very sick of things never working out for me lately it’s like no matter how hard i try there will always be something that reinforces every doubt and insecurity i have about myself. ive been doing this dance for 8 years with no progress whatsoever at what point am i supposed to feel good about myself and the supposed hard work i’ve done when i have nothing to show for it after nearly a decade
[looking at people younger than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at people older than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at myself] its over
“scientists don’t want you know” is a phrase that always cracks me up because if you actually meet a scientist they will be shaking and crying like an overstimulated chihuahua with the need to let you know
For those who, like me, when they like a character they need to read every single comic the character appears in, I have compiled a list of all of Kon-El’s (Conner Kent’s) appearances from his debut up to the 2011 Flashpoint reboot (not including New 52 continuity).
For those who, like me, when they like a character they need to read every single comic the character appears in, I have compiled a list of all of Stephanie Brown’s appearances from her debut up to the 2011 Flashpoint reboot (not including New 52 continuity).
For those who, like me, when they like a character they need to read every single comic the character appears in, I have compiled a list of all of Bart Allen’s appearances from his debut up to the 2011 Flashpoint reboot (he was not a part of New 52 continuity).
And there’s also the extended list (including cameos) as a spreadsheet.
For those who, like me, when they like a character they need to read every single comic the character appears in, I have compiled a list of all of Tim Drake’s appearances from his debut up to the 2011 Flashpoint reboot (not including New 52 continuity).
i just have to start blocking people who talk about satoru/satoru stans like that bc if you’re so hellbent on differentiating yourself from us then im just gonna have to assume everything you’re saying abt him is in bad faith and done out of spite bc you’re convinced everything we say is a byproduct of the illiteracy jjk fans already get accused of
one thing i find incredibly hypocritical about the jjk fandom as a whole is the animosity everyone seems to hold against satoru stans, like even some suguru stans/satosugu shippers are guilty of this. we can never talk about satoru’s trauma, the tragedy of his character, or the morality behind his intentions, without someone butting into the conversation to remind us that he’s not the ONLY tragic character in jjk. that they’re ALL traumatized. that not EVERYTHING is about him.
it’s as if we’re expected to include a disclaimer every single time we want to discuss absolutely anything about him. we can’t talk about his body being used as a weapon without making sure to mention the bodily autonomy violations other characters had to endure, too. we can’t talk about how he compartmentalized his trauma without making it clear that we know he’s not the most oppressed character in the whole series. we quite literally just cannot talk about his role in the story for the sake of just talking about him because we’re accused of making everything about him, of refusing to properly engage with the larger thematic choices that defined his fate. if we aren’t constantly acknowledging that his experiences aren’t entirely unique in every other post we make about him then our analysis is insincere and we don’t actually care about the overarching plot of jujutsu kaisen. how is this fair to us?
i like this detail abt the high-res thermography a lot bc it implies to me, in theory, that satoru would be able to tell what kinds of physiological reactions you’re having to him at all times…. if he were to fluster you he’d be able to see the heat rise in your cheeks, maybe see the increased flow of energy throughout your chest due to the rapid beating of your heart.. maybe he recognizes that you feel something for him way before you ever so much as put a name to it.. Much to think about
summary: the hunger games have begun, and now, survival is the only thing you care about. you have not only your life, but the young tribute from your district as well to worry about. a strange alliance with the capitol darling, gojo satoru, however, might come in handy. though you can't forget why you're in this arena, and what ultimately must happen in the end. out of twenty-four tributes, only one can win.
warnings: death, descriptions of violence, lots angst, some steamy moments but nothing too drastic, eventual happy ending (just be patient) and president snow
word count: 33k+
note: comments and reblogs are appreciated! art credit: _3aem
jjk masterlist + series masterlist
You wake up in a tube.
You’re standing upright, surrounded by a curved glass panel that leads upwards to the ceiling.
Clammy hands press against it, stumbling as you try to control yourself from falling. The room around you is empty. The clothes you were initially wearing are gone, and have now been replaced by a lightweight breathable cotton shirt, jacket, and loose pants that somehow fit you perfectly.
Your hands pat against your chest, feeling for the small keepsake they were supposed to allow you to bring. Things like necklaces and rings were tricky, seeing how a girl a couple of years ago had a ring that could turn into a small switchblade, but your father's old packet of handkerchiefs was allowed. You felt a small bulge against your right breast pocket, hoping that Drumesia had somehow been able to sneak it in.
“Yuuji!” You call out, but your voice just bounces off the glass. Your chest heaves, looking wildly around for any sign of the boy, but to no avail. You yell his name again and again until your throat is scratched raw, your throat closing up in fear as you pound on the glass.
“Yuuji! Yuuji-”
No longer could you yell, hearing a sudden loud hiss, and the ground beneath you starts to move up.
The ceiling opened up mechanically, twirling to reveal a bright blue sky. You crouched a little bit as you were moved upwards, your eyes squinting to adjust to the brightness of the arena slowly.
At first, all you could see was white.
The sun was blaring in a strange artificial way as your podium finally came to a stop. There was a peculiar humming buzz in your ears as you shielded your eyes with your hand, trying to regain your vision.
Gradually, you’re able to see different things.
At first, the large Cornucopia is in front of you. It was gigantic, sleek in shape, angular, and metal. There were backpacks, satchels, swords, bows and arrows, axes, and spears gathered in the opening of its mouth. Your head swivels around, blinking slowly as you look to your right and left, and the faces of familiar tributes suddenly start forming.
The boy from five, Maxmus, is trying to look around the Cornocupia, surely for his sister. You feel your stomach sink when you realize Yuuji is nowhere to be found, most likely hidden somewhere behind the large structure.
But you’re able to see the familiar flash of white in front of you, Gojo standing straight with his shoulders squared, ready to pounce. His eyes are focused on the other tributes, darting back to the Cornocupia and then back to the large hologram of a clock above it as it starts ticking down each second until one is left.
He finally sees you, his chin dipping down as the two of you lock eyes. His lips part for a second, spotting Lizzie to your left. He shakes his head, barely, but you catch it. A warning, a sign not to engage. Not like you were planning to, anyway.
For some reason, he looks away briefly, his gaze settling on something behind the Cornocupia. It lingers for a second before looking back at you.
Yuuji.
You have a good sense of where he is now, nodding in acknowledgment. You let your body angle towards where he had motioned you. You don’t have the time to understand why he’s so keen on helping you out, as a tribute and as a person whom you don’t know, but you remember to tuck this appreciation away in case you meet him somewhere later in the arena.
Twenty seconds remaining.
You take in the arena for a brief moment.
Home, you think so briefly, it looks like home.
Sprawling wheat fields with a line of trees and hills a little bit away. The sky is a perfect blue with clouds dotting the corners. It seems perfect, and when you take in a deep breath, you smell home. You feel a little bit of ease before the clock hits ten seconds and a loud mechanical voice starts counting down.
Ten. You hope Yuuji remembers to go towards the trees and not towards you. Nine. The tributes start getting ready to run, and you bend down a little, your legs positioned with one in front of the other. Eight. You can’t feel your heart beating anymore. Seven. Remember what they took from you. What they’re going to take away from you. Don’t give them what they want. Six. Gojo peeks over at you one last time. He shakes his head. You don’t know what it means. Five. Please, Yuuji, go towards the trees. Four. The sunsets from home. Three. Go home. Two. Home.
One.
The shot is fired, and all the tributes jump off their pedestals, each making a beeline for the middle of the Cornucopia. You have a brief moment where you forget what to do before you regain your senses, running blindly to where you thought Yuuji was.
The smell of blood instantly takes over the smell of agriculture and dirt, thick and overpowering. You try not to stumble over your feet when you watch the tribute from three slashes of a sword through the kid from ten, or the way the screams are loud enough to be the only thing you hear.
You were somehow able to duck quickly to dodge a spear that the tribute from two throws your way, letting out a grunt as you tumble to the ground, looking over your shoulder quickly to see it resting in the stomach of somebody behind you.
Go, go, go.
You cover your head as you shove past the boy, rounding the corner of the Cornacopia as you find a little bag nestled up on the side. You had told yourself not to get anything, but the fight was happening behind you, so you quickly grabbed it, hauling it over your shoulder as you ran behind the structure, finding all the pedestals empty.
“Yuuji!” You scream, squinting as you look through the large strands of wheat and into the tree line, “Yuuji!”
Something whizzes past your ear, and you instantly feel something warm trickle down your neck. Your hand flies up, fingers reeling back to find blood. You glance behind you to see Lizzie looking at you with a crazed look in her eyes, her arm reeling back to throw another knife your way, when something behind her, something you can’t see, catches her attention.
A familiar-sounding voice calls her name, telling her to come back, and she looks at you and then to the voice, and decides it’s not worth it, running back to who you guess was Gojo, telling her to help him finish off someone else.
You decide not to waste your opportunity, quickly grabbing the knife in front of you and sprinting past the ring of podiums and into the bushes and rows of trees as the large branches immediately block off the sun, rubbing at your face as you try to adjust to the dimness.
“Yuuji!” You call his name, looking around anywhere and everywhere you think he could be hiding. You feel out of breath, lungs burning, but you keep running into the thickness of the forest.
In the distance, you can see the outlines of some other tributes running, not towards you but away from the bloodbath, and you can only hope that none of them bump into Yuuji and choose not to spare him.
“Yuuji, please!” you beg, a little hushed, frantic in your search, not noticing the large tree root that sprouted up from the ground and plunged harshly into the ground, your ankle pulsing in pain as you let out a pitiful whine.
“Shit,” you mutter, wincing as you stumble trying to stand up, wobbling as you fall back down again. You look around, trying to hide yourself away from plain sight as you rest against the trunk of the tree, holding your ankle as you will it back to work.
You were a bit into the forest where people running by wouldn’t see you, thankfully, and the leaves and trees could hide your body, but none of this mattered if you couldn’t find Yuuji. Time was running out, and you felt your chest heaving with each breath, panic filling your nerves as you looked around.
“Yuuji!” You whisper again helplessly, your eyes wringing shut in pain, head falling back as you clench your fists, “Where-”
A hand lands on your shoulder from somewhere behind, and you can’t control the little yelp that escapes your lips, scrambling away despite the pain flaring throughout your body as you try to shield yourself. But your shoulder fell, your face melting as you see his face come into view from the darkness.
“Oh, oh,” you thank whoever that was watching over you with the most amount of gratitude as you limply crawl towards Yuuji, and he runs into your chest, his tears wetting your shirt as your hands shake when you hug him as tightly as possible.
“You’re okay?” Your voice is muffled against his shoulder, “You hurt? Are you alright?” He nods feverishly against you, his fingers clenching into your jacket with such tightness that you don’t think he’d let go.
“How’d you run so fast?” You ask worthlessly with a wet chuckle, your hand gripping the back of his head, the question non-existent because you were just happy to have found him safe and unharmed.
“You told me to,” he murmurs back, and you give another soft chuckle, nodding, patting his back as you slowly pull away from him, wiping your eyes, and you smile wobbly at him, gently swiping at his red cheeks.
You go to tell him something, but are interrupted by a cannon blasting.
The sound that signals a tribute's death.
It’s normally supposed to come right after somebody dies, but they wait until the bloodbath is over to blast their cannons so that it doesn’t get confusing for those in the games and those watching.
You count, looking up at the sky as you mouth the number of tributes after each boom.
It blasts twelve times. Twelve tribute’s dead. Twelve remaining.
Tonight, they will put up the images of those fallen, and you wonder if you’re going to see the face of the boy you can’t seem to remember. A strange part of you hopes you don’t.
“We should go deeper into the woods,” you tell him after a beat of silence, chewing on your bottom lip, “Find someplace to camp for the night.”
Yuuji nods, using the tree for balance as he rises to his feet. His limp makes it difficult for him to walk, run, or move too quickly, but you can see the way he’s trying his best not to let it hinder him.
You take a deep breath, readying yourself for the shooting pain you’re going to feel as you slowly mirror his movements, hissing through your teeth as your ankle throbs. It’s not broken, you asses, but it’s bruised.
“Did somebody do that?” Yuuji asks quietly, pointing to your slightly angled foot that you’re trying not to put any weight on.
You snort, shaking your head as your eyes shut for a second, fingers digging into the bark.
“Just me,” you say through clenched teeth, letting out a small laugh as you point to your ear, “Lizzie nicked me though,” and Yuuji shuffles around to look at the dried blood on your neck, wincing on your behalf as you wave it aside, your ankle hurting more than the cut.
Yuuji offers himself at your side, letting you use his arms for support, and you ruffle his hair, muttering a quiet thank you as you limp a little bit, your jaw ticking in pain as you see white. You wanted to lie down, wanted to stay there, but these games were not games, and you had to move. For both your sakes.
The two of you carefully move into the forest a little more, and you take the time to study the terrain. District 11 had small forests, nothing this big, but they still shared a resemblance, ranging from the tall and sprawling trees to the rich soil. Birds were chirping around you, the familiar caw of mockingjays chirping around the leaves and singing their rattling song. Sunlight peeked in through yellow rays, and for a moment, it didn’t feel like you were fated to die in a couple of days, but as if you were back home. As if your dying wish had somehow been granted by the head game-maker.
Yuuji stayed silent by your side, his head tilted upwards, mouth gaping in awe as he too tried to take it all in. The two of
“Gojo helped me.”
Your head snaps down to Yuuji’s sudden words, startled, your brows scrunched up in confusion.
“What?”
Yuuji looked embarrassed, his cheek flushing pink as he looked away from your narrowed eyes.
“The girl from seven had run after me when I went into the forest,” Yuuji explained, pointing to the scratch marks on the back of his neck, marks that you thought came from the twigs and leaves but now realize resemble nail marks, “And someone pulled her off of me, Gojo pulled her off of me,” he stammers, “He killed her, but…but he let me go,” Yuuji says bashfully, a look in his eyes, something that’s empty if he wasn’t explaining something horrific no twelve-year-old should have seen, “I thought said didn’t have any allies?”
Your mouth opens, but words struggle to come out.
What did he gain from sparing Yuuji?
“Yeah,” you mutter, dazed, “I thought so too.”
Labeling Gojo an ally is putting too much trust and safety in him, but you wonder if his words from that day in the training center actually carried some weight.
I want to help you.
You don’t have the stomach to say anything after that, the two of you walking quietly next to each other as leaves crunch under your boots and rustle above with the wind.
When you’re satisfied that you’re far away from any other tribe, you look around, trying to look for a tree that has stable branches that would not only withstand you climbing them, but be strong enough so that you two could sleep on.
“There,” you point to a particularly big tree with even bigger-looking branches, “Can you climb up that one?”
Yuuji stared at it, chewing on his cheek as he gave a slow, unsure nod.
“I think so,” he lifted his right leg slightly as if you forgot, “I’ll try.”
You smile, walking over to it as Yuuji helps you lean against its thick trunk. Your ankle was a little better, still sore to the touch, but you knew it should be better tomorrow.
“Did you climb a lot back home?” You ask him, and Yuuji gives a little grin as he thinks back to fond memories, ones with his brothers after a long day of work.
“Yeah,” his eyes twinkle, “But Sukuna was always faster than me. So was Choso.” His smile falters as he thinks about his family, ducking down so you wouldn’t see it.
“Well, good thing I’m not racing you then,” you say teasingly, hands perched on your hips as you look up to one of the branches.
“I’ll help you up, okay? Try to make it to that branch over there,” you point to the one you deemed the strongest, and Yuuji hummed in agreement, letting you kneel so you could cup your hands together so that he could place his right foot in it.
You heave him up, trembling with the added weight on your injured ankle, and grunt as you push him above your head. He grips onto the trunk, slowly using his better leg to haul himself up and up and up until he gradually disappears into the leaves.
You wait for a moment before he calls out, all good and take a deep breath before you do the same.
Back in 11, you used to climb trees to pick apples and oranges if you weren’t working in the fields. You were used to doing this, but not with an injury and not without somebody below to spot you in case something happened.
But you take your time, placing your feet meticulously and carefully as you haul yourself upwards, your head peeking through the branches as you find Yuuji squeezed to the side to make room for you as he rests his back up against the trunk.
When you finally can get to where he is, you plop down on your chest, heaving as your chest exhales with each laborious breath.
“I won,” he said cheekily, and you snorted, pushing at his foot as you crawled next to him, moving your hurt leg so that it could rest in front of you.
After a minute of cooling down, you suddenly remember the pack you had snatched, eyes widening when you feel around your shoulders, pulling it off by the straps and placing it down between your bodies.
“How’d you get that?” He asks, shocked, voice tinged with a little excitement as the two of you scramble to open all the pockets.
“Uh,” you think back to the moment, “It was on the side of the Cornucopia before Lizzie hit me. And then…”
Gojo. He helped you again.
Yuuji’s waiting for you to finish, but you shake it off, not wanting to admit to the tribute from one who has helped you twice, and it hasn’t even been a full day yet.
The bag has a few packs of dried nuts and berries and some jerky. There’s an empty canister for water, some tape, wire for snares and traps, and some rope. There’s no weapon in the bag, but you remember Lizzie’s knife from earlier that you pocketed.
Yuuji pulls out a roll of gauze and matches, holding them triumphantly.
“We’ll ration the nuts,” you tell him, “I don’t hear any streams, but if they gave us a bottle, there should be a source of water somewhere. I’ll go looking tomorrow, okay?”
Despite your throat being parched, and his most likely too, you knew you had to rest. If you put too much stress on that ankle, it was going to get worse before it got better.
“Okay,” Yuuji repeated, tearing into the open bag you offered him as he took a small handful, mindful to take just enough, and began eating.
You did the same, placing each piece in your mouth as you tried to savor the taste and eat as slowly as possible.
In this artificial biome, you let Yuuji rest his head on your shoulder, the two of you looking upwards at the sky as you wait for night to fall.
—-
The anthem began playing, startling you out of your sleep. Yuuji said he’d take a watch for a little bit, and you know you should’ve done it, but exhaustion had settled deep in your bones, and you wouldn’t be of much help if you were this tired.
You sit up, craning your neck to look at the top of the star-ridden sky as the faces of tributes begin flashing, girls first, then boys.
A part of you eases when you don’t see Gojo, as it jumps straight to the girl from District 3, but you instantly feel tense, realizing that it means the rest of the Careers were still alive.
You smile as neither Evelyn nor her brother makes it on the screen, having evaded death for the first day in the games. You continue to watch as the rest of the fallen tributes are shown before the screen flashes, the artificial night sky being all that remains.
Swallowing thickly, you nudge Yuuji with your elbows, hoping that he wouldn’t be too shaken up.
“Hey, how ‘bout you sleep a little?” You smile softly, and he yawns, rubbing at his eyes as he nods sluggishly, curling up into your side as you make some room for him.
Crickets chirp and leaves rustle, a strange and gentle ambiance that reminds you of nights back home listening to nature out on the back porch. It was oddly calming, and you tilted your head back, Yuuji’s quiet snores resonating through your chest.
You tightened the rope around your bodies, wrapped in case you moved and got close to falling off, and did your best to fight off sleep.
You almost gave in before you heard a snap, the sound echoing through the woods as your body shot straight up.
Looking underneath you, the sounds became more frequent, as was the unforgettable sound of human voices.
You gently shook Yuuji up, his head poking from where it was on your shoulder as you held a finger up to your mouth, warning him to stay silent.
With your other finger, you motioned down to the ground, and you both looked on opposite sides of the branch as the voice grew nearer.
“…it was so stupid! Like yeah, come at me with a knife!” A girl's voice said loudly with a laugh, the others around her laughing along, “Didn’t he get a three, four, for his evaluation? I swear, some of them were just asking for it.“
Lizzie.
“That big oaf from five, what’s his name? Maximum? Maxmus? Did you see how he survived my hit? Probably went crying to his sister somewhere.” This voice, you know, it’s the boy from 2, Tiberian.
They’re almost right beneath you and Yuuji, and the two of you are barely breathing, not even blinking, so that neither of you makes a sound.
Just your luck that they’d choose here to set up camp for the night.
“Hey,” Lizzie calls out to someone, and you watch as she bends down a little to look at the ground, her red hair falling into her face as she roughly pushes it back, “Do these look like footprints to you?”
You swear you feel your heart stop.
You motioned for Yuuji to sit up and stop looking over the edge, hoping that it was dark enough and enough leaves surrounded you so that even if they were to look up, you’d both still be covered.
“Maybe? It’s probably somebody who went ahead.”
Gojo.
Yuuji snaps his head over to you, eyes wide as you press your fingers back to your lips, begging for him to stay silent.
Lizzie hums, as if she doesn’t believe him, but stands back upright as she looks around, seeming to think the area good enough.
“You’re still mad at him?” A voice says with a slight giggle. It’s the girl from 2, Arvina, and Lizzie groans, throwing her packs of food and weapons on the ground as she rests up against the tree.
“I almost had her!” Lizzie whines, “That bastard didn’t need my help!”
Arvina and Tiberian chuckle, helping Lizzie and Gojo unpack, talking casually with each other as they each go over who screamed the loudest or who was harder to kill, as if they weren’t discussing the end of someone’s life.
“You ever‘gonna tell us about that Capitol girl?” Tiberian asked who you assumed was Gojo, but he just grunted in response, shaking his head as he piled up some shrubbery and dried leaves into a pile for burning.
“Come on!” Lizzie pressed, pulling her hair up as she tied it with some spare string, “We should know, right?”
The others made noises of agreement, but you watched as Gojo waved them off, working quietly as he began striking some matches up against the side of a coarse rock he had found.
When one of the sparks lands, the pile catches fire, and red and orange flames suddenly illuminate their faces. They all huddle around it, not worried about the smoke that can surely be seen for miles to come, because they could easily take care of anybody who came their way.
“You shouldn’t worry about the girl from 11,” Gojo says gruffly, evading the subject as he goes back to Lizzie's first complaint, and your breath hitches slightly, angling your head ever so slightly to hear him better, “She’s all bark.”
Your brows furrow, nose wrinkling as Yuuji tenses next to you.
“Doesn’t explain why she got a ten,” Lizzie mumbles bitterly, sitting up against the tree as she stretches her legs out, “You can’t exactly bark at sponsors, can you?”
Arvina snorts, sitting down next to Lizzie as she starts unraveling her two braids, her long brown hair falling in waves around her back. Lizzie is the youngest of the Careers, coming in at sixteen while the others are all eighteen, yet she tries her best to act the oldest and most mature.
“No, no, not yet,” Tiberian snaps his fingers at Arvina, and she lets out a dramatic groan, heaving herself back up as she smacks him on the chest, “Still need your help setting up some snares around here.”
The tributes from 2 take some wire and bait from their packs, bidding their momentary goodbyes to Gojo and Lizzie as they set back out into the darkness, leaving them alone.
Gojo sits against a larger rock, one knee pulled up to his chest as he rests his arm on it, the flames flickering around his features, making his eyes seem an even brighter blue. You watch him as he blinks slowly, jaw slightly clenched as if he were deep in thought. His white brows cinch together, his muscular frame casting a shadow up until where the fire was crackling away.
His hand that rests on the ground traces something on the dirt, and your fingers dig into the branch as you watch him study you and Yuuji’s footsteps.
“I’m hungry,” Lizzie comments offhandedly, digging into their stash of dried fruits and jerky as she rips one of the bags open with her teeth, “Want some?”
She offers the bag to Gojo, but he shakes his head. She shrugs, leaning back up against the trunk as they sit in silence. Instead of eating, Gojo tilts his head slightly as he looks at the trial of marking, noting mentally how they stop just at where Lizzie was sitting. Slowly yet surely, his chin tilts towards the sky.
You watch as Gojo’s eyes flicker up the tree, and how they widen when they meet yours.
He stays quiet, not saying anything as the two of you lock gazes with each other, waiting with bated breath, neither of your chests moving for a second.
His face is blank, void of emotion. The blood is roaring in your ears, hands gripping onto Yuuji’s tight as you hold your stare with his. Gojo stays like that for a little more before moving back to poke at the fire with the tip of his sword, as if nothing had happened.
You see the way his lips tilt a little bit,
As if he were containing a smile.
—
You couldn’t sleep that night.
Yuuji whispered to take over the watch, but you shook your head, letting him go back to sleep as he shuffled next to you.
Even when those beneath you put the fire out and laid their heads down, you didn’t let your eyes close. You couldn’t, didn’t trust Gojo enough to believe that he would give you away if he had the right opportunity.
When morning comes and the sun peeks through the trees, you fight back a groan, rubbing at your eyes as you squirm around uncomfortably, the rough groove of the trees digging into your back.
Somebody beneath you lets out an unnecessarily loud yawn, one that wakes Yuuji up as his head tilts to look down, annoyance in his features as you give him a shared smile, rolling your eyes.
Hungry? Your mouth and Yuuji’s hand fly down to his stomach comically, as if trying to contain the instant rumble that it gave.
You laugh softly, carefully moving your bag to your lap as you gently pull out some nuts and berries you had rationed throughout the night, giving a handful over to Yuuji.
He stares at it, accepting it, but pauses as he points to his throat sheepishly.
Thirsty. He mouths back, and you feel guilt shoot through your veins. You’d promised to go looking for water today.
You look down again, watch as Lizzie twitches in her sleep, curling deeper into a ball on the forest floor. Gojo is slumped against the rock, a knife in his hand, always prepared. Tiberian and Arvina are seated next to each other, mouths open with little snores escaping.
You had no idea if they planned to stay here for the day, but you knew that this thirst wasn’t going to be quenched unless you did something about it.
Knowing Yuuji and his limp, he’d make a lot of noise coming down the tree. Your ankle was a little swollen but significantly better than last night, so you knew you’d have to make the journey alone if it were even possible.
Can you wait a little longer? You ask, and Yuuji bobs slowly, his lips chapped, but knowing that leaving your haven now could potentially mean death.
You smile apologetically, squeezing his hand once.
Finding your eyes fleeting back downwards, you watch as Gojo stirs a little bit, his face serene and calm in sleep.
As if sensing your gaze, Gojo blinks an eye open, sitting up against the stone as he stretches his strong arms above his head, looking around to make sure everyone is still there.
He tsks in annoyance when he sees Tiberian fast asleep, most likely supposed to be the last round of watch, but had given in to exhaustion.
Gojo pushes himself off the ground, joints cracking as he stretches slightly.
And then, carefully ,as if not wanting the others to sense what he was doing, he looked up.
Up to you.
Gojo looks as if he wants to make sure you’re still there. His shoulder moves down as he swallows, blue eyes squinting as you sit still. He runs his fingers through his hair, pushing it back as a sigh rumbles out of his chest.
His hand falls to the side of his head, fingers pointing at the blood on the side of your face, something you haven’t had the opportunity to clean off yet.
You okay? His mouth formed the shape of the words.
Was…was he talking to you?
You blink, startled and dazed.
He’s still looking, as if expecting a response.
Your hand flies up to your ear, wincing at the cut. Dried blood flakes off, and you rub at the side of your face where it mainly is, scratching it raw until nothing remains. Yuuji watches as you twist your head to see if Gojo is still there.
One of his brows raised slightly, as if he were pressed for an answer.
Your shoulders rise and fall in a sort of shrug, pointing down to Lizzie’s sleeping body.
His stare follows your movements, lingering on her for a moment, and then flickers back to you as if understanding, but your attention was momentarily drawn away as Yuuji hastily tugs on the sleeve of your jacket.
“Is Gojo talking to you?” Yuuji asks, bewildered, whispering harshly in your ear as he observes from the other side, and you shush him. He goes pink, and you want to apologize, but you are cut off when something small hits the side of your body.
Baffled, you look down to see a small rock next to you.
Your neck swivels to where Gojo was still standing, his arm reeling back to throw another pebble to catch your attention. He sheepishly puts it down when he sees your seething glare. He mouths a sorry.
What do you want? You hope he can pick up the urgency in your tone, how much he’s messing with your psyche by acting like he was merely playing around instead of acting like he should be.
Hungry? You watch his mouth form the words intently, and shake your head as you gingerly hold up the bag you had gotten from the Cornacopia. But then you pause, gnawing on your lip as you set the pack back down between your lap, carefully and quietly bring the empty metal canister out.
Should you tell him? Tell him about the thing that’s hindering you and Yuuji from escaping?
By your calculations, he’s reached out to help you a couple of times, has helped you and Yuuji out already during the games, and hasn’t given away your hiding spot to the other Careers. You had spent the entire night waiting to see if he’d whisper something about your whereabouts, but his mouth never opened. You know that trusting him is still something difficult to ask yourself to do, but you wonder if, for some reason, he struggles to hurt you just as much as you struggle to hurt him.
Need water, your mouth after a minute of debating, opening the lid of the bottle, and holding it upside down to show that it was bone dry.
His eyes flash, an unreadable expression taking over his features.
Gojo glances somewhere back in the forest, hands crossing across his chest as his jaw ticks, mulling something over. The sun has set in the sky, and birds are stirring awake with their loud and incessant chirps. It won’t be long until the others wake up, too.
He suddenly points to somewhere down the trail, and you look behind the tree as if you could see what it was that he was ushering to.
River, he voices wordlessly, water back there.
Your brows raise slightly in surprise.
The leaves around you rustle, the breeze kissing your cheeks as your mouth opens and shuts, as you contemplate something. Even if he was telling the truth, how could you even begin to try an leave without the others noticing? How could you trust that there wouldn’t be an ambush when you got back? What’s it to say that he’s just trying to coax you to come down so he could kill you himself?
As if understanding your hesitancy, Gojo offers you a small smile, one that seems almost genuine, as his head ducks and he looks down at the sleeping tributes surrounding him.
He walks over to Lizzie, nudging her with the tip of his boots as she flinches, raising upwards as she yawns again, rubbing at her eyes as she cranes her neck up to look at him.
“What?” Lizzie snaps groggily, yawning again as she pushes his boot away. You watch as Arvina and Tiberian slowly start waking up after the noise. Arvina lifts her head from where it was resting on Tiberian’s shoulder, cracking her neck as she presses her palms into the sockets of her eyes to help her come back to her senses.
“Wake up,” Gojo tells her gruffly, his voice rough and hardened, a drastic difference from how you remembered him speaking to you. “Keep watch. I’m going to get some water.”
Yuuji pokes your thigh, a bright and excited grin on his face as he actively listens in on what Gojo is saying. You gave him a wobbly smile in return, still not liking what was happening but trying your best not to worry him.
“Mhh, fine,” Lizzie says, sleep still laced in her tone as she lazily puts her hair up, standing up as she ventures around to find one of her packs. She tosses Arvina some jerky, and she tears it open and holds it next to Tiberian so that they can share breakfast.
Gojo takes his weapons with him, giving you a brief look that would’ve just seemed like he was scoping the area out to the others before he set off with a slight jog in the direction he claimed the stream was located.
Lizzie watches him disappear into the trees, glancing over to where the other two were sitting and eating, moving a strand of hair away from her face as she exhales a big puff of air, her foot tapping quickly.
“Do you want to do it now?” She whispers after a few seconds, and Arvina looks up from her packet of jerky, mouth full as she slowly chews, swallowing tickly as she peeks over at Tiberian, waiting to see what he was planning to say.
Tiberian’s fingers curl around the spear he kept right next to him, nodding.
“Yeah,” he mutters, his finger poking at the tip, his finger pulling back, pricked with blood, “When he comes back.”
Your eyes squint as you try to pick up their whispered words, confused at their sudden change in conversation, one that they didn’t want Gojo to overhear in case he was still around.
“I’m still going for his head, right?” Arvina asked, looking between the two tributes as she flipped the knife around in her hand, catching it repeatedly by the handle, “Or do you want to switch with me?” She points the weapon at Lizzie as she gets to her feet, dusting the twigs and dirt from her pants.
“No,” Tiberian shakes his head, accepting Arvina’s extended hand as he stands, “Lizzie’s shorter than him, it wouldn’t work.”
Arvina snorted, pulling her hair from over her shoulder as his deft fingers started to quickly put it into a long, glossy braid.
“True. Plus,” she throws the braid over her shoulder as she shrugs, “She couldn’t even kill that girl from 11. She’d probably freeze if-”
“Hey!” Lizzie snapped, her freckled face turning red with both embarrassment and anger, “I had her, okay? Gojo just-”
“What?” Tiberian cut her off, his shoulder knocking hers as he picked up the other spear near her foot, “He called for you? And you went over like a puppy to its bitch,” He twirled the spear around, testing its weight as he pulled his shoulder back, acting like he was going to throw it in the direction Gojo had gone, “Still got that little crush on him?”
Lizzie blushes even more, if possible, and swats at his shoulder harshly, grumbling curses under her breath.
“Arvina goes for his head, I go from the left, and Lizzie…” Tiberian goes through their premeditated plan as he snaps his fingers at her, and she waves him off.
“I go right, yeah, I know.”
They all discuss quietly how they’d try to take Gojo down, where to hide to take him by surprise. They discuss these plans as if it were second nature to them, as if it’s been in the works for a while.
Yuuji tugs on your hand, eyes filled with worry, as he starts putting together what’s going on.
They’re planning to kill Gojo.
—-
You couldn’t out-power them.
The measly knife you stole from yesterday could do some damage, but you’ve never had experience using one to fight before, and you doubt that the three of them would fall to your mercy with it. Not only that, but you had Yuuji, too. If you left, they might come after him, and that was something you weren't going to risk.
Besides, you were still on the fence about risking your life for someone you barely knew.
But somewhere deep down in you felt compelled to at least try. He spared your life once; you owed him that much.
Then you’d be even, and maybe he’d stop coming after you.
You studied the trees surrounding you. If you tried, you might be able to travel from branch to branch, be able to move above ground, and notify Gojo that way. But you didn’t know how fast you’d be able to move with a bruised ankle, nor how quietly. Although it was your best option. When you were little, you always used to fly through the branches back home, competing with the other kids to see who could make it to the edge of the District fastest.
It had been nearly twenty minutes, and Gojo wasn’t back yet, but you knew he’d have to return sooner or later. This was your only chance at giving him a heads-up.
You knew you’d be leaving Yuuji alone, but he was the one who offered the idea.
“He helped me,” Yuuji whispered hastily, untying the rope around your waist, wanting you to get a move on things, “And you. We owe him.”
Curse his kind heart.
“I,” you look worriedly at the ground. If you fell, you knew you wouldn’t survive, “I’m not sure, Yuuji…” but you knew that deep down your mind was already made.
He gave you a pointed look, grabbing the knife from your hands as he shoved you a little bit.
“I’ll have this, you go.”
After another moment of mulling it over, your fists clenched, shaking your head at the absurdity of it all.
You were really doing this.
“Fine, fine,” you shuffle, easing your way to stand up, using the trunk to stabilize yourself as a surge of pain flashes through you, but you push it down, giving Yuuji one last chance to go back.
But you’ve never seen him so determined.
“Stay safe,” you whisper, “You yell, yell as loud as you can if something happens, okay?”
“Okay,” he says hurriedly, hands pushing at your legs to get you moving, “Just go!”
You nod, turning around as you look over at the trees to see which branches are more stable-looking than the others, which ones would provide a clearer path to where you wanted to go.
And with one careful foot after the other, with one deep breath to calm your nerves, you turn around the trunk to the branch on the other side and just start flying.
You don’t remember the last time you jumped between branches. The first jump you take, you almost slip, some bark flaking off as it falls to the ground. The tributes look up, confused, but thankfully, you’re covered by the leaves, and they wave it off as an animal.
You move again, leaping more carefully, the movements something that comes back slowly like muscle memory, as your hands are outstretched to help you keep balance. Your feet don’t make any noise when you land, the wind whipping past your face as you channel every bit of adrenaline into making sure to just keep running.
With eyes both in front of you and beneath you, you try not to run into any trunks, but are still trying to see that flash of white that you could recognize from miles away.
You grow more tired as you keep running, no sight of Gojo even as you get closer and closer to the forest edge.
Pausing on a particularly thick branch, you stop to catch your breath, your body lined with sweat and chest heaving as you look everywhere, anxiousness filling your nerves. This was a terrible idea. What if they found Yuuji? What if Gojo had already arrived, what if…
That’s when you see him.
He’s cutting through the thicker bushes, sword clinging as he treks through the forest with his pack strapped on his back. Gojo looks calmer, his face not so bunched up as it was before.
You brace yourself as you start jumping, not caring if your cheeks and hands are getting torn up by the sharp thorns and twigs.
There was only a little bit left when you suddenly slipped, your bad ankle rolling under the weight, and you fell off the branch, letting out a yelp as you fell through the air.
Your hands scramble to grab onto anything, your body hitting against the green leaves and other branches as you fall helplessly to the forest ground.
Luckily, your left hand grabs onto a thinner branch, your body jolting as you let out a whimper of pain, eyes screwed shut as you dangle helplessly.
“11?”
It’s him.
“11, is that you?”
Your mouth is open in a quiet whimper, your hand barely holding on as you oddly angle your head to look at who’s standing underneath you.
Gojo’s waiting at the base of the tree, chin tilted upwards as he looks at your dangling body.
You give him a humorless chuckle, clipped as you hiss at the rough texture digging into your skin.
“How’d you know?” You call down sarcastically, your other arm swinging upwards as you try to grab on. The branch creaks, and you frantically look at where it was sprouting from the trunk as it was slowly yet surely cracking.
“Seems like you’re the one doing the stalking now,” Gojo says with some mirth in his voice, “Can’t stay away from me?”
Your lips pressed tightly together as you try to grab onto the branch again, but the branch bends even more, and the smile on his face falls when he realizes what’s going on.
More splinters go flying, and your arm that’s holding on is slipping, your fingers doing their best to dig harder into the wood.
Gojo runs down beneath you, throwing the sword on the ground.
“Let go,” He cups his hands around his mouth, “I’ll catch you!”
The branch creaks again, splinters flying as you wince, surveying your odds of dying, splattering on the ground, or at the hands of the most skilled tribute here. When the branch gave a notably loud snap and your body was shoved down even more, you gave up, hand unfurling as you let yourself fall.
The winds whip around you, your legs and arms flailing around your body, twisting and turning, teeth clenching in pain as different thorns and leaves keep cutting your cheeks, the back of your hands, anything that they can latch onto as you get closer and closer to the ground.
Your eyes squeeze shut, waiting for the impact, but it never comes.
Peeking one open, you see Gojo’s face looking down at you, one arm around your waist, the other hooked under your knees as he observes you worryingly.
You give yourself a second to catch your breath before you scramble out of his hold, heart pounding rapidly, trying to ignore the heat underneath your cheeks.
He watches you, confused, but your hands rest on your knees as you heave up and down, wiping away at the sweat on your forehead. You balance up at him, the first time you’ve seen him since the interviews, and offer him a twisted look.
Gojo swivels his bag around, unzipping the first pocket as he takes something out of it, offering it to you.
A bottle of water.
You look at it, your brow slightly raised at his outstretched hand. Gojo waits, understanding your reluctance as he unscrews the top, drinking some of it to show that it wasn’t tampered with.
When he hands it back, you take it instantly, chugging half of its contents, saving the other half for Yuuji.
“Thanks,” you say after wiping the water droplets from your chin, giving him the bottle back as he pockets it, nodding silently.
He gives you a second to recuperate before you’re able to gather your thoughts.
“They’re,” You heave, coughing at the strenuous way you’re still breathing, “They’re planning,” you take in another steadying breath, “They’re planning to kill you. Lizzie, Arvina, Tiberian. I overheard them.”
Gojo’s smile doesn't waver, as if he doesn’t believe you.
Scoffing, you motion to the trees you just ran through, showing him the cuts on your hands and arms, traces of blood lining your face as well.
“You think I would’ve gone through all,” you wave wildly around to the trees, “This just to lie?” You roll your eyes at the audacity of him, muttering just how unbelievable he was and regretting overdoing this as you put your hands up in disbelief, “Unbelievable. Fuck, fine, don’t believe me. But we’re even now, okay?”
You look around while trying to block the sun out, wondering just how you’d be making your way back when Gojo speaks up.
“Even?”
You look at him from the corner of your eye.
“Yeah,” you say slowly, looking at him through furrowed brows, “You saved Yuuji and…me, I guess, so…even.”
He pushed some of his stray hair away from his face, biceps bulging, and you tried not to look too long at the sight.
“Do you think-”
But he gets cut off by a distant scream. One that sounds like your name.
Your necks snap back to the forest where everyone was gathered, your eyes widening with fear as you whisper, “Yuuji,”
Gojo glances back at you, and you stutter, trying to move but almost falling back on your foot as you yelp at your ankle you had just busted again.
“Yuuji, he’s there,” you’re stammering, slurring your words with fear and anxiety as you shuffle closer to him, your hand gripping his arm in a pleading way, “Please, I-I can’t-”
You know you’re asking things from him that he shouldn’t grant you. That there should be no normal place where a tribute from District 1 would ever want to help anybody besides their allies, why he shouldn’t killl you as you stood in front of him, but Gojo had this sort of determined look in his eyes that mirrored yours.
“Get on my back,” he says, rushing, packing everything up, throwing his bag off so you could climb on, but you just look even more startled.
“Hurry!” Gojo snaps, and you don’t have time to wonder how in the world he’s going to be able to carry you and this pack at once but he just moves around, letting you slowly grab around his shoulders, your arms tightening around his neck, and legs wrapping around his back as you shrug the pack over yourself.
Shockingly enough, Gojo started running as if nothing was weighing him down. You assumed that all the added muscles and training helped with this, but you were shocked at how well he was able to maneuver around the trees and shrubbery while still maintaining his speed.
This has now been the third time he’s helped you out, and at this point, you wonder if it would benefit you to start making a list of how many times you’re indebted to him.
You blink back tears, a dark thought spotting, hoping that they didn’t get to him first.
Eventually, Gojo comes to a halt, your chest pushing into his back with the momentum, and you groan, the wind getting knocked from your lungs.
The two of you are hidden by some large bushes and can hear the Careers a short distance away, shouting and laughing at something.
You climb off of him, carefully not to make a sound as you peek in between the leaves to see them huddled around the tree you had been pointing to…Yuuji.
Lizzie is smiling gleefully, laughing maniacally as Yuuji tries to climb higher, but his right leg hinders him. Tiberian is off his spear with a rock, trying to get it even sharper.
You watch with your mouth falling open, eyes watering as Yuuji screams for you again, gripping onto the tree trunk for dear life.
Gojo winces, looking over at your stricken face, and his hand comes to hold your wrist. You flinch, shaking your head helplessly, your bottom lip trembling.
“I’ll take care of them,” he whispered once again sternly, a steady promise, “Don’t worry.”
“But you just have the one sword, it’s three of them, I-I can’t help with-”
He snorts, squeezing your wrist gently before dropping it, twisting the handle around in his hand as he tests its weight.
“Just wait till it’s safe to come out,” Gojo murmurs, his eyes holding a peculiar weight, as if he could already see the scene playing out in front of him, “Okay?”
You nod limply, your face morphing into something cold and fierce when you hear Yuuji scream again. Gojo does one last take of you before disappearing somewhere into the blend of trees.
Waiting with baited breath, watching the opening as Arvina steps in next to Lizzie, yielding her arm back, the knife catching the sun as it shines. She throws it up, and you can almost hear it whizz.
Yuuji narrowly swerves it, his cheeks pink with tears as he trembles in fear.
Tiberian moves so he’s crowing the tree, two sharp spears in his hands as he throws them up and down, catching them with a metallic clink in his hands.
With their backs now to the woods, you visualize what attack plan Gojo must be formulating in his head. You crouch, looking from another opening as he emerges, silent as a mouse, from behind.
His steps are methodical and calculated, making sure not to make any noise as he creeps up on them. You hold your breath, hoping that they couldn’t hear him over the ruckus they were stirring up.
Yuuji lets out a particularly gut-wrenching cry, one that strikes deep into your heart. You silence the little sob that escapes your lips, covering your mouth.
Gojo moves with a precision that only a skilled craftsman has, lunging forward towards Tiberian as his sword glints like gold in the yellow light filtering through the thousands of leaves from above.
Arvina turns her head at the slight noise, but it’s too late.
Gojo’s blade cuts clean through his neck, and you flinch, turning quickly away to not see the gruesome sight. Lizzie lets out a scream when Tiberian’s body hits the ground with a harsh thud.
Arvina reels back, ready to swing, but realizes that the knife that was once in her hand is now lost up in the trees, and falls as Gojo’s second victim, his sword searing her chest.
She looks up at him, dark brown eyes reading something of betrayal as if she wasn’t planning to do that same moment ago. Blood pools around her uniform, and when Gojo shifts, his sword moving with him, her knees buckle, and she falls somewhere near Tiberian.
Lizzie was the last one remaining, and you watched as she scrambled to find one of her knives she had pocketed. You hear her beg for mercy, pleading and crying, but Gojo grants her nothing but.
When you hear the three canons finally blast, you nearly run out from your hiding spot, over to where Gojo was standing, his chest moving up and down with each laborious breath.
So much for the Career pack, you think mordaciously.
You share a look, but you don’t have time to worry about that as you glance up to Yuuji, relief flooding through you when you see him relatively unharmed.
“I’m coming, Yuuji!” You scream, and he lets out something incoherent, watching as you plan how to climb back up to him.
Gojo wipes his sword with some leaves, the blood coming off with a chilling, slick sound, splattering on the ground.
“You can’t climb with that ankle,” he wryly comments, and you huff in irritation, scrambling to come up with a solution.
“Have him fall,” Gojo continues, “I can catch him.”
You look torn, looking between Yuuji and Gojo as you think about what could happen if things went south.
“I…I don’t know,” you mutter, “He has his leg and…” you trail off, but Gojo is quick to understand the underlying resistance in your words.
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tilted his head up at the sky, trying to make sense of the strange way your mind works.
“Look, I just killed three tributes,” Gojo says with a cocked brow, pointing to the three bodies behind you with the tip of his sword, as if not believing why you still weren’t trusting him, “I could’ve killed either one of you multiple times. Don’t you think that maybe I want to help you?”
But why are you questioning what you want to yell?
“I think I’d rather he catch me!” Yuuji calls from above, having heard the little quarrel, and the two of you watch as he shuffles around on the branch.
You think for a few more seconds before nodding, motioning for Gojo to go and do his thing. He gives you a tight-lipped smile, moving past you to the base of the tree with his arms outstretched.
Trying not to look at the bodies around you, you keep your gaze focused on Yuuji, telling him which direction to go so that he could land the safest way and with the least amount of impact.
“There! Right there!” You call out, chewing all of your nails off as Yuuji looks at you and then to Gojo one last time before he closes his eyes and jumps.
He whizzes downwards, and Gojo catches him with a thump, his legs dangling off his strong arms as a smile graces his face.
You let out the breath you had been clinging to, running over to him as Gojo carefully sets him on his feet, throwing your arms around his shoulders as you murmur apology after apology.
Yuuji pats your back, comforting you for some reason as his ears twinge red. As if you were one of his siblings, he tries to pull away, now suddenly feeling self-conscious of having the strongest men he’s ever seen be witness to your meltdown.
“I’m okay,” Yuuji mumbles, embarrassed, wiping off the kiss you pressed to his cheek, eyes darting to Gojo’s before he quickly looks away.
You laugh wetly, pushing his hair away from his face as you wipe at your cheeks.
Chewing on your bottom lip, still crouched on the ground as Gojo towers above you, your eyes soften for the first time since you’ve been in these games.
“Thank you,” you whisper hoarsely, the words genuine and sincere, gentle as they pass across your three bodies and get swept with the wind, “Truly.”
Gojo swallows, his cheeks dusting pink at your praise, and waves it all off like it was nothing.
You stand, trying to shield Yuuji from the chaos behind you as you rub a hand up and down his back, a soothing gesture to remind you that he’s alright.
“You need water?” Gojo asks Yuuji, changing the topic suddenly, and it causes you to smile to yourself, hoping he doesn’t catch it.
Yuuji nods feverishly, nearly knocking the bottle out of Gojo’s hands as he twists the cap off and chugs it off, done in seconds. He sips his chin, looking sheepishly at you, but you assure him you already had some to drink.
“Thanks,” he says with a burp, giving him the now-empty bottle as Gojo’s lips tilt upwards, a grin on his face as he puts it back in his pack.
A silence follows, leaving only the rustling branches and mockingjays' call to be heard. You wait for Gojo to say something, but he seems to be struggling just as much.
Now what was the question that seemed to loom in the air?
“Do you want to join us?” Yuuji asked simply, seeing that nobody else was going to talk, his voice mellow as if he were asking Gojo what the time was.
“Yuuji!” You hiss, aghast, brows raised into your hairline at his bold statement, your eyes wide as he looks at you with a shrug, glancing back over to Gojo like nothing was wrong.
Gojo, also evidently taken aback by the request, says nothing for a second before chuckling to himself, the sound deep and reverberating through his chest as he eyes Yuuji, clearly not expecting him to be so bold given what he had seen from him so far.
A scene flashes before you, back to that day in the training center when Gojo first approached you.
You know he won’t make it long, he had said.
Your nose wrinkles in vexation at the memory, tugging Yuuji by the hand as you shake your head, giving Gojo a curt but formal smile as you take the bag Yuuji had managed to bring down from the tree, shrugging it over your shoulders, getting ready to leave.
“No, no,” you answer on Gojo’s behalf, giving Yuuji a pointed look, “I appreciate the help, but I’m sure that he’d like to go-”
“I wouldn’t mind,” Gojo says, a little fast, cutting you off as he winks at Yuuji, watching the way your face suddenly hardened up, “I wouldn’t mind joining you guys. That is,” he then looks to you, his face twisting into something teasing, his lips quivering as if he knew smiling would anger you even more, “If you don’t mind.”
Yuuji squeezes your hand a little tighter.
You have to control yourself from not looking over your shoulder at the bloody scene behind you, his previous allies lying in a heap of blood, not even being taken out in over five minutes despite having trained their entire lives for it.
There was no way you could protect yourself and Yuuji against him if it came down to it.
“How many times am I going to have to prove that I’m not going to kill you?” Gojo asked exasperatedly, and Yuuji seemed apologetic for his behavior, opting to look at the ground and move some of the scattered leaves with the tip of his boots.
You rubbed at your nose, apprehension written all over your features. As dangerous as he was, you couldn’t deny the layer of protection he’d offer you and Yuuji if he stayed by your sides. Even if he didn’t plan to stay till the end, you could use the extra help he’d provide until he chose to part ways.
But all that aside, what you wanted to know most was why? Why was he so keen on helping you? What did he gain from it?
You pointed to his sword after a minute of thinking.
“You give me your weapons,” you tell him firmly.
Gojo handed the sword over without any hesitancy, as if your condition didn’t matter in the slightest to him.
“And you walk in front of us.” You added quickly, and he raised his hands, his pink lips drawn into a smile, his blue eyes shimmering with a hint of childish excitement at how you eventually succumbed to his and Yuuji’s requests.
“Shouldn’t be too difficult with your ankle and his leg,” Gojo responds, and Yuuji snickers to himself, causing you to pinch the skin of his neck, and he yelps.
“And…and you help us get food,” you stammer, repentant at having given in, “Not just nuts or berries.”
Gojo smiles smugly, nodding.
“Is that all?” He asks after you don’t add anything else, and you don’t look him in the eyes, mumbling to yourself as you get ready to go.
You close your eyes and think this through all over again before you give up.
“For now,” you mutter under your breath, still in disbelief as you lead the way back into the first.
—-
You didn’t know where to go, but it was nearing the end of the second day of the games, and there were only nine tributes left, three of them being your weird and soon improvised ragtag team.
Gojo claimed that he had passed by another river when he had been scavenging yesterday, somewhere near the outskirts of the forest, but on the other side of where the Cornacopia was. He seemed confident in where he was taking you and Yuuji, but you remained as skeptical as possible, taking everything he told you with a grain of salt.
“There’s no way you don’t think I’d lose in a fight to them,” Gojo gasped, appalled as Yuuji laughed, walking with a little skip in his step. Yuuji seemed to have lightened up, glad to have this extra bit of protection from the most capable tribute in the arena. Not only that, but shocking enough to you, Gojo had been entertaining all of his crazy ideas, questions, and stories the entire day.
“You definitely would,” Yuuji assured him, “My brothers are huge.” Despite your telling him to walk a little bit ahead, Gojo had quickly forgotten this rule as he slowed down his long strides to match up with Yuuji. At first, you snapped at him to hurry up, but seeing how happy it made Yuuji to talk to him, you held yourself back.
Yuuji pauses after saying something, looking up at you with a raised brow, waiting for your response. You hadn’t been fully listening to their banter, trying to keep your eyes and ears peeled because nobody else was, so you blinked back, confused.
“What?” You asked, stripping your gaze away from the forest as you look over at Yuuji and Gojo.
“Don’t you think Sukuna could be him in a fight? Fist to fist?” Yuuji repeats, and Gojo scoffs, rolling his eyes at the absurdity of the statement.
You glance over at the other tribute, eyeing him from head to toe as you pretend to think about Yuuji’s question. The fact that you even had to think about it seemed to annoy Gojo even more.
“Come on,” Gojo muttered in a peeved tone, “Are you seriously agreeing with him?”
You give him an impish look, scratching your head.
“I don’t know,” you confess, holding back your satisfied grin at the way Gojo looked shaken, “The twins are really strong.”
“Yeah!” Yuuji expciams excitedly, always happy to brag about his brothers, “Choso’s arms are like,” he tried to gauge with his small hands how big his brothers muscles were as he showed the size up to Gojo, “This big. Yours are…” he looked around, assessing Gojo’s muscles as he shrugged, looking over to you as he shook his head dejectedly. It seemed that Gojo’s arms were, in fact, as big as his brother's.
You giggled softly, hiding your smile behind your hand as you looked at the leaves littering the ground. Unbeknownst to you, the sound nearly made Gojo trip over his own two feet, his heart pounding erratically as you shoved at Yuuji playfully.
“I can’t believe I wanted to help you two,” Gojo muttered, rolling his eyes as Yuuji smiled brightly, skipping around Gojo as he always seemed to do.
Despite your initial hesitation towards allowing Gojo to tag along, mainly for the comments he had made previously about Yuuji, it seemed that the young boy had quickly grown on the tribute.
You had forced yourself to stay awake the first few nights, refusing to let Gojo take watch out of fear of him turning on you while asleep. After some protests, he gave up, shrugging indifferently as he let you watch in exhaustion.
Sometimes Yuuji would shift unconsciously in his sleep, whimpering as nightmares got to him. Gojo woke up, assessed his face, and pushed against his shoulder, not in an annoyed way, but to ground him, as if he understood. When his hand first stretched, your hands curled against the hilt of his sword, but you watched curiously as Yuuji grumbled something underneath his breath and went back to sleep soundlessly.
It had been three days since Gojo had been with you two, and in those three days, no other tributes had died. You suspected that the gamemakers weren’t too antsy yet, seeing how thirteen tributes had died so far and it hadn’t even been a full week, but you knew that if that canon stayed silent for any longer, they’d be introducing more gruesome ways for you all to meet your end.
You had also wondered what those watching had made from your strange alliance. Were the people in the districts intrigued? Angered? What did sponsors and game makers think of it? It was practically unheard of for somebody from a district as high as Gojo’s to team up with such a lower district, but it was hard ot predict what the reaction would be to it.
“How’s your ankle?”
Your head perked up from where you had been focusing on the roots scattering around the forest floor, glancing sideways at Gojo as he had slowed down his pace to match up with yours. Yuuji was a little bit ahead, knowing not to stray too far away from where you and Gojo could no longer be able to see him.
Your shoulders fell into a dismissive shrug, the dull ache still pulsing, but Gojo had fashioned a makeshift bandage that had wrapped around your foot, keeping it effectively in place. It was slightly awkward having this virtual stranger kneeling in front of you with your foot in your hand, but you hoped it was putting on a good show nonetheless.
“It’s better,” you mutter, rolling it around gently, no longer feeling a sharp sting at a sudden movement, “It hurts, but…better.”
He smiles smugly, not saying anything, as you just roll your eyes.
Gojo had suggested trying to put as much distance between the other tributes, which warranted walking around the edge of the forest during the day and staying somewhere hidden during the night. You had done the mental math and deduced that besides the three of you, the male tribute from three, Evelyn and her brother, Maxmus, from five, the girl and boy tributes from six, and the boy from ten were all that was left. Usually, this early into the games, more of the upper-level districts would still be alive, but Gojo took care of that issue.
“And your ear?”
Your hand absentmindedly reached upwards, the wound from Lizzie’s knife healing slowly, and it no longer hurts whenever you accidentally brush against it. Dried blood flakes off, and you give him a tight-lipped smile.
“It’s fine,” you say curtly, looking away from him to focus more on Yuuji, who was still a little bit ahead of you.
Gojo sighs, nodding to himself after your brief answer. In his defense, he has tried his best to show you that he’s not a threat. From the times when you’d wake up, terrified of having gone to sleep during a watch, you’d find him pointing at the fire, sitting just enough distance away to show that he didn’t mean any harm. He talked a lot, trying to fill the awkward and tense stretches of silence with something of substance.
He was trying to make himself seem like a friend more than an ally, and that scared you.
“We should set up camp somewhere near here,” Gojo murmured, and you squinted at the sun, watching as the color was getting a more fiery orange, a signal that it was planning to set within the next two hours.
You hummed, a silent agreement, and fidelity with your fingers. You wanted to talk to him about things that sponsors and Capitol citizens shouldn’t hear. You wanted to ask questions that were subjected to an audience of spectators dissecting what they truly meant. You wanted to know why it felt like you knew him, before all this chaos, and why he remembered you. Where he remembered you.
Don’t you remember me? His words still echoed in your head.
“Is this what 11 looks like?” His voice brought you back from your endless thoughts, and you glanced over at Gojo as his head swiveled around to look at the tree line, not even looking at you as his eyes squinted from the rays of sunlight.
“The outskirts,” you mutter softly, thinking back to home, “But it’s mostly just fields and factories.”
He was like Yuuji in some ways. He always asked questions, picked and prodded, wanting to know more. You were reclusive, not knowing how much to say or how much you wanted him to know, but he was relentless. Gojo didn’t care much that you didn’t reciprocate, didn’t mind that you kept your answers short and curt, just glad to hear your voice.
But in some sense, it was strange how easy a conversation with him was. Your reluctance to answer his questions was more for your own sake, which he didn’t mind, but not because it was difficult to talk to him. In some sense, it felt like you had known him for far longer than you did. In some sense, it felt like you had known him all along.
And it’s not as though you don’t want to ask him things. But your questions are more deep-cutting than his simple surface-level ones.
“1 is just buildings and factories,” Gojo says, unprovoked, “A lot more industrial. I think the first time I saw a tree was back at the training center.”
You nodded, not knowing what to say as the leaves crunched under your boots.
The two of you walk in silence, watching Yuuji as he scavenges around for fruits and nuts, and you give it another minute before you say something to make it less unbearable.
“It looks like home sometimes,” you add, solemnly taking in the way the shadows of the branches move as if they’re alive, “Honestly, sometimes I have trouble telling what’s real and what’s not.”
Gojo glances at you, a white brow slightly raised.
“What do you mean?” His voice dips slightly, as if he’s a little surprised that you spoke in your own accord and didn’t want to scare you away.
You shrug, chewing on your lip as you motion to the carefully constructed arena surrounding you. At the synthetic bird chirps and crickets, the way the leaves rustle and twigs scratch up against each other. To the untrained ear, maybe to him, it seems natural, like its nature. But when you listen, really listen, the cadence of the bird song is too robotic. The leaves are an unnatural shade of orange, and the bark flakes strangely.
“This isn’t real,” you explain hurriedly, as if you don’t want him to think you were insane, “But I feel like if I let myself believe it and forget where I am, I’ll…I’ll think that I’m back at 11, you know? Back home where everything was normal,” you say with a heavy chuckle, looking ahead over to where Yuuji was bent over looking at a flower patch.
“Like you forget you’re in the games?” He asks, pushing, and you glance over at him through the side of your eyes, nodding.
“Yeah,” you swallow thickly, “Like I forget we’re in the games.”
Gojo nods, tongue in cheek, as he digests your words. He lumbers in height next to you, his strength almost overwhelming as you two walk in a strangely methodical rhythm.
Yuuji stands up from where he was crouched, showing you a bushel of berries he had plucked from the bush, and you wave him over with a smile, opening your sack for him to put them in.
“These look good, right?” Yuuji asks, holding them up to the light. You take them from his smaller hands, twisting and turning them around to make sure they didn’t resemble anything poisonous that you were familiar with. After you were sure they were safe, you nodded, ruffling his strawberry blonde mess of hair as he blushed pink, his cheeks that had been slightly burnt by the sun now looking even redder.
Seeing this, you tsk, lips pressing together tightly as you try to think of something to do for the sunburn. You had no salve, and sponsors wouldn’t send any for something so minuscule. Yuuji was probably the palest kid in eleven, and the ladies back home always helped him out whenever he’d come back from the fields all red and splotchy.
“You need some of Miss Maggie’s cream,” you tell him wistfully, squeezing his cheeks slightly to turn his head from side to side as he groans even louder, “You’re all burnt.”
Yuuji rolls his eyes, but a small look of longing flashes across his face. Miss Maggie was an older lady who ran the apothecary store near the district square. Her dark brown eyes were the kindest you had ever seen, her voice soothing and calm. She had no children but often took care of the kids as if they were her own. Yuuji missed her. You did too.
Gojo watched the interaction quietly, just like he did with most of your interactions with Yuuji, and only decided to speak up once you had slung the pack back over your shoulders. He goes to open his mouth but a sudden scream cuts him off.
The birds flap and fly away from the trees, their wings fluttering with each other in a cacophony of noise and screeching and yelling. You duck, and Gojo throws himself over you, shielding your body as the two of you look wildly around to where the noise came from.
It was from somewhere deeper into the woods, the sound sharp but not close enough.
“Yuuji!” You whisper harshly, motioning for him to run back quietly towards you. He abides wordlessly, and he situates himself into your open arms as Gojo wields his sword by the hilt, one arm thrown over your back protectively.
Seconds later, a cannon blasts, and you flinch, your grip on Yuuji tightening.
“We should move,” Gojo says in a hushed tone, his voice barely audible, “Go back-”
Another scream. Another cannon.
This time, he flinches with you. This isn’t normal. Nor was the way the ground was slightly shaking beneath you.
Your brows furrowed in confusion, looking helplessly past the treeline to see if you could make out anything. The leaves were quivering, and the trunks were vibrating. You didn’t know if the arena itself was moving or if it was something worse, something that came in numbers.
“We have to leave,” you say, your voice slightly wavering, but you try to keep it steady for Yuuji’s sake, “Take Yuuji, we’ll go closer to the Cornacupia, there has to be…” but you trail off, your words dying down as something in the distance caught your attention.
It wasn’t a scream, at least, not a human one. A strangled cry, akin to an animal wailing, bounced off the trees, piercing your ears as the three of you almost fell to your knees at the grating noise.
What in the world was that?
“Are those…are those animals?” Gojo asks, startled, his grip on your waist growing impossibly tighter.
Animals? You shake your head slightly, deep in thought. Animals wouldn’t make sense. It couldn’t be just any animal; the game makers were creative, above normality, and the bounds of nature. And with it still being early in the games, they must be part of the arena, something never seen before, waiting to be discovered by misfortune tributes.
Your breath hitches when you figure it out.
“Mutts.”
There was an instantaneous unspoken understanding between you and Gojo, one that transcended words. You don’t remember pushing Yuuji towards him, but Gojo made haste with pulling him over his back, and you tightened the straps of your bag as you two sprinted backwards to the direction you had come from.
You tried to push past the pain and throbbing that came from your ankle, knowing that it was protesting for you to stop, but you couldn’t, not now. The ground was shaking, and the branches were rustling with the movement of whatever mutt it was that the gamekaers had decided to release.
Wind whipped past you, tigs cutting your face, and you pushed past the low-hanging branches as you tried not to look over your shoulder to where the snarls and wails of the mutts were getting louder and more prominent.
Survival was the only thing on your mind; everything else, ranging from the blaring pain and the loud ig of your heart, came later. Gojo was running a little bit in front of you, carrying Yuuji on his back, seemingly doing little to slow him down.
You knew looking behind your shoulder would hinder you, but one quick glance made your stomach churn and your blood run cold.
Back home, there used to be wild pigs near the woods, one you’d see sometimes during the day. These mutts, around five from what you counted briefly, looked similar, but their hide was a coarse brown color, their eyes wide and black. But the worst part? Theirrazor-sharpp tusks gleamed in the sunlight, as if they were made of metal.
You let out a strangled noise, shaking your head as you stumbled slightly, running as fast as you possibly could, trying to reach the outskirts of the forest and into the wheat fields that surrounded the Cornucopia.
Gojo called your name amid this chaos, glancing over Yuuji to make sure you were alright. When he caught sight of the manmade beasts, creations of the sadistic gamemakers, he picked up his pace.
The trees began thinning out and the field was coming into view. You had no idea how you were able to run so far and so fast with your busted ankle, but the adrenaline was taking over, and survival was the only thing you could think of at that moment.
Loud squealing from the mutts echoed in your ears, and you pushed past the blades of grass that came around your hips as you and Gojo tried putting as much distance between you and the mutts as possible.
Just when you thought you were getting further away, your foot, the same one with the injured ankle, caught on something jutting up from the ground, causing you to go flying too the ground.
You let out a sharp noise, one of pain, fear, anguish, and clutch your foot in pain, tears dotting your eyes as you try to scramble away on your hands and knees.
The mutts were getting closer, the grass was shuffling to accommodate their bodies, and you closed your eyes, accepting your fate.
But that fate never came.
You felt a gust of wind from over your head, and you peeked your eyes open to see Gojo jumping in front of you, weapons drawn, shielding your body with his as the boars continued to circle him.
Your mind was reeling. Where was Yuuji, where was Yuuji, where was Yuuji?
You wanted to scream at him, at where he put Yuuji, but you couldn’t make a sound, paralyzed in fear as you watched Gojo brandish his sword to one of the boars that got close, swatting at them to get them to fear him. He made guttural noises, one to make them afraid, and you watched as the mutts slowly backed away, not looking for a fight, which was strange, and you watched Gojo’s back never relax until he was sure they had gone back to wherever they were hiding in the forest.
He turned after a few beats of silence, the wind rippling around you, the sun blazing, and the sky artificially blue. Blades of grass tickled your cheek, and Gojo put the weapon back in his holster, running a hand through his hair as he finally took a deep breath.
“You okay?” He asked simply, his voice heavy as you nodded, eyes shutting as you allowed yourself a moment to calm down.
Gojo took it silently, knowing what you had just been through , and didn't push for an answer, and crouched down to where you had fallen, wrapping one arm around your shoulder as he gradually and carefully lifted you.
You whimpered and didn’t catch the way Gojo winced at the sound, but you hopped a little bit to find the right footing, leaning on his chest as your eyes welled with tears of pain again.
“Thanks,” you whisper hoarsely, your voice wavering, “Again.”
Gojo’s smile was heavy, but he tried his best to wave it off, opening his mouth to give you one of his witty remarks when his eyes fell on something behind you.
His face fell, and he pushed you away roughly, your body swaying slightly at the sudden movement.
Everything happened so quickly, you barely registered it.
Gojo throws Lizzie’s old weapon,
A boy holding a knife to Yuuji’s chest.
Lizzie’s knife pierces the boy's skull,
But not before his knife plunged into Yuuji’s stomach.
One canon fired as the boy from ten hit the ground with a harsh thud, but it didn’t even hold a torch to the sound, the nearly inhuman scream that clawed its way out of your lungs.
You pushed past Gojo, who was standing still, unmoving, pushed past the boy with the cracked open skull, and found Yuuji fallen, a few feet away from him.
Yuuji, oh, Yuuji.
He was shivering, his face clammy and pale. He was looking down at his stomach, his hands grasping the hilt of the knife that was sticking out of his stomach, looking up at you with big, watery eyes.
Blood was pooling around his midsection, and the mandated jacket he was wearing was soaking with red. The flowers beneath his body were losing their white color and taking a new shade of something gruesome. He couldn’t speak, but was looking at you, terrified.
Your lips trembled, hands shaking violently as you struggled to find words to say, tears falling uncontrollably from your eyes and splattering on his chest as you tried to think of something to do.
“I-I, I don’t know what to…to do,” you gasp, struggling to breathe, “Don’t t-touch it, okay? I’ll get some - some help. I’ll get help,” you’re words at slurring together, your breathing blocking up as Yuuji’s chest began to move faster up and down with each labored breath, his chestnut eyes watching you with fear but still with trust trust, hoping you knew how to save him.
Because you did. You were supposed to. You were supposed to save him.
“I have some gauze,” you stammer, moving to get your pack but finding it to be missing, most likely having gotten lost somewhere you had fallen. “Let me g-get you the gauze.” You go to crawl back, but a sudden hand on your shoulder stops you.
You look up, with tear-ridden cheeks, to see Gojo standing above you, blocking the sun with his tall frame, his eyes sullen and his hand slightly shaking.
“Hurts,” Yuuji muttered, sending daggers through your heart, “It hurts.”
You choke back a sob, nodding quickly as you try to calm him down.
“I know, sweetheart, I know,” you wipe your elbows across your face, blinking the tears away to help focus your vision, “Just…”
“Go get my bag,” you tell Gojo, pointing with a trembling hand to where it was, but he doesn’t move, seemingly stuck in place.
“G-go, please,” you plead, shoving weakly at his legs as you let out a shaky whimper, looking back to Yuuji and the blood pouring out of him.
But he didn’t move.
There was so much blood. It was pooling around his stomach, it was stuck between the flowers that sprouted from the ground, and caking under your nails. Your hands trembled, trying to put pressure on the wound, but Yuuji whimpered, and your hands shot away.
“Damn it, Gojo, go!” You screamed, your voice cracking as your chest rattled with another sob, “Go! Fucking move!”
Deep down, you knew it was useless.
Your voice is escaping you as you push even harder at Gojo’s legs, trying to get him to move, but he stands firm, shuffling after a second to sit down next to you to hold your wrists in his hand, to stop your hitting and punching at his chest.
Because he knew it was useless, too.
You go to scream at him, to yell, but Yuuji’s voice, soft and choked, stops you.
“Did,” he stops, taking a big gulp of air as blood trickles out of his chapped lips, “D’you see? I punched him so hard I b-broke his nose,” Yuuji tries to smile, by his lips are wavering, and a small sound of pain escapes them, his eyes wringing shut as he holds onto his stomach tighter.
You let out a wet laugh, shuffling closer to him as you take his small, blood-stained hands in your own. You press them to your trembling lips, giving them a long, warm kiss as you nod.
Gojo saw you struggling to speak, so he placed a hand on Yuuji’s shoulder, squeezing it gently.
“Yeah, kid, we saw,” Gojo’s voice dipped, heavy with emotion as his eyes wavered, “You’re gonna have to teach how you did that later, okay?” Gojo gives him a kind and caring smile, his eyes slightly glossy, looking like a moving river.
Yuuji grinned slightly, still feeling sheepish yet honored to be praised by Gojo. You chuckled softly at that, pushing strands of hair away that were stuck to his forehead as you brushed his eyebrow hairs into place, just as his mother would have done.
Yuuji chews on his lip, trying to keep you from hearing his pain, but the sight alone makes you nauseous.
“I,” he stops again, his chest heaving, his voice quiet and escaping him, so you lower yourself down to his lips, pushing the hair out of his face like you always down. Yuuji stops and lets out another whimper.
“I never had a s-sister,” Yuuji says with a strained whisper, little tears escaping his eyes and rolling down the side of his face, “But…but I think that you’re the best sister I ever could’ve had,” he murmurs weakly, and upon hearing his words, you can’t control the sob that escapes you, holding onto his hands tighter as you nod silently.
“Oh…sweetheart,” you let out a muffled cry, snot running from your nose as you grip his hand impossibly tighter, “You have no idea just how much…just how much,” you hiccup, laughing weakly as tears collect and fall from your chin, “Just how much you mean to me. ” You tell him sternly through all the tears, and the corners of his lips tilt slightly. His eyelids were fluttering, his grip on your hands loosening.
He was choking on his blood now, and your hands were staining red from trying to put pressure on the wound. It was all happening so fast yet so slow that you couldn’t wrap your head around what was reality and what was not.
Yuuji takes a ragged breath, his lips parting ever so slightly as he musters up the last bit of his strength to lean in closer to your ear, whispering ever so slightly,
“You have to win,” he struggles to say through the thick blood in his mouth, and your eyes shoot to his, and one last look of fight and strength flashes across his as he says, “Please.”
Before Yuuji’s hand grows limp in yours, before his body slumps onto the ground,
Before the canon blasts.
—
It was night, and yet you hadn’t moved.
You stared blankly at the dead body, never blinking, barely breathing.
What if he got cold? What if he were hungry? What if he needed something to drink?
You knew he was dead and that those things didn’t matter. But what if you left, and the game makers did something to him? To little Yuuji, to the boy who was terrified of spiders but would put one in a cup if you asked him to.
Fried tears stained your cheek, and blood caked on your hands and nails. It was gruesome and gory; it was death, it was the Hunger Games, and this is what viewers wanted to see.
They wanted to see you spiral, they wanted to see you go insane and blood thirsty. But no matter how much you wanted to kill everyone in that arena, you know that Yuuji would’ve never let you do that. Especially in his name.
So after some more time had passed, after the anthem played and they put his picture in the sky, you allowed yourself one spare glance up at it.
You saw his picture and his cheerful smile staring back at you, his freckles, and the small mole next to his right eye. You saw Yuuji, not the Yuuji in front of you, but the one you remembered, and decided not to let the Games, the gamemakers, and the sponsors take him away the way they wanted to.
Silently, you shifted, going towards the bag that Gojo had eventually brought, and unzipped the top.
You scavenged around a bit, looking for something, and pulled it out after a few moments of digging. The metal flask, Yuuji’s flask, is still full of water from this morning.
You went to unscrew the top, but your hands were shaking, fingers not able to pull and twist correctly. You struggled, slipping and sliding, when a sudden movement stopped you.
Gojo.
You thought he would have left hours ago, but he stayed. He didn’t say anything, and you were glad he didn’t. He let you mourn, he let you grieve the way you wanted.
He moves slowly, as if not to startle you.
You watch as he grips the base of the flask, his eyes silently asking if it is okay to take it. Your grip loosens, and he curls his fingers around the top, twisting off the plastic cap gingerly and places the bottle back into your hands.
You turn to Yuuji’s body, slowly tilting the bottle as water flows from its rim and onto his bloodstained clothes. You take his hands and wash the red off, cleaning his face and jacket of any remnants of the carnage.
You try not to think about how cold he was, or how limp he felt in your hold. You just cleaned all the sweat and grime away, needing him to look as normal as possible.
Combining your fingers through his soft hair, you make sure all the leaves and twigs are out of it as you style it the way you remember his mother doing it. You then moved onto the jacket, shakingly zipping it up to hide his wound.
You sit back on your haunches, scavenging the bag as things clunk around. Silent tears stream down your face, and you feel a hand on your wrist, pausing you.
You glance to the side at Gojo, your glossy eyes shining in the pale light of the moon. His face is sullen and slack, as if he’s barely doing any better processing what happened.
He waits for a second, and then;
“How can I help?” He asks simply.
It’s not a difficult question, but it causes your breathing to hitch, tears streaming as your lip trembles.
You swallow your bile thickly, raising a hand to wipe at your cheeks as you clear your throat, voice raw and scratched.
“Flowers,” you tell Gojo finally, “He needs flowers.”
He nods and gives your wrist one last gentle squeeze before he rises to his feet, looking around the field for big enough flowers to pick.
You watch him leave, taking a deep and steadying breath as you look back to Yuuji and get back to work.
Back in eleven, when somebody died, it was important to respect their death just as much as you’d respect them living. There were stories, ancient stories that the Capitol had tried to get rid of, of what happens after you die. Older inhabitants of eleven held on to those traditions, passed them down from generation to generation.
You clean the body, first off. Make sure that when they pass on to their new life, wherever that may be, they are as clean as possible. You gently wet the handkerchief, your father's handkerchief, the small token you were allowed to bring into the games, and wipe off Yuuji's cheeks and in between his knuckles.
Food is important for the dead to have. Their journey elsewhere is long, and they might be peckish on the way there. You look in your bag and find some dried berries and nuts, alongside the fresh berries that Yuuji had picked today, and place some in his hands, making his fingers close around them like a fist as you guide his hands down to rest on his stomach.
You hear some grass rustling, and look to see Gojo walking back with bushels of flowers he had picked. Though it was dark and you had to squint, bright colors like white, yellow, and purple filled the bouquet.
Gojo doesn’t say anything, but there’s no need to. His small action has already spoken beyond a thousand other words.
Nodding in approval, you take the flowers from him and wrap the stems together with some wire, placing them under his closed fists and watching as the colors bring some life back to his pale face.
Finally, some words are spoken over the body before they lay them to rest.
You had closed Yuuji’s eyes just as his cannon had blasted, so you lean down and hover your lips on his forehead, giving him a small and gentle kiss as you murmur an apology, grieving and choked words that you barely say as you mutter the words you had heard the elders in eleven murmur a thousand times before.
You were familiar with death, but that didn’t mean that it was a familiarity you welcomed.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” you whispered against his cold skin, “I’ll see you in a bit,” you tell him gently, slowly coming back up on your ankles as you stare at his little body.
In the moonlight, with no trace of blood, holding those flowers and with his eyes shut, made it look like he was sleeping. It wasn’t real, but a part of you so wished it was.
You think of his family watching. You think back to your younger self, having to watch as they placed your family in their graves, back to when you became alone. This wasn’t a game, as much as they lied to call it one, but a cruel reminder of the brief mortality of those deemed inferior.
Somewhere around, perhaps on one of the trees in the distance or even up in the sky, was a hidden camera catching all of this. You didn’t let them see you cry, stared straight at it as if you were staring directly at those back home, and gave one small, acknowledging nod.
You don’t look at Yuuji’s body again when you silently trail back into the forest. Gojo says nothing as he walks by your side.
He takes your hand in his, a grounding hold, one that means nothing except for the fact that he was there beside you,
And you let him.
—
You two wandered around, lifeless, until you stumbled upon a small alcove, a place hidden by trees and not easily seen by the untrained eye, for the two of you to stay in.
The moment you collapsed on the ground, bones riddled with exhaustion, did you finally let yourself cry.
You cradled your knees to your chest, letting ugly and raw sobs rake through your body as your head tilted back against the trunk of the tree behind you, hands running down your face as you shook violently.
It hurt, you ached. You couldn’t stop seeing the blood, his face, the boy with the knife through his head. Everything hurts.
You felt something shift, a body sitting down next to yours, and without thinking about it, you let your head fall limply on his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut with silent sobs.
Gojo doesn’t move.
Clawing at your chest, at your pitiful excuse of a heart, you tremble, wishing that this was all some nightmare that you’d wake up from and never have to see again.
“Cry tonight, but come tomorrow, don’t let them see any more of your tears.”
You scoff, nose wrinkling as you move to push yourself off of him, but he shifts, turning so that you two would be face to face.
“Nothing you can take is worth keeping…right? That’s what you told Caesar - that’s what you told them,” he mirrors your words back at you with a raised brow, face stern and unreadable, “Right?”
Your expression slackens, and your lips part slightly in both surprise and shock.
“Don’t let them take Yuuji from you,” Gojo says, “He’s worth more than that.”
His eyes search yours, search through the glossy reflection and redness in the whites, and a moment of silence passes between you two.
After another beat, you nod, something small, but understanding.
When the sun came up, you wiped at your cheeks, your chin, your nose. You wipe the blood from your hands with the remaining water, and let Gojo clean the blood from your face with his careful touch.
As the leaves rustle with the early morning winds and the rays of sunlight begin peeking in from the tree tops, you hear a small twinkling noise, a mechanical yet sweet sound coming from above.
You and Gojo look up, watching as a small metal tin with a parachute on it starts drifting down from the sky, and waits as it lands in front of a small thump. A gift from sponsors, you think.
But when you inch forward, taking it with shaking hands and ginger crack it open, you see two rolls of bread, the sweet bread from back home, the same kind you’d usually eat after a funeral.
A small note lay on top of it, and you took it out between two pinched fingers, reading, you felt a wobbly smile make its way onto your face.
Thank you for looking after Yuuji - The Itadori Family and the People of District 11.
You two eat the bread in silence, savoring the sweet and nostalgic flavors resting on your tongue before you two rise from your spots and start getting ready to leave.
—-
Gojo found a small cave where the two of you could stay the night, someplace that was hidden from any peering eyes and would allow you two to make a fire and sleep without having to take turns keeping watch.
You were beginning to talk a little more, but still preferred to listen. Gojo didn’t mind and filled the silence with stories from his district and childhood. Sometimes, you found yourself containing little grins when he made a terrible joke, and often had to duck your head so that he wouldn’t see. But it wasn’t so much that you didn’t want him knowing, but rather it felt strange, a somewhat normal way of being that you didn’t want to accustom yourself to after everything that had happened and everything waiting to happen.
Gojo told you about his father and his games, and he talked about training and what that looked like. Sometimes you’d interject and tell him a similarity that your district shared with him, and he'd listen with a soft look on his face, something easy and relaxed, his lips pulling into a genuine smile when he heard you talk about blips from your past.
It helps distract you, makes you forget about Yuuji and the games.
“…I swear, that’s what most people said,” Gojo told you with a small laugh, shaking his head as he recalls old memories, “They said I was too scrawny to ever be in the games.”
You let out a small huff, your knees pulled up against your chest as you watch the red and yellow flames from the fire dance off of his face, making his blue eyes shine even more.
No matter how much you wanted to deny it, the two of you had seen each other in your most vulnerable times, and there was no shaking the strange bond it was creating between the two of you.
“Is that why you volunteered?” You ask wryly, your head resting on your crossed arms.
Gojo shakes his head, one of his knees propped up with his other lanky leg spread in front of him. You wonder how much of this conversation is being shown.
“By the time I volunteered people had stopped calling me scrawny,” he replies, and had it been anybody else it might’ve seem like he was just boasting, but after getting to know Gojo you could tell he was just being honest, “I just…” he shrugged, thinking thoughtfully, “I figured I’d make people proud if I went.”
Your lips press into a thin line, eyes squinting. You also had gotten to know the tribute well enough to know just how much pressure he’s faced, even if he didn’t voice it, to continue his father's legacy. Not pushing it further, you nod slowly, biting your cheek as you think.
“I bet they’re really proud seeing you with me,” you said after a beat, voice dry with sarcasm as you offered him a lazy smile that didn’t match your eyes. You were far from when you were when you entered the games without trusting him, but you doubted the people from the higher districts were necessarily happy seeing their shining tribute form an alliance with somebody from an outlying district.
But instead, Gojo smiles, something genuine, and his eyes wrinkle around the edges. It’s a far cry from the cold-hearted and jagged fighter you first saw, and it was jarring sometimes to be looked at the way he looks at you.
“You have no idea,” he replies after a moment, sincerely.
You fought to control a small smile.
Running your finger across the cave floor, tracing small shapes in the dust, you think back to things you miss from home. Things that you’d blink and see again, maybe even in the dark pits of your dreams before they turned horrifying.
Picking up a small leaf, you twist it around by the stem, watching it twirl quickly in the air.
“Do you miss it?”
His brows pinched together, not understanding your broad question.
“Home,” you specify, “Do you miss it?”
Gojo’s bottom lip catches between his teeth, and he slightly shifts where he was seated. The fire crackles, some of the wood moving as it continues to burn. The crickets outside were chirping away, and from the opening of the cave, you could see the silver wash of the moon begging to be let in. If not for the cruel reminder of the anthem that had played not even an hour earlier, with no dead tributes to honor in the sky, you could close your eyes and pretend that you were back in eleven.
His eyes flash with something unreadable, most likely thinking back to soft recollections of his district, ones that mirror yours. His lips quirk slightly at the ends, something he can’t control as better memories flood his senses.
“I do,” he mutters after thinking, his voice honest but dropping in volume, as if he didn’t want the microphones to pick up what he was saying, even though they could pick up a twig snapping, let alone voices, “Don’t you?”
Your eyes widen slightly, your breath hitching.
Yuuji.
Home.
Your mouth dries up suddenly, and you feel a wave of nausea roll over you. Your head feels lighter than usual, and you blink, trying to push back the unwelcome sting of tears, but every time you do so, you see he’s lifeless body in front of you, the blood staining his pale skin as he tries to gasp for air.
Gojo instantly notices a change in your demeanor, and before you even try to wobbly stand up, he’s already there, offering support as you try to push him off. One of your hands is grasping at your stomach, feeling the dinner you had just eaten churn around as you use the other hand to steady yourself on the cave walls.
“Hey, hey, what happened?” He asks hurriedly, his eyes searching your face, noting the way sweat dotted your hairline and the way you looked like you were fighting back some war with your food, “Did I say something?”
You shake him off, shaking your head as you use your hand on the wall for guidance, trying to leave, but Gojo doesn’t let go of his grip on your elbow. Unfortunately, as stubborn as you were, you learned that Gojo was just as, if not more, stubborn than you.
Struggling for air, you try to take in ga ulp of it, but it doesn’t seem to work. You see flashes of Yuuji, Yuuji and his family, his brothers, your family, and it causes your mind to reel, your chest heaving as you struggle to breathe.
All of a sudden, the heat from the fire was overwhelming. You felt sweat rolling down the side of your face and neck, dotting your back and arms. It was intense and overbearing. You couldn’t remember what it even was that set you off.
“I need,” you gasp, your fingers clawing at your throat, coughing, “I need to get out.”
Gojo’s white brows cinch together in the middle with worry, leaning down to see if you were alright, but you push him off with the last bits of force you had.
“But-”
“Go away,” you snap, harsher than you intended, and he doesn’t fight back this time when you wrangle your arm away from his hold, tumbling away and towards the cave opening as tears finally escape your eyes and you let the cool sting of the night breeze welcome you.
You know you shouldn’t let them see you cry, shouldn’t let them hold this power over you, one that proves that their strength and capabilities outmatch yours. Because they don’t, they have nothing on the experiences you’ve gone through, the ache you’ve endured, the resilience it took to survive, but as heartless and cold as they were, they’d never understand the pain of loss, the hurt and grievances that come with it.
So instead, you yell, you scream until blood lines the inside of your throat and suffocates you through your nose. That way, your pain might seem loud and overbearing, something they could never understand. The sound is choked and raw; it exceeds human capacity and borders on animalistic, but it’s the last way you can connect to the people before and the people who come after you. The tributes who have died for the sadistic ways of the Capitol and President Snow, the only way you can reach beyond the living and make a promise.
Those who sit in their pompous outfits and fluttering lashes might not understand, might laugh and point, and cause you to lose your sponsors, but somewhere, someone in some district would understand. And maybe when you eventually die, they might mourn everyone just a little more.
“I’m sorry.”
Your head snaps around to the opening of the cave, and you almost trip when you see Gojo.
You don’t know how long you’ve been out here, but by the look of utter pain and suffering on his face, you wonder how long he’s been in there, not being able to do anything but listen to your cries of woe. Your chest is moving with each laborious breath, your cheeks are heated, and your eyes are burning.
For the first time since you’ve been in the games, you see tears staining his cheeks, illuminated like the arms and legs of a river by the moonlight.
It’s startling, but it makes you pause.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, choking it out, wiping at his tears with his arms as he takes another step closer to you, his lip trembling, and no longer does he look like the hardened warrior he’s been made to be, but a boy who’s lost in a world that had long abandoned him, “I’m sorry, I should have been faster, I shouldn’t have left him, I’m s-sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry…”
It takes a minute for his words to sink in, but when his lips part and let out another muted sob, you understand what he’s saying, what he’s apologizing for. You see the redness of his face and the way his lips look like they’ve been chewed raw.
“If only I were faster, if I took him, if only I was fast enough, this wouldn’t be happening,” Gojo rambles, the tears streaming down his face even faster as he shakes his head, stuttering on his words, “I never thought that tribute would b-be there, I just saw you fall and - and everything else blacked out, and I’m sorry, I know you hate me, I hate me even more, but-”
You stagger towards him, your feet twisting and turning as the dirt crunches underneath your shoes, the wind rustling, and the animals howling in the distance. Gojo doesn’t move, but when you fall into his chest, your hands close around his back as your face hides in his broad chest, you feel his trembling hands come up from behind to hold you closer to him. One of his larger hands goes up to cradle the back of your head while the other one holds you tightly by the waist, and his face rests on your hair.
“It’s not your fault,” you whisper, shaking your head weakly, still smushed against his chest as you hiccup, “It’s not your fault, and I don’t hate you,” you say sturdier, for emphasis as your fingers dig into his jacket and he groans, clearly going to disagree with you but you cut him off, continuing, “I just - I just miss him s-so much,”
His hold on you tightens.
“For the first time in years, it felt like I had a family,” you cry out, your tears and snot getting on his jacket, but Gojo couldn't care less, hugging you closer, “And I lost that, I lost h-him, I was supposed to protect him-”
Gojo shushes you, shaking his head, cradling your head upwards, his hands moving on to hold both sides of your face as your lips wobble with barely contained sobs.
“You did everything right,” he whispers, but your face breaks down as your nose scrunches upwards and your mouth parts.
“Then why isn’t…why isn’t he here?” You beg, and he lets out a puff of air that seems to be kicked out of his chest, his own salty tears collecting and falling from his chin as his arms fall, and he uses the back of his hands to wipe them away.
“I,” Gojo stammers, biting his lip as he looks away from your heavy and piercing gaze, the same one that rips his heart out and forces him to rely on his barely-there sanity, “I don’t know,”
You nod briefly, using your palms to push your tears away from your cheeks, tugging at them harshly as you sniffle.
Instead of arguing with him, you nod again, taking another step forward as you mutter a barely audible okay.
“Come here,” he whispers, his hands extended, and you take the last step to fall back into his warm and sturdy chest, letting him hug you tightly as you press your ear up against his ribcage, hearing the steady thump, thump, thump, of his heart.
It’s human to feel hurt; it's unusual not to.
In the darkness of the night, at the opening of the cave, the two of you stand there in silence, holding onto each other as the crickets sing their songs and the leaves keep the steady beat. Perhaps the cameras have cut away, maybe they’re still watching. It doesn’t matter.
In that moment, the two of you process the brutality of the games together, sharing it so that it doesn’t become unbearable. Gojo presses his lips to your forehead, nothing forceful, but lingering, as if a promise that he would be by you, forever, even if that forever was going to end soon.
You two were a strange pair, but it made sense, in some strange way. To you, to him, to the game makers, to the Capitol citizens, and those in the districts who were watching with bated breath.
And maybe, just maybe, it sparks a little fear in those who created these games, those who place the tributes in here to be pitted against each other and fight to the death. Because nobody expected love to bloom between two improbable tributes, but it happened, and it proved the one thing that they wanted to prove wrong.
That those in the districts have more in common than they’re led to believe from life to death, more in common than even the prancing citizens of the Capitol, and surely more in common than the game makers and those who sit on their pedestals, watching.
You and Gojo were never meant to be allies, but in the games, in such unlikely circumstances, everything that wasn’t supposed to be became, and everybody realized who the winner of the 66th annual Hunger Games was going to be, even if neither of you did.
—
That cave became a haven for the two of you.
It was tucked away where nobody would pass, it had a small lake next to it with clean water for drinking and washing, and enough animals ventured around that you two wouldn’t starve.
Sure, the game makers would eventually have to lure you out, but not now; they were too invested in seeing how this strange pair was going to evolve.
It was nearing the two-week mark, and still, five tributes remained. The boy from three, Maxmus, Evelyn, you, and Gojo. You wondered why the game makers weren’t rushing anything like they usually do when it starts to drag, but maybe something was happening behind the scenes that usually doesn’t happen.
In the mornings, you would check the traps you had set the night before. Usually, a small animal or bird would be caught, and you’d skin and gut them while Gojo prepared the fire. Back in eleven, you had to learn how to be tactful and resourceful with the outskirts, as Tesarea often didn’t supply you long enough for the next year, and the hunger would quickly grow. You had long put emotions aside when dealing with animals, and now, you often had to chide Gojo for leaving the cave whenever he became queasy watching you prep them.
What he lacked in hunting, he made up for in other things, however.
Gojo tended to your ankle well, knowing how to let it heal on its own with little tricks that he had picked up throughout the years. He made a splint that kept it in place, and hour by hour, day by day, the bruising seemed to be going down. He would cut down smaller trees into logs, tend to the fire, and help cook the meat you had prepped earlier. Best of all, he talked about anything and everything, sometimes so much that you could barely even hear your thoughts, but you enjoyed it.
Other times, like now, the two of you would sit side by side on the edge of the lake, your pants rolled up to your thighs as your legs dangled in the water. The air near here was cooler, the wind was more soothing, and you closed your eyes and let the sun kiss your skin as you leaned back on your arms.
Pointing your toes, you flick your foot up and down, splashing delicate drops of water across the surface as you watch it ripple.
“If you lived in the Capitol, what would your pet's name be?”
You let the question sink in before a little giggle escapes your lips, tumbling out and falling through the air as Gojo smiles in response at the sound. He loved it, even if he rarely heard it.
“Come on,” he nudged your shoulder with his, not looking at you but at the shimmering water, trying to contain his features to be serious, although they contorted into something more playful when you nudged your shoulder in response, “I heard a lady call her dog Tootsie.”
That caused you to laugh, tipping your head back as you couldn’t contain it anymore, eyes screwed shut as you slapped his arm.
“Hmm,” you hum after a few seconds, your feet moving up and down in the water, “It’s hard to beat Tootsie, but maybe…Drumesia?”
Gojo’s head turns slightly to look at you, slightly confused at hearing the familiar name but not being able to place it.
“Wasn’t she…wasn’t she your Capitol escort?” He asked, his voice breaking as if he were containing a burst of laughter.
You smiled.
“Yeah,” you said softly, hearing him rumble with laughter as you laughed along with him, “She was a real bitch.”
In the distance, you hear a mockingjay crow, imitating your laughter as the other ones start mimicking it, too. Back at home, people often used mockingjays to communicate with each other, especially when up in the trees, and it’s harder to get those beneath you to understand what you were saying.
“What are those?” Gojo mutters, his tone miffed, looking around as if he could see the birds that were nestled in between the branches.
You snort softly, tilting your chin upwards as you whistle, three random notes, and wait for the mockingjays to pick up on the sound. When one echoes, others join in, creating a cacophony from what was once your simple tune.
“Mockingjays,” you answer, looking upwards at the trees and the sun filtering like rays through the leaves, “We have a lot of them back in eleven.”
Gojo nods slowly in understanding, lips pressed into a thin line, annoyed, but he knew there wasn’t much he could do about it. He looks up, mirroring your previous movements, taking in the mockingjays as they flap around, joining each other and then leaving again to find someplace new to sit and sing. You wonder how grating it must be for someone like him who hasn’t grown up around them, but for you, the mockingjays are another reminder of home.
After a bit, when the singing died down, he decided to speak again.
“Do you…Do you, uh, have a guy back there? In eleven?”
You glance at him from the side of your eyes, lips parted in shock at the blatant question, but your expression falls into something even more comical when you notice how hard he was avoiding your gaze, the way his ears were turning pink, and how he was playing with some of the weeds sprouting around the lake bed.
A part of you wants to tease him, but you see the way he shifts awkwardly, as if he had summoned up the courage to ask the question and was quickly regretting it. Instead, you decide to answer honestly, shrugging as you look back at the water.
“I never had the time,” you murmur thoughtfully, thinking back to when you lived day by day, working endlessly at the factory and coming back to the Capitol-sanctioned home for orphans under the age of nineteen, leaving little to no time to be messing with pesky feelings and relationships, “I’ve had a couple guys who’ve asked me to dance but…” you shrug, closing your eyes slightly as you angle your head slightly to look at him, finding him already looking back, “It’s never lasted more than that.”
Gojo’s brow quirked slightly.
“You can dance?” He questioned, as if that was the only thing he took away from your words.
Flicking some water towards his lanky legs, you scoff, not annoyed, just perplexed, and shrug again.
“I doubt it’s any of the fancy dances you’ve learned back in one,” you chide, but Gojo shakes his head, going to disagree, but you beat him to it, “But I can stomp my feet if you ask.”
His lips curl into a smile, a blush dusting his cheeks as he ducks his head down and looks away. Never would you have guessed that such a hulking and menacing person could be so shy.
“Do you want me to ask?” He responds, his head looking down at the water, causing some of his white strands of hair to fall in his face, but you can see the smile still lingering, the way his neck flushes.
“I don’t think your Capitol sweetheart would mind that much,” you say, your voice laced with slight tease, flicking some water at him again, “Having a district girl like me steal her dashing tribute and all.”
Gojo’s shoulders tense slightly, and he slowly leans back onto his outstretched hands behind him as he flicks water towards your legs. You try not to stare at him, at the way the muscles in his arms ripple with each movement, or the way the sharpness of his jaw only brings more attention to his even more attractive face.
“She’s not jealous,” Gojo says, and you try not to hide the flash of disappointment on your face from having heard him confirm that this mystery girl he talked about during his interview existed and wasn’t some ruse to gain more favor, “I don’t think she’d mind at all.”
You can only nod briefly in return, not trusting your voice not to give away your turn in emotions as you twist a blade of grass around, watching the green color twirl, making it seem yellow and then something darker when it catches the light.
“And besides,” Gojo continues, slowly lowering his back down as he crosses his hands behind his head, resting on the soft plushness below him as he stares at your back, waiting, wondering, “I promised her I’d find her after the games. Told her I’d be like the sailor boy she’s always dreamed of.”
Your fingers stop. Something in you shifts.
Sailor boy.
Where have you heard that?
You turn around slightly, slowly, carefully, to look at him resting behind you.
“What did you say?” You ask slowly, your brows furrowed and your lips parted in stupor.
He blinks back, surprised at your reaction.
“U-uh,” he stammers, sitting up gradually, causing you to lean back to accommodate for his looming presence, pushing his hair back, “Sailor…Sailor boy? It’s just some name, from an old story,” his eyes search yours, something deep and swirling behind them, “Why? Do you, do you…know it?”
Your nose wrinkles. Yes, yes, you know it, somewhere deep inside, but why does he know it?
“Y-yeah,” you murmur, perplexed, lashes of memories from your childhood crossing your mind, sitting behind the old wooden desks that seats three other students, watching the teacher in the makeshift classroom point to a board, reading out from memory something her old teachers, and those teachers before, passed down, “I do, but…?”
Eyes so blue and hair so black, they called him sailor boy. He could not swim but loved the sea, our little sailor boy.
It was an old poem, one that your teacher spun into some extravagant and adventurous story about a boy who traveled across something called a sea, like a river but bigger, and did amazing things until he traveled back home. It wasn’t in the curriculum the Capitol had made, and she made all the children promise not to talk about it when they went back home, but you…you told a young boy that story, one of the kids that wasn’t in your class.
You gasp, hand flying to your mouth as you look at him in shock.
The boy in the infirmary.
It had been weeks after the fire in the factory had broken out, one that took the lives of multiple men, women, and children, the same fire that took your parents and siblings, bearing only one survivor: you.
Escaping with burns to your arms and legs, you spent nearly two months in the infirmary that was near the edge of the district square. The nurses had told you that the burns would heal after some time. You were nearly nine, not understanding any of their big words and just wanting to know when your parents and brothers and sisters would heal from the fire, not understanding when they said that your family was gone.
The day you saw him in the infirmary was the day of the Victory Tour, when the victor of the previous Hunger Games toured across all twelve districts until they stopped at the Capitol for the celebration. The mentors would also come, who were older victors of the games, but they usually stayed somewhere else so that the newest victor could give their speech.
The room you were in was empty, save for you, as everybody else was forced to gather around the district square, the same place where they held the reaping, to watch the victor from District 1, as they usually are, give some long-winded speech about tradition and honor. You were excused, given the fact that you were bandaged from head to toe and couldn’t move, and were waiting for the nurses to come back in so that they could feed you your lunch.
From the hallway, you could hear a door slam and a booming voice say something before a smaller, barely audible whimper followed. You winced in your bed when you heard skin slapping skin, the second voice choking back another whine when the door slammed shut, and you were left sitting there, immobile, in confusion.
After a minute passed, you heard some shuffling, and you assumed that a kid was put in the infirmary for acting out, most likely one of the upper-echelon kids from the district who were allowed to fool around.
But when the white-haired boy with bright blue eyes peeked his head inside the room you were staying in, you were sure that this was somebody you had never met before.
“Who are you?” You had asked him, and watched with embarrassment as he took in your battered state, his eyes wide with curiosity as he took in your bandages and elevated arms and legs.
The boy just blinked, not saying anything.
You noticed the stinging handprint on his cheek, glowing red, and he held it in his hand, trying to soothe it. He looked to be around your age, and you wondered if it had been his father who had shut him inside this small building. It was strange, however, that he was able to escape the duties of sitting through the Victory Tour. Even the mayor's children had to attend.
“Does your daddy hit’chu?” You pressed again, watching as the boy blushed, evading eye contact as he looked at the empty line of beds.
“Was that your daddy over there?” Your chin juts to where the hallway was, “Is he comin’ back?”
The boy snaps his head over to the hallway, almost fearful. And then, murmurs;
“Your voice sounds funny.”
And you looked at him and his red cheek and then at his bright white hair, and started laughing. It was the first time you had laughed in weeks, but the sound was so loud and powerful that it caused your chest to shake and your arms and legs to hurt, and so your laughter died down, but you tried to keep the smile on your face because you forgot just how good it felt to have one.
“That - that day,” you stammer, sitting up straighter as your eyes dart frantically around from side to side before they snap up to Gojo, rambling quickly as you try to get the memory out, “The Victory Tour. Nine years ago. This boy, um,” you snap your fingers, trying to remember, “He came into the infirmary. His dad left him in there for a bit. He kept me company. I gave him…” you tsk in annoyance, trying to think back, “I gave him…”
You trail off, thinking, but a soft voice brings you back to the present.
“A lemon drop,” Gojo finishes for you, with a gentle smile on his face, “Well, you couldn’t really give it to me because you were all bandaged up, but you told me I could have your last lemon drop.”
You forget how to think.
“And, to make me feel better, you told me I reminded you of this one character, the sailor boy, except for-”
“Your hair,” you say breathlessly, the memory all finally piecing together.
You remember him telling you how he had snuck onto the train, hiding until they were so far from the station that he was sure his father was going to be alright with him joining the team for the newest victory tour.
His father, a previous tribute turned mentor, clearly didn’t appreciate the idea, scolding him whenever he got the chance, that faithful day being one of them.
You remember him sitting next to you, telling you how he got here. You remember the glassy look in his eyes, telling him he could have your candy even though you knew it was probably the last piece you’d see for a while.
You remember now, all the old memories from one of your darkest times that you had blocked out were slowly yet surely coming back.
The sailor boy and his bright blue eyes, who stayed with you until the nurses arrived. Somebody who you figured you’d never see again, but with the odds being in your favor, or some ways, against it, here he was, sitting in front of you, patiently waiting.
Words escape you, but you find your hand traveling up his arm, tugging him harshly by the fabric on his shoulder as you throw yourself into his lap, shaking as you press your face into his neck, as you give him the tightest, most bone-crushing hug ever.
His hands fly up, trying to steady both you and him, and when he’s sure you won’t fall, one hand wraps tightly around your waist and the other higher up on your back. He lets out a low chuckle, his lips pressing into the side of your head as he holds what may perhaps be the oldest and only friend he’s ever had.
Gojo breathes, his first real breath in over nine years, and welcomes the bite of tears he feels because here, with you in his arms as it was meant to be, even if it was during the Hunger Games, these tears were happy ones.
And yes, it would be his luck that would put him in the same battle to the death with the only girl he’s never stopped thinking about, but maybe it was meant to be this short-lived and this sweet. Some people search their whole lives for somebody from their past, and if it meant that he only had to wait nine years to see you, even if it took this long for you to remember him, he’d gladly take it.
After all, he could never be mad at the girl who gave him his first lemon drop, and could never, ever see harm come to the only girl he’s ever had a crush on, even if you didn’t feel the same way about him. In this arena, in this moment, you were his, and he’d cherish it for as long as he could.
There was no Capitol girl. It’s always been you.
Ever since he saw you looking through that window on the train, he knew what the games were finally for, and perhaps, in some twisted and cruel way, the odds were in his favor.
“I remember you,” you whisper into the skin of his neck, “I remember you, Satoru, I remember you,” you say it over and over, and he wants you to because you remember him.
Your fingers dig into his jacket, and you smile despite the wobbliness in your lips, and you laugh loudly as you hug him again.
“Took you long enough,” he reprimands, but holds no weight, not with the way he’s beaming and smiling so bright that the cameras were sure to get every single bit of his true emotions. Gojo doesn’t care about what his father or mother or the people in his district think. He couldn't care less about sponsors and game makers and arrogant President Snow, who’s surely never felt a sliver of the emotions he’s feeling now. Even if it didn’t make sense for a boy from District 1 and a girl from District 11 to find their way back to each other after all this time, it made sense to him and you, and that’s all that mattered.
“I thought that-”
A canon blasts.
The two of you pull away, scrambling up to your feet so quickly as if nothing had happened, and that you had suddenly come back to where you were. The mockingjays all flapped their wings from the loud sound, cawing and screeching as you winced.
Your eyes squeeze shut, holding in your breath.
The two of you waited another minute, waiting to see if another cannon would fire, but it stayed silent, not even the mockingjays were singing. The wind had stopped, and the air had gone strangely cold.
Four tributes remained.
“We should…we should go back,” Gojo whispers, tugging you gingerly by the wrist towards the safety of the cave.
You look back to where the forest wound down a path, somewhere back there would be the Cornucopia, and a new dead body.
Nodding silently, you let him lead you back to the cave.
That night, you see little Evelyn’s face in the sky.
—-
Instead of sleeping, you stirred, plagued with thoughts.
Gojo hadn’t talked much about your past, seemingly just content enough for now that you remembered him, but with the weight of another tribute gone, you felt it difficult to think of anything positive right now.
But, a part of you now realized just how more difficult these games had become.
Save for the fact that only three people, besides you, remained, you wondered to what lengths you and Gojo would unconsciously go to save the other. For you, when you first met Gojo all those years ago, you cherished the moment for as long as you could, but ultimately knew you had to tuck it away to make room for more pressing issues. You remembered his softness and the way he treated you with kindness, something you desperately needed. After spending weeks in that infirmary with no contact from the outside world, having somebody to listen to you ramble and talk was something you forgot you liked doing, and he helped take your mind off the loss of your family, even if for just a bit.
And you wondered just how much it must’ve meant to him if he still remembered you after all these years. You never imagined that the boy whom you just gave a lemon drop to would consider that to be one of the most thoughtful acts of kindness he had been shown, but perhaps the differences in your respective districts came into play in that aspect.
This care, this initial desire to help you in the arena then must’ve come from a place of genuine worry, one that now has begun to bleed onto you. He wasn’t just somebody you had met some random day nine years ago, nor was he a tribute-turned-ally that was forged under the strange circumstances of the arena. Gojo was, in all senses of the word, a friend. Someone who cared for you, somebody who you cared about. Someone who, had you not been bright close to because of the Hunger Games, might’ve become a closer companion than the one you know now. And that was something you hadn’t had ever since you had sacrificed your freedom, your chance for happiness, for survival when you were nine, and you’d be damned if you had to give that up for the satisfaction of the Capitol.
And deep down, you knew you could never hurt somebody like him, not when you just found out you had something else to live for, not when you realized you might just have somebody else who cares for you besides yourself.
With Yuuji, you promised yourself that if the situation came, you’d put yourself first so that he’d be spared. And no matter how hard you tried, you weren’t able to keep that promise. So now, with somebody else to fight and help, you began to realize that Gojo meant much more to you than even you found him capable of.
You also knew you couldn’t beat others when it came to combat skills, and that ultimately, if need be, there wasn’t much you could do to save him if he had to save you. Getting away now, putting him in a position in which he only had to care for himself and vice versa, was perhaps the only way you could guarantee his survival.
Despite having promised him that when it came down to three tributes you would seperate, knowing what you know now, it seemed like your last option for keeping Gojo safe would be if you left now, putting as much distance between you two so that Gojo would have to start focusing on himself, and leaving you to focus on yourself.
So that night, when the fire ultimately died down and the sun was just starting to peek its head over the horizon, you took a deep breath and began putting your makeshift plan together as quickly as possible before Gojo woke up.
Your eyes drifted over to his sleeping figure, peaceful and serene. His lashes fluttered against his cheeks with every dream, his lips rosy and slightly parted as puffs of air escaped them. The show he had put up with having some darling in the Capitol was a ruse, something you realized yesterday, and a part of you wonders how much of it was true, with it now being revealed that it was just some ploy to try and get you to remember him.
If he had been someone you had seen back in eleven, you think you would’ve agreed to a dance with him, and maybe even a second one, but you push that hopeful thought deep down and remind yourself that a fantasy wasn’t something that boded well in the Hunger Games.
You smiled gently, pushing some hair away from his face as your fingers hovered over his forehead, and ultimately retracted your hand away as you quietly moved, trying to get the knife he had tucked away in the pocket of his jacket.
He shifted slightly in his sleep, mumbling out some random words, and you fought back a strange wave of emotions as you gingerly slipped the knife out the pocket, making sure that his sword was nearby in case he needed it, but knowing about how hidden the cave was, weren’t worried about his safety even with you gone.
Crawling over to where you kept the two bottles, one for you and one for him, you carefully picked yours up, trying not to make any noise, and winced when the metal scratched across the stone floor.
Turning around, you were greeted with Gojo’s wide eyes, startled out of his sleep, blinking his exhaustion away as he tried to make sense of what it was you were doing in his groggy state.
Fighting back a yawn, Gojo went to sit up, but you shook your head, hiding the knife behind your back as you pointed your wattle bottle up, mustering up a convincing-enough smile as you moved a little closer to him.
“I’m just getting some water,” you whispered, watching as his cheeks were slightly dusted with pink as you rubbed some dried leaves away from his hair, blinking his cerulean eyes again when he looked out the opening of the cave to see it slightly lit.
“Let me,” he yawned, rubbing at his face, “Let me come with you.”
You smiled at his kindness, shaking your head again as you gently pushed at his shoulders, trying to get him to lie back down.
“It won’t take long,” you reasoned, “And it’s almost daytime.”
Gojo searched your expression again, trying to read anything you couldn’t hide, and when you realized he might be able to tell something was hidden behind your intentions, you surged forward, planting a kiss on his cheek to redirect him and jumble his thoughts together.
Your heart pounded against the tight and limited space of your ribcage, your lips lingering on the skin near his jaw, and you pulled away slightly. Neither of you breathed, and you looked nervously up at him through your lashes, only to see him fighting back another grin, ducking his head down as he shyly blushed.
He gnawed on his cheek, eyes fluttering towards you as he pushed you away, hoping you wouldn’t tease him anymore, and let you go without argument, still in his head from where your lips had lightly grazed his skin.
It almost makes you stay.
“Go,” he murmurs sheepishly, tilting his head towards the cave opening with a boyish smile, one that makes your heart break, “I’ll…um, I’ll get started with breakfast.”
“Okay,” you say breathlessly, your stomach churning as you put the knife in your back pocket, looking over his face, the slope of his nose, his eyes, the way his lips turned upwards at the end, his jaw, everything that made him him for what was possibly the last time, and swallow a little cry as you nod again, “Okay.”
Standing up, you make sure he doesn’t see an outline of the knife as you walk out towards the light, pausing slightly as you look over your shoulder, seeing him already busy with making another fire, and are grateful he can’t see the glossiness in your eyes as your head falls slightly, glancing at the forest as you take one step out of the cave, and don’t look back.
—
You knew you had around five minutes before Gojo got suspicious. Seven until he started looking for you.
When you were sure he couldn’t hear your footsteps, you decided to run, knowing the general direction and placement of where you were in the arena, to know that if it was going to be like other years, the final fights took place near the Cornacopia.
The low-hanging branches rustle around you, dried bark and leaves crunching under you as you pant, not looking over your shoulder to see if anybody is following you, knowing it would only slow you down.
When you had first made the trek from the field where Yuuji lay to where the cave was, it nearly took a day of wandering around to find it, but the game makers were growing impatient, and though you estimated it had just turned into morning an hour ago, the sun had quickly risen to make it seem like it were the afternoon.
Your ankle had healed enough so that it wouldn’t hinder you, and you had hoped that not hearing any cannons would lead Gojo to believe that you had run away and weren’t killed, and would give up after some time and focus on his own chances of winning.
Without being able to know what you were thinking, you wondered how the game makers were portraying you. A traitor? A coward? How did the people in your district view you? The people in Gojo’s district? The Capitol citizens? Could any of them understand your motives without being able to put themselves in your position?
Your heart was nearly pumping out of your chest, adrenaline pumping in your veins, and sweat lining every pore, but you pushed on, knowing that if anybody were behind you or lurking nearby, they’d be able to what your footsteps and attack you from any angle. Getting to the Cornacopia, to where the fight would be, would be your best chance at ending this once and for all, without any worries of what could potentially happen to Gojo.
The only two tributes left, Borna from three and Maxmus from five, were both younger than you, but they had capabilities you didn’t. Borna, whom you had seen in the first blood-bath, took note of the way he wielded an axe as if it were an extension of his arm. Maxmus was strong, had brutish strength from lugging around generators for half of his life. You didn’t exactly have a plan for if, or when, you encountered either of them, but just hoped that it would somehow work out the way you intended in the end.
In some strange way, it almost seemed like the arena was shifting with your thoughts as well. The path you had taken to get to the cave was a long, winding one, but now, it seemed like the trees were shifting away to make room for you. In the distance, after running for what seemed like forever, you could squint and make out the break of trees, and the bright sunlight that bounced off the field of wheat and flowers illuminated the way.
And if you could look far enough, just at the right angle, the bright reflection of metal from the Cornacupia.
Your legs stopped, and you nearly collapsed if not for catching yourself on your knees. Your chest was heaving at an uncontrollable rate, your mouth dry and in need of water, but you tried to take a deep breath, a flash of hope, something you hadn’t felt in a while, filling your senses. In that moment of clarity and relatively, after you night of thinking up a plan, you had realized that if you were able to draw the remaining tributes away, making it so that you three could die while Gojo remained back near the cave, then maybe, just maybe, you could be able to manipulate the games in a way that would let Gojo win.
Something whizzed past the side of your head, and you felt the instantaneous trickle of blood pour from where the weapon had cut your forehead.
You let out a startled yell, the pain not hitting you but the shock, and look in the direction from which the weapon came, only to be met with Borna, his arm reeling back to send another axe flying in your direction.
Having no other second to spare, your legs worked in tandem to send you flying, scrambling to get away from the tree line as the large field quickly came into view. The blood was pouring into your eyes, and you blinked it away, wiping at the thick liquid so that you could see better, and when the sparkle of the large structure was getting clearer, you looked over your shoulder to see where Borna was.
An axe came barreling your way, but you barely dodged it, almost tripping but regaining your balance, and continued running in the direction of the Cornacopia.
The fresh wound was stinging, your legs were burning, and it seemed like the sun was already beginning to set, but you knew you had to push forward, just a little more, when a force from your right barreled into your side.
It sent you flying, skidding across the ground as you groaned, your eyes squeezing shut as your arms wrapped around your head to try and protect it. You rapidly blinked, watching as Maxmus got up from where he, too, had fallen and glanced over at his hiding spot from the side of the Cornacopia as he looked between you and Borna, who had finally caught up.
Labored breaths were escaping your mouth, and your hand fumbled to grab at the knife you had tucked away, brandishing it at the two boys who were beginning to corner you. Seeing them up close showed you the true extent of the damage they had received from the arena. Borna, whose skin was littered with deep cuts and bruises, matched the rough exterior of Maxmus, whose left eye was black and swollen shut, his arms sliced and diced from what must have been Borna’s blades.
You scrambled to your feet, swaying slightly, and pointed your blade to each of them, backing away slowly, pointing the tip of the knife to any one of them who was beginning to inch forward.
Maxmus’s gaze was set on Borna’s face, and Borna was looking at you, who was looking at Maxmus. You were the oldest of the three tributes, but here, everybody seemed like children waiting for permission to fight.
“Not so much a sweetheart anymore?” Borna quipped, his face pulled into a cruel grin that didn’t match his face, something he had been forced to become, and your eyes quiver. This boy shouldn’t be forced to survive like this.
But it seemed like the question, perhaps the word sweetheart, the same nickname you had called his sister Evelyn, sparked something in Maxmus.
He lunged for Borna, kicking the weapon out of his hand as he used his fists to hit him on either side of his face. Borna scratched at his cheeks with his nails, blood pricking at wherever they dug in, but Maxmus could only let out brutal and guttural noises as he wrapped one thick hand around Borna’s thin throat, trying to choke the life out of him.
Borna screamed, something weak and child-like as he cried, begging for Maxmus to get off of him as he continued to kick and flail, but to no avail.
You could only watch, horrified, backing away slowly, watching the way all the humanity left Maxmu’s body as all that replaced it was pure anaimalistic rage, caging his fingers around Borna’s head as he lifted him once, slamming him down on the ground until Borna’s screams quieted, and he lay limp on the bed of flowers.
A canon fired.
Maxmus heaved, slowly standing up, wiped his bloody hands on his pants, and turned around to see where you had gone.
His face is streaked with Borna’s blood, his eyes red and crazed. His blonde hair is riddled with dirt, and he snarls, his nose wrinkled as he looks at you, takes one step forward as you take one back.
Your hand trembles, your knife still pointing at him as your head snaps slightly, the memory of Yuuji flashing before your eyes.
Opening your mouth to say something, a little explanation, some final bits of humanity he might spare you, but are cut off when something, someone, a voice, catches both of your attention.
Somebody shouts from the woods, and in the distance, you can see the familiar shape of Gojo, his face red, drenched with sweat, as he looks around wildly. When the two of you lock eyes, it feels like everything you had led yourself to believe these last few hours tumbling down. The look of betrayal, anger, somewhat relief, and shock fills his expression, and you can’t say anything, the words necessary leaving your vocabulary.
Your heart drops, a small sound escaping your lips as your hand falls slightly.
No, no, no, no, he found you, why…why? Why didn’t he stay back in the cave? Why did he come back? Doesn’t he know he’s about to win? Why is he running towards you?
Maxmus looks between Gojo’s running body, at the way he’s not slowing down, and in his last act of hopelessness, leaps for you, his fist connecting with your jaw as you both tumble into the large blade of grass, a gasp punching out of your chest as you instantly taste blood on your tongue.
Gojo yells your name again, full of desperation and wrath, emotions that you can’t place in this moment, and your eyes come back into focus as Maxmus raises his left arm again, his face shaking with tremors as his other hand raises to your neck, choking the air out of you.
You gasp, one of your hands reaching for the hand around your throat, the other blindly grabbing around for the knife he had knocked out of your grasp, eyes bulging out of your sockets as you begin to suffocate.
Gojo is somewhere nearby, but the field is large, and he can only run so fast, considering that he ran through the entirety of the forest just moments before in hopes of trying to find you. Maxmus slams your head down on the floor, and blood trickles out of your mouth. One of his knees pins your wrist to your ground, kicking the knife away from you as he bares his teeth like a dog.
“I’m s-sorry,” you stutter, spasming for air and spitting some blood that was filing your mouth out, careful not to hit him, “I’m sorry….sorry a-about Evelyn,” your voice is raw and wheezing, and your legs are helplessly kicking, not at him, but as you struggle to keep conscious.
Maxmus pauses, the crazed expression on his face flickering away, the look of a brother replacing it, a brother who misses his sister, and his eyes brim with tears, his lips trembling as his fingers loosen around your throat.
Gojo’s shouts for you are nearing, and Maxmus glances over his shoulder, fear riddling his eyes as he snaps his head back to you, stammering as he lets out a small cry, and his fist tightens again, your eyes spotting around the edges with black dots as air becomes less and less accessible.
“She was t-twelve,” he whispers, shaking, “Twelve.”
You try to nod, but barely have the strength to, and just stare at him through your bloodshot eyes, mouth open as you see him raise his fist again, putting you out of your misery, when a hand, one much larger, curls around his, throwing Maxmus away from your body.
You choke when his hand leaves your throat, turning to the side as you gag, gasping in air as you feel lightheaded, your vision tilting and twirling, watching as Gojo throws a violent to the side of Maxmus’s head, his face contorting with rage as Maxmus stays silent, taking each hit.
You can’t speak, losing your voice in your bruised throat, and your fingers scratch at the skin, shuffling on your side, trying to get to Gojo.
Gojo unsheathes his sword from his belt, his strong arm reeling as he points the tip to Maxmus’s heart, but something else catches your attention.
Maxmus, his hand is reaching for something.
Lizzie’s knife.
Gojo doesn’t see it, blinded by inhuman anger and survival, and you try to communicate wordlessly with him, smacking the ground, crawling towards the two on hands and knees, but it seems to slow down as Maxmus’s fingers can wrap around the hilt.
You gasp, heaving, and Maxmus turns his head slightly to the side, watching as you try to take the knife away, and something in him shifts, fingers inching across the blade, away from your grasp, and when he finally has a sturdy enough hold on it, he angles his hand up, slashing the side of your face with the blade, and then another slash that catches the skin around your already damaged neck.
The action finally catches Gojo’s attention, and his face falls as he hears your muted whines of pain, your hands grabbing at your face as you collapse on your back, blood pouring from your face, a gruesome sight.
He hesitates, and that seems to be all Maxmus needed to surge upwards, shoving the knife into Gojo’s ribcage.
Maxmus digs Lizzie’s knife in, pulling his hand back as he stabs him somewhere lower down, pulling the knife out, blood seeping quickly through the fabric of Gojo’s jacket.
Clenching his teeth through the pain, Gojo’s arm slips, and his sword lodges into Maxmus’s chest, near his heart, and Maxmus slowly goes still.
A canon blasts.
Your head is turned to the side, watching this happen, unable to move as pain and exhaustion take over your bones, and you feel your blood pool beneath your head.
Your vision is blurry, but you watch as Gojo staggers away from Maxmus’s lifeless body, looking down to the side, looking at the damage done, and goes to stand up, but falls with a heavy thud.
Gojo coughs, blood staining his chin, and the only thing you can do is look, look at his blood-stained clothes, hands, the mud-caked white hair, and finally his eyes. The thing that first caught your attention when you were nine, the thing that you noticed first when you saw him through that train window, and finally, here, as the last two tributes, barely clinging to life.
You expect them to be hard with anger, unnerving, cruel, and with a coldness he could be capable of.
But they look at you with the same softness you had become accosted to. He can’t talk, coughs on his own blood, but there’s no need to.
You feel tears roll down the side of your face, and all you can do is try and outstretched your hand, trying to hold his, but Gojo is riddled and weak with pain, only able to slightly flex his fingers towards yours.
After a second, a warmth floods your fingertips, and you feel his skin against yours, the same skin you felt when you were nine and he helped tighten some of your bandages, the same fingers that wiped Yuuji’s blood away from your cheeks, the same hands that held you just last night.
Mustering up a weak smile, you blink, and he slowly blinks back.
Black dots around your vision, your lids growing heavy, your breathing slowing down as your fingers hover over his.
You feel like you’re drifting off to sleep, your eyes shutting, your body relaxing on the flowers beneath you, the same flowers resting with Yuuji, and you let go.
One second passes, another one, and then,
A cannon blasts.
—-
“Do you need anything?”
The steady hum of the room rattles the bed, the windows overlooking the Capitol as their vehicles honk and screech. Lights from the buildings flicker with different colors, all signs of life, but to you, it feels as though you’ve died and are watching this all through somebody else’s eyes.
Martin sits next to your hospital bed, a knowing look etched onto his face. Drumesia is off somewhere, partying and getting drunk after having her first victim, but Martin hasn’t left your side.
Because he knows.
“President Snow wants to see you,” Martin says gently, his hand enclosing yours, but you stare blankly at the wall. “He wants to congratulate you for on win without the fuss of the cameras.”
You blink slowly, quietly.
Martin sighs, his brown skin carved with years of wrinkles and sorrows, alcohol that numbed the pain but never erased it, making him look older than he was, and you glance over to your side as his head ducks, his hold on yours tightening.
You see the way he looks at your face, a mix of pity and understanding, the way his stare lingers on the scars carved into your face, ones that doctors say will probably be there for a while. You don’t care about your appearance, only caring about the physical reminder of the games that you are now forced to carry.
“You should count yourself lucky, sweetheart,” he murmurs, careful to lower his voice in case there were any microphones planted in the room, “Not many victors can sit where you sit without having killed anyone.”
The whites of your eyes are still veined with red, a cone supporting your neck from the damage that Maxmus had caused, but you shake slightly with anger at his words.
Lucky?
Martin sees the shift in your demeanor and swallows thickly, looking up at you, his brown eyes glossy with tears as he smiles sadly, nodding.
“I know,” he whispers, squeezing your hand, and you feel your breathing hitch, nose wrinkling as you try to fight back tears, “I know.”
The two of you sit in that hospital room in silence, the only victors that District 11 has ever bared, and your fingers twitch, holding onto his hand too.
—-
When it’s the crowning ceremony, you’re standing in front of the same place where the tribute parade ended, a large stage that was surrounded by the largest stadiums and crowds you had ever seen.
You feel like you’re in a haze as you watch the back of President Snow,and feel like you’re underwater with the way your ears sound muffled. He talks about tradition and duty, about the necessity of the games and the importance of a victor.
When he finishes, the crowd erupts into cheers and screams, applause echoing so loudly that the ground beneath you rattles.
Somebody presents him with the crown, and President Snow takes it carefully between his gloved hands.
You are told to rise and stare at his weathering face, his wispy mustache, and his graying eyes.
He smiles, but it looks strange.
Your head ducks a little bit, and he places the crown atop, and you crane upwards as he gingerly pats your shoulders, noting the wrinkled handkerchief sticking out of the ruffle of the top of your bodice, something Drumesia and Martin fought to keep for you ever after the games ended.
“Am I wrong in assuming this was your father's?” President Snow asks, pinching the fabric of the handkerchief between his fingers. His voice was soft and gentle, lowered as if this was a private conversation between the two of you.
“It was passed down by members of my family,” your voice answers mechanically, your eyes lacking emotion as you stare at the man responsible for every single death you had witnessed.
President Snow nods briefly, smiling as he pats it down.
“I’m sure that your District is proud,” he responds, and steps away slightly.
You nod.
“My District is,” you say, “And any remaining family I have left.”
President Snow’s bushy brows furrow.
“My parents and siblings are buried in eleven,” you explain, your voice bitter and heavy, “But I have family everywhere. My ancestors are Covey.”
President Snow's smile falters, and his eyes narrow. He straightens the crown on your head as his lips pull into a thin, wavery line.
“Yes,” he muttered, his voice echoing around the small space, “Yes, I’ve heard of their kind.”
You watch as he retreats into the room behind the curtains, and everyone claps as you continue to stand, waving limply to the crowd.
You can’t smile, no matter how hard you try, finding it difficult to do so under the burden of twenty-three tributes lying upon your head.
—-
It’s the night before you leave for home, and sleep seems to evade you.
You toss and turn, groaning at every unsatisfactory angle you lay down, and ultimately give up, walking around the spacious room to look out the large window.
You rest your burning forehead on the cool glass, taking a deep breath as you close your eyes, trying to calm your racing mind and heart.
Every light reminds you of the brightness of Gojo’s smile, every laughter you hear dims in comparison to Yuuj’s.
Sometimes, you see their shadows in the corner of the room, even with the lights on. You could see their faces, before they were touched by the cruelty of the games, and sometimes close your eyes to savor the sight just a little bit more.
Sighing, you bite your lip, trying not to cry again for the tenth night in a row, and sniffle, breathing stuttering.
A knock at the door pulls you from your thoughts.
It must be Martin coming back to check on you. You don’t look over your shoulder when it clicks open, getting ready to push him away, just as you’ve done each night, and let out an exhausted sigh when his footsteps patter in.
“I’m packed,” you murmur, looking at the card below, looking at the strangely dressed citizens, “And you can tell Drumesia that I won’t need a separate suitcase for the dresses, I’m not taking any of them home.”
A silence follows, and you push your forehead on the glass even harder, your breath fogging it up as you let out a sigh, looking over your shoulder to tell him in an even harsher tone, but your brows pinch together at the unfamiliar face.
A tall middle-aged man with blue eyes and sandy blonde hair, swept to the side, smiles at you.
You scramble away from the window in shock, stammering as you look at the door and then back at him. He looks somewhat like somebody you’ve seen around the Capitol, as if you had seen him around at the ceremonies and gatherings, but placed him aside as inconsequential.
“Hello,” the man greets, not coming any closer as if he understands the threat he poses, “It’s an honor to meet you.”
“I wish I could say the same,” you reply coldly, and his head dips slightly, abashed, and places a hand across his chest, a symbol of apology.
“I realize it’s your first time seeing me, but I’m one of the game makers,” he explains, and your face hardens even more, your fists clenching, “My name is Plutarch Heavensbee.”
Your nose flares, and don’t trust yourself to say anything that won’t get you in trouble.
“I’m filming something for this documentary piece I’m doing on the Hunger Games. If you could please join me while I get some last shots of you, I would greatly appreciate it.”
He says it in a way that encourages disagreement, as if you could.
You bite so hard on the inside of your cheek that you taste blood. You don’t move for a bit, a fire in your eyes that he notices and makes his smile grow a little.
“Please,” he motions towards the door, turning his back, expecting you to follow, “It won’t take long.”
—-
You follow him down some winding hallways, places you haven’t had access to, and go down multiple flights of stairs, wondering if you're going to get killed for something foolish they caught on the microphone in the games.
The man, Plutarch, tries to distract you by chattering away, explaining the importance of what this documentary is and how he’s hoping to become head gamemaker in a couple of years, but you try to phase it out in order not to choke the life out of him.
The walls around you become less decorated, and the lights begin to flicker the further downstairs you go. Cement seems to be the new support, as everywhere around you is a dark gray color, and he does nothing to explain where it is he’s taking you.
After what seemed like almost twenty minutes, he turns right at some random hallways, looking over his shoulder, not at you, but something above you, gives it a quick nod, and before you can see what it is he was looking at he ushers you to a line of doors.
You stand outside a random one as he fiddles with the lock, twisting and turning the key in a carnage of ways before it clicks, opening.
He walks in, looking at you expectantly as you begrudgingly follow after him.
The room he takes you to is barely a room and rather a wash of complete darkness. He shuts the door behind you, and you squint, trying to vocal your eyes without the help of the flimsy lights from outside.
He shifts beside you, and you jump when you feel his lips suddenly next to your ears.
“This is the only place that isn’t reinforced with their new series of microphones,” he whispers, and goosebumps prick at the back of your neck, going to interject, but he continues quickly, “You have five minutes before the cameras come back on. I’ll be waiting outside.”
“What?” Your voice shakes slightly with fear, not understanding what it was he was telling you.
Where were the cameras he was telling you about? The film crew? How was he to take any clips of you in such a dark room?
You can’t see his face, but you would bet that the same smile that hadn’t left his face ever since he saw you was still there, and he doesn’t answer your question as he reaches back for the handle, opening the door slightly as the light creeps in a little bit.
The side of his face illuminates, and his eyes look at something behind you before he leaves, the door clicking shut behind him as you’re left alone in the room, confused and terrified.
Was this some cruel joke? Were they poking at you one last time, hiding a camera somewhere in the room to see how long it takes for the mind of a recent victor to collapse?
You run, going towards where the outline of the door was, fiddling with the handle as you pound on it, hoping somebody outside could hear you. But from what you remembered about the halls, they were utterly desolate, leaving you completely by yourself and perhaps the game maker standing outside, enjoying this.
“Bastard!” You shout, fist hitting metal as you kick it, “Let me out! They’ll notice I’m gone! You can’t--”
“You might want to lower your voice.”
You stop, head whipping around to the voice that came from somewhere behind you.
“Who’s there?” You snap, backing into the door, “Who are you?” Your heart is hammering away, but you try to fight the fear in your voice.
The voice chuckles lowly, and you hear quiet footsteps, ones that seem to be coming closer and closer to you.
“You forgot my voice after a couple of days already?”
Why did it sound like…no. No, no, it can’t be.
You laugh to yourself, shaking your head as you laugh at the manic idea. There’s no way, they’re just fucking with you.
Mockingjays, you think, trying to make sense of why, why, why, it sounded like Gojo’s voice, they must’ve gotten his voice and turned it into something sinister and teasing, something to taunt you with.
“You’re sick,” you spit out, lips curling into a sneer as you push back against the door, rattling the doorknob, but it doesn’t open, “You’re a-all fucked in the head.”
The footsteps halt, and your breath lodges in your throat.
Martin never warned you about any of this.
“We don’t have a lot of time-”
“Fuck off!” You yell, hands clamping around your ears as your legs wobble and give way to the ground beneath you. You shake, rocking your body to the front and left, your eyes watering with those pesky tears as your fingers dig into your ears and the sides of your head, shaking it side to side as you try to get his voice away from you.
Strong and sturdy arms cage around your convulsing body, murmur gentle words into your hair as their hands run up and down your back, trying their best to calm you down, trying to calm you down like…like he would have.
“Go away!” You scream, but your voice is muffled by the person's body, and you try to punch him away, but he’s just too firm to even move, “Please, please, please, just-just leave me alone!”
The hands that are holding you to their body pause, stilling as they contemplate something, and you hope that they’re going to let you go, let you be on your own the way you wanted, but instead they move to where your hands were still covering your ears. They tug and tug and tug some more until you give up, tears wetting your cheeks as you tremble beneath them.
The person takes a deep breath, thumb rubbing across the pulse beneath their wrist before they speak.
“Eyes so blue and hair so black, they called him sailor boy,” the man recounts, his voice low but loud enough so that it could be heard over your moans, quiet so that anybody outside, if anybody ever were to pass by, couldn’t hear, and the words instantly cause you to stop.
“Remember?” he asks gently, carefully, patiently, a smile in his tone even if you couldn’t see it, and you craned your head upwards to where you guessed his face was, your breathing stuttering as you felt some strange emotion flood your veins, “Eyes so blue and hair so black, they called him sailor boy. He could not swim but loved the sea, our little sailor boy.”
And Gojo continues, as if it wasn’t enough.
“He rowed and rowed and rowed some more, that stubborn sailor boy,”
Your fingers dig into his chest, scrambling and positioning yourself so that you are seated atop his strong thighs, his hands holding onto your waist as if you were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
“And when he reached the long-lost land…he had nowhere else to go.” You finish the poem for him, your eyes wide and mouth gaping as you shake your head over and over, refusing to believe the truth that was laid out in front of you.
Because somehow, someway, right here, right now, only breaths away from you, Gojo was…
Alive.
The two of you don’t say anything for a second. You stay quiet, listening to the sounds of his breaths, matching them to the same patterns you heard countless nights in the cave when he was asleep. You lower your head down, hands patting around his chest to see where his heart is. It was thumping, alive, under your palm. You place your ear against it, counting its beats, the rhythm you had forced yourself to memorize.
It’s the same, you accept, it’s his.
Gojo doesn’t say anything either, but lets his hands roam across your arms, tracing your skin from your wrist to your elbows, calloused fingers gliding across the hairs on your neck and the soft fuzz on your cheeks. They falter slightly when they catch against the divet of the scar from Maxmus’s knife, but decide not to linger too much on the past. His hands move from your neck down, down to your chest, where your own heart was pittering and pattering away, and he sprawls out his hand to feel its steady beat. It’s yours, your unique heartbeat that he could recite like poetry if you asked him to.
“...Satoru?”
Your voice quivers, wavering and teetering with disbelief and something like hope.
“Sailor boy,” he corrects, and you let out a sound that was a cross between a screech and wail, barriling into his chest as you press your hands across every part of his body you could, kissing his cheeks and the backs of his hands, kissing his forhead and his hairline, his soft sounds of laughter making you cry and laugh in return, kissing the slope of his nose and the corners of his eyes, feeling out his features with your fingers, making sure everything was the way you remembered. He tried to steady you, but his smile was blinding, even if the darkness of the room hid it. Your toothy grin could illuminate the universe and then some, and you were sure you were crying out the last reserve of tears you had as you slurred questions and words together, only able to choke out a pathetic-
“How?”
Your voice cracks, your head falling onto his, your noses touching as your chest shakes with sobs. His hands reach upwards, cupping your cheeks on either side as his thumbs try to wipe your tears away, but he’s no match for how quickly they come. His lips press small kisses to the tip of your nose, your forehead, and your chin. After a few seconds, he settles his forehead back on yours, fingers moving slightly out to hold the back of your head as he simply shrugs.
“Plutarch won’t tell me everything, but,” he sighs, his thumb moving across the small hairs of your eyebrows, flattening them down as he smiles to nobody but himself, “I guess the tracker they put in me was special, something my father bribed them into switching. Plutarch says it could control my heartbeat, slow it down enough to where…to where it seemed like I was…”
Dead.
“I-I don’t,” you stutter, lips quivering as you choke, choke on a thousand emotions that you don’t know how to deal with, trying to remember him a week ago, lying lifeless in front of you, to the shadow you see now, trying to rationalize every possible scenario, but nothing makes sense, “I don’t understand. I saw you, you…you’re heart stopped, you weren’t breathing, Satoru, you weren’t breathing-” you ramble, a new wave of tears rolling over you as he hushes them, trying to calm you down but nothing seems to work.
“I know,” he murmurs, rubbing his hands up and down your arms, pulling you impossibly closer to him, “I know, I’m sorry I didn’t show you earlier but-”
“You’re sorry?” You exclaim, pulling away slightly to scoff through the tears, hitting him across the chest with weak blows, shoving him with anger at yourself, at stupid him for ruining your stupid plan, “You’re sorry? I,” you sob again, laughing humorlessly as you jam your palms into your eyes, “You were supposed to win, not me! That’s why I left! I…I wanted them to follow me, I wanted you to win, Satoru!” your voice cracks, using the backs of your hands to wipe at your cheeks. Gojo lets out a small puff of air, akin to a chuckle, but it doesn’t match the heavy feeling that settles in his heart.
He pulls you back into his chest, as if he doesn’t like being away for you even for seconds at a time if he can avoid it, and runs his lanky fingers across your back, a soothing gesture, but it doesn’t help the hiccups that escape your lips nor the way you wet his shoulder with your tears and spit.
“Why do you think I ran after you?” He murmured against the side of your head, his own salty tears splattering on the ground as he choked on his words, “Did you really think,” he takes a deep breath, hiccuping as he cradles you head, “Did you really think I’d let go of the girl I’ve been in love with since I was nine?”
You laugh wetly, pulling away from his chest, wishing so desperately you could see his face, even a glimmer of it, but you could settle for this now, settle for the blurriness of his outline if it meant hearing those words again.
You move blindly, tilting your head upwards slightly, and catch his lips against yours. It's a breathless sigh that escapes you, your fingers moving from his neck to tangle in his hair, only to find his head buzzed, void of the soft locks you remembered, but you’re too dizzy to comment on it.
Gojo kisses you back with the fervor of a man starved, groaning when your teeth accidentally catch on his bottom lip, his nose pressing against yours as one of his large hands sprawls across your back, pushing you closer to him as he ravishes you. His tongue darts out, running across your, moving with experience that you lacked, but he didn’t seem to mind, not at all.
His fingers trailed upwards to cup your jaw, tilting your head slightly to make room for his, and you whine when he pulls you with the strength of somebody who’s ben training their whole life to situate better on his lap, and you feel the wetness of your tears mix with his own, becoming a mess of spit, salt and skin as Gojo pulls away slightly to catch some air.
A loud thud, something like a hand hitting metal, comes from the other side of the door, and you’re sure that if you could, you’d see that familiar blush painting Gojo’s face. You feel your cheeks heat up, and the two of you laugh, embarrassed and giddy, a feeling you never thought you’d feel again, and Gojo murmurs a quiet apology against your skin.
“They buzzed my hair,” he explains, as if reading your thoughts, and your hands move across his head, nails raking his scalp as he shudders, “And they dyed it black. They said that I have to look unrecognizable, hell, they’re even making me put some contacts in to hide my eye color.”
“They?” You ask breathlessly, brows furrowed, and Gojo nods, his thumb brushing across your bottom lip as you feel a fire burn across your face at the slight touch.
“I can’t tell you, it’s not safe, not even here,” he explains quickly, noting how little time left there was, “But I’m being sent out to District 10 to be a peacekeeper. Plutarch won’t tell me anything else, but he says that in…in a couple of years, I might be able to see you.”
Your chest heaves again, stammering, you thought that this was permanent, a naive wish, and Gojo picks up on it, kissing your nose again as he leans his forehead on yours, hugging you by the waist as he kisses the side of your mouth, then a slight peck to your lips as you sniffle.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he whispers, a statement that you have a hard time believing. “If I waited nine years and was able to have you for this long, I think I can wait a little more if it means having you forever.”
You laugh wetly, shaking your head as you shudder with fear and trepidation.
“I love you, too,” you say quietly but firmly, arms circling his neck as you feel him smile against your lips, “I have…for a while, even if I didn’t know it.”
Plutarch hits the door again, signalling for you to wrap it up.
You feel anxiety roll over you, stammering to say everything you wanted to, but stop, knowing that in these last seconds, you had to be meticulous.
“Wait for me?” Your voice is barely above a whisper, and your chest stutters with a particularly sharp sob that you try to push down, “I-I’ll be home, you’ll know where to find me.”
He laughs softly, thumb rubbing across your cheek as he pulls you down for one last kiss, one that lingers and you can still taste, years later.
“I will,” Gojo promises without missing a beat, “Promise.”
---
Years pass, and the games continue.
There’s no way to hide the pain that comes each year when the games start again, can’t forget the look of Yuuji, or the other tributes. Most days, whether you want to or not, you pass by the Itadori household. They welcome you inside with minimal words, pour you some tea in silence while the brothers stare at a wall, not saying anything. They don’t blame you, never show anger, and always kiss you on the forehead when it’s your time to leave. Their mother and father shortly passed after your games, so you always try to give them food and money, anything you could offer, though they never take any of it.
There’s a small plot of dirt in their yard, where their parents lie, and eventually where they buried Yuuji. You visit it during the day, place purple and yellow flowers by the patch, and update him on your life, even if it takes a while to find the words. It would take even more time to allow yourself the forgiveness you deserved, but for now, you read Yuuji the stories from your childhood and pretend like he was there. You clean his headstone every Friday, making sure it is always shining, and kiss the edge of it when you get ready to leave. Sometimes, you leave a handful of berries and nuts at the foot, knowing that he’d be proud of the ones you foraged, even if they weren’t ever as sweet as his.
The victor's village is empty, but you always visit Martin during the nights, when you know he drinks the most and it’s hardest to sleep. The two of you don’t have much to say, and you prefer the silence, but he drinks less when you’re around, or at least attempts to hide the bottles when he hears your knocks.
When the time comes, just like Gojo said, it takes nobody by surprise that there’s a disturbance of what was once a normality, a shift in the system of violence and chaos. A power keg of a machine tumbling by each District that slowly pulls away from their duties, people from all over banding together as they find the resilience needed to rebel and get rid of the system that took everything from them. It’s a bloody war, one that takes and takes and takes and seems to have no end until it finally gives out, cries from all over when it’s released that President Snow is killed and a new leader has been elected, fairly and democratically.
There isn’t much left of 11 afterward, after the bombs stopped and the planes left. But gradually, the people emerged from hiding and from beneath the rubble, one by one, until a small community, something that resembled the one you once knew, formed. It’s lost a lot of its members, the Itadori plot now joined by Sukuna and Choso as they rest by their brother and parents, and you always visit them when the sun comes up, drinking tea on the grass as you tell them stories from the war and your days rebuilding.
The victor’s village was untouched, and you and Martin opened the doors to anybody who didn’t have a home left. Some people came, others preferred to start new and without reminders of what once was.
After a while, when the dust settled and the bone began to become one with the dirt, you heard a gentle rasp at your door.
He stood there, aged, slightly shaken, but still him. He held a small bouquet, white and yellows and purples mixing as he shuffled slightly, pushing his long white locks back with his fingers as he tried to let go of the hardness that had taken over his features.
Gojo smiled when you emerged from behind the door, your own eyes slightly sunken in with exhaustion and the soils of war, but still the gentle ones that welcomed him to you when you were both children with nothing to lose.
He had found you, just as he promised, and this time, he wasn’t going to let you go.
Besides, Gojo was long overdue for taking his girl out for a dance.
summary: every year, to make them pay for their uprising, a male and female tribute are selected from each district to fight to the death in the hunger games. this year, you have been chosen as the female tribute from district 11. you never expected to make an alliance with someone, much less with the capitol's newest darling, gojo satoru. but it happens, making this year's games even more interesting. not only for the unlikely alliance, but for the fact that nobody could've predicted love to bloom between such unlikely tributes.
warnings: general hunger games related dark themes, nothing too serious yet
word count: 20k
note: reblogs and comments are always appreciated! hope part one is interesting enough for the eventual part two that's in the works! art credit: _3aem
jjk masterlist + series masterlist
From the Treaty of Treason:
In penance for their uprisings, each district shall offer up a male and female between the ages of 12 and 18 at a public “Reaping”.
These tributes shall be delivered to the custody of the Capitol.
And then transferred to a public arena where they will fight to the Death, until a lone victor remains.
—-
When your name was called at the Reaping, you didn’t feel fear.
You thought you would’ve. All those years dreading the moment where your name could be called, herded into a show of glitz and glam, all to be brutally slaughtered at the end. It’s frightening, violent, gruesome. It’s death.
But when you heard your name resonate through that microphone and bounce off the walls of the courtyard, you felt a strange sense of relief.
Your shoulders relaxed, head dropping down as you nod slightly to yourself. After nearly surviving seventeen years of escaping the Hunger Games, what odd irony it was that at your last eligible year, you’d be chosen? But you knew deep down, your odds of being picked were greater than most. You had entered your name so many times in exchange for extra rations that it was almost comical how empty that glass bowl would be without your help.
Looking around, as if to make sure you hadn’t misheard it, you see your rampaging thoughts quickly answered by the way you could see yourself on the big screens, the Capitol cameras focusing in on your face to see your reaction. They normally love a show, adore it when people cry or protest. But you couldn’t cry even if you wanted to, felt no need to show others pain that you reserved for those you loved most.
The girls around you mutter things quickly, their eyes darting around to gauge your emotions. Last year, the girl tribute from your district tried to run away. She had made it close to the fence before one of the peacekeepers thumped her on the head and dragged her back towards the stage.
But you wouldn’t be running. You wouldn’t be giving them a show. They had taken your mother and father, your sister and brother. They had taken your youth and now your adulthood, but you swore in that moment that you wouldn’t give them what they wanted most.
Your body moved on its own out of the crowd, the girls around you giving you room to part from them. Some of them whispered thanks under their breaths, others let their hands linger on your arms and back. Maybe they felt sorry, as if they were already mourning you.
The Capitol lady they send every year for the annual reaping of the Hunger Games watches you with hawk-like eyes as you slowly make your way down the aisle and towards the makeshift stage. Brumesia, a woman with a strange name and even stranger choice of attire and makeup, gives you an oily, manufactured smile as you slowly make your way up the steps and towards her outstretched hand.
You look at it briefly in questioning. It was covered with a suede, plum-colored glove, and you wondered how much a glove like that would cost at the market. It could surely cover a family's meals for over a month. She looked at you and then at your hands, the crowd of people watching as they waited for you to shake it.
Most people tend to dress in their best clothes for the reaping ceremony. They wear what they would usually save for the new year or gatherings. They clean up and try to look presentable for the respectable Capitol people watching. But you, you who could barely afford a tattered dress or soap, looked exactly like you did leaving the fields, grimy. So when you shook Brumesia’s hand, you made sure to get all your dirt and sweat on her brand-new gloves.
Brumesia gave a slightly winced look, giving you a tightly pressed smile as she walked back to her microphone, gripping the stand.
“Thank you for this year's female tribute,” she glanced over your way, most likely already having forgotten your name, “And now, the male tribute…”
You stood limply and lifeless as she read the male tribute's name, a boy who had just become old enough for the games, and someone who you would see frequently working around the production line. You had never had so many eyes on you, and you felt open and raw. You distracted yourself by naming all the colors of the clothes people were wearing, but it was an overwhelming wash of greys and blacks.
You watched as the boy, Itadori Yuuji, made his way up to the stage. In the distance, his mother could be heard muffling her cries, and the cameras made sure to capture her crumpled-up face. From what you knew, Yuuji had two brothers, but they were too old to volunteer for the games. You looked around to find them, their faces pale and drained of blood as they tried to hold their screaming mother back.
When you see his small body trudge out of the crowd, that's when you feel the first wave of nausea roll over you. Yuuji, with his round face and slight limp from an accident during his youth, was coming up the stage, furiously wiping at his face.
He was young, far too young.
For a second, it all feels surreal. You pinch yourself, hard, just to make sure you haven’t fallen asleep in the fields again, waking up to the gentle breeze and sway of wheat as you make your way back to the town.
That fear that you know you should’ve had almost creeps back up when Yuuji has his hand shaken and Brumesia reads the last of her card. The delayed reaction almost chokes you out, your hands trembling when you look over at her, then back to the crowd, and finally at the big screen televising your face.
When she reads the ceremonial statement, “may the odds be ever in your favor”, your mind stops itself from spiraling. You had to control yourself; you’ve mastered control before. The Capitol wasn’t going to take it from you, not like they did everything else.
Drumesia orders you to shake Yuuji's hand. You note how he trembles more than you.
—
This year would be the 66th annual Hunger Games.
The Capitol was still reeling from the games last year, when the new victor from District 4, the youngest ever, took out all his opponents with his various choice of weapons. When the train taking you and Yuuji from District 11 to the Capitol ended its journey, the buzz with all the Capitol citizens was still surrounding last year’s victor. The ladies were giggling in their masses, craning their necks to see the train from District 4, wanting to get a shot of him boarding off as a new mentor, paying no mind to the other trains. You expected this, being from District 11, but found yourself a little surprised to see the citizens even ignoring the trains from Districts 1 and 2, their neighboring brothers and sisters (although they'd recoil in disgust if they had to admit it).
It simply meant that the careers and tributes from these higher districts would be angered by the overshadowing of the young victor, meaning that this year's games would have to surpass the last.
Meaning that this year was going to be exceptionally brutal.
“Don’t they want to see us too?” Yuuji asked from beside you, peering out the window at the large crowd of people crowding the train car up ahead.
You blink out of your stupor, glancing over at him as you take in his bloodshot eyes and wet nose. He had spent the week-long journey crying, holding onto you as if you could be of much protection. You tried to wrench him away from you at first, not wanting to get attached, but it was inevit in able. You knew his brothers well after having worked alongside them for nearly six years and had a deep fondness for him mother. You can still remember the stir that woke the town when he was born, everyone scrambling to the Itadori household to pinch his chubby cheeks. A part of you couldn’t abandon him, a sense of guilt infiltrating your body the moment you even entertained the idea.
So you gave in, letting him crawl into your side. Besides, before you worked in the fields, you used to take care of the children of the mayor and the wealthier members of your district, so soothing Yuuji and his tremors wasn’t too difficult.
“They just can’t see us because of those big fluttery lashes they have,” you say with a teasing tone, winking at him in an exaggerated way that makes him giggle slightly. It’s not much, but the perpetual look of fear he has in his eyes leaves momentarily.
It was true, to some degree. The Capitol citizens wore inoperable, extravagant outfits that seemed to come in every array of colors and shapes. You had spent your entire life thinking that Brumesia was as over-the-top as it could be, but you were sorely mistaken. The Capitol, even this tiny train station, was beyond any word you could think of. At least, not any good ones.
This whole experience so far has only morbidly reminded you of your dark and impending fate. The train was littered with food or sweets you could imagine. You had never felt so full in your life, often trudging back to your room in a comatose state as you lay bonelessly on your bed. The mattresses are made with cotton, and the bedsheets are satin. Despite it all, however, it’s a blaring reminder that when this show is over, it’s up to you and the twenty-three other tributes to put on a new one.
And when you remember that the food no longer tastes as good.
“My mom would hate that lady's outfit,” Yuuji murmurs, pointing to a girl outside with a large hoop skirt decorated with red feathers, her bodice ending dangerously close underneath her chest. “She would say it’s too impractical.”
Although he’s trying to sound optimistic, you can still hear the quiver in his voice. He missed his mom, his whole family. You were waiting alone in the room next to him back home, waiting to be carded off onto the trains, when you heard them come in. You could still hear her cries in her sleep, hear his brothers beg for forgiveness for not being able to take his place.
It was torture. All of this was torture.
But you smile despite yourself, teeth flashing as you nudge his side a little bit, failing at chastizing him. Drumesia was off somewhere blotting her face, but her ears were always perked. The mentor they had given you, an old victor from way back when, was snoozing off in his room, unable to hear your remarks even if he had his face up close to your mouth.
“I don’t see how she’d be able to climb any trees with that skirt,” you tease, but feel a certain ache curl up in your chest. There were no trees to climb at the Capitol, and you doubted you’d ever feel the rush of adrenaline climbing one for yourself.
The trains from the other districts were slowly unloading, one by one, and Drumesia was waking up a storm trying to get everyone ready to leave. Martin, your mentor, clambered out of his room with his shirt crumbled up and a bit of pastry bits stuck to his mouth, making Drumesia fret over him more than you and Yuuji.
At this time, the two of you shifted down the train cart, near the edge, and tried to look out the small window that faced the tribute center, where they were filing them all in one by one.
“Look at him!” Yuuji pointed in excitement, his finger bending on the glass as he pressed his nose up, fogging it with his breath, “Look at him! Look at his hair!”
You crammed next to him to find what he was excited about, squinting your eyes to see in the distance, and felt your heart drop at the sight.
District 1, known for the production of luxury items, often bears the most tributes that win the games. Often coming after the Capitol in terms of wealth, they’re able to send their children to special academies to train for the games and volunteer up until it’s no longer possible. The tributes from this district almost always won, and if they didn’t, it’s only because the tributes from 2 or 4, in charge of stone production and fishing industries respectively, followed second. They often form alliance pacts at the start of the games before the friendships fizzle out and they kill each other, earning the nickname of Careers.
The person Yuuji was pointing to had a 1 written on the back of his shirt, his muscles rippling through the fabric as he moved. His arms were the size of trunks, his body strong like a tree. Tributes weren’t allowed to see the Reaping footage ceremony from the other districts during the train ride, most likely to keep with the air of mystery, but you had prepared yourself to be met with tributes who could kill you with their bare hands.
He looked like he could kill you with his bare hands.
“I would advise you two to step away from the windows. We wouldn’t want sponsors seeing you as you are…now,” Brumesia’s sing-songy voice filled your ears, making both you and Yuuji turn around quickly as if caught doing something wrong. She was looking the two of you up and down, and no matter how much you cleaned yourself in the showers, it felt like a layer of dirt was still clinging to you.
Your face fell into a slight scowl, something that often happened when you had to interact with her.
“We’re just looking,” you explain through your teeth, your hand protectively falling on Yuuji’s elbow. You feel him come closer to your side, cowering under her yellow, horrifyingly modified eyes.
Her brow perks at your tone. It was obvious the two of you weren’t going to get along, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Even if she had liked you and decided to put in more effort to show you off, even the most appealing District 11 tributes barely got any attention from Capitol citizens. You and Yuuji were doomed from the start.
You roll your eyes in annoyance, glancing over your shoulder to see the mob of people still crowding around the District 4 train, yelling and laughing in excitement as they try to see young Finnick Odair.
But the mob wasn’t what caught your attention. Nor was it the way Yuuji was tugging on your shirt sleeve to get you to start getting ready to leave.
Your breath hitched at the blue pair of eyes staring back across the platform, white brows furrowed as the two of you locked stares with each other. It wasn’t a mistake, as if he had been looking at someone near your direction. No, he was looking at the window, through it, as if into you.
The male tribute from District 1 watched you for a little more before his mentors ushered him away, into the tribute center, where you could no longer see him.
Your heart was pounding rapidly against your ribs, mouth dry as you swallowed thickly at a daunting thought,
He looked oddly…familiar.
—
Preparations for the opening ceremony took far longer than you expected.
You had been hosed down three times, had strangers mess around and poke at your arms and legs. They scrubbed your skin until it was raw, plucking and tweazing at your brows, waxing your legs, and making sure you looked somewhat presentable to everyone watching. Yuuji had been separated from you when they began dividing the tributes into the male and female categories, but you promised him through his tearful eyes that it would only take a bit.
How naively wrong you were.
The Capitol people were all chattering quietly, not wanting you to what anything as they worked meticulously on each twelve of the girl tributes. But you could hear in the distance some loud, pitched laughter, a woman squealing in excitement, and roars of laughter in slew.
Although you were all separated by curtains, you craned your neck a little to the side to peer at the sound, seeing a little bit from the gap. The girl tribute from District 1 was chattering away with her team, her smile glossy and sweet as they all talked together as if they were close friends.
This is how they get sponsors, you thought bitterly to yourself. Making friends wasn’t something you were used to, did not need it back in your district. Niceties didn’t help you survive, but it seemed that that was the only way to get ahead here.
“Don’t feel bad,” a soft voice said from above you, and you jumped in surprise, looking around to see one of the girl who was scrubbing your back give you a small grin, “They’re laughing extra loud because we have a bet going on to see which tribute is the biggest suck-up.”
She’s had fewer surgeries compared to the other people you’ve seen so far. She seems young, perhaps a little older than you, but she doesn’t have the artificial Capitol feel yet, as if she’s still clinging onto her last bits of humanity.
You try to hide the surprise on your face, but don’t do a very good job, seeing how the girl giggles at your reaction. She’s the first to speak to you, besides the others who barked orders at you like you were cattle, and despite the tension and rampant thoughts that are coursing through your mind, you feel your lips quirk up a little.
The other helpers had gone off to find some creams and lotions or…something, you don’t exactly remember, as they kept quickly saying things under their breath in a frantic way, leaving the two of you alone.
“You must be losing then,” you tell her, your voice lowered so that nobody could hear if they were passing by.
She snorts, fingers work deftly as they pluck some hairs off your neck.
“I’m actually winning,” she says matter-of-factly, “Girls from one always act above everyone. I’m treating my friends to drinks tonight.” You laugh lightly at her cheeky words, your cheeks bunching up under your smile.
Until it falters with a thought, your back tensing a little bit as she tweezes a particularly rebellious stray. What else do they think about us? About people from the districts? You swallow some bile, shutting your eyes to act indifferent.
“Do you also bet on who you think would win?”
Her hands pause, and you feel the air in the room shift slightly.
She coughs uncomfortably, and a part of you revels in making her feel uneasy. Like she was human. Like she was you.
“We’re not allowed to, um, bet, on…that,” she mutters quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, furiously trying to pluck at anything and everything as if that would make your initial question disappear.
Not us, you think, even if she could bet, she’d never bet on us.
“Although,” her voice squeaks out, and your ears twitch to hear the small sound, and she continues working like nothing is happening behind closed doors, and you wonder if the cameras in the corner could also pick up things this quiet. “There’s the male tribute. From one. His dad won the game years ago. He volunteered this year. If I could…”
Your blood freezes, your breathing hitching as you think back to those startling blue eyes. He’s the son of a past victor? He volunteered?
“But you’re really pretty!” The girl quickly scrambles to say, as if the damage hadn’t already been done, “I’m sure you’ll get a lot of sponsors!”
You nodded weakly, smiling a little bit to get her focused on her work as the other Capitol helpers started filing in with different assortments of perfumes and creams.
The two of you stay in silence after that, and you let the rhythmic beating of your heart drown out the rest of the noise around you. You wonder how much longer it would be until you couldn’t hear it.
—
The Chariot Parade is a time-honored tradition of the days leading up to the games.
Tributes are dressed up in elaborate costumes that reflect their respective districts and are drawn out on a chariot for all the Capitol and those watching to see. It helps sponsors get a better understanding of who they’ll be paying, and helps people decide who their favorites are going to be.
That meant for you and Yuuji, the tributes from 11 would be dressed in scratchy overalls and red flannels, a terribly executed version of what field workers wore back home.
The costumes were old and worn, barely fitting you as you climbed into them. The tributes from 12 don’t look any better in their coal mining uniforms, but you feel a surge of jealousy seeing how the 1 and 2 tributes are decked in sparkling dresses and suits.
“Well, you two look…” Drumesia, who had been trying to get your mentor away from the bar, looked peeved at your outfits, her eyes raking over the baggy costumes in distaste, “Better. Although they told me the stylists were giving us new outfits this year…” she muttered sourly, looking over your shoulder in search of someone to yell at.
But you couldn’t care too much as you looked around, getting your first good look at the other tributes.
Every boy and girl from each district was huddled with their teams, fretting over their bows and silks. However, many of them, like you, would take stealing glances every other second, their eyes darting around and then quickly fleeting back as if not wanting to be caught. But you couldn’t care much about people seeing you staring, but you did feel uncomfortable when you found them holding your stare longer than a beat.
Just like on that train. Just like now.
The boy from 1 was standing near one of the horses, his hands holding sugar cubes for it to eat, but his gaze wasn’t lingering on its face, but rather yours.
You feel a flicker of fear, knowing that he must’ve been ticked off from how you kept staring at him earlier, but he shouldn’t care that much, right? Especially not when the attention was coming from someone in a much lower district.
His eyes were a striking color, a sickeningly bright blue that shone even more as his costume caught the light and twinkled. His face was blank, void of any emotion, as he looked across the way.
You looked back at the ground after a second, shoving some pebbles with the tip of your boot.
“I don’t like these clothes,” you glance back down at Yuuji, who was tugging uncomfortably at his arms, his voice cracking as he tries not to cry from all the overwhelming things he’s feeling, “They feel weird - I want my old clothes back.”
His glassy chestnut eyes look into yours, his lips pulling into a frown as you shake your head, a smile on your face as you drop to his height and begin fiddling with the straps of his overalls.
Yuuji had a small and thin frame, even for someone as young as him. He was relatively short, reaching just above your hipbone and it didn’t help that his right leg was messed up badly from an accident he had when he was a kid, a common injury around your district. He limped whenever he walked and was often drowned out in a sea of bodies. But you did whatever you could to protect him now, not knowing how long you’d be able to.
“Then you’ll get new and better ones when you get back home, yeah?” You playfully tug a little on his chest and ruffle his strawberry blonde hair, watching his smile quirk up a bit as you fasten the laces of his boots.
Throughout your time since the Reaping, you’ve tried not to mention the arrival of the games as much as you could to him or anyone else. Your brain seemed to act as though forgetting them would make them disappear altogether.
“You look different,” he muttered quietly, a little bit of dejection in his voice, “You don’t look like you did before.”
You settled back in your haunches, lips pressed tightly together as you looked around all the strangely dressed mentors, Capitol escorts, and curiously rich citizens, and felt something twist in your stomach. They had stripped away the things that you held onto that resembled the parts of your family you had slowly forgotten, had ripped the hair off your legs and arms, and plucked your face so that you could look more modified like them.
But you knew the worst thing was that you no longer looked like you did a few weeks ago, like a girl from home. You looked like a tribute now, fully ready for the show.
“I know,” you tell him with a small pout, leading his fingers towards your face so he could run his hand across your eyebrows, “No longer bushy, huh?”
You wiggle them a bit, and he laughs, his cheeks filling with mirth as you try to make him forget about everything. He looked like he did back home now, his eyes for a second losing that sullenness he had gained during this last week.
“Get up!” Drumesia snapped from above you, her hand tugging you harshly to your feet by your shoulder, “Don’t let the sponsors see you sitting like…like some animal on the ground!”
Drumesia looks even more frightening than usual, with her hair dyed a bright blue and her outfit having a strange geometric look to it. Her iconic gloves, which she was never seen without, matched the blue color scheme she had going on. Even her lashes, which were so long that they fluttered against her cheek when she blinked, were blue.
“It was only for a second,” you say bitterly, your hand on Yuuji’s back as if to shield him from her wrath.
“And not a second-” But whatever lecture she was going to berate you with with cut short when a loud smack echoed around the high walls of the holding room.
Everyone seemed startled as they looked around at the noise, seeming to fall on the corner where the tributes from District 5 were. The girl, looking to be Yuuji’s age, had let out an especially loud whimper, her hand jumping up to cup her cheek. Her pale face was red and blotchy with tears, her mouth remembering, and her nose runny with snot. Her Capitol escort was standing with a distraught look on her face as she reeled her hand back in embarrassment.
The girl clutched her swollen cheek, the male tribute next to her trying to calm her down, but to no avail. You watched as the lady gripped her shoulder harshly, begging and scolding her to stop.
Before you could stop yourself, or better, Drumesia could, you felt your legs working on autopilot as you began taking steps closer to her. You could hear Drumesia’s voice urging you to come back, but you couldn’t, walking even faster towards the other group, ignoring the whispers that began filing around you like gnats.
The girl still had her eyes screwed shut, refusing to open them, but her escort and the male tribute perked up in surprise when they saw you coming their way, a sour look twisting on her face as you neared them.
“Tributes aren’t supposed to interact-”
You ignored her sneer as you pushed your way past her, getting closer to the girl as you fell back onto your knees, your hands resting on your lap.
The Capitol lady scoffed, looking around aghast to see where your escort was, but you fully pretended not to hear her protests.
“Hey,” you started gently, your tone soothing, the same way it was when you used to put the kids back home to sleep, “What's your name?” Your voice whispers so that only the girl can hear. She suddenly stopped, eyes wide open as she stared at your face, looking up at the male tribute and then back down to you in confusion and surprise.
She gapes a bit, licking her dry lips as one of her hands clutches onto the boy. She looks behind you at her escort before looking back at you.
“E-Evelyn,” she mumbles, whipping her nose with her elbow, using her small palms to rid the tears off her round cheeks.
You smile softly at that, repeating her name to yourself as you nod.
“You know, Evelyn,” your hands reach upwards to tuck a strand of her bright blonde curls behind her ears, leaning in closer as if you were sharing a secret, “My mom always said, the more curls, the prettier the girl.”
Evelyn blinks owlishly, her green eyes dotted with red in the whites, slowly piecing together what you meant. It must’ve been a bit since somebody had spoken to her kindly, treated her like she was a kid instead of a prop.
And slowly, you see her lips quiver into a wobbly little grin, her nose scrunching up as she bashfully looks away.
“Thank you,” she whispers, wiping at her eyes again as you laugh gently, grabbing the wrinkled handkerchief you took from home out of your pocket and hand it to her.
“She, uh,” the boy next to her suddenly says, pointing to her frilly outfit, “She said the pins were poking her. I tried to find them but one pricked her and she started…” crying, you finished in your head, nodding slowly in understanding, your mouth forming into a small o.
“Let’s see where the problem is,” you keep your voice low and accept the handkerchief that she gives back, “Would you mind showing me where the pins are?” You ask, coaxing her to carefully move at her own pace.
Evelyn nods, her hand slipping out of the boy's as she carefully turns around, a small hand hovering over where her skirt is bunched up tightly around her waist.
Your eyes squint, fingers gingerly going towards it as you walk around the area. Back when you took care of the mayor's children, you were often tasked with dressing them for the day and dealing with a wide array of pins and hooks. So this case wasn’t much different, and it didn’t take too long until you found the stray pin that wasn’t hooked properly, unraveling it from her skirt as you properly stuck it back where it should’ve been.
The girl physically relaxes, the tension from her shoulder melting as she quickly turns back around, her eyes bright and creased.
“Thank you!” She chirps, her hand slipping back into the boy's as she looks up at him and then back to you.
You laugh slightly, shaking your head as if it didn’t matter, and slowly stand back up, dusting the dirt from your knees.
The boy extended his free hand out for you to shake, and unlike with Drumesia, you took it with no thought, shaking it softly as he offered you a grateful smile.
“Thank you, really,” his voice was slightly choked as he glanced back down at Evelyn, “Our mom always did her clothes, this…this is all new to me.”
The smile on your face dropped.
She’s his sister?
Your mouth dries up, throat closing as you look at the two of them, their eerily similar stances and faces staring back at you, waiting for a response.
Thankfully, though, you suddenly feel a tight hand wrap around your elbow and tug you back, forcing you to leave without saying anything else. For the first time since you’ve been acquainted with her, you’re grateful for Drumesia as she starts a loud tirade about the sponsors and how you’ve just ruined her image.
But this time, you look around and see that all eyes are on you. Every tribute was standing tall, watching as Drumesia took you back to the carriage, sponsors whispering quickly to one another.
You glanced up and found the boy from 1 staring at you again. But this time, you could’ve sworn his lips were slightly quirked.
—-
Training for the games was perhaps even more torturous than waiting for the games themself.
The games will be in two weeks. Training allowed for everyone to have an even playing field, but everyone knew how useless it really was when some people had been training to win ever since they could pick up a knife.
There were four compulsory exercises that all twenty-four tributes would have to do, but the rest would be up to the individual.
Twenty-four tributes gathered together in a room, some already itching for blood, handed weapons and targets as if that could satiate their thirst. Of course, fighting with each other was prohibited, but that didn’t stop the other tributes thinking about it.
The training room itself was huge, with sprawling areas for hand-to-hand combat, bow and arrow ranges, dummies for practice, and weights to lift with. Some nets sprawled upwards towards the ceiling, helping with climbing, and areas that imitated forest floors where people could practice their traps and make fire.
At the center top of the main wall was a large dugout room with a mirror, letting sponsors and game makers watch as the tributes trained. It felt like you were in a pig pen, having thirsty men drool over which was the fattest to eat. Many of the tributes took quick note of this, showing off their skills early on as if to catch their eyes. You shook your head when Yuuji begged you to show off your skill with one of the scythes they had, most likely knowing how much you’d spend time in the fields back home.
Not now, you told him, we can’t have them knowing our talents. We save that for the arena.
Capitol mentors were everywhere, assisting and keeping people from jumping at each other's throats, but you tried to avoid the masses as much as possible.
Your district mentor, Martin, wasn’t much help. He was often drunk and rarely left his room, much to Drumesia’s dismay. But you knew that this was the case for lower districts, having had a glance at District 12’s mentor Haymitch, who seemed, if not as much, more drunk than Martin. Former victors never revel in their success, you’ve noticed, and if anything, try to leave the land of the living as much as possible throughout the day.
Yuuji insisted on using a Capitol issued mentor, and you didn’t see any harm in it as long as the two of you would be with them alone. You weren’t looking to make allies, just looking to survive for as long as humanly possible.
You had been warned early on not to focus too much on grandiose fighting methods, seeing how most people die either from infection, dehydration, or general exposure. Besides, you doubt you’d be able to defend both of you if put up against a Career, so the best you could do would be knowing how to survive in the wild with whatever you could find.
Both you and Yuuji had some previous knowledge from back home, knowing how to make little fires for when the fields got cold during the winters and where to find wild berries, but you began learning how to set out traps for smaller animals in case your arena had them.
Throughout your time here, you made sure ot keep your ears and eyes peeled, even if you didn’t act like it. Although Yuuji seemed to be massively enjoying himself with the wire and flint, you acted indifferent, making sure to see who was looking where.
Slowly, from what you could observe thus far, the alliances that were forming were small and expected. The Careers were a given, and some tribute from seven and ten had begun leaving with each other. Yuuji kept asking to join in with a group, but you kept saying no.
You saw Evelyn and her brother, Maxmus, learning how to make snares a day ago. When he saw you, he gave a small nod in acknowledgement and went back to work, clearly thinking the same thing you were.
Protect one thing. No allies, no loss.
Besides that, the boy from 1, who you learned was named Gojo Satoru, didn’t look as much as you thought he would. Thankfully. But it was almost impossible to ignore his presence when it nearly choked out the entire room.
He was adept with a bow and sword, and could easily take down a mentor with just a few swings. He was agile and strong, and didn't need to move too fast because he was already three steps ahead. The girl tribute from his district, Lizzie, you had come to learn, often trailed behind him with the tributes from 2 and 4, their pack already forming. But the boy, Gojo, didn’t really seem to care all that much about the attention.
And sometimes you could’ve sworn he disliked it.
But when he would look up and glance around the room to see you already looking, you’d find somewhere to point your gaze at, not wanting him to confuse your interest with admiration.
Although you couldn’t lie, his face was far too pretty for his own good.
“I think you have a little crush.”
Your head swiveled around to see Yuuji looking at you with a gleaming look in his eyes, snorting as you smacked him across the shoulder, shushing him as he giggled and went back to his pile of shrubbery he was supposed to be turning into fire.
“I’m being meticulous,” you scold him, your cheeks burning up in embarrassment despite your words, “Look,” you pointed to someone behind your shoulder, “Have you noticed how the girl from 6 never uses her right hand to hold a sword even though she holds her spoon with it?”
Yuuji gapes up at you in confusion, his young face crumpled with confusion as he shakes his head. You snort, pushing his head back down lightly to look at the fire instead of looking at the girl behind your back.
“It’s because it’s injured, or too injured to fight,” you peek over at Yuuji, “Meaning that she won’t be able to protect herself if the left one is injured. Which should be pretty easy because it’s not her dominant one.”
Yuuji gnaws on his bottom lip, fingers stalling on the rock as his hand stops trying to make sparks with the rock he had scavenged, a look of apprehension taking over his face.
“I don’t know how to see things like that,” he mumbles nervously, “I don’t know how I’m going to survive-”
“We’re going to survive together,” you say instantly, cutting him off, “I see these things, and you keep us warm. Deal?”
And although this would usually get him to cheer up again, he can only muster up a weak grin as he nods, going back to his rocks as if to keep his mind busy from reeling. You can’t stop looking at his head, at the way his hands shake slightly. He’s scared.
You all are.
You place a hand over his, trying to still the tremors, and give him a strong and confident smile.
“I’ll go get some more wood, okay?”
He gives you a thankful nod, looking back at his pile that was slowly running out, and goes back to work.
The wood was kept near the back of the station, in different sizes ranging from little twigs to actual logs that had been chopped up. Back in your district, you had spent many nights hunched over trying to make a fire, so you weren’t worried about your ability to do so. But Yuuji was always in the production line, away from all the ruggedness of the outdoors, and desperately needed the practice.
Your finger twitches over some smaller pieces, things that he could work with more easily, seeing how there’s no need for a larger fire when you feel your neck start to prickle.
Looking around the space, you swallow your bile, chapped lips bitten raw as you shake your head as though you were going crazy.
“That wood’s rotten.”
Your breath catches in your throat, head snapping upwards at the voice, somewhat relieved to know that the feeling of being watched you experienced wasn’t something you thought up.
It’s that boy—the tribute from one.
Gojo Satoru.
This is the first time you’ve heard him speak, at least from up close. He seems even larger facing you, his thick arms crossed over his broad chest, biceps nearly bulging out of the simple black shirt everyone was issued. His browbone is slightly dotted with sweat, his cheeks flushed a bright pink from working out so heavily.
Besides the glaringly obvious strength he possesses, he looks genetically perfect, even without any help from the Capitol. He’s beautiful and looks like he’d fit right in without having to modify anything. Back home, you didn’t have much time to appreciate the boys around your district with just how busy you were, but even then, none of them had time to look at you for the same reason. It’s daunting standing up so close to him, without the protection of distance to shield you from his stare.
But there was something else about him that made your nerves tingle. It was strange, as if looking at a broken mirror. His hair, those eyes, the slope of his nose. You kept trying to shake off the feeling that you had seen him somewhere, but that was impossible.
…right?
Yet that feeling kept coming back like it did now, and you had to blink out of your stupor so he wouldn’t think you were just staring at him.
You open your mouth and close it, fingers curling in the air as you back away a little. The place you’re at right now is hidden away from most people’s line of sight. Yuuji would even have to squint through some of the artificial trees and bushes just to be able to make out your figure.
Meaning that you were virtually alone with this stranger. Along with someone who would be in an arena with you in two weeks, his main goal is to have you and everyone else dead.
“I know,” you say slowly, eyes darting over to the wood briefly and then back to him.
He looks over your face, as if doing the same thing you had just been doing. His eyes trail over your cheekbones and nose, the scrunch of your lips, and the way your chest falls up and down with each controlled breath. He runs a hand through his white hair, pushing it back as he takes a tentative step closer to you.
You take one back.
“You’ve been watching me.” His voice isn’t low, nothing threatening like the boy from 2, but it does carry a sense of command, something that makes the hair on your neck stand up.
You offer him a tight-lipped smile, polite and respectful as you shake your head.
“I’m watching everyone,” you correct him gingerly, as if you were correcting one of the mayor’s kids when they made a mistake with their schoolwork.
He stares at you silently for a bit, not coming closer as if he realized what that could imply.
“I’m Gojo,” he introduces himself as if you’re not already aware, his hand extended out for you to shake. You stare at his fingers, your brow twitching upwards as he gets the hint and lets this hand fall back to his side.
“Yeah,” you murmur, “I know who you are.”
You look back down at the pile of twigs, missing the way the tips of his ears go pink.
After a pause, you sigh, realizing that he wasn’t going to give up and leave, and say your name back. He doesn’t look surprised, most likely knowing more about yourself than even you do.
There’s an uncomfortable pause of silence, one that you feel wrap around your throat and lodge into your airways. He’s not saying anything, just looking at you, and you don’t know what to tell him so that he can quickly leave.
“I, um,” you fidget absentmindedly with your fingers, scolding yourself for blundering in front of him, “I’m sorry, but is there something I can do? For you?”
Gojo’s blue eyes linger on your lips for a second before shooting back up to yours, brows furrowed as if he just heard your question.
He scratched his neck, arms littered with veins, as he sighed deeply through his nose. He looked over briefly around the trees and leaves to where the other tributes from 1 and 2 were training, and then looked to the boxes of wood.
“I want you to join me.”
That you didn’t expect.
You sputter in surprise, losing your demeanor as your eyes widen in shock before you let out a startled laugh. You never thought this serious-looking tribute would be one for jokes, and to be fair, he doesn’t look like he’s joking much right now, but your brain can’t come up with any rapid and precise response to his statement.
“W-what?” You laugh again, curt and confused, rubbing at your face as you look at where Yuuji was, still furiously working away at making a fire.
“I want you to join me,” he repeats, this time slowly as if you didn’t understand him the first time, “For the games.” Gojo throws in, as if it wasn’t obvious.
You shake your head, pinching the bridge of your nose as you chew on the side of your cheek, not knowing what to say after being stunned into silence.
When he sees that you’re not going to say anything intelligible, he continues as if it’s the most normal thing he could be asking of you.
“We hear things, especially with how much our mentors and escorts talk,” Gojo explains, “And you’re getting a…surprising amount of,” he pauses, trying to find the right word, “Attention from the sponsors.”
You blink.
“Me?” You shake your head furiously, diving back into the pile of wood as if to busy yourself and distance yourself from the conversation, “It’s probably just Capitol rumors. I,” you laugh curtly again, “I haven’t even done anything to warrant attention-”
“That thing you did back there with that girl from 5?” Gojo interjects, and you look up at him, finding him a little closer than before, “They like that. They see the way you’re helping that boy from your district. They love a sweetheart over here.”
You wince, nose wrinkling in disgust at the choice word.
So he needs sponsors, you think, just as much as everyone else. He needs you with him in case he gets stuck in the arena, needing something that only sponsors can give.
But…even if his ploy is just to use you for sponsor purposes, which you still had difficulty believing, it would take an idiot not to see the worth of having someone like him around. You and Yuuji would fail miserably if put up against people for combat, and the added layer of protection you’d be getting from Gojo could help you guys stay long enough so that when the time came, you could escape on your own.
Which is why you push, wanting to see just how far he would go for an alliance with somebody from a lower district. It wasn’t necessarily unheard of, but you couldn’t remember the last time you saw somebody from 1 joining forces with somebody from 11, let alone somebody like you who had virtually no experience or expertise to offer besides how to use agricultural tools.
“You could use the help,” it’s like he had read your mind, “I know that your mentor and escort aren’t exactly the best, and you’d have a better chance with us if you took up the offer,” Gojo explains hurriedly, looking over his shoulder to ensure that nobody was watching or coming near.
It was obvious he had sought you out of his own accord. Did the girl tribute from his district know? Were any of the careers aware he was even planning to talk to you?
“Did your mentors send you here?” You ask, eyes squinting together, arms crossing tightly over chest protectively, “Do they think I’d seriously be better at getting sponsors than you? Then any of the other people in your group?”
Gojo shook his head quickly, glancing over to where the pack was training. His tongue ran over his bottom lip. He looked strangely stressed.
“No. But I think that you have a chance at securing more deals than all of us combined if you play the part correctly.”
Your chest heaves as your tongue almost swells up in your throat. As much as a lame excuse of a mentor Martin was, he had mentioned that you really only had three chances to stand out to sponsors. During training, during training evaluations where gamemakers and sponsors watch you display your best skill or talent, or during the interview, where the renowned Caesar Flcikerman would dig into your life and show the people watching who these tributes were.
“You think I’m someone like…like Finnick?” The name comes out as a scoff because from what you’ve seen of the young victor, he’s excellent at wooing people even if his face gives his true feelings away, “I can’t do what you think I can,” you say sternly, picking up some wood and examining it before setting it back down on the pile, “I won’t charm sponsors like he could. I just…” you trail off, lips pursing as you think, “I just wanted to help.”
“You think they know the difference?” His voice is low, so low that you could barely hear it, but it still takes you by surprise.
Of all people, you didn’t think he would be one to criticize the hypocrisy within the Capitol.
Your back straightened, but for the first time since you’ve been whirled into this whole mess of the Hunger Games and the theatrics that came along with it, you felt a little at ease.
“What,” You swallow, thinking carefully, “What sponsors think is out of my control. I just want to survive.”
“I can help with that,” Gojo leans in, his arm supporting him up on the counter as he leans down so that even if the cameras were around, they couldn’t pick up his words, wanting to keep what he was going to say next solely between the two of you, “I can help you. Look, if you get enough sponsors, we wouldn’t even need the rest of them.”
You pull away, you face hot as you put a hand to your cheek to cool it down. His overall demeanor was so intense that it was causing you to burn up under your clothes.
Help you?
“Do you trust people this easily?” You retort, your voice questioning as you look him over, “Help me? You…you don’t even know me. How do you know I wouldn’t turn on you the second things go wrong?”
Gojo blinks slowly, but you continue.
“I don’t care about the rest of them,” you continue, finding yourself looking back at Yuuji, “I know they’dl kill me if they have the chance. But I’m not leaving him behind. If you want me, you’d have to take him on too.”
Gojo looks over his way, studying his movements before a deep exhale rattles throughout his chest, running another hand through his hair as it keeps falling in his face.
“You know he won’t make it long. He’s small, he’s got a limp-”
“So what?” You snap suddenly, your brows furrowed as you smack his hand away from the wood, your stomach churning as the small breakfast you could barely eat threatened to shoot back up, his words making the blood drain out of your face as you sputtered, “You want me to just let him go on his own?”
“The others will come for him first, you have to know that, but…but if it’s just you-”
“No!” You yell, furiously pushing him by the chest out of the way as your hands tremble with anger, “No, no that’s not…you’re…you can’t…” You can’t even think, nausea rolling over you in waves as your palms grow clammy. He’s every bit a fighter as you thought he was.
A killer, a Capitol pawn.
You grab a pile of wood, not caring what it looks like or how well it would burn, as you begin walking quickly away, your heart pounding in the small expanse of your ribcage.
A hand wraps around your elbow, not tight, but to keep you in place.
“Think about it. This isn’t some game where we all win,” his lips are by your ears, breath fanning across your skin as you involuntarily shiver, “One victor. I won’t spare you if it comes down to us, but I’ll help you get there. Just,” he breathes through his nose, “Be rational.”
You wince as you wrangle your arm out of his grasp with little resistance from him, ignoring his words altogether.
“You’re disgusting,” you spit, nose flared as you shove away, “I told you already, I’m not here to win,” the words come out bitterly, a harsh truth you’ve had to swallow, “I know I won’t. And I’m not a killer. I’m not like you.”
In that moment, you didn’t care if you were putting a target on your back by making an enemy out of the most capable tribute. You couldn’t care less if you were angering or offending him, but couldn’t control your emotions as they bubbled over, your eyes glossing over at his admission, something you’ve silently been dreading ever since they read Yuuji’s name.
You find your way back Yuuji, ears ringing as you try to talk, not knowing what you were telling him, just wanting to rid yourself of the words that kept echoing around your head. Yuuji was excitedly showing you the sparks he had made, and you gave him a shaky smile, not trusting yourself not to slur your words together as you crouched down near the fire.
Think about it.
You scoff, hoping that whoever dies first will be him.
—-
The training evaluation went better than you expected.
Tributes are scored on a range of numbers zero to twelve, lowest the highest. Most people usually score around a five or six, careers averaging a seven to nine.
You had scored a ten.
It wasn’t impossible, but you were shocked when the scores were read.
Gojo Satoru got a whopping eleven, which anybody could have predicted he’d be passing with flying colors. The tributes from two and four got around the same scores, eights, and the boy from ten had managed to score a seven, which was high for a lower district.
Which made it stand out even more when you got the first ten.
“Oh!” Drumesia stood up from her seat in an instant, one hand over her heart as the other held her wig on, “Oh my! A ten!”
Yuuji was gleaming, hugging you from the side as he kept yelling over and over things you couldn’t make out. Martin was somewhere in the corner, the drink he had been nursing raised halfway in the air, eyes stuck on the television in shock.
“This is great!” Drumesia twirls around, the first bright smile you’ve seen on her face, so bright it nearly blinded you because of how white her teeth were, “None of my tributes have ever gotten a ten before!”
You can’t speak, feeling numb with surprise, shock, everything in between as Caesar Flickerbman continues reading off the last two scores from 12, neither of them any good.
“What did you do?” Yuuji asked, his voice laced with childlike wonderment as his eyes twinkled, looking like you were a savior instead of someone who wholly had no idea what they were doing.
Your mouth opened and closed, scratching the back of your neck as you felt it heat up with all the extra attention.
“Nothing,” you stammered, confusion laced in your tone, “I did nothing.”
Drumesia laughed, waving you off as she fluttered around the expanse of the room, saying something about champagne and strawberries, but you didn’t have the appetite for anything.
You truly had done nothing.
You had planned with Yuuji to show off your knowledge with some tools you recognized from back home and let him make the fire, but when it was your name they called from the training room, you froze, forgetting everything you had practiced.
When you walked across the now-empty room, staring directly at the game makers and sponsors, Gojo’s words rang in your head.
They love a sweetheart over here.
So instead, you decided to do nothing. If they love a sweetheart so much, you want them to see you for as long as humanly possible. You wanted them to stare into your eyes for the entirety of the ten minutes, to see the way your bones made up your face, bones of your parents that lay six feet under. You wanted them to see the synchronized way you breathed, how you looked under the light. It was an act of defiance, something they probably wouldn’t even understand, but the rage and pain you were feeling boiled down to this very moment.
For ten minutes, you stood there silently, your neck craning upwards as you stared directly into their eyes. The crowd slowly grew bigger and bigger behind that window, curious sponsors muttering to each other in anticipation of what you were planning to do.
But the longer you did nothing, the more people came.
When your time was up, you gave them one final look before you turned on your heels and left. With Yuuji and Drumesia waiting outside in the sitting area, Yuuji looking excited while Drumesia looking particularly worrisome, you didn’t have the heart to tell them what you had done. Didn’t want them to stress about the low score you’d be receiving. So you lied, saying you put on a mediocre performance with the weapons they had lying around.
You could’ve just told them the truth as you reflect on it now.
A ten? For doing nothing? What were they up to? What were they thinking?
You tallied the other scores in your head and felt your stomach drop. Besides you, the only other person with the highest score was…
Gojo.
This score not only put a target on your back, making all the other tributes wonder just what it was that you were hiding, but also made you higher on their priority list to get rid of. And what’s worse is that you weren’t hiding anything, and had no means to truly defend yourself or Yuuji. The careers would surely be after the two of you know if they weren’t before, but so would the other tributes.
This score wasn’t a gift. It was a death sentence.
“Here we are,” Drumesia restored with her clacking heels and a tray balancing four glasses and a bowl of strawberries, the bottle in her other hand, “A toast to my future victor!”
Your stomach churned even more. Victor. Singular.
She was just being woefully optimistic, you knew that. Her hopes were raised seeing how tributes from outlying districts rarely score above a six, and that there would be more attention on her this year, but it didn’t stop the bitter taste from costing your mouth.
Yuuji didn’t even notice because of how excited he was bouncing up and down in his seat, almost snatching the glass from her hand when she offered it to him.
“Yuuji!” You seethed under your breath, going to grab the glass from him, but he maneuvered it quickly away, sticking his tongue out as he stood up in front of Drumesia with it ready to be filled.
“Oh, it’s just a little bit,” she chided, filling up his glass a little bit.”He should have some of it while he’s still here!”
Your eyes flit up to hers.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Your voice dipped. Yuuji, who was now holding the glass in both his hands, slowly walked away as he and Martin eyed the two of you.
Drumesia shrugs indifferently, pouring Martin his own, even though he wasn’t even finished with the first drink he had started on, and then one for herself. Finally, she fills the last one to the brim, yours, and outstretched her gloved hand towards your body.
You don’t take it.
She tsks, annoyed, setting it down on the table as she raises hers in the air, clinking it with Yuuji’s and Martin’s as she takes a sip, clearly not caring enough to wait for you.
“There’s no champagne in the games, you know,” she finally says, one hand resting on her hip as her glass hovers above her lips. “The two of you should make the most of what the Capitol has to offer. Right, Yuuji?” She looked down at him, and he glanced at you, as if asking for permission whether he should agree with her or not.
“Stop!” You shout, your hands fisting in your hair in frustration as you shove past her, ignoring her yelp as the drink spills a little on the floor, grabbing the light coat that you had been issued from the stand near the elevator.
“Where are you going?” She calls out, her feet trying to catch up to you, but her heels slow her down.
“Away!” You snap, glancing over your shoulder with a snarl, punching the buttons of the elevator, hoping one of them would open, “Don’t follow me!”
“But!-” Drumesia’s voice is cut off as you quickly step inside, pressing the button that would shut the door automatically, and you let out a small sigh of relief to find yourself alone.
You feel guilty for leaving Yuuji, but you know you’d have taken your anger out on everyone, maybe even him, if you had stayed for any longer.
The elevator hums quietly as the numbers at the top start ticking down. You had pushed whatever button was nearest, which was apparently the ground floor. You didn’t mind too much, revealing a small rose garden hidden near the exit that seemed pretty secluded the last time you walked past it.
After a few minutes, the tribute center was very tall, the doors hissed as they opened, and the smell of car exhaust and flowers infiltrated your senses as you tentatively took a step outside.
You were told that tributes were allowed to go wherever they wanted so long as it was on the grounds, and you hoped that this extended to the open lobby because when you looked around, you felt a strange sense of home.
In 11, trucks and cars were rare, but tractors were used a lot out on the fields. The smell of the gasoline was something you grew up on. The flowers, a wide array, reminded you of the little garden the mayor's wife had. Whenever you’d walk past it, you could smell hints of gardenias and sweet peas.
You looked around, the bright lights of the skyscrapers and Capitol buildings shining extra bright with the veil of the night, and you wrapped your coat around you even tighter as you kept your head down, walking back towards where the rose bushes were kept.
You could smell them before you saw them, although they’d be impossible to miss. Large white roses bloomed from the ground, their existing sense filling the night air as you walked closer.
There was a small bench facing them, overlooking the rest of the city, and you looked around to make sure that nobody else was there. When you were satisfied that Drumeisa hadn't followed you down, you sat down, shutting your eyes as you let the noises from below drown out all your other senses.
You were about to let out a small yawn when you heard the unmistakable thump of footsteps from behind you, your body snapping upwards as you looked wildly around.
You couldn’t help the groan that escaped your lips when you saw him.
Gojo looks just as surprised to see you, cerulean eyes shooting open as his mouth parts, looking around to see if anybody else is there.
You push yourself off the seat, about to walk the other way, when he speaks.
“Don’t go,” his voice is quiet, his hands raised upwards as if he was surrendering, “I promise I didn’t know you’d be here.”
Your lips purse together in annoyance, staying silent as you peer him up and down. He’s wearing a simple black shirt and loose pants, the number 1 printed on his sleeves. He looked like he was about to go to sleep before he made his way here.
You exhale deeply, shaking your head at yourself as you give up, slowly falling back where you were sitting in silence. As much as you’d rather not see the other tributes, especially him, anywhere would be better than hearing Drumesia drone on about the wonders of the Capitol and the inevitability of your impending deaths.
Gojo takes your silence as a good sign, carefully making his way past you to the other side of the bench as he sits down, his face trained forward.
You bring a knee up to your chest, wrapping your arms around it as your jaw ticks. There’s a little breeze ruffling through the air, goosebumps erupting across your arms despite them being covered.
“I saw your score,” he started, still not looking over at you as he interlocks his fingers together, blinking as he takes in the astonishing view of the Capitol skyline, “It really pissed Lizzie off.”
You find a little chuckle escape in spite of yourself, the sound causing Gojo to look over, brows raised in stupefaction.
Lizzie, the girl tribute from 1, had gotten a measly score of six, despite having shown off her talents with a sword for the past two weeks.
“Well, tell her not to get her hopes up. I’m pissed off too.” You tell him, biting your tongue as a car beeps and people shout muffled in the distance.
“You wanted higher than a ten?” He stammers confused, “I nearly…” but he trails off when you give him a displeased look, shutting up as you roll your eyes in annoyance, muttering things under your breath.
“I wish they’d given me a one,” you say, “That would’ve made more sense. They made me out to be some sort of…” but you stop, not knowing why you were even telling this stranger the truth.
Then your brows scrunch up together as you think, head whipping around to him as you scoff, nose wrinkling in pure rage as you quickly shoot to your feet, working out his plan, gripping your face for your stupidity.
Of course, he, of all people, would try to track you down after they read the scores. Of course, he’d want to see what his biggest competition had done, to see what you were capable of. He had mastered fighting in that academy, but he must’ve mastered the art of deception because he was eerily good at making it feel like he was just being friendly.
You make it almost ten steps before that similar hold falls on your elbow. Not tight, not harsh, but there.
“Get off!” You yell hoarsely, your eyes glassy for some reason, as you turn around and push roughly at his chest, “What? You’re stalking me now? You came down here to find out my secrets?” You don’t know why tears are welling up in your eyes, wiping furiously at your cheeks as you sniffle.
You were tired of these games that had started before you arrived. You would’ve preferred it if they had just lined twenty-four people up from the districts and shot at them until one remainder. Because you could handle the mind games, the insincerity, the morbid curiosity of it all. It was nearly drowning you alive, and you didn’t know what to do.
You wanted to go home. You missed the wheat fields and the nights filled with laughter and music. You missed the dancing and the meals scraped together by whatever people could find. You missed the smell of dirt and wood, missed feeling like you belonged. Even if you were alone, you were always surrounded by people who cared.
Here in the Capitol, you were alone. Everyone had a goal in mind and didn't know what it cost to reach it. You had spent so much time trying to take care of Yuuji and ward off Drumesia and the rest of the gnat-like citizens that only when you took a step back did you realize how utterly alone you were.
So a part of you took that frustration out on this stranger, somebody you’ve been eyeing since you got here. You let your hands hit his sturdy chest, surprised to see that he doesn’t move or try to push you back. Your hits are weak, your voice hoarse and raw as you push at him harder, not understanding or comprehending why he wasn’t leaving, why he had come up to you all those days ago trying to make an ally out of you.
Or why, for some reason, it seemed like out of everyone here, he seemed to actually care. Even if it was just an act.
But Gojo stays where he is, a crease in between his brows as he takes the hits, jaw clenched tight as they gradually die down. You feel weak, open, and raw in front of this tribute who, days from now, would be hunting you down. But for some reason, he doesn’t push you away.
There’s a heavy silence before he speaks up.
“Why did you help that girl from 5?”
You look up at him, bewildered. You take a small step away, scoffing at the ridiculous question, but he takes a step forward as if he’s scared you’re going to run away again.
“Why did you shake her brother's hand?” Gojo continues, some strands of his hair falling into his face, but he doesn’t bother pushing them away.
Your mouth parts as you shrug, giving him a weird look as you give a curt and uncomfortable laugh.
“I-I don’t know,” you stammer, “I thought she needed help, so I went over.”
Gojo nods, his jaw ticking as he looks over at the Capitol. The diamond-like lights and the ruby shadows that emanated from the city reminded him of the jewels he saw back home.
“Would you have helped them today? Tomorrow? Would you help them during the games if you had to?”
“What are you trying to say?” You snap, frustrated at his urgent tone and the fact that it seemed like he knew more than you, “That I should’ve just killed them there?”
Gojo snorts mirthlessly, shaking his head as it falls for a bit, looking at the intricate patterns on the brick beneath him as he takes a deep breath.
“In three days, we’re all going to be standing around each other with a clock counting down how long we have before one of us is left. I’ve spent these last weeks trying to figure out what it is that everyone plans to do, and for the most part, I have a pretty good fucking idea of what that is. If you want to die like a martyr, that’s fine. If you want to make a statement, I don’t care. Just,” he chuckles, but it sounds empty, “What is it you want to do?” Gojo doesn’t sound like he’s trying to get you to tell him your secret to scoring a ten, nor does it look like he’s reached his wits about strategies of getting an upper hand on all of his opponents.
If anything, it almost looks like he’s…worried for you.
There’s a stretch of silence, one that you shut your eyes and have to imagine it’s just you and nothing else before you respond.
You know you don’t owe him an answer. You know this person who couldn't care less about how you died should hear the why, but you answer because you don’t know what else there is to do in the madness of it all.
“I want to go home,” you admit finally, quietly, you voice frayed and cheeks glistening in the lights of the city, looking away as you speak as if that could spare you the embarrassment of letting your emotions go in front of this person you’ve barely spoken to, “I know it’s stupid. I don’t have anyone waiting for me back there anyways. But,” you shrug limply, chewing on your cheek, “But it was still home, you know? If I died there, people would know I did. They’d eat dinner before they put me in the dirt, they’d sing a song or two. But if,” but you stop yourself, correcting your choice of words, “When I die out there, I know I’m going to die with nobody I know near me. And…and I’m so scared. I,” your breathing hitched, your bottom lip quivering, “I don’t want to die alone.”
You don’t hear him say anything, but you’re not looking for a response. You feel a little lighter saying this, even if it was to someone who couldn’t care less, but it was something that you’d been simmering in for the past three weeks and couldn’t keep it in anymore.
“Why are you so sure you’re not going to win?”
His question startles you.
You can’t help but laugh, rubbing a hand across your face as you step back from him, not knowing why it is that whenever he’s around you suddenly feel more open than usual.
“Because I won’t!” You burst, a maniacal smile on your face as your hands fly upwards. “Besides the fact that I’ll be up against twenty-two other people - some way more skilled than me - what reasons would I have to even try? I have nothing to win and nothing to lose.” You pinch the bridge of your nose in exhaustion, gnawing on your chapped lips as you huff out a meaningless laugh, “You know, I did nothing for the evaluation.”
Gojo’s eyes flash a bright blue, lips quirked up slightly.
“Well, it surely couldn’t have been nothing-”
“I did nothing,” you repeat, “I was supposed to have a demonstration with some old tools like we had back in 11 but I choked up. I couldn’t think of anything to make that would make my time worth it. So I just,” you let out a humorless laugh, “I just stood there. I looked at them for those ten minutes. I wanted them to remember my face. I wanted them to see what I looked like before they killed me. That seemed more important than anything else we had planned.”
Gojo observes your expression, trying to see if you are lying or not. But unbeknownst to him, you were a terrible liar; you couldn’t tell a good lie even if your life depended on it. After another second of trying to assess you, he let out a little laugh, something boyish and almost…sweet, when he realized you were being completely honest with him.
Your face falls for a second, not knowing what to do as another laugh bubbles out of his chest. He’s been so poised and controlled these last few weeks that it doesn’t even register in your brain that it’s him who’s laughing in front of you.
“If only Lizzie knew,” Gojo sighed out after a minute, his eyes filled with mirth, “That she’d be training her whole life for this and still be bested by someone who did nothing.”
You can’t stop yourself from smiling a little bit, trying to suppress it to the best of your abilities. You look to the ground as a small giggle escapes your lips, but Gojo still stares at the crown of your head, not knowing why his cheeks were heating up when it looked like you were trying your hardest not to laugh in front of him after having a breakdown.
He felt his throat dry up, palms sweating as he quickly looked the other way, his head ducking down so that you wouldn’t see the blush painting his face.
“I saw that Yuuji got a five,” he says after another moment, and you glance up at him, your face hardening up in seconds as if you remember your previous conversation. “That’s good,” he adds softly, and you nod shortly, gnawing on your bottom lip, deep in thought.
The tears you thought had gone away sting again, and you laugh them away, looking at the sparkling lights of the city as you let yourself believe for a second that you belonged here.
“His brothers and I worked together. His mom made me food for a month after my parents died, even when they were barely surviving on their own. Yuuji,” you let out a deep breath. “Yuuji is a good kid. He’s so, so sweet. He cares about people. He just turned twelve a month ago,” and you suffocate on a sob, your head falling into your hands. “He was so excited to celebrate it, too. His dad had taken time off so they could be with each other, but…that was a week ago, and Yuuji was here.”
You give him a sad smile, teeth catching on your lips as you blink slowly.
“I know you don’t understand why I don’t want to win, but I think that if I even entertain the idea, I’d lose a part of myself that makes me me. I don’t want them,” You look around the open venue, let the sound of the traffic and parties float around you for a second, “I don’t want them to change me. When I die, I want to die the person I would’ve back home.”
The boy in front of you watches the way you move, studies you like he’s studying a book. But it’s more careful than that, it is as if he’s trying to memorize every little detail of you so he could tuck it away and use it for later.
Eventually, he lets out a small heave, his lips pursing as his hands perch on his hips.
“Can I ask you another question?” his voice drops to a whisper, stepping closer to you.
This time, you don’t step back.
Your brows furrow, thinking. When you don’t shut him down instantly, he takes the silence as his go-ahead to continue.
“Don’t you remember me?”
You feel the blood roar into your ears.
Gojo opens his mouth to say something else, but what that was, you’ll never know. A shrill and loud voice comes from behind you. The two of you flinch, looking over your shoulder to see Drumesia stalking towards you, her face twisted together as if she had just eaten a lemon.
“It’s past your hours!” She shouts, having her gloved hands around manically as she nears you, not controlling the shock on her face to see the new and rising Capitol darling standing just a few feet away from you. But you’ll give her credit, she recovers wonderfully.
“And you! You should be in your quarters!” She snakes a hand around your arm, tugging harshly as she pulls you nearer and nearer to the elevator. You can hear the insistent and rapacious questions she’s asking you; how do you know this tribute, what were you discussing, are you allying with him? And so on, but you couldn’t answer any of them; your attention was somewhere else.
You look back to see Gojo still standing there, looking at you with a strange look in his eyes. He lifts his hand, in a small wave, and gives you an even smaller, barely visible smile. You don’t know what to do, but you’re not able to return his gesture as the elevator door shuts and whirs the two of you up back to the District 11 quarters.
You think with trepidation that the next time you will see Gojo would be tomorrow night.
At the tribute interviews.
—-
“Cameras on in three, two…!”
The interviews were hectic.
Besides the fact that tomorrow morning would mark the beginning of this year's Hunger Games, the tribute interviews were like a pre-show for what everybody watching should expect.
Caesar Flickerman, the eccentric host, kept the show alive and energetic. It was his job. You couldn’t imagine what they would do to him if he failed at doing so.
Every year, he comes out with a new hair color, and this year his hair was ironically a bright white, his brows matching. However, unlike Gojo, it was obvious that his hair had been dyed extensively.
“Just remember to stand tall and smile!” Drumesia was tittering about like a canary, moving between you and Yuuji as she straightened his bow tie and fixed the creases of your dress.
Your outfits had slightly upgraded since the chariot ceremony, but were still miles behind some of the other clothes the tributes were wearing.
Word of your kind and loving character had spread around, and the stylist who gave up for the first round seemed excited to make you something new this year.
The dress was long and pale blue, the sleeves cutting off at your shoulders as the satin bodice sat heavily on your chest like a shield. It was supposed to make you look open, but you couldn’t help but notice the uncanny resemblance it had to some of the housemaid uniforms the Capitol women had that you had seen around.
A small and slides into yours, and you blink out of your thoughts, looking down to see Yuuji tugging at his neck.
“Can you help? She tied it too tight,” he says quietly so that Drumesia wouldn’t overhear. You kiss your teeth in mock annoyance, shooting him a grin as you sink onto your knees, brows furrowing in concentration as you mess around with the fabric.
“You look very handsome tonight,” you tell him as you wrap around the ends together, trying to mimic the actions you studied Drumesia doing moments ago, “They’re going to love you out there.”
You ruffle his hair, making sure not to mess it up too much as you straighten it back. Yuuji smiles shyly, standing still to let you work.
“Do you think,” Yuuji starts, then stops, his cheeks flushed, “Do you think my family’s watching?”
Your hands stopped, looking at him with a reproachful expression as you smiled softly, nodding your head.
“Yeah, of course they are,” you loop the tie around, wiggling it so that it would sit straight, “Why wouldn’t they?”
Yuuji shrugged, looking away as he pouted slightly, rubbing at his eyes.
“My brothers were just so angry before I left,” he mutters, and your hands go up on his elbows. “Do you think they’re mad that I’m not going to win?”
Your face and heart crack at the same time, your lips wobbling as you drag him close to your chest, hands sprawled out on his back as you squeeze him as hard as you possibly can.
“Oh, they’re not mad at you, Yuuji,” you say hushed, one hand cradling his head as you tuck your chin on his pile of hair, “They could never be mad at you.”
You hear him sniffle, his arms hugging you back as you try to hide him from the wandering eyes of the other tributes.
But, as always, you catch the eye of one in particular.
Gojo watches the two of you, not critically, just watching. He’s observing, looking at the way you don’t mind your dress getting dirty or Yuuji’s tear marks on the fabric.
Don’t you remember me?
You look away, as if his stare had somehow burned you, and push gently at Yuuji’s shoulders so that he would be facing you.
“Your brothers are so proud of you,” you tell him firmly, “So proud, okay?”
Yuuji wipes at his red cheeks, nodding at your words.
“When you go on that show tonight, you look into that camera like you’re looking right at them, yeah? Talk to it like you’re talking to them. Forget about the crowd, forget about the game. Just,” You sigh, your smile shaky as your hands tremble. “Just imagine you’re back home and you’ve been pulled into the dancing circle. Remember how scary those were?” You push a strand of his hair away, smoothing it down as he sniffles softly, nodding again.
“But do you remember that feeling when the music was loud and everybody was clapping? Remember how at the end everyone was so sweaty and tired and it didn’t matter how bad you were dancing because everyone was just having fun?” He nods again, hanging on to every word you are saying.
“Imagine that feeling when you talk to Caesar, okay? Make them feel like they know you. Make it feel like they’re your family.”
You don’t tell him why. Don’t want to explain how sympathy and empathy can play a big role in how sponsors view you during the games.
“Okay?” You ask him once, stern but kind, a fire in your eyes that he tries to match.
“Okay,” he repeats, a smile making its way back onto his round face as you bump your fist lightly against his shoulder, standing back up just in time before Drumesia and Martin arrive.
She eyes you suspiciously, hands furiously working on your chest and stomach area to smooth out any wrinkles. You look at Yuuji, and he gives you the toothless grin.
“You’re awfully happy,” Drumesia commented dryly, looking your makeup over until she was satisfied that it was alright. “Anything you care to tell me?”
“Nothing you’d like to know.”
She scoffs, but doesn’t push it any further, seeing how there wasn’t much else she could fight with you on. She began looking around for the other escorts, killing the time by talking to them until it was time for the first tribute to go. Lizzie, from 1, would be the first interviewee of the night.
Yuuji tugs at your hand again, and this time, when you look down at him, you see him pointing somewhere in front of you two.
Cameramen and crew workers were ushering people to stand up against the wall, people organized by girls first, followed by the male tribute, going all the way from 1 to 12 near the back.
You and Yuuji shuffle awkwardly, and your shoulders press against the male tribute from 10, somebody whom you had only seen in passing.
There’s a quiet hush that falls around everyone, nerves alight as Capitol escorts and mentors are taken to the viewing room somewhere in the back.
You all watch on the screen in front of you as the lights in the main room dim, Capitol citizens buzzing with excitement as the music starts, the lights flashing where Caesar is sitting.
You take in a deep and soothing breath.
Let the show begin.
—-
Lizzie’s interview was good.
She knows how to work a crowd, and Caesar loved just how sparky and energetic she was. Everyone in the audience laughed along with her jokes and swooned when she talked about her sisters back home, whom she would be winning these games for.
But she wasn’t the tribute that you were focused on. Nor what everyone else was clamoring for, either, it seemed.
When Gojo walked out on the stage, you could see people in the audience already roaring and jumping to their feet. He had garnered quite a bit of attention already because of his pure strength, his looks, and the fact that his dad was already a victor.
Even you could admit, as much as you wanted to dislike him, just how much he radiated this sort of energy that attracted attention.
The suit he was wearing was tailored to perfectly match his already impeccable proportions. The dark blue coat and bottoms complemented the stark contrast with his eyes and hair, and the dazzling smile he had plastered onto his face almost made it look like he was twinkling.
Caesar was giving his signature debonair smile when Gojo walked towards him, his laughter contagious and manufactured as he whistled as Gojo shook his hand, his grip tighter than Caesar expected.
The two of them talk for a short second before Caesar invites him to sit down, and Gojo complies with a wink to the audience.
He knew how to play them as well as he could play the games.
“So!” Caesar clapped his hands as if he wasn’t getting started, “Mr. Gojo, the dashing tribute from 1, how are you doing this evening?”
Gojo kissed his teeth, looking into the audience as he gave an easy shrug and an even easier smile. The camera panned out to catch some of the women quickly fanning themselves, others swooning in their seats.
You looked at Yuuji, rolling your eyes at the theatrics, and he giggled.
“I’m doing great Caesar,” he finally said after a moment, letting the crowd die down as he nodded to himself, “I’m surrounded by all these amazing people, not including you, of course,” he says with a teasing tone and Caesar eats it up, slapping his lightly on the knees, “And the games are tomorrow. I can’t speak for the rest of the tributes, but I feel more than ready.”
Everyone breaks into shouts and hollers, clapping as Gojo claps along with them.
Caesar lets them go quite far as he chuckles along, swallowing as he looks over at Gojo with a serious expression.
“You look more than ready!” He exclaims, motioning towards his lean and muscular body, to which Gojo just waves away, “Now, I’m sure that most of these citizens recognize you because of your father, is that right, folks?” He looks back at the crowd as they scream and shout in agreement, surely having loved his dad if this was the reaction they were giving, “But am I wrong to assume that you would like to be known for something other than that?”
Gojo laughs concisely, nodding as he thinks about the question. You can only imagine the meticulous work and effort he’s put into making this interview seem flawlessly imperfect.
“You know, Caesar, before I left, my father told me to make these games my own.”
Caesar leaned in before Gojo could finish, as if they were sharing a secret.
“And what do you think that means? How do you plan on making these games your own?”
Gojo chuckled softly, his lips quirked as he looked back at the audience and then to the cameras.
“I think we’ll save that for when the time comes,” he says before the audience groans dramatically, Caesar giving a big sigh as if he was torn, but Gojo continued, “But I will say, I think these games are going to be special.”
Caesar worked his brow, looking at someone in the audience as he mouthed, really?, and everyone laughed.
“Special? Special how?”
“We’re an interesting batch of tributes. I don’t think that we’re going to go the usual route. I think…you’ll all see different alliances and enemies form, different strategies and different ways to win.”
The crowd ooo’s, but Gojo waves it off as if that was all he was going to say. Caesar smiles brightly, satisfied with the answer, as he quickly moves on to the last remaining minutes with the burning question everyone wanted to know.
“Satoru,” Caesar has quickly moved on to calling him by his first name, dropping the formalities as if they had bonded in these past five minutes, “Before our time is up, I’m sure everyone here is wondering, if you were to win these games, would you like to dedicate it to special someone?” The connotations behind what he’s saying are almost impossible to miss.
It seems like all the tributes are listening in, wanting to know both game and gossip talk.
Gojo’s chuckle rumbles out of his chest, and you wince, not recalling the last time you’ve seen the all serious tribute so lively.
He snaps his fingers at Caesar as if chastising him, pushing his hair back as a light pink dusts the apples of his cheeks.
“Are they wondering or are you wondering?” Gojo remarks, and Caesar gives a loud laugh, pretending to look shocked as the audience roars into laughter.
Gojo apologizes half-heartedly, waving down the room as he tries to use up all of his time accordingly.
“I’m just messing with you, Caesar,” he says finally, laughing along with Caesar as his eyes twinkle a bright blue under the stage lights, “But to answer truthfully, I’d be winning for myself.”
Caesar rolls his eyes dramatically, pointing to Gojo as he looks to the crowd for support.
“I don’t believe that for a second! With a face like that, how could you not have a girl waiting for you?”
Gojo smiles, his teeth bright as he ducks his head bashfully.
“I’m honored, Caesar, but I think that if I had a girl back home, I wouldn’t be fighting as well as I could,” Gojo admits, “I wouldn’t want her to see what I’d have to become to survive, and then not recognize me when I get home. And besides…” But Gojo trails off, shaking his head as if he had remembered halfway to stop himself from saying too much.
But oh, how Caesar loved it.
“No, no young man, you can’t stop there! Besides what? Besides what?” Caesar pushes the entire audience sitting on the edge of their seat as Gojo gives a practiced nervous chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck as if he didn’t plan for this to happen.
“Well,” Gojo gave a slight shrug, looking straight into the camera, “If I were to win these games, it’s not a girl back home I’d be winning for. She’s a little…closer than 1.”
The crowd lost their minds.
“My! I wonder who it is!” Drumesia said curtly under her breath, looking around as if the mystery girl would reveal herself. Other tributes began muttering under their breaths, some angry at how well Gojo was working the crowd, others curious to see if it was outlawed for somebody from a District to fall for a Capitol girl.
Nonetheless, Gojo was able to wrap everyone around his finger with just a sentence.
Caesar tries to calm them down, but it’s no use. Now, everyone is shouting and demanding to know who this mystery Capitol girl is that has won the esteemed Gojo Satoru’s heart over. It’s no use, Caesar has lost control of them, and his time with Gojo is up.
He’s playing these games well, you think, and not the way most people would.
Caesar nods slowly, giving his usual bright smile as he and Gojo stand up, their hands clasped together as the others wave to the bustling and energetic crowd.
“Give it up for the dashing Tribute from District 1, everyone! Gojo Satoru!”
You can no longer tell who’s still screaming from the past news and who is trying to wish Gojo goodbye, but regardless, the enthusiasm from this crowd dwarfs whatever it was that Lizzie got.
But the more you let his words simmer, the more you realize that Gojo wasn’t only doing this to stir gossip or gain empathy. If the citizens (and sponsors) of the Capitol believed that there was a chance he could win these games and come back for one of them, then…
Then he just garnered a whole lot more support than any score from those evaluations could have gotten him.
When he finally left, his mentors and escorts quickly ushered him somewhere backstage, so you weren’t able to get a good glimpse of him before he left. But the relaxed stance he had once had was now bunched up, tense in his shoulders. He looked around the other tributes, eyes falling last on you and Yuuji before he was whisked away.
Yuuji tugged at the fabric of your dress, glancing up at you with a worry in his eyes.
“I have to go after him?”
—
All the other interviews seem to go by in a blur.
The closer it gets to 11, the more you feel like throwing up. Your heart beats in erratic rhythms, and your mouth and ears feel like they’re stuffed with cotton. At some point, you stop looking at the screen because of how much your head is spinning.
Your hand grips your stomach, balancing on the wall, the closer and closer you get to being called up on stage.
Martin and Drumesia are both standing near you and Yuuji, exchanging worried glances at your worsening state.
“You’ll be alright,” Yuuji whispers, tugging on your arm, with a bright smile even though he looked horrifically pale and nervous, “If I can do this, you definitely can.”
You chuckle softly, whispering a thank you as you watch the male tribute from District 10 stand up and shake Caesar’s hand, the audience applauding as he exits.
It’s your turn.
“Smile!” Drumesia repeats, doing the motions on her own face as you give her a shaky one in return, “Be their sweetheart!”
Be their sweetheart.
One of the people moved in between you and Yuuji, your hand falling from his as they ushered you through the holding area and onto the stage. You take one deep breath before you duck your head down and go.
You instantly wince at the bright lights, your ears roaring as if you were being held underwater, and sweat dots on your forehead. You feel your stomach plummet, but your feet move as if they’re the only part of your body working.
The crowd is clapping as Caesar introduces you, and you inch towards him as you try to discreetly wipe your palm on the side of your dress so he wouldn’t notice how clammy it was.
You look into the audience, people in the front row dressed as wildly and strangely as they seem to do in the Capitol, and then look over to Caesar, who seems to be mourning something, but you can’t hear what it is he’s saying.
“W-what?” You say, cursing at yourself for this being your first words, but Caesar just laughs it off, patting you affectionately on the shoulders.
“Someone’s nervous!” Caesar says with a smile, leading you to sit down as you shakily sit down on the seat facing him. When he’s sure that you're situated, he moves to his own, legs crossing as he leans back slightly.
“What I had said was, ‘How are you doing?’”
You look at him and then at the cameras, swallowing to wet your throat.
“Good,” you say hoarsely, “Just nervous, like you said.” You give a shaky laugh, and Caesar, along with the entire audience, aww at, as if you were a wounded animal.
Caesar waits until the crowd dies down before he starts again, shuffling a little closer so that it wouldn’t feel like you were strangers.
“Well, I never want you to feel that way around me,” he pats your knee before he gives a gentle smile before it turns impish, “That’s what the audience is for!”
Everyone laughs, and you give a weak chuckle. He gives the cameras a small pout, and your nose wrinkles slightly before he starts again.
“Let me first say that I am intrigued to see you nervous because from what I’ve heard, you are great with people. Is this true, or did my little songbird lie to me?”
You blink away from the crowd, eyes darting towards the cameras as you give him a growing smile and let a simple giggle roll through your chest, one thought ringing through your head:
Be their sweetheart.
“I wouldn’t say great,” you emphasize with a smile, remembering that this crowd was full of sponsors that could help you and Yuuji, “But I used to take care of kids before I worked in the fields back home, so I’ve learned a lot of things about people from that.”
Caesar clicks his tongue, as if understanding.
“Well, disagree as much as you want, but we’ve had some witnesses in the crowd who have seen firsthand just how well you’re able to make new friends, is that right?” He calls out, and some people in the audience cheer extra loudly.
Those must’ve been the people who saw you before the chariot parade.
“Do you think this will help you in the arena?” Caesar adds, and you rip your eyes away from those in the audience to look at his face.
“U-um,” you stammer, your cheeks heating up as you think about it thoughtfully, “I don’t think so, Caesar.” You admitted truthfully, debating whether to lie or not, but it seemed like your decision was the correct choice, as it seemed like people in the audience perked up at your honesty.
Even Caesar seemed a bit surprised as his brows furrowed and his head tilted slightly to the side.
“No? Why? Why not?” His voice dipped slightly, mimicking concern. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he would care, as if he wouldn’t narrate your death in just a few days.
You ring your fingers together, chewing on your cheek as you try to look docile. Like a sweetheart.
“I don’t like seeing people hurt,” you tell him, and everyone watching, frankly, “Even if the kids I used to watch were being…difficult,” you say with a slight emphasis and the crowd laughs, shocking you a little bit, “I would never say anything too harsh to reprimand them. So I think that if I were to befriend other tributes, I’d stir crazy in the games.”
Caesar nods once more, his eyes shutting as he takes in your words. People in the audience seem to tilt their heads dramatically as if you had softened them into a puddle of faux compassion and stone-hearted emotions.
“So empathy is both your strength and witness?” Caesar confirms, and you give him a timid grin, nodding.
“One that can be exploited very well during something like the Hunger Games, yes,” you say a little sarcastically and with a knowing grin, and Caesar lets out a chuckle, nodding along with your statement as people in the audience laugh.
“While we’re on more temperate topics, here’s another question for you,” Caesar’s voice has dipped a little bit, losing his energetic spark as he got serious, “I have been asking many of the tributes tonight who they would win for. If you were to win, who would you dedicate it to?”
You feel your stomach churn painfully, tongue darting out to wet your chapped bottom lip, and you grab the sides of your chair tightly.
Gojo’s words from the night before repeat themselves in your head. What is it you want to do?
“I,” you stop yourself from what you were going to say, almost looking backstage to where Yuuji was standing with Drumesia, but control the urge and continue holding your stare with Caesar, “I have no family left in 11,” you’re sure that the camera is zeroing in on your face now and the way Caesar holds your hand supportingly as if he was there when you mourned the loss of everyone you loved, “I think….I think I would win these games so that I could see the sunsets back home.”
“The sunsets?” He asks instantly as if he’s never thought about that, he looks into the crowd to see if they’re just as intrigued, “I have to admit, I’ve never seen the sunsets at District 11 before. How are they?”
You gave him a knowing smile, blinking your tears back as the fire inside your chest burned.
“Caesar, they are simply to die for.”
The tension in the room seemed to snap as everyone laughed, Caesar throwing his head back with a comical hoot as one hand sprawled out across his chest. The cameramen swiveled to catch everyone’s reactions, and you feel some heat prickle at the back of your neck.
“Funny! She’s funny!” He animated as if they hadn’t already heard you, wiping at his eyes as his wide smile twinkled, “One last thing! Before we run out of time! I’m sure everybody here, along with me, is wondering one thing. Does anybody know what that is?”
Caesar looked out into the audience with a raised brow. You turn limply, mirroring his actions, as somebody with a large pink wig and even larger cheekbones cups their manicured hands around their mouth as they yell out;
“Her score!”
Caesar winked at that person, snapping when they got it right. His chair swiveled back to face yours, your fingers digging into the plush texture of the cushions as your heart beats rapidly against your chest.
“Yes, yes, her score! Now, don’t worry, I won’t have you revealing your secret,” Caesar assured and your shoulders eased just a little bit, Caesar waving the audience’s disappointment down with a playful scold, “But I do want you to tell the people what they should take away from a score like yours.”
The clock was ticking down. You only had a few seconds left to make it all count.
“Hm,” you hum thoughtfully, a glint in your eyes as your head tilts a little, “It’s funny you ask. We have this song back in 11, one older than me. Some say it’s from this ancient traveling band, from way before. But we always tell ourselves that nothing you can take was ever worth keeping. So,” you pause for a brief moment, your lips quirked, “During the games, I think you should…expect nothing from me and I’ll give you all everything in return.”
Caesar’s smile falters a second as he digests your words, looking at you, but you’re looking back at the crowd as you wave to them.
He helps you stand up, his hand outstretched to take yours, and you give him a firm squeeze as you shake it. The crowd claps loudly, some calling your name like they did for the other tributes.
“Everyone give it up for the witty sweetheart from 11!” Caesar shouts, and people clap even louder, your smile growing despite yourself.
Maybe, just maybe, you did something right.
—
One deep breath in. One deep breath out.
The helicraft they were using to transport all your tributes was huge, but somehow you still felt insanely claustrophobic. It felt like the walls were closing in, the whirring and the gentle hum of the machine were somewhat soothing, but it did nothing to distract you from the fact that you were being transported to the arena.
For the Hunger Games.
You could barely sleep after the interviews. Yuuji had done great, everybody loved him, just as you suspected. But it wasn’t the high of doing well that kept you up. It was the fear, the trepidation of knowing that there were merely hours left before only one of you was fated to come out.
Breakfast was horrible. You couldn’t keep anything down, so you opted for some tea and bits of a biscuit. Martin seemed particularly drunk, barely meeting your eyes as Drumesia kept snapping at him to tidy up. But you didn’t have the heart to judge him, couldn’t imagine what it was like to see countless tributes over the years, only for none of them to survive.
It must be maddening.
Yuuji didn’t look any better, but he was trying his best to appear as steady-headed as possible. When Martin led the two of you to the hovercraft, he gave you both one final look, his eyes glossy and his face solemn as he put one hand on your shoulder and the other on Yuuji’s.
“Look after each other,” he said gruffly, his voice choked and hoarse, “These games bring out the worst in people.”
You wondered just how bad it could get.
After one of the guards had injected the tracker into you, they strapped you in, and you felt your back press tightly against the seat as it began to take off. The other tributes were rubbing their arms, wincing at the soreness of where the injector was once. Some were looking around, curious and afraid; others were talking to themselves.
Gojo was one of those who was looking around, eyes darting everywhere until they found you. Again.
He gives barley there nod, one you don’t understand the meaning of, before he peeks back to Lizzie, his head dipping down as he attentively listens to her as she whispers something in his ear. You shake yourself away from looking at them, trailing down to where Yuuji was bundled next to you, his fingers pushing at the skin of his forearm.
“Yuuji,” your voice is a hint of whisper, and you’re glad for the steady hum of the craft as it drowns out your voice for everyone else around you, “Yuuji.” You say a little harsher, this time grabbing his attention.
His head snaps up, brown eyes wide as if he had been caught doing something wrong. You almost apologized, but remembered that right now you had to be harsh. It was your only means of survival.
“Do you remember what you’re going to do?” Your head ducks down so that you’re closer to his ear, and he nods quickly, determination and trepidation on his face as you sit back upright, giving him a stern look.
For the last couple of days, you’ve been watching old runs from previous games. How they started, what it looked like towards the middle, and how they ended. You’ve gathered that the beginning of the games is the most brutal part, seeing how everyone is still gathered around each other.
The Cornucopia, a big-looking structure that resembles its namesake, is where all weapons, sacks of food and water, sleepgear, and anything else needed for survival are held. It’s tempting, sure, but that’s where the bloodbath takes place. When everyone hoards something surrounded by deadly tools, it’s expected that something barbaric will take place.
From what you could tell, tributes are all arranged in a circle around the structure on pedestals. A clock counts down from a minute until they can move. If Yuuji was situated somewhere where the Cornucopia was blocking him from your vision, there was not much you could do than order him to turn around and run as fast as he could. You promised you’d find him.
“Mhm,” he quickly nods, closing his eyes as he recites the orders you’ve drilled into his head, “If I see you, run towards you when the clock finishes up. If not, run away and hide,” he cracks open an eye as he winces, “Right?”
You realize your face is harder than usual, your frown lines more apparent. You swallow, trying to soften yourself up as you pat his hand, looking at the walls facing you to steady your mind.
“Right.”
You feel Yuuji’s eyes bore into the side of your face, and his fingers move so that they can grasp onto yours.
“Did you try making any allies?” He whispers, shuffling closer to you because of how cold the air is.
You shake your head, not looking down but instead finding your stare to travel back over to where Gojo was sitting.
Don’t you remember me?
It’s one of the only things you’ve been able to think of these past two days.
The thing is, you know you remember him. You remember that hair and those eyes. You remember the way he carries himself. It’s a brief memory, one hidden in the back of your mind and refusing to show itself. But perhaps what’s even stranger is that he does. It couldn’t be from the first day on the trains. This memory is deep, it’s old.
And yet you don’t have any idea where it came from.
So you shake your head at Yuuji’s question, thinking back to your interview with Caesar as your foot taps erratically on the floor.
“We’re each other's allies,” you murmur, still not looking away from Gojo as if prolonged staring would help jog your memory, “Remember what Martin told us?”
Yuuji doesn’t seem happy, clearly thinking that more people mean better odds of surviving, but he can’t argue with you. He slumps a little bit, looking around.
You go to tell him something else, but your eyelids suddenly feel heavy. You wince, your head dipping, but not on your own accord.
You can barely open your mouth before everything goes back, and you slump against your restraints.
things I won’t let ai take away from human writers
em dash
“not x, not y, but z”
short sentence stacking as a stylistic choice
none of these belong to ai. these are all what human writers have been writing since day one, way before ai was invented. ai was trained to mimic how human writers write — so em dash, not x not y but z and short sentence stacking would never have been used by ai at all if ai hadn’t learned and mimicked them from human writers.
no, you are not “fighting against ai” by accusing every work that has em dash, not x not y but z or short sentence stacking in it as ai-generated, you are helping ai harm the writing community by engaging in witch hunt and scaring human writers away from creating/sharing their works for fear of being wrongly accused of using ai.
speculations, accusations and ai witch hunt harm the writing community as much as ai does, if not more.
andulkaphoto
prguitarman
kianamaiart
gummygunk
izzy806
theartofmadeline
