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@metaltourniquet
â§ Ë ă· ăă . metaltourniquet
; GLOSS DUPONT / d1 victor of the 63rd hunger games
; FAWN MADDOX / d10 victor of the 73rd hunger games
; HANI 'HONEY' JANG / d2 victor of the 75th hunger games
; DYNA EMERY / d13 undercover trainer
; ISCHIA SNOW-BEAUCHAMP / capitol socialite and d2 escort
"no, you don't understand, we need to--" and then it stopped. immediately. because he said her name like that and she listened. she wasn't used to it. it almost felt like being parented. her hand just lingered where he held onto her wrist, and she looked at him with this utter confusion etched into her features, something that almost bordered on offense.
"i don't want a stupid fucking mug," she said once she managed to muster her thoughts enough to form a coherent sentence. there was something else there, something she didn't say, something that was maybe that she just wanted him to stick around instead. "can't you just like, be a dad for once and tell me it's all gonna be okay?"
they were past that, though. emmy only threw it at him because she needed something to throw at him, some way to resist the notion that he was right, that there wasn't any way she could plot him out of the arena before he'd even gone into it.
she caught the way he softened and it flared up something inside of her, something like panic rising to her throat. it could only manifest as this venomous hiss, as her narrowing her eyes at him and once again simply disbelieving. "you're talking to me like you're saying goodbye already," she said, shook her head. she pulled her hand back, had both her hands balled as fists at her side in that very instance. "i don't want to be loud. i don't want to be in their faces. i'm tired, i'm so fucking tired. you don't want to tell me how i can get you out of there? fine, i'll figure it out myself. i'll make a plan that guarantees it. i'll get all the sponsors in the capitol on my side, just watch me. those sponsors love you, right? they think you're a charmer? just wait till they meet me." and it was naive, maybe, but she would follow through out of spite. she'd make it happen somehow.
then she turned away, if only to gather her breath and her determination, because despite her attitude, she was awfully close to giving in. "we should go break something," she muttered. "surely that's the least we should do."
He watched her pull back like heâd burned her, and for a beat, he almost let her go. Let her stomp off and weaponize her rage into whatever doomed plan she thought she could machete through the Capitol with. But then she said be a dad for once, and it hit him like a knife slid neatly between the ribs. He didnât wince. He was better trained than that. But he did inhale like the room had gotten smaller. âOh, kid,â he said, voice going flat the way it did when he was two seconds from cracking. âIf I tell you itâs all gonna be okay, youâre gonna be the one calling me a liar. Donât ask for comforting bullshit and then get mad when I wonât gift-wrap it for you.â
She hissed at him like a cornered cat and he actually laughed; short, sharp, stupidly fond. âGood. Stay pissed at me. Itâs better than you being scared.â Emmy accused him of sounding like he was saying goodbye, and something twitched under his eye. âIâm not saying goodbye,â Gloss snapped, too fast. âIf I were saying goodbye, youâd know. Itâd be dramatic. Thereâd be music.â But then she launched into her manic, impossible plan ( her sponsor coup and her Capitol charm offensive ) and Gloss stared at her like sheâd grown a second head. âEmmy. You canât strong-arm the entire Capitol into saving me. They barely tolerate you sober.â A beat. âAnd donât say watch me. I am watching you, thatâs the problem.â
She turned away, clearly vibrating, and he groaned under his breath before stepping forward and hooking a finger in the collar of her shirt to tug her back half a step. âBreaking something,â he echoed, dry. âFinally. A plan I can support.â He tilted his head toward the marble bust near the door, some dead cabinet member or peacekeeper officer or other, jaw carved heroic, pose self-important. Capitol craftsmanship. Expensive. Hollow. Gloss smirked, dark and delighted. âWell, kid? You wanna start with his face, or should I? There's got to be something heavy we can swing at it.â
"you'll have to hover," he decided then. he didn't consider himself a liability, truly. he didn't consider himself particularly prone to outbursts or acting up. but it felt a lot easier to pretend as though he needed her there to keep him from causing a scene than it was to admit he'd grown more and more worried about not having her close. he was sure she knew, anyway. and in any case, he did still feel rather close to kicking another hapless inanimate victim, so maybe it was for the best. his hand rose to rest against hers as it sat at his ribs. he mustered a stupid, small smile. "you're stuck with me now, darling."
anywhere else made sense. it was a step further than he had gotten, directing his anger closely and for all to see. he folded in on himself a little, like some stress was being pulled from his spine, and he allowed himself a little less tightness to his stance.
his leg was still troubling him, he nearly tripped over it when she tugged at his hand, when he stepped forward without question to go with her. "i'd love to kick something that kicks back, ish. you know i'd love that," he said, and there was some warmth to it, like his bad sense of humour, too intertwined with slapstick violence, hadn't left him entirely. he recovered from his misstep, held out his arm for her to hold.
"nothing's different, nothing's changed," he admitted, then the warmth faded. he straightened a bit more. he looked forward to anywhere else a bit more then, quickened his pace for as much as the stupid limp would let him. he spoke softly, stared ahead. "i think i'm only noticing it now. you're smarter than me, you've caught onto this before, haven't you? that it's always been like this."
She took his offered arm without hesitation, looping hers through it with a certainty that left no room for argument. If hovering was what he wanted, or rather what he needed, then she would hover. She would anchor. She would stand between him and the worst parts of this place, even if she couldnât stop them from coming. âStuck with you,â she echoed, her voice a low murmur that carried the faintest trace of amusement. âTragic for me, really. Iâll have to cancel all my plans for elegant self-destruction and replace them with stopping you from head-butting security cameras.â Her thumb drew one slow line along his forearm, a gesture so small the hallway lights barely caught it. âI suppose Iâll find a way to cope.â
She steadied him when his leg faltered, her grip tightening, her body angling just enough to catch his imbalance without making a spectacle of it. Her expression didnât flicker. She acted as though helping him stand had always been part of the choreography of moving through this building. âAnd yes,â she replied softly, âI know youâd love to fight something that hits back.â A breath, the faintest laugh. âWhich is exactly why we are not giving the Peacekeepers the satisfaction of getting involved tonight.â
But when he spoke again ( nothingâs changed ) she looked forward too, her steps matching his uneven pace without drawing attention to it. Her pulse quickened, but her voice stayed steady. âNo,â she said. âIt hasnât changed.â For a moment, she let the silence settle, the kind that carried weight rather than discomfort. Her hand curled a little stronger around his arm, as if she could stop him from walking into the full burden of the thought he was only now letting himself feel.
âYouâre not late to it,â she went on. âYouâre living in it.â Her tone was quiet, edged with a bitterness she rarely let bleed through. âEvery year we tell ourselves weâre helping. Weâre guiding. Weâre softening the blade.â Her jaw tightened, and she exhaled slowly. "It's harder to pretend we aren't part of it, isn't it?" She shifted closer, shoulder brushing his as they stepped into the elevator alcove. âYou noticing it now doesnât make you slow,â she said.
"it took a long time," he confirmed with a solemn nod. most of the humour had faded from the notion, though. like he was simply ghosting at the motions of talking her as he always did, because he didn't want to consider there had been any change, that maybe he should be a bit fucking nicer for once. "i know you didn't break my leg, but you might as well have at this point, with the amount of grievances on my eulogy list already."
he cleared his throat. he felt as though he was balancing some awful spiel between trying to insult her like always, but not taking it too far, you know, for sympathy's sake. or maybe because he didn't want to show his teeth tonight when he already had too much to drink and had considered that he'd probably miss her if she did go. "good, i'm glad we agree on that," he said, with his jaw so tight that it almost felt like a confession if its own. "you're too fucking boring to send into the games. they're not wasting it on you."
he rolled his eyes once more. he finally snatched the glass back, although some of the liquid spilled over his hand in the process. "you're a buzzkill, hani. you don't know how to enjoy a good party when it's handed to you," he half-heartedly threw her way. "and i will get you at least three more drinks. you don't need to remember tonight just in case. i'm gonna get you embarrassingly drunk so we can laugh about it later. c'mon." he pushed himself more upright then, pushed past some capitolites as he started making his way over to the bar.
Hani followed a step behind him, close enough that her shoulder brushed his arm each time he shoved through another cluster of Capitolites, close enough that she could hear the thin edge hiding beneath his sarcasm. It made her mouth twitch, somewhere between a grin and something smaller, tighter. âOh, please,â she said, matching his tone with practised ease, âyour eulogy list probably reads like a grocery receipt. âHani insulted me. Hani insulted me again. Hani didnât break my leg, but emotionally? Devastating.ââ Her voice was dry, light. Too light for the weight sitting in her chest.
But when he called her boring again, her snort came out softer than it shouldâve. âIf Iâm boring, what the hell does that make you? A nap with shoes on?â He reclaimed the glass; she let him, hands slipping into the pockets of her jacket to hide the tension she didnât want him to see. The spill across his hand made her grin crookedly. âReal smooth, Cross. Very commanding. Very firm.â
âThree drinks?â she echoed, forcing the grin back into place. âYou trying to poison me or save me? Hard to tell with you.â She shoved past a Capitol woman in an obscene amount of feathers to catch up to his stride, shoulder bumping his deliberately this time. âBut fine,â she said, voice low, almost steady. âGet me drunk enough, and I can blame the hangover when they donât pull my name. And if they do?â She looked away then, chin lifting as if she could choke the words back. âJust make sure you drink enough to forget it.â
who: gloss dupont & cashmere dupont ( @vilebodys ) where: in the tribute tower post reaping
Gloss waited until the door slid shut behind them and the seal clicked, that soft, mechanical snick that meant no cameras, no microphones, no Capitol voyeurs pretending they werenât salivating over every tremor in a victorâs voice. Then he exhaled. Not gracefully. Not theatrically. Just⊠out. Like someone had cracked a rib.
The suite in the Tribute Tower gleamed gold and glass, polished within an inch of its life. It felt like a mausoleum. Gloss didnât sit. He didnât pace, either. He stood in the center of the room, hands braced on his hips, spine locked too straight; the poised Capitol darling heâd been trained to perform as, except for the part where he wasnât performing anymore. âOkay,â he said, voice low, stripped bare of its usual glitter. âEnough of the act.â
He looked at Cash at last, really looked at her, not the version he kept beside him on red carpets, but the girl whoâd grown up in the same house, under the same roof, in the same womb, under the same noose of expectation. His twin. His other half. The one person he couldnât protect from this because she had walked straight into it. âCash,â he said, quieter this time, âwhat the hell did you do?â He dragged a hand through his hair, restless, almost angry - but not at her. Never at her. âYou were supposed to let me go in. If one of us had to⊠it shouldâve been me. But you-â His voice cracked around a word he didnât want to use. âYou jumped. You didnât even look at me.â
He stepped closer, close enough she couldnât dodge the weight of it. âI canât watch you die in there. I lived through that once with you and then with Emmy. Iâm not-â He swallowed hard. âI canât do it again. Not with you.â A beat. A breath. No armor left. âTalk to me. Please. Just...â Perhaps he only realized just then how selfish he was being. How he was saying that he couldn't stomach her death, like the thought of Cash watching him die didn't tear him apart the same. "Why?"
open !
tobias snow, the beloved eldest of the grandchildren, he could hear coriolanus snow in the back of his mind when he was a child, "the one to set us all apart," as he placed the white rose on little tobias's jacket. at the time tobias was young and didn't understand, as an adult now he wants to vomit. he watches everyone, and he knows that he, too, is being watched in itself. he grabs a glass of champagne, sniffs it before taking a sip of it. tobias the gamemaker, tobias the undercover spy for district 13 and the capitol, who really are you? he couldn't blame many, but he tried. "i'm trying to decide which little fork or spoon to gouge my eyes on, care to help me?" he questions with a smirk, looking towards the other. he wished he was kidding, but he was being serious.
âIf youâre set on self-mutilation,â she said softly, âIâd recommend the oyster fork. Less practical, but far more dramatic.â Her tone carried that honeyed polish the Capitol adored, but her eyes said something else entirely. Something darker. Her hand brushed his elbow lightly, the gesture casual enough to pass unnoticed by anyone watching, intimate enough to steady him. Deceptively gentle support, offered in the only way she could afford.
âBut if you insist on keeping both eyes intact,â she continued, voice dropping a fraction, âyou could stay here with me instead. Pretend weâre enjoying ourselves. Pretend grandfather hasnât just set the world on fire for the sake of theatrics.â She raised her own glass, clinking it softly against his. The sound was delicate, crystalline. âAnd you can tell me what youâve really been thinking since the announcement,â she said. âBecause I know this isnât it.â
THERE WAS A BRUTALITY THAT SETTLED IN CAIUS' BONES LIKE A SECOND SKIN. He lost the emotions and empathy others had long ago--- trained out of him by his own father and replaced with a desire for bloodshed. The announcement of a victor-led games sparked a joy in him that had been dulled since he got out of his arena, and he was ever-eager to remind the world how he got his "butcher" title.
But then Iris and Fawn's names were announced, and an annoyance crept through his features. He had practically shoved bystanders away in an attempt to volunteer, as if reminding the world who really is the one to watch from District 10.
And perhaps that's why Fawn's question got a laugh out of him. He was practically buzzing with energy, and they were asking him if he was alright? "I'm fucking peachy. It's about time we had some excitement around here." He reached over and messed up the mentor's hair before adding on, "How many kills do you think I'll get under my belt? I'm thinking 6 at least."
Fawn didnât recoil when Caius laughed; if anything, the sound only settled deeper beneath their ribs, confirming what they already knew about him. He always seemed to buzz like this before a fight, a live wire looking for something to burn. Mentoring him back during the 78th had been like trying to redirect a wildfire with cupped hands. That hadnât changed. His fingers ruffled their hair, careless and boyish in a way that didnât suit the violence coiling through him. Fawn lifted a hand to smooth it back into place, movements slow and deliberate, grounding themself before they spoke.
âYouâre mistaking excitement for hunger,â they said quietly, not scolding, simply observing, the way they always did. Their gaze didnât waver, soft but steady. âYou want to prove something. I know that feeling. But this isnât the Games you won. These arenât children. These are victors. People who survived just like you did.â They held his stare for a beat longer than necessary.
âSix kills,â they repeated, tone almost contemplative. âIf thatâs what youâre aiming for⊠then aim carefully. Half this arena will be thinking the same thing about you.â There was no fear in their voice, just an old, worn concern. The kind theyâd never admit to. Not to Caius, anyway.
open  to  â  everyone  .
location  â  party  in  the  capitol,  reaping  day,  night  time  .
hunched over the toilet, mina wretches until her throat is hoarse, rough as sandpaper. once, she had felt like the sacrificial lamb brought into the games in the name of her family. the eldest daughter handed over to the capitol if it meant the rest of them were safe beyond the sturdy walls of victorâs village. no such luck. since ash had won the games, sheâs done all that she can to protect her, but to be forbidden from volunteering in her place for these ninety second games has made her physically ill. and now she must smile. mina dewitt is nothing without her smile, for it is this which makes her sparkle most of all. dainty, delicate, a sweet little thing akin to a fairy, as though there isnât a vicious, ugly sort of fury lingering beneath the glitter dusted across her collarbones, her cheeks. they can pretty her up as they wish, but she is fuming. spitting into the bowl, mina flushes the mess of bile and vomit down the toilet and kicks her way from the stall. she cleans her hands and returns to the party, determined to find sponsors if not answers. one of her suitors offers her a drink which she accepts, only if she can watch it made at the bar. she smiles in a way that promises sheâll return to him later, and then she moves further into the crowd. âisn't this exciting?â she arches a brow, her tone unreadable. those within the resistance who know her, know that she is mere seconds from falling over the edge into her frustration. âiâm sure we can expect party after partyâŠÂ what are the chances iâll win a sponsor over when theyâre indulging so much?â
Fawn spotted her long before she reached them, glitter dusted across her collarbones, eyes too bright, the curve of her smile stretched thin enough to split. Mina Dewitt sparkled because the Capitol demanded it, not because she had anything left to shine with tonight. Fawn understood that kind of performance too well.
They stepped toward her as she slipped back into the crowd, reading the tension in the flex of her jaw, the brittle edge beneath her sweetness. When she spoke ( Isnât this exciting? ) the words hung sharp and trembling in the air between them. âNo,â they said softly, evenly. They didnât force a smile or a mask. Mina already had enough of those for the both of them. âItâs not exciting. Itâs a reminder.â Of exactly who they think we belong to.
Their voice remained calm, but their eyes were steady, tethering. âSponsors will come. They always do. The Capitol loves a tragedy dressed up pretty. Just⊠donât burn yourself out chasing them. Theyâre drunk on luxury tonight. Someone has to stay level.â A beat passed before they added, quieter, âYou shouldnât be doing this alone. Want some company?â
"i've placed my bet already," emmy said, which she hadn't, because she barely even knew how betting on the games worked. it didn't matter. she stood steadfast in her sentiment. "you're not dying fast. or at all. you don't get to die. so buckle the fuck up, because you're going to have to carry everyone's trauma for a long time after this."
she needed to say it. she needed to specify. she had caught the noncommittal part of his words, this reluctant unspoken lingering between them that was cashmere.
the stupid part was that emmy would easily go up to cash and tell her the same thing; that cash wouldn't get to die, that these fucking duponts couldn't do this to her, either of them. emmy was praying gloss wouldn't pick her up on it, that he wouldn't point out that this wasn't her choosing him over cash, but just her trying to keep them both for as long as she could.
when he tapped her prosthetic hand, she held up her middle finger in reply.
"you don't get to make me look sentimental in front of the whole damn country, gloss. we need a game plan. we need to do something. fuck, we should've planned this out well before the reaping even happened, we need to--" she didn't know what to do. she'd never taken on the burden of it, of mentoring, of dealing with anyone's trouble but her own. she'd even mostly escaped the capitol and its politics because gloss was more charismatic and more interesting.
"i don't want you to smile at me like that," because she was particularly annoyed by that part, "i don't want you to tell me to cry later. i want you to tell me how the fuck i get you out of that arena."
Gloss snorted, because Emmy ordering the universe around like it owed her something was the closest thing to normal heâd heard in days. âOh, you placed a bet?â he drawled. âAdorable. Did you also pick out a commemorative mug? Maybe a little âMy Dad Died in the Murder Domeâ keychain?â But the way she said you donât get to die ( the force of it, the fear behind it sheâd rather chew off her remaining hand than admit ) it lodged under his ribs. He didnât let it show. Not fully. Not when she was looking at him like she expected an answer that actually fixed something.
She flipped him off with the prosthetic and he huffed out what mightâve been a laugh if it werenât so frayed. âAttagirl. Real sentimental moment weâre having.â Then she started spiraling, fast, frantic, all edges, and he reached out, hooked two fingers around the wrist of her prosthetic, tugging just enough to disrupt the runaway momentum. âEmmy.â Sharp. Quiet. A command disguised as a name. âStop.â
He waited until she actually looked at him, really looked, before he spoke again. âYouâre asking for a game plan like this is a training session and not a state-sponsored slaughterhouse.â He shook his head. âThereâs no plan that guarantees anything. Not for me. Not for Cash. Not for anyone.â A beat. His voice stayed steady, but his eyes softened in that way he hated, the way that made him look like he gave a damn. Because he did. Because she left him no choice. âBut if youâre asking what you can do?â He shrugged one shoulder. âYou stay alive. You stay loud. You stay in their faces. You make them remember youâre the girl who tore a hive apart and walked out with one hand and absolutely no apologies.â
He tapped her forehead lightly with two fingers. âAnd you donât waste whateverâs in there trying to strategize my way out of a death maze I havenât even seen yet.â Then, quieter, almost an afterthought, almost not, âIâm smiling at you like that because if I donât, Iâm gonna break something. So let me have the smile.â
he knew the sound of her heels before it caught up to him, made no attempt to hide the result of his tantrum, the bad leg curled awkwardly to keep his weight off it, the trashcan dented. if anything, the way he sharply inhaled was more of a testament to his lingering anger than it was an attempt to shake it from his straightened shoulders. like he needed to tell her again, despite the fact that she was right ( not here ), that he had full-well intended to openly make a bad decision.
he only let the outrage simmer for a moment longer, though, then he tucked it away somewhere inside his chest, which still felt awfully tight. he turned to her, something softened in his stance. his bad leg stung when he tried to shift his weight onto it again. "i guess i'm just a liability when i'm left alone these days, darling," he said, which was mostly saying that he much preferred when she was around. especially now, with tensions rising more than he'd imagined they could, his hand felt uselessly and wrongly empty if she wasn't holding it. he moved closer, pressed a kiss to her forehead that was an apology for his outburst more than anything else.
"if not here, where?" he asked, because he sucked at diplomacy and maybe still wanted to kick something. he wasn't just asking for a next inanimate victim, though. he'd god-honestly sort of liked the tribute tower before now, as this space he recognised, traversed with practiced ease. a battleground he knew and contributed to in at least a vaguely positive way ( because sure, kids still kicked the bucket every hunger games, but at least he was somewhat of a nice trainer to them before that happened ). it wasn't there anymore. he suddenly had to consider that he led people to their death regardless of his futile intent. he didn't know where to go now.
he squeezed her hand back. it felt like a plea of sorts. he sighed, spoke quietly.
"i don't think i can do it this year, ish."
Ischiaâs composure did not break, but something in her gaze sharpened, a glint that had nothing to do with Capitol polish and everything to do with the part of her she never let anyone else see. The part that was tired of watching the world burn just because someone in power ( someone who's blood she shared ) thought the embers were pretty.
When he kissed her forehead, she exhaled once, slow, and let her hand climb from his waist to his ribs, steadying him without making a spectacle of it. âYou are not a liability,â she said, voice low but edged with something fiercer than comfort. âYou are furious. That is fine.â Her thumb slid along the inside of his wrist, grounding him. âAnd if it takes me hovering to stop you from kicking every government-issued object in the building, then fine. I will hover. Happily.â
When he asked where, she leaned in, her temple brushing his jaw in a gesture small enough to evade cameras, intimate enough to steady him. âSomewhere they donât get to watch us breathe,â she murmured. âSomewhere that isnât offering them a show they donât deserve.â Her chin tipped subtly toward the elevators. âYour room. My apartments. Anywhere else.â
But the last thing he said softened her in an instant. She caught the back of his neck, fingers threading through the hair there as she held him close enough that only he could hear her. âYou donât have to do it,â she said. âNot cleanly. Not obediently. And not alone.â A beat, a breath. Her expression shifted to something closed off. Something she never really was when it came to Icarus. "But- What's different this year? Truly, what is different?â
She tugged his hand, a quiet insistence, a promise. âCome with me,â she said. âBefore you go and kick something that kicks back.â
"planning your eulogy? darling, i've already written it. i've kept it in an envelope somewhere for years now," he said, rolled his eyes. it was overly vicious, though his attempt to direct his words at her was half-hearted at best. he was simply annoyed, not particularly looking to start a fight, just to start a conversation that he simply couldn't begin with 'i hope you're okay after all that'.
when she took the glass from him, he didn't try and take it back. he visibly had to stop himself from doing so, though, his gaze set a little too tightly on the remaining liquid. "for what it's worth, i don't think it's gonna be you either," icarus said, which was probably as close as he would get to admitting he didn't want it to be. "you bore me to death most days, i think the capitol knows better than to try and pull an entertaining show out of you again." there was something he wasn't saying there, that he thought the whole thing was rigged, maybe.
he didn't know what to do with his hands now. it was painfully obvious. he crossed his arms. "it's a special night. if anything, i'm surprised that you're not drinking more. do you want me to get you another drink, honey?"
âLet me guess,â she drawled, tilting his glass just out of his reach when she noticed the way he watched it, âitâs just a list of all the ways Iâve personally ruined your life. Mustâve taken you ages.â But the joke lost some of its bite when he said he didnât think it would be her, and something in her expression faltered; not softened, not really, but cracked just enough to show something underneath. She covered it quickly with a scoff. âBored you to death, huh? Good. Means Iâm doing my job.â A pause, her voice dimming into something drier, heavier. âTheyâre not wasting their little spectacle on me. Too predictable. Not shiny enough.â
She pretended the thought didnât make her stomach twist.
His hands, awkward and searching, caught her attention. It made her grin again, more real, still edged. âSpecial night? Sure. Nothing screams âcelebrationâ like a firing squad with confetti.â She stepped in closer just to be annoying, clinking the half-empty glass against his chest. âAnd Iâm not drinking more because, shocking, I actually want to remember tonight. Just in case.â Then, with a smirk that didnât reach her eyes, âBut yeah. Get me another one, Icks. Might as well be drunk if weâre about to watch our names tossed around like party favors.â
they had thought, for certain, that they were doomed. the reaping had taken barely more than an hour, but to siku it had felt like eons alongside their fellow victors. he had trembled, watching the stage with an uncharacteristically hard gaze, almost comical on the boyish features for which the capitol love him so. this feels like a step too far, even knowing that plans are being made in the background. their gaze had drifted so often to plutarch that siku had needed to force themself to stop before it grew suspicious. they always say he has the sort of face which gives every little thought away, after all. eventually, he had screwed his eyes shut like a little kid trying to make the monster go away. the elevator slides open, siku wringing their long fingers as they slip into the tribute tower where they will be forced to mentor friends, comrades as they head into the hunger games, once more. guilt wars with fear, and so he barely even notices dyna there. he stills, eyes landing on the trainer, a comfort after a day so long as this one has felt. âdyna,â he savours the word, the sight of her. itâs been a while since he last saw them, but his heart is weakened, almost too tentative to skip its usual beat. âquietâŠÂ yeah. i could use somewhere quiet.â
Dynaâs shoulders eased the moment she heard Siku say her name, just that, just Dyna, like it pulled her back into her own skin. They hadnât realized how tightly theyâd been holding themself until then. Everything tonight was smoke and tension, the whole Capitol strung up like a tightened wire, but Sikuâs voice cut through it in a way nothing else could.
They stepped toward him without thinking, soft and sure, the Capitol shine still in place but gentled at the edges just for him. âCome on,â they murmured, tilting their head toward a side hallway most visitors never noticed. âThe stylistsâ break lounge stays empty after reaping nights. No cameras inside. Just ugly couches and bad lighting.â It was a joke, quiet but real, the kind they easily slipped into around him.
As they walked, Dyna kept a close enough distance that Siku could brush against them if he needed the grounding. Not touching outright ( she wouldnât risk startling him on a night already too full of fear ) but close, companionable. When they reached the door, Dyna pushed it open and gestured for him to go in first. The room was dim, mercifully so. âSit,â they said gently. âOr lie down. Or stand and stare at the wall. All acceptable options.â
They paused then, letting themselves look at him, really look. The fear tucked behind the boyish edges of his face, the exhaustion, the guilt radiating off him in waves. âYou did what you could today,â Dyna said softly, sincerity slipping past their practiced polish. âMore than anyone shouldâve had to. And Iâm⊠Iâm really glad youâre here. With me. Not up on that stage.â
Their voice almost betrayed the emotion under it, so they cleared their throat lightly, softened the moment with a faint smile. âI can get you water. Or a blanket. Or I can shut up and sit next to you. Dealerâs choice.â
iris experienced the tension of the lobby as a thick rug of sorts, something she stepped on but couldn't feel as anything beyond a soft layer of sound, of alert, of eyes watching eyes watching eyes. it registered, but she wasn't experiencing it. she was somewhere above it, lastly caught by the smallest sensations, if she was even caught by any: the way her fingertips felt as she ran them over each other, the way her breath came close to tickling her nose as she sighed. she could've felt peaceful, if she had felt anything at all. she simply felt nothing.
maybe iris didn't need to watch her back anymore. maybe that was why the noises, the capitolites, the stress looming above all of it, didn't make her falter or even notice.
she was dead already.
"do you want to go somewhere quiet, dyna? i can pretend i need it if you want me to. i don't think i can cry, though. i could try and faint. do you want me to try and faint?"
Dynaâs composure slipped, just barely, just for her, at the tone Iris used. Flat. Weightless. Detached in that frightening way only victors ever got, the way that said the Games had already taken something back from her the moment her name was read. They closed the distance in a few quiet steps, careful, never abrupt around someone whoâd been pushed past their own edges before. âNo,â Dyna said softly, with a steadiness that didnât quite match the quickened thrum under their ribs. âI donât want you to faint. And I donât want you to pretend anything.â
They angled their body slightly, shielding Iris from a pocket of Capitol eyes without looking like they were doing it. Habit. Instinct. Maybe a little protectiveness they werenât supposed to feel. âI want you to have a place to breathe,â they added, quieter now, the Capitol shine gentled but still present enough to blend in. âThatâs all.â
They lifted a hand, slow enough for Iris to refuse if she wanted, and touched her elbow; not guiding, just anchoring her back down from whatever unfeeling height sheâd retreated to.
A faint, wry edge slipped into their voice, the part of them Iris always drew out. âAnd between the two of us, I think Iâm more likely to faint first. Youâve survived worse rooms than this.â They nodded once toward a hallway branching off the lobby, which was less crowded and dimmer. âCome with me. You're overwhelmed. That's allowed.â
iris had never felt at ease at capitol parties. she normally straddled corners, tried to keep her head down and her breathing steady. perhaps moreso than the whole 'she might be going back to the arena' thing, she felt awfully affected by the extra eyes on her now, the stares that ranged from sympathetic to almost fearful.
seeking out gloss could've been either an escape or a death sentence in that regard -- either iris was about to get away from the capitolites' gazes, or she was about to draw a lot more attention to herself. there must've been a peacekeeper somewhere nearby. or two. for some reason, she'd been assigned two. she'd tried to learn their names but they didn't want to talk.
when she joined gloss at the balcony railing, she held her overly sweet cocktail in a tighter grip. like she was steadying herself, or at least attempting to.
"you know, there's a girl who lives two farms over from my family's, and she would've been eligible for the reaping this year, she's twelve now," iris noted, though she almost stared past gloss as she said it, rather than looking at him. her jaw was slack, mouth half-open like she was going to say something else, but couldn't muster it up. maybe something about how everyone was owned by the capitol, still. it didn't manifest. she downed her drink quicker than she should've.
Gloss shifted an inch, enough space for her to stand without looking like sheâd wandered into the lionâs den by accident. He clocked the cocktail death-gripped in her hand, the way her eyes wouldnât land on anything for too long. Iris never did well with crowds. Tonight wasnât just a crowd; it was a cage with better lighting.
When she spoke, he glanced sideways, not interrupting, not joking. Not yet. âTwelve,â he repeated, low. âGreat age for state-sanctioned trauma.â He took a sip of his wine. âReal shame she wonât be getting her big Capitol debut now. I was so looking forward to watching a kid barely out of pigtails scream on national television.â
It was cruel ( deliberately ), but the tone gave him away. It was the kind of cruelty that tried to draw blood to keep someone from spiraling.
He tapped the stem of his glass against the rail once. âYouâre thinking what everyone else is thinking,â he said, softer, eyes on the confetti storm below. âThey didnât stop the Games. They just⊠rerouted them. Same spectacle. Different sacrificial lambs.â His gaze flicked to her last. âHey.â A single word, sharp enough to cut through the noise. âBreathe. Youâre doing that thing where you look like youâre about to faint or start apologizing to the wallpaper.â
He lifted her wrung-out cocktail from her hand, swapped it with his wine glass instead, a silent drink something that doesnât taste like liquified sugar and panic. âTake it,â he said. âTrust me. If weâre all going back to hell, you might as well have something decent in your system when the floor drops out.â
Nora had laughed at the announcement, not one of delight or humour. But a brittle broken thing which she'd stifled with a drink swiftly after. Of course, of course, they would find a way to bring the trauma forward once more. What a show it would be. She couldn't bring it in herself to be surprised by it anymore.
She spent the time dancing, laughing, flirting, anything to keep her mind off of the now all too real threat that she'd be back in the games. Not to mention the stifling realisation that no victors were allowed to leave.
Days later. Still stuck in the Capitol. The claustrophobia was getting worse each day and she was desperate for air. At least the balconies gave some space. She hadn't even noticed Gloss as she'd stepped out until he spoke and she gave a small smirk.
"Mm, may the odds be ever in your favour right?"
Gloss didnât jump, but he did flick his eyes sideways like sheâd interrupted a thought heâd been losing a fight with. He took in Nora ( the smirk, the posture, the strain hiding behind her eyes ) and huffed a dry, humorless sound that mightâve been a laugh if someone less traumatized made it. âOh, perfect,â he drawled, tipping his glass toward her without bothering to hide the exhaustion in his shoulders. âA cheerleader.â
He pushed off the railing just enough to face her, expression sliding back into something sharp and pretty. âIf the odds were ever in my favour, Nora dearest, I would not be back in this glitter-soaked hellhole pretending Iâm thrilled about the possibility of getting murdered on live television. Again.â
His gaze skimmed her dress, her drink, her too-casual stance. âYou look like youâve been shotgunning champagne just to avoid screaming.â A beat. Then, with a tilt of his head, âGood instinct. Very Capitol-core of you.â
@metaltourniquet
emmy styx &&. gloss dupont post-reaping
for this awful moment that took hold of her for longer than she would admit, emmy wondered if this was what gloss had felt like when he watched her go off into the games. this sharp jitter of dread that reawakened every few seconds, as though the realisation settled then stirred once more. though the reaping had just passed, emmy didn't feel any safer for it. ( she was safe, though. had been saved. she wasn't going back into the games. gloss and cash were ).
the sickness in her throat wasn't as much from imagining dead-end outcomes as much as it was from the uncertainty of the whole situation. if gloss was going to die, emmy wanted to know. she didn't want to have to wait it out, to have to watch it play out.
still, she couldn't muster up any sentimental string of sentences. no bargaining, no pleas. just a simple:
"you're fucked, like for real."
Gloss barked a laugh ( sharp, ugly, entirely wrong for the moment ) because he had no idea what else to do with the way his chest was collapsing in on itself. He dragged a hand through his hair, then wiped it down his face like he could smear off whatever expression sheâd just caught him wearing. He didnât look at her right away. Couldnât. Emmy was alive, breathing, standing here with her ridiculous prosthetic and that razor-edged mouth sheâd inherited from no one but him, and he was the one being marched back into the arena. The symmetry of it was obscene.
When he finally glanced over, his smile was brittle but still sharp enough to be called a smile. âYeah,â he said, voice low, almost amused. âIâm spectacularly fucked. The Capitolâs probably placing bets on how fast I die. Very on-brand of them.â He stepped closer and flicked a finger against her prosthetic knuckles, a soft tap that came out far gentler than he meant it to. âBut donât start practicing your grief face yet. Iâm not planning on dying for their entertainment.â A beat. A breath. Something too honest bled through. He might not have been planning on dying for the Capitol to feast on, but he didn't want the same for Cash either. âIâm not planning on leaving you alone in this place, either.â You'll have Cash, was what was left unsaid. You'll have Cash with whom you get along better anyway.
Then, as if realizing heâd said too much, he straightened and added with a wry smirk, âAnd if I do bite it, you'd better cry dramatically. Ugly. Loud. Really sell it. I want awards.â
open starter !!
post-reaping
the tribute tower didn't feel as different as icarus had expected. same doors, same floors, same people funneled through the lobby. he had somehow imagined that everything would've changed, that it would've mattered; that throwing the victors back to the wolves would serve to at least heighten the spectacle, would at least hold meaning. it felt bitter, more than anything. cheap. as much as he lacked the heart to truly worry about the newly-turned tributes, he knew a cheap shot when he saw one.
the lobby buzzed with an odd tension, like the reaping hadn't served its purpose properly, like grief had overtaken the place already. normally, he could at least muster up some faint hope for an underprepared and tiny tribute to claw their way out of hell -- now, there was nothing. he felt as though he was traversing a graveyard simply making his way from one end of the lobby to the other.
something bubbled under the surface, something dull in the back of his throat, an awful sinking feeling in his stomach. he thought it was numbness right up until he passed the crying tribute from ten, who had taken to hiding behind an armchair.
then, he realised that what he felt was much simpler -- he was angry.
he'd long passed the girl, but the feeling lingered. when he reached the corner of the lobby he'd been heading towards, he kicked an unsuspecting trashcan. hard. with his bad leg.
"--oh, for fuck's sake !!"
Her heels cut a clean line across the lobby, unhurried enough to look deliberate, quick enough to betray she knew exactly who had made that sound. When she rounded the corner and found him braced on his bad leg, pain flaring bright across his expression, her posture did not change. Not even a flicker. Only her eyes narrowed, a subtle tightening like she was focusing in on something she intended to fix.
âIcarus,â she said quietly as she stepped into his space, her hand coming to rest at his waist. The touch anchored rather than soothed, a reminder that he was not alone even if the rest of the Tower pretended otherwise. âIf you plan to destroy government property, you should at least pick something that deserves it.â
Her gaze flicked to the dented trash can, then back to him with a softness that didnât dull the edge in her voice. She lifted her hand to his cheek, brushing a kiss there, subtle and unhurried, as if it belonged to the moment as naturally as breath. âYouâre hurting yourself more than youâre making a statement,â she murmured. She let her fingers slip downwards until they found his, curling around his hand in a firm squeeze. âCome on. Not here.â
