper in the elevator with you stands at attention, and you square your shoulders, keeping your eyes trained before you. This whole thing should appear as nothing more than a standard visit. A time to touch base with your Capitol wrangler. As far as you knew, the plan was as follows: Hilarius would host a series of meetings with the Victors, going over the usual humdrum repeated on these trips. Except, one of those meetings would be different than the others. Your meeting, where Hilarius had managed to organize for all the Victors who were in on the plan to come together.

You force a steadying breath as your hand lingers on the doorknob. What is behind this door? Or, more importantly, who? A name sinks deep into your chest like a prayer, but you refuse to even think it, afraid reality will only douse the sparks of hope flaring up inside your ribcage. With one final thought, you open the door: Please let this work.

You are not the first to arrive, though the other presence in the room does send a jolt down your spine. Octavian. Perhaps the last person you expected to see, the District Two man, the very first Victor of the Hunger Games, seems relatively unfazed by your appearance. 

“You look surprised.” He says it like a fact. 

“You don’t.”

“Can’t say I didn’t think you had it in you.” It almost makes you smile, a sort of pride blooming in your chest. 

“I never thought–” 

“That’s good, I suppose. At least for our plans.” He pauses then, and for a moment, you believe he has finished speaking, before he begins anew. “You might understand– At least better than some. The first Games were–”

“Brutal.” And it’s true, without some fancy backdrop, there was something real about what happened in the arena, and not just for the tributes. It was human and it was horrifying. Even the Capitol had shied away. 

“No one moved, you know, when the clock struck one. We all just stood there, stupid. And then the Peacekeepers started shooting. Took out one of the kids from Five and both from Nine. But it could have been any of us. We were all the same to them back then, without the betting and the odds.” You had never been able to stomach rewatching the Games, and any memory you had of Octavian’s was faded now, but it struck a chord nonetheless. 

“And then Hector.” Of course, Hector. Hector, who seemed to haunt that apartment upstairs, no matter how much time had passed. 

“You don’t have to–” 

“No, I do. I’ve never said any of this out loud before. I think– I think if I don’t say it to someone now, while I still have a chance, I’ll die choking on it.”

“I understand.” And you do. Because really, you are always thinking about it. About Bee and Colt and Brandy and Skinner. Fawn and Lennox, your mother and father. But you had hardly spoken those words out loud. Your anger, your motivation. You stuffed it all down. You had to, to survive. 

Behind, someone pushes the door open, and just like that, the moment is over. In comes Teff, like you knew he would, and Reed trails a few feet behind. A silence settles over the lot of you as you wait for the last two to arrive. First is Lux, and at that, you do manage a smile. Then, nothing. Anticipation hangs thick in the air, and despite your decision at the door, hope curls tight in your chest, but when it finally creaks open, there is only Mags. Treech isn’t coming. He will not be a part of the rebellion; he will not be a part of the fight. Heavy with sorrow, you sink low in your seat, mind racing with where the cards will fall when the time comes to spark the match.

[bumblebugwrites]

“It’s a treat to hear her sing, since she never does it in public. None of the Covey do.”

Thinking of the dead Covey girls, like three wretched canaries in a coal mine, singing songs of revolution in a time too stifling to let them live. Harbingers of the change to come slaughtered by the Capitol, but lighting the way nonetheless.

[bumblebugwrites]

Are you okay? You haven’t posted in a while and I’m getting a little worried. I hope everything is okay and that school isn’t killing you.

lol hey pookies, so listen, this semester has been a bit of a movie /derogatory ergo, i fell off the face of the planet. needless to say i am alive and well, but i think i will be putting neabl on a brief hiatus at least until summer. sorry for worrying so many of you, i pinkie swear all is well <3.

[bumblebugwrites]

Hiii i love your stories and can’t wait for ch. 7 of NEABL. I am curious if we’re ever going to see my gal Lux again? Sorry if this is pushy my social cues are nonexistent LOL

🩷

you are all good! i know i totally changed my update schedule and then still managed to post a day late, lol. Lux will definitely be back and i have a couple of key moments mapped out for her coming up :))) she is, of course, one of my favs, so you know i couldn't live with myself if i didn't weave her in a few more times before the end!

[bumblebugwrites]

Random question, but have the houses in victors village been built yet in your Treech book? I was pondering chapter 6, and the thought crossed my mind. Hope you are doing well and good luck with school!

thank you so much, anon! to answer your question, the Victor's Village is fully up and running at some point in chapter 6 before Teff arrives. i was hoping to sort of imply that their conversation and Teff's stay both take place in the reader's new home, but i probably should have clarified, lol. anywho it is definitely around by chapter 7 as i am sure you will see :)

[bumblebugwrites]

No evil angel but love is such an incredible book. The range of emotions your writing has caused me to feel is insane. It’s so wonderful how you have gotten me to care about side characters like Trawl, Teff, and Lux. You write Treech so beautifully it fantastic. Also I love the cowgirl reader so much! Your writing is so beautifully crafted that I always look forward to reading it. I hope you know amazing of an author you are. And I hope you are taking care of yourself!

ahh thank you so much! you have no idea how much hearing stuff like this means to me! I am just so happy that people are enjoying what a couple months ago was literally a bullet-pointed outline for me to think about on my runs, it truly means the world to me :)))

[bumblebugwrites]

chapter 7: sign of the times

Pairing: Victor!Treech x fem!Reader

Summary: A reunion. An explanation. But can you salvage what already seems like a lost cause?

Warnings: Cursing, Suggestive Themes, Alcohol Consumption (Both Characters 21+).

Word Count: 6.7k

Taglist: @nekee-lilac02, @mr-panda357, @yourfavmiki, @blackoutdays13, @dialuvsbangtan, @emgunther, @qirsupply

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

You do not speak at first, feet rooted to the ground as you take him in, and really, he is not so odd, but there is something different about him. Something you can’t recall having seen in years. His hair is the same, just as long as the last time you saw him, though perhaps a bit more unkept as a result of the long train ride over. Nothing about him seemed out of place at first glance. Still, you are sure to check again. You always check again with Treech. But it’s not there, the change you are looking for. No. It is in his eyes. Careful. Steady. Unguarded. Pooling with– 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” But you shake the thought because this is Treech, and the last time he looked at you like that, he had been sure to let you know it was a lie. He merely balks at your tone, flat and unimpressed, leaving you to huff and roll your eyes before pushing past him to guide Bluebell toward her stall without a second glance.

“You weren’t at the train station this morning.” You nearly freeze at the weight of his words. He had been looking for you, or at least intrigued enough to note your missing presence.  But how had he known to find you here? The mayor certainly had no idea as to your whereabouts. Sure, Calpurnia may have made a good guess, but she had long since stopped trying to stick her nose in your business. And more importantly, how had he managed to slip away from the festivities unnoticed? Questions clutter your mind faster than you are able to supply them with makeshift answers. Still, you don’t ask.

“I had work.” And you don’t have to see him to know he is narrowing his eyes just behind you, face probably painted with the same scrutiny he typically reserved for lectures from Hilarius.

“I thought we weren’t supposed to work anymore. Isn’t that the whole point of victory? A quiet life of rest?” You can’t resist huffing out a laugh at the familiar snark that edges its way into his tone, and for a moment, you are both eighteen again, scared shitless and shoulder to shoulder on a train headed for the Capitol. It doesn’t last.

“Well, I don’t see them here putting me under arrest, so if you don’t mind, I think I’ll keep at it.” As you reach Bluebell’s stall, you feel Treech hesitate at the door, and a look over your shoulder confirms he has trained a weary gaze on the horse. You muffle a laugh, and his face hardens into a glare.

“The mayor said you weren’t feeling well.” Ah. So that’s why he is here. To catch you in a lie. You shrug in response and listen to the sound of his nervous shuffling before Treech forces himself to speak once more.

“Crowd was pretty focused on Maple, so I– Well, I snuck off. Thought I’d check in at your house, but you weren’t there. Obviously. Your sister said I might find you here.” You feel your shoulders tense. 

“You talked to Fawn?” Your voice is cold and sharp as the words pass your lips, and Treech is quick to raise both hands in defense. 

“I’m not here to– I want to talk to you,” he begins, but you can feel yourself already starting to lose patience.

“Why? You haven’t cared about me in years.” He looks hurt when you turn to face him, shoulders sagged and his eyes heavy with apparent exhaustion.

“I–” His eyes flit to the upper corner of the stall. To the camera used by the Peacekeepers on duty to ensure you are on task at all times. “Is there–” And no, Treech isn’t your favorite these days, but you understand immediately, halting yourself in the process of removing Bluebell’s saddle. You are supposed to be back at the bunkhouse for lunch in ten minutes. Lunch, midday meeting, and then the rest of the day off, your boss, a short, stalky man who had grown up with your father, had insisted, not wanting you to get yourself into any more trouble.

“I have to make a call.” You pronounce each word slowly, the implication heavy in your voice, before dropping both hands from Bluebell’s side to make for the phone beside the double doors to enter the barn.

Treech has never seen a horse before. Well, maybe that’s not completely true. He could remember seeing a couple of your sketches from back home and the old photographs from his textbooks in school, but to be face to face with the creature felt completely different. It is large, barely moving aside from the occasional shifting of its legs or a slow blink, though the remainder of the barn is filled with their subtle sounds, huffing and knocking at the ground with their great hooves. He swallows the air in his lungs, pushing it further down and taking a step back so that he comes in contact with the wall. The horse swats at several flies with its tail in a single practiced motion. Treech thinks about stepping out of the stall completely, and it is only as he turns his head to consider an escape route, back still flat against the wood-paneled wall, that he notes that you have returned. 

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed tight across your chest and eyes gently considering his situation. Though, he can sense something else as well, a brewing aura of mischief as you stifle another laugh at his expense.

“It’s not funny. That thing is really big,” he mumbles, and you allow a full-on chuckle to escape. The sound of it fills his chest with warmth.

“It’s a little funny, given that you're about to get on one of these things.” The warmth is gone in an instant.

“What?” 

“Only way to get where we’re going. Unless you’d rather spend the rest of your day walking.” Treech swallows hard, face drained of the vast majority of its color. He looks as though he might be sick.

“Don’t worry, you can take Baxter. He only bites a little.”

At nineteen, Baxter is one of the oldest horses in the barn, docile and gentle with age. Still, Treech doesn’t know that, and you make no effort to tell him as you journey out with a tight grip on his lead and your own. The man beside you is stiff as a board, though you’re surprised to see his grip on the bridle has loosened significantly over the last thirty minutes.

There are three blind spots in the entirety of the ranch when it comes to cameras. The first is where most ranchers take their smoke breaks, though it is commonly occupied and never lacking in company. The second is the small stretch of land between the showers and the bunkhouse and the third is at the very periphery of the ranch, where someone a long time ago cut the wires on a camera no one ever bothered to fix. That is where you are headed now, and you feel your shoulders sink in relief as it comes into view just over the next hill. Relief, which you assure yourself, has nothing to do with the tense form beside yours and his comfort whatsoever. 

Getting Treech onto the horse had been seemingly more trouble than it was worth as you coaxed him into mounting following several demonstrations, only to be forced to start from ground zero after Baxter chose to adjust his stance as Treech lifted a foot to the stirrup.

“This thing is trying to kill me.”

“I promise you he is not.”

Still, concern over his perceived well-being had long since stopped being a pressing issue for you, though even you can admit seeing Treech in any real danger always sent a sharp twinge through your chest.

Upon arrival, you give the reins a quick tug, signaling it is time to stop before swinging yourself off of Bluebell and tying both leads to a nearby post. Treech is admittedly steadier on the dismount, probably out of sheer desperation to come in contact with the ground once more. However, he stumbles a bit as his feet hit the dirt, and you note the immediate distance he creates between himself and Baxter. 

“It’s safe here since you’re so hellbent on talking.” You toss the words over your shoulder, focus locked in on checking Bluebell’s saddle for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing catches your eye, but then, you knew it wouldn’t, using the task at hand as a welcome distraction from the itch of the gaze on the back of your neck.

“I didn’t– I–” Treech’s words seem to trip over themselves on their journey out of his mouth, and you find yourself surprised at the uncharacteristic nervousness in his tone. A glance in the man’s direction reveals his body to be giving the same impression, eyes darting in an awkward dance around each feature on your face, hands clasped tightly together.

“If you have something to say, you might as well just say it. I’m not gonna be all ears for forever–” His eyes are steady now, fixed on you with the only emotion you have known them to hold for what has become the majority of your time together. Frustration. Anger.

“Would you stop that?”

“Stop what? I’m just saying you should probably pick up the pace. I mean, how long do you really think the crowd is gonna go without noticing that the Capitol’s favorite pretty boy is missing in action–” You are agitating him on purpose; there’s no question about it. But what’s the fun in letting him have it easy now? After what he did? After the way he left you feeling all that time ago?

“Stop! Patronizing me! Just let me explain. God, when did you become so mean?” Your body goes rigid, and regret, immediate and palpable, paints itself across his face. 

“Mean? You wanna talk to me about mean?”

“No! I– You know I didn’t– Fuck me, I’m messing this all up.” And really, you’re ready to pounce. To take four years of heartache and anguish and make every second of pain his problem. But then it happens, so subtle you almost don’t catch it, at the tail end of his last sentence. A break. A warble. Call it what you want; you can hear the tears, and any snide remarks die on your tongue at the sound. 

“Can I start again? Please?” He doesn’t deserve it. Won’t even meet your eye to ask, but something about how he looks, the way he had at eighteen, that first night at the bar, so hopeless and lost, makes you give in.

“Whatever, sure.”

“I– Do you remember that night I came to your room after that first party at the President’s mansion?” His hands on your waist. Your fingers deep in his curls. His lips pressed against yours. Close. So close.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Do you remember the morning after?” Treech reappearing in your room just as sleep began to slug off, presumably attending to business of some sort. Presumably deciding he didn’t want you anymore. 

“Look, if you just came here to relive the glory of telling me–”

“Do you remember that phone call I got?” Phone call? For Treech? In your room? Phone call. It must have been close to seven in the morning. He’d bent down and kissed you goodbye on his way out the door. How could you let that slip?

“Well, it was from Snow.” Your heart just about stops in your chest, mind moving a million miles an hour and though you probably don’t need Treech to explain the rest, he goes on.

“He saw us together. I guess there were cameras in the Victor’s Suite. He called me that morning. In your room. That’s when I should have known something was wrong, but I still managed to get all the way to the end of the hall before having the brain to realize something was up. Anyways, he– He told me I had to end things. Two victors from different Districts? People might get the wrong idea. Said he wouldn’t go after us. That he’d start with our families. With your family. And I knew I couldn’t do that to you.”

“And look, you’ve always been braver than me. I was worried if I just told you, you’d get it in your head that we could fight this. You know? Find some way to defy fate. So I told you I didn’t want you. And I spent these last four years pushing you away, praying it would be enough to keep you safe.” He stops and though he hasn’t even been talking for that long, he looks as though he’s out of breath. You feel lightheaded.

“Wh– Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because about two years into my genius plan I realized that I was probably doing a pretty shitty job of looking out for you if I didn’t even know what was going on with you anymore. You can’t protect someone you don’t know and I made you into a stranger,” he finishes, eyes scanning the grass as though each individual blade were the most interesting thing in the world. That’s probably why he doesn’t see it coming. Your first shove that is. Still, by the second one, he seems almost resigned to the onslaught.

“You. Are. Such. An. Idiot. I can’t believe you. I hate you so much.” But there is no real malice to the words and he catches your fist, tight in his hand as you bring it down to punctuate the end of your final sentence.

“I– uhm–” And he goes to speak, but perhaps realizes just how close the two of you are, faces only inches apart. You breathe him in, the same scent of cedar still populating the space around him. You want to sink down inside it. Want to kiss his face. His lips. Dig your hands into the curls you have not touched in four years. Your mind flashes with memories of that last night. Of the morning after. Of the things he’d said. You pull away.

“Well, don’t expect me to just come crawling back to you. I do have dignity, you know.” 

“Right, of course.” Treech brings a hand up to scratch at the back his neck. The same nervous tick from all those years ago.

“But– Maybe we could try being friends again.” And there he is, all open and smiling and bright. And your heart warms at the sight.

“I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”

Upon your return to the barn, with you having guided both horses back at a far more leisurely pace, you promise to meet again before tonight’s event at City Hall at your house in the Victor’s Village. The trek home isn’t so bad with his company, and you spend the time filling in the gaps four years had left you with before bidding him farwell and parting ways.

You’ve only just finished buttoning your jeans when Lennox appears at the door to your room. Since your move to the Victor’s Village, you often found yourself longing for the closeness you once shared with your siblings. Still, they found ways to get under your skin even in a house as impossibly big as the one the Capitol had so generously gifted you. 

Your father's vest still fits like a glove with the alterations your mother had made several years ago, its denim softened by age and still smelling faintly of tobacco, the one habit your father never could quite shake. 

With one final glance at the garment and an additional once-over of your outfit, you had turned to face the youngest member of your family, only to discover something missing from his newly pressed dress shirt. 

“What the–”

That was fifteen minutes ago, though no amount of time passed seemed to be bringing you any closer to an answer.

“Lennox, I don’t understand. Where did the first three buttons on your shirt go?” 

“I dunno.” Still, the boy refuses to meet your gaze, and something about him reeks of a lie. You crouch to deliver your next sentence, forcing him to look you in the eye.

“Well, you better start thinking because it’s not like buttons just get up and walk away.” He squirms beneath the weight of your calculating stare, which holds him unrelentingly, hands coming up to keep the boy in place and negate all chances of escape.

“Urgh, fine. I traded them.” And it’s almost bizarre, but then, this is Lennox, and he is a child. And to children, things like buttons seem so simple and uncomplicated. So unnecessary and silly. You almost want to laugh.

“What do you mean you traded them?”

“I gave them to a boy at school.” You force yourself to hide the smile settling into your lips, dipping your head, and making an exasperated sort of sound.

“No, that’s not– I understand where you traded them; you don’t go anywhere else. What I’m trying to figure out is why. We have everything you could possibly need here.” 

“Not honeydrops.” The smile is gone now, banished in a moment. And Lennox knows. At least you’ve told him the way your family must live now, what must remain off limits. But then, it really is nothing more than candy. 

“Oh my god. Tell me you did not.”

“I don’t understand why all the other kids get to have it, and I don’t.” And you feel it again, that creeping sensation of guilt that arises every time you must pull something from your siblings’ grasps.

“Because candy is a contraband item, and we are basically living in the Capitol’s spotlight. Lennox, we’ve talked about this.” He frowns, and the action darkens the entirety of his face. His lip jerks out, beginning to shake.

“Please don’t tell Mom.”

“I’m not gonna tell Mom, just–” There is a knock at the front door. You can hear it from upstairs. Fixing the boy before you with a look of warning, you deliver a final address. “It better be gone when I look in your room tonight.”

He is off in an instant, presumably intent on packing every remaining honeydrop into his mouth at once, and you bite back a laugh at the absurdity of it, but it is the kind of laugh that rattles cruel and unforgiving in your chest, bitter in its birth and you force yourself to shake it before making your way downstairs. Fawn beats you to the door.

“What are you wearing?” You open your mouth to scold her for the remark, blatant in its disrespect, but another voice cuts off your own, ringing out through the foyer.

“My dress clothes? Why do we look bad?” Treech. By the time you hit the bottom of the stairs, it is clear what Fawn is grimacing at. The outfit is by no means abysmal, similar to those you’ve seen Treech don while arriving at the Capitol following the Reapings, but it is certainly not appropriate for where you are going. Behind him, Maple stands rather awkwardly, a similar look of worry spreading across her face.

“No. She looks fine. She looks like some Capitol stylist at least had the sense to look at a single picture of District 10 before arrival. You look like you can not wear that to City Hall. You– You– You have to come inside before anyone sees you in this outfit.” At this point, you make your presence known, pulling Fawn from her position blocking the doorway before ushering the pair of victors in with a smile. 

“Sorry about her; clearly, we haven’t hosted guests in a while,” you grit out, flashing a glare in Fawn's direction. Maple laughs, covering the sound with a cough.

“Is my outfit actually bad?” Treech fusses at his selection of clothing, pulling uncomfortably at the hem of his jacket.

“Well, no. It’s just not–” You begin, though Fawn does not let you finish.

“Yes.” You are quick to deliver an elbow to her gut, though she only responds with a shove in return and an offer to Maple to join her and your mother in the kitchen.

“Really, don’t worry about it. How about I try to find you something here?” You offer, and Treech shoots you a grateful smile before trailing after his charge.

Upstairs, you take to alternatively rooting around your closet and considering the same three work shirts laid out on your bed, none of them formal enough. You are just about to give up entirely when a knock sounds at your door.

“Fawn said you needed something suitable for City Hall tonight?” Your mother’s head appears, followed by the remainder of her, a single, pressed shirt hooked over her arm and an accompanying vest tucked beneath it. Your father’s clothes.

“Oh, Mom, I couldn’t possibly–” She only shakes her head. Laying the garments out atop your mattress. In a subtle act of care, she fidgets with the cuff of his old shirt’s sleeve. 

“Don’t be silly; it’s just for tonight. Besides, all these clothes do is sit and gather dust anyway. He would’ve wanted them to go to good use.” You don’t say anything, only moving forward to pull her into your arms before pressing your words into her shoulder, unsure if she will even be able to catch them.

“I miss him.”

“I do, too.”

She is kind enough to alert Treech to the need for his presence in your room, and with her disappearance comes his arrival, stepping timidly across the threshold as though entering a sacred space. 

“It’s not a museum; you’re welcome to move around,” you chuckle, barely looking up from the bed. When you finally do draw your gaze away from what’s been set out for him, you note he is taking in the drawings on your wall, hand outstretched, as though it is itching to trace the lines of each design. You clear your throat.

“Sorry,” he nearly jumps at the sound, though he appears to have been reminded of something, reaching into his coat and dipping a hand into an apparently hidden pocket. “I just remembered I have something for you.”

The wrapping is plain, and you recognize the paper from the butcher’s shop, but each corner is folded carefully by hand with only the subtle imperfections indicating that he has likely completed the project himself. You take a seat on your bed, careful to avoid the clothing spread across your quilt before tearing into it. You blink in surprise at the contents, nearly confused at the book in your hands. It is beautiful, bound in leather, thick and heavy. But it is not until you open it that you process the true weight of the gift, each page just as blank as the last.

“I figured it would be nice not to have to draw on butcher paper anymore.”

“It’s– I– Thank you.” You pull a quick hand across your tear line, eradicating any evidence of a more emotional reaction before swallowing hard and looking away. Friends. You are trying to be friends. 

“Uhm, I laid these out for you,” you say, standing to indicate the clothes your mother had brought in. You swallow any stories about your father, unprepared to be quite so vulnerable yet.

“Do I get a hat?” Treech asks, and you let out a laugh, real and warm.

“Do you want a hat?”

“I wanna look like a real cowboy.” Your mind flits back to that first conversation. The smile on his face tells you his does, too.

“You can wear my hat.” And he doesn’t have to know what it means. Still, Fawn sends you a knowing smirk on your way out the door, and even Lennox allows a curious gaze or two to pass over the addition of your accessory to his outfit. Yours. Yours. Yours.

The barn in the back of City Hall is crowded when you arrive, with most being relieved of their work early in favor of seeing the Victory Tour pass through. There are, of course, formalities to begin the affair, the mayor makes a speech, and Calpurnia, although initially shocked by your presence, brings you up on stage with Treech and Maple to make the ‘welcome statement’ you’d been meant to deliver this morning. Still, after all the fuss is over and the lot of you clear the way for the band, the atmosphere seems to settle into excitement typical for nights when the Dance Hall opens up.

You make your best attempt at teaching the two victors from 7 several easy steps, and though Maple seems to catch on with relative ease, it is not long before the shadow of frustration casts itself over Treech’s features, incapable of keeping up. It is only then you offer to take a break, though the opportunity is quickly lost with the appearance of Lennox who is determined to take over your attempts at tutoring your old friend.

“You’re just not explaining it right,” he says gruffly, skirting quickly around your legs to take his place between Treech and Maple.

“Oh? Is that right. Well then they’re all yours,” you relinquish, casting both hands up in surrender before shooting Treech an apologetic glance. His eyes only grow wider with fear upon taking in the speed at which Lennox is talking, the pace of his feet nearly matching that of his mouth. Back at the table you had claimed before, Fawn remains seated, your mother having disappeared to chat with several of the other women from work while your younger sister picks gloomily at the vegetables that some well-meaning friend of the family had heaped onto her plate without asking.

“Aren’t you a bit old to still be playing with your food?” Still, she does little to acknowledge your comment, instead staring past you, and a glance over your shoulder confirms she is looking directly at Treech.

“You still love him, don’t you?” The question nearly has you jumping out of your skin. Still, you elect to avoid any direct sort of answer, because the truth is, you aren’t sure.

“How would you know?”

“I’m your sister. I know you better than I know myself,” Fawn does look at you now, with those big brown eyes, just like your father’s. And you look away. Look at Treech. At the slow, anxious smile he wears trying to follow Lennox’s fast-paced teachings. At Maple two feet behind him attempting to swallow a laugh. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him so rattled.

“Yeah. I do.” And really you always have, but the moment it passes your lips, there is no taking it back.

“Well, was it worth it?” Fawn presses.

“What?” You ask in return.

“Whatever reason he had for breaking your heart all those years ago?” You think back to this morning. And I spent these last four years pushing you away, praying it would be enough to keep you safe. Keep you safe. Had he? You’re still unsure.

“He seems to think so.” 

“And you don’t?” Fawn lifts a single brow in question, always so adept in peeling back the layers you press on to conceal the truth.

“I think he was doing what he thought he had to in order to protect me.”

“And is that a bad thing?” You aren’t sure if you’ve thought about that before, so focused on the anger and frustration at time lost for a plan you cared little to acknowledge as worthwhile that you forgot to consider the weight of his intention.

“No, but he lied to me to do it. Purposefully kept me in the dark about things and pushed me away. How am I supposed to trust someone who does things like that?”

“But he told you the truth eventually, right?” You are almost arguing just to argue. Determined to be right. To be acknowledged as right.

“Well, yes, but–”

“All I’m saying is, I haven’t seen you look after yourself since Dad died. So maybe having someone to take care of you wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.” This time, you are quiet and when Fawn looks to you for some sign that she should continue, you only manage a nod. 

“Look, I don’t know what it’s like for you out there, but I know things are a hell of a lot different. And I also know that you’re not very good at playing games–” The hair on your neck prickles with indignation.

“What the fu–”

“Stop. I’m being serious. You’re blunt and emotional and a terrible liar.” You could just about wring her neck.

“Careful, I think you might be about to say something nice about me–” She only presses on, leveling you with a cool and even stare.

“But this guy, he seems like he gets it. Like he knows the right things to say and do. And he looks at you like you hung the moon and the stars. And if he thinks he did what he had to, well then I’d trust his gut before I’d trust yours.” Your mouth opens and closes several times before any singular thought is given the opportunity to fully formulate and you can only gape, because suddenly Fawn seems so old and you’re not quite sure how you managed to miss it. Not quite sure when you looked away and the old Fawn, squealing and pigtailed got up and disappeared.

“Fawn I–” You are interrupted, of course you are interrupted. Still the resentment is incapable of running deep on a night like this, especially when the distraction looming over your shoulder has the prettiest smile you’ve ever seen.

“I was thinking maybe I could steal a dance from you?” Treech extends a hand in your direction and you tilt your head in question before noting the relaxed sway of the dancefloor’s current occupants as a slow tune rings out around you.

“I would–”

“Actually, I get the next dance,” Fawn cuts in, quickly abandoning her now cold leftovers in favor of catching the man by the wrist and tugging him away from you.

“Fawn–” You nearly choke in surprise.

“What? Just because you okayed him doesn’t mean I’m not still gonna grill the fuck out of him.”

It is much later when Treech finds you again, Lennox’s slumped form curled up in your lap, his head resting easy on your shoulder. By now, it has long since been time to go, but Fawn had insisted on putting the poor lumberjack through the wringer of a myriad of line dances, leaving him flushed with embarrassment and itching for an escape.

“Not so fast, pretty boy; I still haven’t gotten that dance you promised me.” 

The barn is all but cleared out now with most of the stragglers getting ready to go and even the band starting to pack up, but a single nod from you to the woman with the fiddle has her pulling the instrument from its case once more with a smile and striking up a slow tune. You turn to your mother deep in conversation with an old man you recognize from the ranch and unload your brother into her arms with practiced ease, before lacing your hand with Treech’s and pulling him to the center of the floor. 

“Should I waltz, or–” His hand wraps itself around your waist, eyes immediately falling to the ground. 

“Relax. It’s just us. You have to stop thinking so hard. Just listen to the music and look at me. Your feet will do the rest of the work I promise you.” He takes a deep breath and you squeeze the hand holding yours, subtly encouraging him to loosen up. Eventually, it works, and the beginnings of a grin crack through the mask of nerves.

“You’re smiling. I thought you hated dancing.”

“It’s easier with you. Everything is easier with you.”

The tune is an old one, soft and sad. You can recall your father humming it to himself after a long day’s work, perhaps that is why you know the song has only just reached its halfway point when your mother calls out, letting you know it’s time to go.

It is later that night when you finish your dance, drunk in your kitchen, two pairs of clumsy feet trampling all over one another. Between the two of you, you manage to down a quarter of your mother’s contraband bottle of whisky before making your best attempts at sketching one another out on the brand new pages of your sketchbook. Treech only manages a crude drawing of your face, echoing the skill level of a child and though your sketch does little justice to the talent you boast sober, you sit, feet draped across his lap and quiet giggles passing your lips, copying down every aspect of his face. Hoping to etch the memory of it into your mind aswell, his curls a messy halo, his cheeks flushed with the liquor’s effects. Beautiful, you think absently.

“What?” Treech’s eyes shoot up to meet yours brow arching in a question, but the lazy smile on his face betrays the fact that he’s heard you, and you fight the urge to shrink away with embarrassment.

“I–”

“I think you’re beautiful too. Always did. That’s why I remembered your hat, you know? From your Games? It was the only time I’ve ever had to stop like that. Like nothing else in the world mattered except looking at you.” The confession slips happy and slurred from his mouth, though he follows it with a quick dip of his head which does little to conceal the blush that has now spread to his ears.

“I called you pretty the first night we met,” you share, hoping to ease his discomfort.

“I know. I heard you that time too.” And that smile has returned, and you’re certain it could provide you with enough warmth to survive every winter for the rest of your life.

“You little shit.” And you laugh, and that kitchen in the Victor’s Village, that has always felt to big, fits just right. For one moment. One blissful moment.

“I’m leaving.” The knock at your bedroom door had come as a bit of a surprise and, you won’t lie, with the added bonus of your hangover a nuisance of sorts. It was early, the hands on your clock indicating the time to be several minutes past 5:00 am, still your best efforts at ignorance did little in the way of driving your unwanted guest away, so you’d risen, groggy and half unsure of your footing only to find Treech, poised to knock again on the other side.

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but this isn’t the train station,” you groan eyes only just beginning to peel open, but upon allowing the light to break through, you note the desperation contorting his features and that alone is enough to pull you from the maw of sleep.

“I can’t say goodbye to you in front of all those people.”

“Why not?” You know why not.

“You know why not.” Still, you’d promised just friends, and not amount of drunk waltzes in your kitchen or late night sketch sessions with his hair brushing your cheek as he propped his chin on your shoulder to watch could change that. You offer stiff handshake, palm extended in search of his.

“Friends?” Treech blinks, slowly. Once. Twice. His hand slides perfectly into your own, fingers wrapping gently around your skin still warm with sleep.

“Friends.” But then a minute passes, and there is his hand, still in yours. And there are all those thoughts you’ve been working so hard to suppress. And he is pulling away, mumbling something about getting going, but your grip just won’t relent, eyes beginning to pool with inexplicable tears before you tug him closer. So fast. Too fast maybe. 

You are nose to nose and he blinks steadily in return, though his breath comes out labored and heavy. 

“I don’t want–” You look down, your hair invading all pretense of personal space as you lean forward into him, eyes fixed on the floor. His grip on your hand tightens.

“I don’t wanna be your friend.”

“I don’t wanna be your friend either.” And when you lift your head, it is as though he is drinking you in for the very first time, studying a face that has somehow become lost to him, before his hand drops yours and moves to grip at your waist, pulling you close and his eyes drop down to your lips, almost closing entirely. Still, he waits, just as he always has, for you. And when you give in, you do give in, it is bliss, his mouth on yours once more, arms tightening against your form, rendering you inseparable. Nearly inseparable. 

“Your breath stinks.” Treech pulls back, a grimace lighting his features and you instantly recoil in embarrassment, hand flying from its place on his neck to cover your mouth. You squirm in his arms, attempting to free yourself from the scrutiny, but he only tightens his hold on you, letting out a low laugh before dipping to trail several kisses down your neck. You elect to bring both hands to your face instead, obscuring your visage entirely.

“Sorry about that, my asshole ex woke me up without warning.” He expels a sharp gust of air against your shoulder, an indicator he finds this situation all too charming before shifting his tone to fake indignance.

“I thought we were friends?”

“Friends don’t usually taste eachothers morning breath, but maybe that’s just my opinion.”

And he mumbles something low and indecipherable into your hair, pressing additional kisses into the mess. Something that sounds like I love you. And in the dull silence of those quiet morning hours, the beat of your heart sounds exactly the same.

Treech has been gone for two weeks when the letter comes. There isn’t even a stamp in the corner. Just an envelope with your name on it and a single piece of paper tucked inside with an address printed in neat lettering across the page. Beneath it, someone has scribbled down a time and date as though that information was some sort of afterthought. Your stomach drops immediately upon opening it, and you are quick to assume the worst. That they saw you with Treech, in your own home. Of course. Snow would have to be some sort of idiot not to have cameras planted in the newly constructed Victor’s Village.

The letter is from the Capitol. That much you can be sure of. The heavy feeling of the cardstock between your fingers is enough to signal the mail has emerged from a place of luxury: the best most people could find in 10 is old butcher paper. Still, perhaps you are wrong. You remember the feeling of Treech’s letter to you from 7, along with a scrawled comment about how being in charge of paper production had its benefits. You remember the sketchbook he’d left you with less than a month ago. Your heart feels lighter, if only for a moment.

But you know Treech’s handwriting like the back of your hand, the boyish charm to his messy lettering and rushed sentences. Besides, everything that came from him smelled of cedar and arrived veiled in a thin layer of sawdust. You liked to imagine sometimes he wrote to you from the same desk where he sat hard at work, carving whistles in the shapes of birds for his little sisters.

No. This letter was different. Drenched in the stink of expensive cologne with ink that appeared dark and smudged in certain places, too wet to be from the cheap pens you know most Districts keep on hand.

Your chest bundles with nerves, remaining tight and suffocating until the very moment of the meeting arrives, the address bringing you to an old ranch most had believed to be unoccupied for some time. You take a steadying breath as you raise your fist to the door but find no time to knock as it swings open, revealing a familiar figure. Hilarius Heavensbee in the flesh.

“Oh good, you’re here. Come in; I have a proposition for you.”

[bumblebugwrites]

May I please be added to NEABL taglist?(don’t worry you didn’t miss me asking- this is the first time I’ve asked) I’m obsessed with this story you’re such an amazing writer

ahh, of course, pookie, you should be tagged in the next chapter, which is up now!

[bumblebugwrites]

chapter 6: bite the hand

Pairing: Victor!Treech x fem!Reader

Summary: Over the next four years, you speak only five times with Treech, each conversation proving more confusing than the last.

Warnings: Cursing, Suggestive Themes, Mention of Injuries, Character Death, Weapons, Violence.

Word Count: 6.6k

Taglist: @nekee-lilac02, @mr-panda357, @yourfavmiki, @blackoutdays13, @dialuvsbangtan, @emgunther

A/N: Well, this is admittedly late, sorry y'all. Also on that note, the update schedule is about to be completely fucked for this fic. As it turns out school is lowkey catching up to me so unfortunately I think I may need to move to posting every two weeks. Either way, I hope you enjoy this chapter, which according to my original outline puts us at about halfway through No Evil Angel But Love!

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“I just think it was a mistake. It should never have happened, and– And it won’t happen again.” And just like that, your heart was shattered, scattered across the floor in a million pieces. Well, maybe not just like that. In fact, for a moment, you’d thought the whole thing was a joke of some sort. But then his eyes had caught yours, cold in a way you’d never seen them before, and you had to stop yourself from staggering back, from hitting the wall, because this Treech, the one standing before you, he looked just like the man who’d put an axe through your heart in a dream you’d tried so hard to forget.

“I don’t understand. Does this have something to do with the fact that you disappeared this morning?” Sure, you had been out of it when he’d left, but it didn’t take long for the panic to set in, waking once more to a cold bed, mind reaching out to a memory formed only an hour ago. A mystery phone call to your room. Treech disappearing out the door.

“No, I– No. Just listen to me. This is it, it’s over.” Not the phone call. Him. He wanted this, and next to that, the phone call felt like something to be forgotten in its entirety.  But why?

“You came here last night. You showed up at my hotel room, saying you couldn’t take it anymore, and now, what? You’ve changed your mind?” Anger was quick to follow confusion in those fleeting moments, and as you surged forward, hands tangling desperately in his shirt, you weren’t sure if the intent was to pull him in or push him away.

“You’re just not–” And his hands were on yours, brushing a sweet, delicate pattern across your knuckles, bringing you that soft, quiet feeling he always had. And for a moment, you could feel him leaning in. To hold you? To kiss you? You weren’t sure. “I don’t want you.” 

It was like a punch in the gut.

“I was enough last night.” Tears clouded your vision as you held steady willing him to look at you, to pull his gaze from the ground, to wrap his hands around yours once more. They were limp now, hanging uselessly at his sides.

“Maybe you weren’t. Maybe you never were.” You wanted to scream. To cry. To lash out and disappear and explode with the unmistakable rage inside you. You couldn't. You could barely speak.

“Treech, I–”

“We’re done. Don’t talk to me. Don’t touch me. Don’t even look at me.” And with that, he pushed you away, spinning to exit out the door just behind you. Leaving you to crumple to the ground. Alone. Unwanted. 

Over the next four years, you had five more conversations with Treech alone, each leaving you more confused than the last.

The first time you spoke was just over two years after he told you that night had been a mistake. That you were a mistake.

It was harder to stay away in the beginning. Hardest at night when you could hear his screams, telltale signs of the nightmares you knew he fell prey to. The nightmares that formed mirror images of your own. Several nights, you found yourself frozen outside his door, compelled for some unearthly reason to stand guard, to make heavy, unyielding eye-contact with the painted number 7 as though waiting long enough might make it open without any necessary action. You knew then what you really wanted. To go inside. To assure him it would be okay. To offer him the same place in your room you always had. But then, he didn’t want that. He’d made that clear enough. And so after minutes, or sometimes hours of waiting, you would escape back to your own room before your presence could be noted. Afraid of the harsh words he might have stored up this time, lashings for your petty emotions.

It was one of those nights, the first time you spoke, although the nightmare was yours, not his. It had left you in a cold sweat as you jerked yourself from the duvet, still sobbing, and you found yourself wondering when the room had become so unbearably large. A glass of water, you’d thought. A coffee, maybe; chances are you’re done with sleep tonight anyway. You’d wondered how Treech was. You always did when your own nightmares exceeded their typical limits, and the thought had infiltrated your mind until the minute you’d pulled the door open, revealing his seated form just outside, back pressed to the wall. Alert. Awake, as though certain his presence alone might ward off any oncoming evil. 

He appeared nearly as shocked as you at the reveal, quickly launching himself to his feet and plastering a grimace across his features, darkened by the little light in the hall. And just as you’d opened your mouth to speak, to question his attendance at the foot of your door, he’d bit with words of his own.

“Could you try not to be so loud? Some people here are sleeping.” You did not populate the hall outside his door so much after that. You did not populate his presence at all.

The second time was out of necessity. It was that same year of the 13th Games, and you had found yourself down a tribute, the girl, Rhea, having lost her life in what was beginning to be known as the bloodbath. Skinner was older, the boy. Eighteen and a walking tragedy, so close to escaping. That was the year before they stopped locking you all in the Academy. Before Lux convinced them that sponsor relations could only bear to improve if mentors were allowed the ability to mingle with the people of the Capitol, within reason, of course. Before the Games grew longer, sometimes lasting over a week. 

The night was young, but you were on your third cup of coffee, unable to tear your eyes from the screen. From Skinner’s restless movements as he sat back to a tree, with eyes that scanned his surroundings in wide, impatient arcs. He was alone, and no allies meant no sleep, so he clung to the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, begging it to carry him to safety. 

On your right, Teff fidgeted with his screen, clearly agitated by an increased sense of anxiety at the prospect of both of his tributes escaping the mess of fighting that began the Games. It was harder that way; you had come to learn. Longer survival meant hope. Hope that will infiltrate your thoughts. Your emotions. Higher risk of attachment. And with two tributes, a higher risk that the death of one would only serve to destroy the other. Or worse, a higher risk that they would be forced to take each other on. You’d seen it happen. In the 12th Games, both remaining tributes came from 2, and while Octavian remained firm and unmoving in his seat, Antonia could barely force herself to watch.

Still, you had liked Skinner, cursed with the gangly limbs of a teenager on the verge of adulthood, with a crooked smile and a biting sense of humor reserved only for Rhea in their short days together, so you pushed on. And if the lingering claws of hope had curled their way around your heart, so be it. Maybe this would be the year you could save one. Maybe this would be the year you saw a kid survive.

To your left, there was Treech. Always Treech, who endlessly invaded your thoughts in those weeks you were forced to travel back to the Capitol. In the years since your first visit, the trips had only increased, with Snow managing to find a reason to gather you all in the ‘Gem of Panem’ at least four times a year. Press, he called it, and Hilarius often assured you that networking of that sort was necessary, but it was hard to believe even from his mouth, and you often felt yourself feeling more inclined to believe Teff’s theories. They just want to remind us who’s in control.

Treech was down a tribute, too; though both had escaped the initial violence, the career pack had managed to track the pair, quickly ending the boy’s life and leaving only his girl to escape. Arbor. It had been some time since you had noted her presence on your screen, but you didn’t dare to even attempt casting a look in Treech’s direction, fearing the rash display of the temper you had come to know as reserved for you and you alone.

And you wouldn’t have had to, really, if it weren’t for what happened next, the crushing of underbrush underfoot, the cacophony of voices infused with a false confidence. Skinner’s head shot up in an instant, fear plain on his features. He stood slowly, pushing himself up from the ground with the bark of the tree cutting into his palm for support. The career pack was coming, and he was as good as dead.

Several low branches stuck out to you, and silently, you begged him to climb in spite of a display earlier that day which assured you he did so with the elegance of a toddler. Still, it was all that was left, and you were clinging to hope. Stupid, useless hope. He turned to size up his route upwards, and the voices grew nearer. It was now or never. The pace was the first problem you noticed as Skinner inched up the tree with the speed of a snail. You realized in passing he’d probably never climbed a tree before. Sure, they weren’t a rarity in 10. There were plenty out on the ranch, and as a child, you often sought solace among their branches when your father had allowed you to tag along with him to work. But for a kid like Skinner, confined to 10’s more industrial parts, spending days cooped up in the slaughterhouse, climbing a tree wasn’t exactly within the realm of knowledge he should possess. 

“Fuck. Come on.”

The second thing you noted was the noise. Certainly, there aren’t many silent ways to climb a tree, with the continual brushing of leaves against the fabric of your clothes, but the footfalls were doing little to help in the way of masking his presence, and though he’d made a bit of progress, you almost wished Skinner would stop moving completely. 

The third and most glaring problem, however, was that you’d finally managed to find Arbor, crouched and observant several branches above Skinner. No weapon. That was good. What wasn’t good was that it would be well within her rights to give him up. And beneficial, too. You sucked in a large breath. 

The pack had reached the foot of the tree, though it didn’t seem to note the two tributes hidden within its branches. Still, they idled for a moment, and your whole body tensed with anticipation. Skinner’s foot slipped. And you knew you shouldn’t, but you shielded your eyes, waiting for the impact, incapable of watching him fall into death’s open hands. It didn’t come. Instead, as you removed several of the fingers obscuring your vision, you found Arbor, hand clinging to the back of his shirt, and her face screwed up into a scowl from the effort of keeping him upright. Skinner’s clumsy hands managed to catch a branch, and he pulled himself up, mouth already opening in a question, but she was faster, pressing a hand to his lips and shaking her head with a vehement look that encouraged only silence.

And so he said nothing, and for a while, that’s how they remained, waiting for the pack to move on, her hand over his mouth, simply taking each other in. It was only once the coast was clear that he dared to speak.

“Why did you save me?”

“Well, I didn’t need you making a bunch of noise and giving me away,” she said, releasing any hold she had on him. For a moment, her face only served to support the harsh words, cold in its regard, but the instant his eyes shifted towards the ground, it softened, revealing the true intention, simple and unbridled care. She reminded you of Treech.

“Are you gonna kill me now?” Skinner sounded almost defeated, and he did not even bother to meet her gaze as he asked. Her expression, safe from his sight, twisted into one of concern before she masked it once more.

“I couldn’t if I wanted to. I don’t have any weapons, and the chances of me strangling you are low at best.”

“I don’t have any weapons either,” Skinner admitted before appearing embarrassed by the confession. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not a threat, so– please don’t try to kill me.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you could kick my ass,” Arbor returned, her tone flat and a small smirk gracing her features. Skinner flushed at the expression before admitting defeat with laughter of his own when she let out a chuckle.

“So where’s your partner?” He asked.

“Dead.” The response was factual, but the traces of pain on her face remained obvious. “Yours?”

“Dead.” It was quiet for a moment, and though neither of them spoke, you noted Arbor eyeing Skinner's rope.

“Maybe we could make a deal?” She asked.

“Like what?” He was slow to respond but less guarded than before.

“Like allies?” And she extended a hand in a truce, only continuing after noting Skinner’s hesitation. “Listen, I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted, and if I’m gonna sleep in this tree, I’d prefer to do it tied down and with someone to watch my back. We could take shifts. Even if it's just for tonight?”

“Okay.”

It was not then that you spoke with Treech. Nor was it over the following days, watching the pair grow closer. Watching them reach the final five with the boy from 11 and the girls from 1 and 2. No. The days registered simple interactions. Nods indicating bread and water would be sent, and curt conversations regarding strengths and weaknesses. It was only on the sixth night that you shared more than a handful of words; even then, it wasn’t much. And yet, it was more. Heavier than any of the terse exchanges you’d held since you stopped speaking altogether.

Because, on the sixth night, Arbor and Skinner shared a kiss. He had fallen earlier in the day. No simple fall either. His leg would only carry him so far, but Arbor remained loyal, and the two traveled as a unit. Under the moonlight and the cover of darkness, she had stopped them to take a look at the injury, steady hands unraveling the makeshift bandage she had torn from her own shirt. Skinner only cringed in pain, regardless of her soft-spoken attempts to comfort him as she poured water from a nearby stream on the wound.

“It’s no use. I’m dead weight. You should go. Get out of here before I accidentally screw you over.” The defeat was evident in his tone, but so was something else, something more. A need for her to make it out. To survive.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Her jaw was tense as she focused on the work before her, but you sensed it was not out of a need to concentrate.

“Arbor, I’m not gonna let you die for me–” He was exhausted, eyes heavy with sleep and glistening with pain. Sweat collected at his brow, and he raised a lazy hand to wipe it away, but she got there first, swiping her thumb across his forehead before speaking again.

“Well, I’m not gonna let you die, period. So, just drop it.”

“Arbor.” His hand moved to still her own as though begging her to meet his gaze.

“Skinner?” She asked, annoyed by the disruption but looking up nonetheless.

“What happens if it’s just us?” And you could hear a pin drop in the Academy lecture hall; not even Lucky Flickerman bothered to present his input.

“Well, we aren’t– That’s not… I’m gonna get you out of here,” she stated with finality. Beside you, Treech stiffened, the scene beginning to appear all too familiar. Two kids from 7 and 10, with nothing and everything on the line at the same time.

“I wouldn’t let you do that. I wouldn’t be able to let you do that.”

“Why? Why are you being so selfish? Just let me save you–” And she pounded at his chest, but there was no feeling in her attacks. It took Skinner no effort at all to stop her fists, collecting her hands within his own.

“I don’t want to live if it means you have to die. Because I– Well, I know I haven’t known you that long, but I– Well, I–” And suddenly she was kissing him, telling him wordlessly she felt the same. And suddenly, the world was crashing down, fear pooling in your stomach at the consequences you were sure would come, and you couldn’t help it, looking at Treech, who was already looking at you. Your mouth was dry.

“I don’t– I–” Your chest was constricting, and the room felt hot, hotter than ever before, and your mind was spinning at a million miles an hour. You crossed to the entrance in mere moments, not even noting Treech directly behind you until you had shoved your way out, back slamming into the wall just outside as you crumbled to the ground.

“I– I–”

“You’ve got to breathe. You– We have to get back in there. It isn’t something until we make it something.” His tone was cold, but he was crouched before you, and when his hands reached to pull you off the floor, you swore his thumb ran carefully over your arm once. Twice.

“But it is. You know it is. And if those kids die at the Capitol’s hand, I’m gonna spend the rest of my life wondering if it's my fault. If it’s our fault.” And it was true. It may not have been love for him, but for you, the echoes were everywhere. And though you’re sure the Capitol never saw what happened that night, Dr. Gaul knew enough for the connection to be dangerous.

“You don’t know if that’s what they’ll see–”

“Is it what you saw? Because it’s the first thing I thought about. And I know you hate me now, but you can’t be stupid enough to think that Coriolanus Snow could miss it.” His face only grew more tense before it passed to stone once more.

“What other choice do we have?” He was right. Of course, he was right. So you reentered and took your places, fixed yourselves with masks of unbothered poise, and for nothing. They were dead by morning, carcasses wrapped around one another in a pile of bones and flesh once the Gamemakers’s mutts had finished. And as the camera panned away, you swear you felt a lingering gaze on you, but you did not look, only faked a cough as you brushed the tears from your cheeks and fixed your steady gaze ahead.

That was the year Teff’s boy won, Reed, and once more, before you were allowed to return home, you were forced to attend a party at the President’s mansion, this time with the inclusion of a Victor’s dance. 

“Teff, come on, I am begging you–” You began, but the older boy was already shaking his head.

“I can’t, alright. Octavian already asked me if I’d dance with Teresa, and I gave my word that I would. He registered us a week ago,” he sighed, and you wanted to scream; how could you have been stupid enough to forget about this?

“What about Reed?” At this point, anyone would do. Anyone who wasn’t Treech.

“He’s not doing the dance; his leg is broken, remember?” And you did; the boy had fallen off the top of the cornucopia while securing his win, landing on top of the girl from 1, whose neck broke on impact.

“Well, do you think Mags will switch with me?” You were grasping at straws, aware the answer would be no the moment the suggestion passed your lips.

“You know the deal, the only reason we are allowed to have partners from other Districts is because–” But you interrupted him, already knowledgable of your oncoming defeat.

“We don’t have any from our own. I know. I just don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

“It’s one dance, it can’t be that bad.” He reassured, but you knew better.

“We haven’t spoken in years.”

“You spoke the other day–” Teff corrected.

“That was different; I was basically having a meltdown.” You recalled that moment in the hall. His thumb on your arm. Part of you was convinced it never happened at all.

“I don’t know what to tell you; take it or leave it; this is your only option.” He shrugged, and the conversation was over; you both knew it, but not before you vocalized your frustration one last time.

“Fuck.”

That is it, the third time you talk to Treech, at the President’s mansion, surrounded by Capitol citizens. Before you take the floor, you recall your last dance in this place with a certain Heavensbee. Your mind drifts to the events of that night. To what happened after you departed. You shake the thoughts away. Now is no time to linger on what used to be. 

When it is time to go, Treech appears at your side, extending his arm to lead you onto the floor, and you note that he seems to flinch away from your touch, which barely grazes the crook he creates for you. You are already seething. Was it really so painful for him to even touch you? Were you really that deplorable? It is a simple waltz, one your escorts were able to instruct you on with ease, and though the first few steps are taken in silence, as the music continues, you hear the other victors around you begin to chatter. You and Treech remain quiet, your eyes fixed on the floor below, watching the pattern of your steps. Thinking about anything except his hand on your waist and the other delicately gripping yours.

“You’re not supposed to look at your feet,” he mutters, and that gets your attention enough to force your gaze away from its previous target.

“Excuse me?”

“You aren’t supposed to look at your feet. It makes it easier to screw up the steps.” You don’t answer, only fixing your sightline over his shoulder instead, fully expecting the silence to engulf you once more.

“I hate dancing.” He sighs bitterly, and you almost have to resist a smile because it makes sense that the stoic boy before you would loathe the exercise in trust and coordination, ripe with opportunities for embarrassment. For creating holes in his well-kept facade.

“I don’t.” And you aren’t really sure what prompts you to speak, but maybe it is his clear discomfort with the practice, evident in the way his shoulders bunch awkwardly with each turn and his eyes, in spite of his own advice, continue to flit down towards the floor.

“There’s lots of dancing back in 10. Line dances, mostly from a long time ago. But there’s other stuff, too. Once a month, there's a big dance at City Hall. There’s this big open barn connected to the back, and they decorate it, and everyone goes. My dad taught me how, so it reminds me of him.” You can’t help but smile at the memory of your father, pulling the hat from his head and dropping it onto your own before spinning you around the kitchen in preparation for your very first dance. When the day finally came, you’d already forgotten all the steps, but he didn’t mind setting your feet atop his own, the two sets of boots moving in a stilted pattern around the barn, all shrieking laughter and love.

You feel Treech’s shoulder relax beneath your touch, his gaze now fixed on you and nothing else. The movements become more fluid, and by the end of the dance, it feels like flying. That is until something else seems to catch his attention just outside of your sightline. And suddenly, his grip on your waist tightens, ushering you closer, but his eyes grow cold. For a moment, you could have sworn he was shielding you from something until he wasn’t. Until the music came to an end, and he was pushing away, but not before leaving you with a cutting remark.

“Thanks for the story; I’ll remember that the next time I’m pretending to give a shit about you.” You almost gape at him, unsure how to respond, but as rage, hot and untethered, licks its way up your spine, you give into the cruelest thing you can think to muster.

“I hate you.” And he flinches as though the words hurt him. As though he hadn’t spent every moment of the last three years trying to probe that very reaction from your lips. And you know he must not have meant it. That it is nothing more than the residual regret leaving his body, but a part of you relishes it. Relishes causing him pain after the torture he had put you through.

“Good.”

Victory Tours weren’t uncommon by then, so when it was announced the tribute from 11 and his mentor would be making their way to 10, people were well prepared. Lennox in particular seemed to be veritably jumping with joy, unable to sit still after having received the knowledge that you would be hosting the visitors in your new home in the Victor’s Village. Even Fawn, who at the now ripe age of fourteen was determined to allow nothing to faze her, seemed excited at the prospect of the celebration that typically occurred in tandem with the arrival of a victor. 

You on the other hand were simply happy to see Teff, pulling the taller man into a warm hug the moment he set foot off the train. He seemed not to mind, laughing as he pulled you tighter against him and after a long day of festivities including a night of dancing and the best food 10 could offer, you found yourselves sat around your kitchen table, enjoying one another’s company and a couple of drinks.

“Are we gonna talk about what happened at the mansion? That night, at the party? Quite a scene you two caused,” Teff asked, finally digging into what you knew he’d been itching to talk to you about. You allowed your head to slump forward, burying your face within the comfort of your arms with a groan.

“What am I supposed to say? I was being very civil. He’s the one that ruined it.” Teff only nodded in understanding, having come to know the events that made up your rocky relationship with Treech through snippets divulged over the years.

“You know I’m just worried about you is all. Just wish you would fly under the radar like the rest of us–”

“I don’t wanna talk about this anymore. Tell me about you. About home. How’s Harvest?” Teff was quick to relent, never displeased when talking about his favorite subject, his wife of two years. 

“She’s good. She’s– Well actually I’ve been meaning to tell you this– She’s pregnant.” And though the news reeks of joy, there is an uneasy smile on his face. Still, you are quick to rid him of it.

“That’s incredible! I’m so happy for you.” And you are, beaming from ear to ear, but a part of you aches, just as you know it does for him, for that unborn child. For the world they will surely face.

The fourth time you spoke, it was your fault. At least, that’s what Treech told himself. It was the year of the 14th Hunger Games, and in preparation, the Capitol was running a television program highlighting each of the Districts. It was for that reason Treech told himself it shouldn’t have come as a surprise when the small screen in the corner of the hotel bar filled with Lamina’s face, especially given that she was his District partner and, as he was the only existing victor from 7, an obvious choice for closer study. Still, it didn’t stop the shock from cutting to his core like a knife. 

You had taken the seat beside his, though clearly not intentionally. It was the only place left in the whole bar, and upon your arrival, he had watched you hesitate to even stay, but with the Games set to start in two days, you needed a drink, exhausted by the prospect of another year.

It was as though you could sense his discomfort, gaze clearly flitting in his direction and dragging across his tense form. The television program blared out, filling any gaps in conversation left by the bar’s occupants, and you observed it keenly following Treech’s reaction.

“She seemed kind.” And there you were, attempting to comfort him after all he’d done to push you away.

“She cried a lot.” It is easier than telling the truth. Than admitting he had known Lamina long before the Games. That she was family, a cousin on his mother’s side.

He often saw Lamina in you. In your quiet moments of soft kindness and generosity. Even in moments of fear, watching you steel yourself and move forward in spite of the difficulties. Sometimes, he would imagine a world with no Districts or Games. A world where a gentler version of you who had not been left hardened by survival had met Lamina, and the two of you had become fast friends, spending your days whispering confessions among the branches of the tallest trees or stretched out in a field, you with a pencil and paper and Lamina fashioning a crown of flowers.

“You remind me of her.”

“Because I’m weak?” Your brow furrowed as you gazed down into the drink before you, preparing yourself for the harsh words you had come to expect of Treech.

“Because you’re brave.” He couldn’t help it really, the way it sprang forward from his lips, toppling out before he could fight to keep it in. He suspected somewhere in the wide universe, the spirit of Lamina was laughing at him. That she was somehow responsible for the admission. He hated her for it. Hated himself. Your own face revealed little more than an obvious state of shock, blank blinking eyes staring back at him when he finally summoned the courage to fix your gaze with his own. Your mouth moved, jaw seeming to hinge and unhinge, but nothing came out. Nothing until the soft syllables of his name slipped from your lips in a stilted sort of way, like a sharp breath. 

Treech was on his feet before you’d finished, the remainder of his drink easily downed in his haste to depart, but as he turned one last time to eye the television in the corner, he could have sworn your eyes were brimming with tears.

The final time you spoke to Treech, it felt as though he had something more to say. Like the words he wished to express had caught on his tongue like glue, unable to escape. It was the final day of the 14th Games, five years exactly since your own. On days like that, you forced yourself to remember the things that often felt too painful. The names that sunk like stones in your chest, fading each year into more distant memories. Rye, with his eyes like two wide saucers. Orion, who was so close to victory that he had nearly succeeded in having it. Baron, the boy from back home who’d lost his life within minutes, figure slumped and unmoving in the center of the arena for the remainder of the Games. And, of course, there were others. Brandy and Tanner. Bee and Colt. Rhea and Skinner. Kids from home. Kids just like you. Except here you were, not dead, while they lay, presumably rotting in some mass grave deep within the Capitol’s walls. The thought made you sick.

That year, your fourth as a mentor, your tributes hadn’t even managed to outlast the bloodbath. The second Rochelle’s body hit the ground, you knew it was over, but it didn’t keep you from hoping. Hoping against reason, she would find a way to fight it. To get back up. She hadn’t. And that year, as the buzzer rang out and the bile rose in your throat as it always did, you noted that the pain was less. Less intense. Less crippling. And then the disgust was back again, drowning you, with its aim pointed inwards, armed and ready to feast on your heart. How could you be so cruel? How could you allow yourself to become so hardened and unfeeling? 

Because it is easier. Because there has to be a better way. Because you will never survive this if you cannot learn to leave some things behind. Still, you’d never left a single thing behind your whole life, clinging to every passing thought, person, or feeling like it might be the last. So when Rochelle was gone, signaling your Games had finished, you pulled the small notebook from the inner pocket of your vest and scribbled her name just below Gavin’s with its own set of notes. 

Rochelle. Two sisters, no parents. Lived with her father’s brother and worked nightshifts at the slaughterhouse. 15. Kind. Enjoyed the color green. Was learning to knit with some of the excess wool from her uncle’s work at a nearby farm, sheering the sheep.

Your fingers traced over the list, gently passing each name with the pad of your thumb. So many names. It was easier now to write them down. It was easier now to emote, to feel openly without the watchful eye of the Capitol analyzing your every move just behind Lucky Flickerman. Well, at least without it trained directly on your soul.

A bit further down the bar, Lux sat by herself as well; Beau tucked into the seat beside Trawl, the two having become closer over the years. Maybe even too close, you thought regretfully, mind flitting to a time you had caught the former making a quiet escape from Trawl’s room in the dead of night. Still, you’d bit your tongue, refusing to lecture someone you were aware already knew of the potential consequences. Besides, words often fall on deaf ears when spoken from a position as precarious as yours.

There were three kids left then, each with no alliance in place to keep them safe. A boy from 2, a girl from 5, and Maple, Treech’s girl from 7. She was ruthless, doing little in the way of preserving any image of humanity with her kills, but you understood that there was more than what appeared to pool on the surface. That those who seemed the most heartless were often the most human of all, filled with an unparalleled desperation to return. For a loved one. For themselves, hoping to go back to some semblance of a childhood they would never see again. Your heart swelled for her. For all of them. Still, you’d been doing your best to avoid her mentor since your last encounter. Afraid that he might snap once more, leaving you frustrated and hollow. Or worse, that he might plant some ridiculous seeds of hope as he had with your fourth conversation, calling you brave before disappearing completely. He was infuriating. Aggravating. Annoying, vexing, and completely incensing. 

He was also sitting directly across the bar, arm draped over the seat of the woman beside him with the same lazy arrogance you had come to register as a part of his Capitol persona, a smirk painted light and unshakable across his face. It was as though you could not even recognize the man before you. Still, he looked good. That much, you could easily admit, curls on the lengthier side now compared to the more cropped cut you’d last seen him with. You wondered if they still felt the same, if running your hands through them would still have the intoxicating effect it had years ago. You want to punch yourself in the face for the indulgence of a thought like that, forcing your gaze away with the heat that rises to your cheeks, and just in time, it seems, as the screen switches to capture Maple, finishing off the girl from 5. It is over in a second, and all of the sudden, there are only two remaining. 

Your heart aches for her, the dead girl from 5, without a mentor or guidance, left in the dark. Still, you cannot stop your gaze from traveling across the bar again to fix on Treech, only to find he is already looking at you. The woman beside him has rid herself of all pretense and is curled into his side, back arched like a cat. And yet, he appears almost regretful, eyes trained on your face with the sort of steely focus that rarely graced his features these days. 

Hours later, when Maple does win, pushed over the finish line with the help of several grandiose sponsorships, you can’t say you are all that surprised, no. The real shock comes as you move to exit the bar when a hand catches your forearm within its grasp. You almost ignore it. Almost push to continue on your steady path toward freedom, but it pulls hard, whipping you around, nearly sending you barreling into the chest of your assailant. Treech. And he stands there, blubbering like a fish, features painted with the unsubtle earnesty of a boy. And that alone is enough to stop you in your tracks.

“I– I–”

But not for long. You’d learned your lesson long ago. Wrenching your arm from his grasp, you spin on your heel before he so much as forms a second word, making for the elevator. You would not fall prey to him again. Not now, not ever. In your eyes, Treech was as good as dead.

It was another month before you saw him again, although, on the morning of the Victory Tour’s arrival, you were nowhere to be found within the awaiting procession. Despite the Capitol’s wishes, you’d continued work on the ranch in your free time, and this morning was no exception. Especially considering you’d requested the shift, putting as much distance between yourself and the upcoming ceremonials as possible. 

Just last night, you’d sent notice to the mayor that you’d been feeling unwell, vomiting, and the like, pleading to be kept from the tour for the safety of those involved. He’d kindly agreed, considering your consistent attendance in previous years, and so you’d spent the last few hours with Bluebell, who had grown over time into as much your horse as one could be, walking the ranch’s perimeter and assessing the different pastures for any sign of intrusion the previous night. Finding none, you dismounted, ridding the creature of everything but her bridle and allowing her to graze within your sightline as you sat in the grass, pencil at the ready and sketchbook perched easily in your lap. 

And so the morning passed in easy silence between the pair of you, only returning to the barn just before lunch due to necessity, though you nearly turned on your tail as the building came into view. The form was clear enough from afar, leaned up against the side of the old building, and at first, you felt your chest fill with anxiety, concerned that perhaps the mayor had caught onto your lie from last night to come get you. But as you drew closer, you noted that familiar head of curls you would recognize anywhere, accompanying the lanky form of a young man. Treech.

[bumblebugwrites]

favorite pookie, you are the most eloquent and cohesive writer I have come across. love your writing sm 🧎‍♀️

literally me right now anon, love you so much :)

[bumblebugwrites]

hiii is it too late to be added to the treech fic tag list??? it's so good and i almost missed an update so now i have 2 chapters to read 😭 (not complaining but yeahhh just asking!!!)

absolutely not! i try to keep an eye out in the comments, but please let me know if i've missed you!!!

[bumblebugwrites]

the district 7 brainrot is real, because i have been thinking about the tree-o (get it? the trio from 7? i am just too fucking funny) and the soldier, poet, ruler dynamic between them and i fear i have to speak on it.

i think for me the most obvious one here is lamina as the ruler. now i know that may shock some people, but listen, this is a girl who has the bravery and forethought to put the needs of others before her own, as we see with her exiting what would have been a safe hiding spot in favor of granting marcus the mercy of death and cutting him down so that his body is no longer forced to stand as a symbol of the capitol's cruelty. additionally, we see book!lamina as being willing to compromise and trade, as demonstrated by her brief interaction with reaper ash where he tosses her a piece of his flag for food. i think generally, of the three she demonstrates best the levelheadedness and big heart needed to lead.

i went back and forth on the other two for a while, but i have to say, of the pair, joanna best represents the label of poet. again, i think this decision will surprise people, especially given that words are not something joanna imparts with a good deal of grace or forethought. still, the manner in which joanna weaponizes her anger both in her interview with caesar flickerman as a last restort to keep the capitol from putting them back in the games and in the way she encourages katniss to "make him pay," in reference to snow. there is nothing beautiful about the language joanna chooses to use, no. the strength of her words comes from their ability to incite anger and revolt in others and specifcally and most often, in katniss.

finally, we have treech as the soldier, a character who, in both the book and the movie is very survival minded. i'm certain this decision will make the most sense, given the way he obeys coral's orders without question, but i also see it in his clear strength in combat. in the movie, the few looks we do get at the televisions displaying sponsorships reveals that of the tributes he has received one of the highest number of sponsorships, implying that he demonstrated a substantial amount of skill in his interview.

[bumblebugwrites]

and since i know exactly zero people asked, here's an entire post on how stick season belongs to my district 7 kids and my district 7 kids alone.

starting off strong with joanna mason who frankly could have been noah kahan's sole muse in writing this shit. who will never not be the first person i think of when listenting to "orange juice," if not soley for the lyric "it made you a stranger/ it filled you with anger." the song, to its credit is largely about sobriety, but also so much so about the manner in which a person is changed by the consequences of their own actions, which here is the car crash. still, i can't help but think of the way it mirrors her situation entirely, having contributed to the deaths of anyone she held dear through speaking out and refusing the captiol's wishes. on top of that, we are left with this character who has likely grown to resent the place from which she came for what it has come to represent.

i truly feel that i probably don't even need to connect the dots between joanna and "northern attitude," but for shits and giggles, "if i get too close/ and i'm not how you hoped/ forgive my northern attitude/ oh, i was raised out in the cold." nothing, in my mind, truly captures the division we feel between katniss and joanna in catching fire like these lyrics here. and sure, joanna was never the biggest fan of the other girl, but we do eventually see a friendship of sorts, both clouded and grounded in the two womens' mutual respect for one anothers' detatched aspects, far less warm than say peeta, or finnick.

finally, "the view between villages," which, as one of the only victors we see from 7, is such a gut-wrenching song when thought of with joanna in mind. "a minute from home, but i feel so far from it." this for the woman taken from her family to play in the games, only to return, likely traumatized, with her perspective on her district ultimatley changed and forever altered by the death of cede family at the hands of the capitol. "it's all washin' over me, i'm angry again/ the things that i lost here, the people i knew." again, this sentiment of frustration at returning home and the memories it brings about. and then of course, the obvious allusion made by the literal view between villages, a perfect means of capturing joanna's new life as a victor, pulled between the capitol and her home that no longer feels like it once did.

moving on to treech (or at least the version we see in the movie) who i think is probably best represented by "halloween." i find that i can often etch out meaning in every lyric of this song when it comes to him and specifically his relationship with lamina and the way it seems to haunt him after her death and even before. early in the song we get the lyric "i worry for you, you worry for me," which i feel really digs into their initial and even lingering dynamic: the way treech moves to protect her when shots are fired at the zoo and the obvious attachment she feels for him in return. then we have "the wreckage of you i no longer reside in/ the bridges have long since been burnt." here i have to imagine the wreckage as a sort of symbolic stand in for the state lamina is in throughout the lead up to the games, with the burned bridges obviously being when he turns his back on her. "it's not halloween, but the ghost you dressed up as/ sure knows how to haunt." i have to imagine treech spends the remainder of the games, and his life sort of haunted by what took place the day coral and mizzen killed lamina, we can see it on his face, this sort of all consuming guilt, but then that lyric is followed with "it's an ode to the hole that i/ found myself stuck in/ a song for the grave that i dug," and this is really the nail in the coffin for me, as suddenly this feels like the perfect song to capture the sort of complex grief he may have felt, mourning her loss, regretting the betrayal, and ultimately laying some of the blame on himself.

now this one i feel hinges a bit more on my own personal headcannons, but i see so much of "paul revere" in treech as well. we have this kid here who does his best to sort of distance himself from the one thing tying him to his home, likely for better odds of survival, but it still feels a bit like a betrayal of his district. i think symbolically, the home represented by the song here has to be taken as representing lamina, because i cannot imagine treech would fight so hard to win the games, even leaving his own district partner if it wasn't out of sheer desperation to return. still, a lot of the imagery here certainly conjures the 7 i see when i picture the district, sort of rural and cold, with mentions of the mountains we know 7 would have (being around the washington area). but in this case i'm looking specifically at the lyrics "and when they ask me who i am/ i'll say, "i'm not from around here"," which for me conjures the moment treech abandons lamina during the arena tour and the way it represents a sort of abandonment of his previous identity in favor of survival. there's also "it's typical, i fear/ folks just disappear," which i think can be read both as the way people would likely disappear from 7 over the years due to the games, but also the way that even if they returned, it was changed.

finally, my beautiful girl, lamina, who, more than any other song on the album, captures the essence of "come over". this connection also moves a bit into my own personal headcannons for lamina and specifically her relationship with treech, but even outside of that, the song's very first lyrics resonant so deeply with her situation: "i'm in the business of losing your interest/ and i turn a profit each time that we speak," mirroring the way treech pulls away, leaving her before the games have even begun. also, we have the lyric "so when they mention the sad/ kid in the sad house on balch street/ you won't have to guess who they're speaking about," which for this girl who i think we can assume has always been a sort of gentle force makes so much sense. now we kind of get into opinions of mine, but i've always imagined treech and lamina as maybe childhood friends or cousins, with lamina being a bit better off, and therefore treech spending a good deal of time at her house when they were young (in my mind it also sort of contributes to the way the betrayal went down with lamina, who lead a somewhat easier life growing up having a lower inclination towards survival and treech having a bit of stored up resentment for the conditions he was raised in in contrast with hers). that's why for me the idea of this song is so strongly tied to lamina, beckoning him to come over, to stay the night, to take comfort in the safety of her home (tbh i might write a oneshot about this). also, the lyrics "i know that it ain't much/ i know that it ain't cool/ oh, you don't have to tell/ the other kids at school." i can totally see treech as a kid being a bit embarrased of this companion who can barely stand her own ground and lamina who knows this giving him what she can anyways because that is the kind of person she is.

also, last one i promise, but "you're gonna go far," which for me also conjures pre-games treech and lamina and the way that he likely had this idea that she would make something of her life before everything went to hell. and even outside of that, lamina to me, will always represent the lyric "you're the greatest thing we've lost," with her unabashed kindness and bravery and the way district 7 probably mourned for the quiet girl with the red hair who always had the power to do more.

[bumblebugwrites]

i don't think y'all understand how cowgirl the reader in no evil angel but love is to me. like if i wasn't so invested in the whole thing with treech, i would fully kill him off and just write about her living her farm girl life. catch her making cheese from goat's milk and raising chickens in her spare time.

[bumblebugwrites]

For your TreechXReader ongoing fic, first, I LOVE IT, and second, are we supposed to start liking Lux? Cuz I am and I’m not sure if I’m an outlier or just weird

*me when the secret plan i had from the beginning starts falling into place, and you all start falling in love with lux*

listen, all i'm gonna say is lux is and always has been babygirl, and actually, if you don't like her, you have the wrong opinion. also, i'm too much of a girls' girl for the reader to have some sort of weird "one of the boys" mentality so tbh this was always bound to happen.

[bumblebugwrites]

you are such a good storyteller omg i love ur writing so much!! all of your work is amazingly written 🫶

stawp anon, you are too sweet! tbh y'all, i've lowkey been losing steam with this one, but i really wanna keep going, and seeing you guys enjoy this story makes that worth it every time :)