@pricetagged has me vibrating about 'small video creator' with this and I can't stop thinking about it, but flipped and shaken around in a jar a bit? (cw stalking)
Like, imagine seeing some small faceless ‘outdoor survival tutorial’ channel pop up in your endless scroll. Zero comments, three likes; all most likely family or mates- so you drop him a like and a comment. It’s a simple ‘nice tutorial! Haven't been camping in a while, but might need it someday!’
Checking your notifications later, you find a response from the creator- two unpunctuated paragraphs- all an almost illegible mix of scottish slang and texting shorthand, clear he’s more so talking at you in his peculiar ramblings. It's interesting, to say the least, but you leave it be.
You get busy, and your usage of the app drops for a week all while the morbid fascination eats at you, finally dragging you back to check the strange reply once again- only, there's more now.
He’s seemingly been using the reply section as a journal addressed to you directly; he asks questions about you, drops little hints about his life as a veteran, tells you what he’s been up to that day, asks if you like his recent videos- it's somewhat mortifying given the situation.
Tapping on his profile you find he’s uploaded a lot since then; all innocuous survival tip videos with single digit views- but one stands out, posted less than a day ago.
Simon Riley is absolutely not a charming daddy dom, he has hollow eyes like a haunted puppet and the social mannerisms of an old military uncle at a barbeque. And don't get me started on König
fifty bucks says if you asked kate laswell what made her leave maryland right after high school to go to college in beirut she'd suck her teeth, sigh, and go 'there was a girl...'
You & Konig have been chosen to participate in a twenty-four tribute fight to the death.
18+, NSFW, 85k WORD COUNT, AO3, Virgin!Konig, Outcast!Konig, 18yo!Konig, GentleGiant!Konig, Mentor!JohnPrice, Fem!Reader, Blood & Injury, Graphic Violence, Death, PTSD, Alcohol Use, Slow Burn, Sexual Content, First Time, Smut, Fluff, Angst
· THE TRIBUTES I · THE TRIBUTES II · THE GAMES · THE VICTOR I · THE VICTOR II · THE AFTERMATH
➤ THE TRIBUTES I
Every wisp of air has been stolen from your lungs, too stunned to even pull in a breath. It’s as if someone dropped an anvil on your chest - frozen in your spot, knees locked, and thoughts having come to a halt. A rumbling fit for a freight train escalates in your ears until you’ve been fully deafened, your nerves replaced with nausea that drains your face of color. With a throat made of cotton you fight a dry swallow.
Even with the mic’s piercing feedback through the speakers, the blare of your name was unmistakable.
The only thing that offers a sliver of an opportunity to ground you was the peacekeepers’ harsh, demanding grip on your upper arms. They support your full weight, practically dragging you along as you fumble the simple task of putting one foot in front of the other.
The stairs to the temporary stage creaks under legs made of lead. You’d fully collapsed into yourself once the escort extends her hand to guide you to center stage, entirely sucked into a fever of denial and shock.
The escort rambles on, but her words are lost to your ears.
The adrenaline already courses through your veins, blood audibly pumping in your ears and eyes sprung open. You are wide awake, but you can’t shake the feeling that this must be a dream, that there must be some mistake. It doesn’t feel real.
You never thought it’d be you. It was always a ‘what if,’ but it never seemed likely. There are thousands of slips in that big glass bowl and only a handful read your name.
Your lips part as you struggle to work in heavy, wheezing breaths, staring out over the densely packed crowd - an ocean of drab colors and hollow silhouettes. Just moments ago you were lost in this crowd, one head in a sea of thousands.
What are the odds?
You start when the back of the escort’s hand nudges your shoulder, ripping you from your haze.
“It’s customary for the tributes to shake hands, dear,” she whispers to you out of the mic’s range.
It takes you a moment to register her words, to understand what she was even trying to communicate.
You didn’t hear her call the male tribute, too engulfed in a blackhole of dread and horror. Your doubled vision flits to catch the gaze of the male tribute, swallowing hard when you find half-lidded eyes. Immediately your heart sinks, stomach twisted as you stare at the menacing figure before you.
The Mountain.
You didn’t know him. You didn’t even know his name, and you had missed your opportunity when the Capitol’s escort read his slip of paper from the big glass bowl. You knew his nickname, though. Or at least - the name he was taunted with. He’d been relentlessly teased for his size, nearing seven feet tall with an intimidating frame to match. Always looming above the crowd, commanding attention whether he wants it or not. The particularly unruly kids torment him, the rest are afraid of him.
The district’s outcast.
You’d had an encounter with him once before, for just a moment. You hadn’t even exchanged words, but you’d thoroughly embarrassed yourself.
Through vision that warps with each beat of your heart, you find his arm, extended and waiting patiently to shake hands.
You try to find a response to the escort’s instructions and also give The Mountain an apology for making him wait, but your words come out mumbled and on top of either other. You shuffle unsteadily towards him, having to reach your arm up to press your shaking palms to hands that sit much higher than yours. His calloused, monstrous hand swallows yours with a sturdy grip. He’s carrying the work, your arm gone completely limp to his as he shakes your hand. You meet his eyes, devoid of expression and staring down at you, half-lidded eyes unreadable. You’re not sure if the moisture is coming from you, him, or both, but you have the sense to refrain from wiping off the sweat on your nice reaping day clothes in front of the crowd.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, the tributes from District Nine!”
The escort raises each of your arms as the crowd looks on, yours by your wrist, his by the crook of his elbow, as far as she can reach when his arm is fully extended. There’s no applause, but people do break into overlapping, indecipherable shouts.
Judging by the way the escort’s face sinks, it wasn’t a positive reception.
You’d already sunk into yourself again, wrist limp against her hold and arm dropping loosely to your side when she releases it. You get a brief second to glance to your feet, a moment to pretend you were slipping through the stage and out of existence before you’re roughly ushered away, tripping over yourself as the peacekeepers push you and The Mountain into the district’s hall.
Your loved ones were more emotional than you were. You couldn’t bring yourself to be in the moment to give them a genuine goodbye, clouded by a numb fog, completely dissociated from your body and thoughts. You wish you could remember their heartfelt parting words, but you’re not sure if it would make it easier or harder to leave, most likely never to return.
When your time is up, the guards swoop in to take you both to the train station, where you’re escorted through a swarming crowd with a hundred cameras trained square on your face. You catch a glimpse of yourself on one of their screens, long enough to see your face has entirely drained its color.
Thirty minutes pass on the train ride to the Capitol when you finally regain control of your body, the racing thoughts returning.
The escort is rambling about something, you can hear her voice but you’re too exhausted to tune in to her words.
Your eyes flick up from the floor of the train to find crystal chandeliers, upholstered furniture, golden decor. Extravagance you’ve only ever seen through the static of a television. The colors were vibrant. Dyed a rainbow of saturated and bright colors you weren’t used to seeing in your district. You follow the path of intricate etchings into the sturdy wood, mesmerized by the swirled designs.
As your eyes scan the room you feel the stare of The Mountain, arms crossed and legs fully extended to support his deep slouch on his opposing bench. He quickly glances away when you meet his stare, giving his attention back to your district’s escort. You take the opportunity to close your parted lips and make a futile attempt to keep your emotions off your sleeve.
The Mountain had you beat in that department - unreadable in every sense of the word. That’s the smart move, keep your opponents guessing. You’re sure you read as pathetic, smelling of weakness and as helpless as a fawn.
He’s got you beat in every department, actually. The Mountain looks like he was engineered for this. Height designed for intimidation, built like an ox, muscles that protrude even from under his clothes.
You wouldn’t stand a chance in a one-on-one with him, let alone him in the company of twenty-two other tributes.
You’re dead.
After soaking in the escort’s ridiculous outfit, busy with deep red ruffles and gems, you finally tune into her words. She’s going on about what the upcoming days will look like, her misguided optimism and excitement a grated ringing your ears. You don’t bother to stifle the way your cheek bunches with a snarl.
The train car’s doors part with a smooth zip, your irritation briefly distracted by a burly man making his entrance.
John Price - a winner of a game that took place around twenty years ago. You’d never met him, but you knew of him well. A man that’s straight to the point, doesn’t take bullshit, and isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. The kind of man you can deduce with a onceover that he’s been hardened by life’s cruel nature. Harsh lines around his eyes and forehead, always dawning a furrowed brow and an everlasting squint, appearing as if he both dislikes and distrusts just about anything he looks at. He’s spent his life as victor mostly in his own isolation, dulling the pain with whiskey and the occasional prostitute. Aside from a plush stomach, courtesy of indulging in his winnings, it’s clear he still retained most of his strength over the years.
Price crosses his sturdy arms and interrupts the escort mid-sentence, “Ruby, give the kids a minute to breathe, would’ya?” His voice gruff and tone shaming, giving the escort, Ruby, a look that conveys the room’s annoyance with her.
She’s taken aback by his interruption, nose crinkled and mouth pulled back in disbelief. She mumbles under her breath as she exits the compartment, leaving you and The Mountain alone with your mentor.
Your gaze finds the floor again, staring in the space just in front of The Mountain’s boots, his ankles crossed and heels dug into the train’s floor. If the circumstances were different, you would have thanked Price for silencing the escort, but you’re in no mood for courtesy.
From your peripheral you watch Price uncross his arms, digging his palms into his hips as he looks you both over. He takes his time eyeing up The Mountain, just like most do. You already know what he’s thinking - that District Nine might actually have a chance. That someone that fit, that strong, that big would have the best odds of leaving with the crown.
The burn of Price’s stare is brief. He doesn’t linger on you as much. You know what he’s thinking - that a weakling such as yourself was destined to die in that arena, that you don’t stand a chance to even last a day. Giving up on you before you even started.
Not that you could blame him.
Price says nothing, turning his back to you both. You turn your focus out the window, watching the trees whiz by faster than you can get a good look at them, a green and blue blur of foliage and sky. You’ve never gone this fast before.
There’s the sound of clinking glass, the pour of liquid.
Price wordlessly moves in front of The Mountain before stepping to you. He nudges you when you refuse to return his stare, extending a short glass half-full with an amber drink.
“You’ve earned it,” He says when you hesitate, his offering outstretched for an awkward few seconds before you reach out, carefully wrapping your fingers around the crystal.
You inspect it closely before looking over to The Mountain. You meet eyes again, both of you checking to see if the other will accept the offer. You raise an eyebrow at him, acknowledging the shared hesitance.
It felt like a trick.
Alcohol was a luxury you wouldn’t have been able to afford in your district - even if the merchants were unethical enough to sell to the underaged.
You bring the glass just under your nose, wincing at the pungent smell that singes your nostrils.
“Don’t be shy,” Price says at you both, “It’ll ease the nerves.”
That you could get on board with.
You ignore The Mountain’s stare boring into you as you bring the glass to your lips, taking a meager sip. An audible gag leaves you when you swallow, face contorted in a wince at the fire that laps against the back of your throat. You can follow the warmth as it makes it way down, finishing with a bloom throughout your chest.
Price gives a chuckle at your struggle to take the whiskey down.
You narrow your eyes at him, the heat under your skin turning to that of spite. You hold his stare while you bring the glass back to your lips, impulsively downing the whiskey. Your body fights each swallow, forced to override the clear signals that strongly suggest you don’t let it go down. Stinging tears well at your eyeline and threaten to spill, but you don’t break your glare even after you slam the empty glass on the bench next to you with an obnoxious thud of crystal. You hope he can’t tell you’re fighting back the overwhelming urge to vomit, the warmth crawling up your throat instead of down this time.
“Atta’ girl,” Price says with an amused huff. He draws closer to top off your glass while you force down a coughing fit.
You’re good, you think, but you’re too busy choking on your stomach’s threat of retching to object to his pour. You catch The Mountain swirling his glass before taking his first sip, eased by your bold display.
Price lets out an exhausted grunt when he sits, hands on his thighs as he drops onto the same velvet covered bench you perched on. If he’s noticed your clear discomfort as you fight to hold in the burn of the whiskey, he doesn’t comment on it, thankfully. You surely would not be able to handle another round of spite-chugging.
The three of you brood in silence for at least twenty minutes. It’s not an awkward silence, more of a solemn one. The silence that blankets a burial as you watch a loved one being lowered into their grave. There was nothing any of you could say to dull the harsh reality unfolding before you.
You can feel the loosening effect of the alcohol. Price wasn’t kidding. The world felt fuzzy, but easier. Your thoughts slowed, inhibition lowering. You change your mind on the refill after all, returning to small yet confident sips.
Once Ruby returns, you’re well past tipsy, checks flushed and a noticeable dip in coordination. Your steps feel uneven as the four of you make your way to the dining car, putting an unusual amount of focus on your strides.
Ruby continues to break the silence with her casual conversation, sitting across from you and going on like half the table wasn’t being sent to their death.
The Mountain’s legs brush against yours under the cover of the table’s exotic wood, but the spirits have given slack to prior reservations. You’re not bothered to point your knees towards Price. You can feel The Mountain’s stare out of the corner of his eye, annoyed you weren’t making room for him.
You stopped caring.
Your entire life you’ve been so focused on pleasing others, making yourself smaller to conform as you were expected to fit the order of the districts. You most certainly were going to die - what could you gain for continuing the charade?
The Mountain can deal with your outer thigh, you decide.
Dinner is more lavish than the train’s fixtures. Enough food to feed your family for a month spread out on the table in front of you for just one meal. Golden brown and fluffy rolls in a neat stack, perfectly roasted and seasoned greens, tender beef and potatoes stewed in rich broth.
You didn’t think you would have much of an appetite, but the smell is so enticing you can’t help but sample. Hesitant bites quickly turn to greedy scarfing - you’d never tasted anything so extravagant.
You’d feel bad, but the booze has dulled your worries and The Mountain seems to be putting it away faster than you were. Through the fog settled over your mind, you briefly wonder how much food it takes to sustain one of his size. The financial strain he must have put on his family. How many times was he was forced to put his name in that big glass bowl in exchange for extra rations?
After nursing your second glass of whiskey to completion, cheeks flushed with warmth and thoughts beyond muddled, Price doesn’t hesitate to pour you another.
“I don’t think that’s appropriate, John.”
You watch as Ruby’s lips purse, Price not even giving her a glance as he tips the decanter, silently defying her suggestion.
“It’s unbecoming of a mentor to get his tributes intoxicated,” Ruby scolds.
“It’s unbecoming to send these kids to their death for no good reason,” Price shoots back, voice gruff as he sets the decanter down. He returns to his fork, the the screech of metal across his plate echoes through the car as he gathers some greens.
“You know very well it’s because of the rebellion.”
You and The Mountain share another unsure glance before you offer him a lazy shrug and a soft roll of your eyes. Something to remind him that nothing mattered anymore, remember?
The combination of what remains of your nerves, whiskey, and rich food does not bode well, your stomach churning as it catches up with your appetite. Beads of sweat seep from your pores and underarms, your clothes suddenly twice as constricting.
You slide your chair out from the table with a drawn-out, obnoxious scrape. You’re followed by all three sets of eyes as you wordlessly rush out of the dining car with clenched fists, the train’s doors opening for you automatically.
You make it to the bathroom, thankfully, but miss your opportunity to lean closer to the toilet - a mixture of the rich stew, whiskey, and bile spraying over the porcelain. You drop to your knees, another twist and heave of your gut launching into the bowl. The whiskey burns just as bad up as it does going down, if not more, and this time it takes its opportunity to scorch your nose for good measure.
When you’re finished coughing out the final bits of half-digested food that threaten to lodge in your windpipe, you lay back with a groan, back flush to the cool tile.
You’ve never been in a bathroom so extravagant. Sinks made of marble, golden fixtures, embroidered towels. Not a single fleck of dirt or grime. The bathmats are made of an elegant, plush fabric encompassing stuffing that substitutes a pillow for your spinning head. You felt bad for defiling a bathroom so lavish, but shelved the feeling when you think maybe it could be a form of revenge.
This is what you get for sending me to a fight to the death, Capitol. Puke on your fancy toilets.
You lift your arm to wipe vomit from the corner of your mouth before letting it fall back onto the tile with a thud, eyes pinching shut in a desperate attempt to rid the dizzy spin.
You sneer at the sound of heavy shoes approaching, not bothering to sit up to greet your visitor.
“I don’t want to hear it, okay? Just-“
You peek with one eye when the footsteps stop, bailing on your sentence when you see The Mountain filling the doorway with his massive frame.
“Oh,” You sit up slowly, knees folding in front of you, resting your head on the bathroom wall. You close your eyes again with a soft wince, “Thought you were Price.”
“They, äh,” You noticeably flinch at the sound of his voice, enough to snap your eyes open with a shake of your head. You’d never heard him speak before. It was intense - grating almost. Not like Ruby’s voice. His was deeper, harsher, as if he was forcing each word with a hiss through a filter of crunching gravel, “Wanted me to tell you that dessert was being served.”
He rubs the back of his neck, eyes looking to the ceiling to avoid your stare.
You appreciate the gesture - partially because you didn’t need your opponent to see you even more pathetic than he already has - tears and snot staining puffy cheeks, curled up in a ball next to a vomit-stained toilet. Mostly because the thought of a rich Capitol dessert makes you gag, and you’d rather he didn’t watch as your limbs scramble for the toilet before making another splash in the water. It’s followed by desperate spitting in an attempt to remove the bitter taste from your mouth, and when you pull away to sit on your knees, you’re relieved to see the doorway empty.
You return to leaning against the bathroom wall, taking deep, exhausted breaths as you wish away the nausea.
The footsteps near again, and you pull a face at the second disruption. You don’t look, but you can hear the footsteps approach, pause, and then peter out again. You raise an eyebrow at the lack of mocking, opening your eyes to find only a glass of water sitting on the marble countertop.
“Hey,” You call out with a slight slur, rubbing your brow unsurely. You continue when you hear the footsteps stop in acknowledgment, a plead layering words exclaimed to the next room, “Don’t tell Price?”
You didn’t want him to know your spite-chugging had blown up in (out of?) your face. You’d already embarrassed yourself in front of The Mountain, you didn’t need to ruin whatever scrap of dignity Price might hold for you.
“I won’t,” The harsh voice echoes back.
You don’t form words, but you do hum him a single note in the tune of ‘thank you’ before he leaves you be.
You’re not sure how long you rest on the ground, soothed by the cool tile. When you regain your strength, you stand on wobbly legs, and help yourself to a pure white towel embroidered with gold thread stitched intricate patterns. You wipe your face before cleaning off the toilet to the best of your ability, ultimately deciding that whoever was responsible for cleaning the toilets most likely did not have any influence on the decision to send you to your death.
The Mountain’s offering of water was a saving grace. You give a thorough rinse of your mouth, stripping the repulsive taste from your tongue before making your way back to the dining car.
“Welcome back,” Price says dryly upon your return.
You give a light grunt in response, still embarrassed about failing to hold your liquor. You’re hoping he was oblivious to your defeat.
“Would you like to see your rooms?” Ruby asks with her posh Capitol accent, ending her question with a high pitch.
Ruby shows you to your rooms, each of you having your own private quarters.
“Help yourself! Anything in here is yours for the taking. If you need anything, just ring the bell and someone will be at your service,” She gives a bright white smile, “Goodnight you two!”
Ruby’s shoes clack obnoxiously as she walks off, one of her arms folded, holding her hand near her head with a folded palm.
You and The Mountain share another glance, a raise of an eyebrow at Ruby’s incongruous mannerisms.
Maybe you could blame it on the whiskey - but his presence, while intimidating at first, is starting to grow on you. As selfish as it is, you’re relieved you weren’t alone in this. Someone to check-in with, someone who was just as lost as you, just as unsure, and just as knee-deep in the same abysmal circumstances.
He served as a reminder of home, too. Maybe not incredibly familiar, but he was a pleasant contrast from the Capitol way of life, even in his nice reaping day clothes. A piece of District Nine to be at your side, at least until you get to the arena.
You don’t last long once you’re back in your room. You brush the awful taste from your mouth, have a warm soak in the shower in your private bathroom, enjoy the scents of fancy soaps. Once dried and underwear replaced, you crawl into the lush bed, only minutes passed before you’re drifting off.
———————————————————-
It’s the growl of your hollow stomach that wakes you. A cramp that tightens in your lower half, aching for food. It’s accompanied by a mild headache, a punishment for your dehydration and irresponsible drinking. The hangover had you feeling dirty, even though the shower’s water pressure and fancy soaps and scrubs had you cleaner than ever before. You groan at your abdominal muscles, sore from the arduous task of vomiting.
After a half-hearted attempt to pull yourself together, you meander to the dining car, hoping for food. The smell hits you as soon as you step through the automatic doors, eyes lulling and mouth watering at the inviting aroma of a generous breakfast spread.
Ruby and The Mountain are already sitting at the table, halfway through their meals.
“Good morning!” Ruby says in a pitch that makes your headache throb. You don’t let it show, “Sleep well?” She asks.
You hum at her in response, polite but reserved. Avoiding her gaze, you eye up the dishes spread on the table as you take your seat. Bacon, sausage, and ham spread neatly on a tray. Eggs, seasoned potatoes, ripe and brilliant fruits. Bagels, muffins, and toast paired with an assortment of jams. Never had you had so many choices for breakfast.
When you bump into The Mountain’s knee this time, you cross your leg over the other, giving him the space he needed. Maybe it’ll make up for the disgusting display you subjected him to last night. You avoid his gaze too, now inhibited without the confidence the booze gifted you.
You don’t hesitate to load your plate, rolling your eyes in satisfaction as you take your first bite. While you chew you pour yourself orange juice, following your swallow with half the glass to satisfy your overwhelming thirst.
“Today’s going to be very exciting,” Ruby starts with her cheery tone, “We’ll be arriving at the Capitol!”
You keep your attention to your plate, secretly wishing she’d give you time to wake up, time to pretend that what was happening wasn’t happening. You wonder if Price would have staved her off if he was here.
“The opening ceremony is tonight!” She practically squeals. Her hand goes limp on her wrist as she leans forward in her chair, dropping her voice as if she’s sharing a scandalous secret, “So, when we get there, you’ll both head straight to your stylists. They’ll prep you and make sure you both look perfect for the audience.”
You can feel the intimidating, half-lidded stare coming from the direction of The Mountain. You resist the urge to meet his gaze, the shame making it difficult to meet his eyes. You tilt your chin down to rid him from your peripheral in an attempt to focus on breakfast instead of the stylists, the ceremony, or The Mountain.
He was a reminder of home, a reminder that you were not alone in this nightmare, but he was also a reminder of the nightmare you were both trapped in. You wanted to at least have a belly full of food before you dug into reality.
“Coffee?” Ruby asks after she’s finished topping off her mug.
Coffee was another luxury you wouldn’t have been able to afford in your district. You flick between her gaze and the pot before you find a matching mug in front of The Mountain’s plate.
“Sure,” You mumble, careful not to brush your fingers against the heated glass while you take the coffee from her. You fill the empty mug next to your assigned dish, and warm your fingers around the mug. Your hesitant sip leads to a wince at the bitter taste.
Apparently having watched your reaction, The Mountain wordlessly slides a ceramic jar and matching pourer filled with sugar and cream respectively into your reach. He looks to Ruby, who gives him a proud nod, as if he correctly implemented something she had taught him.
You don’t say anything, don’t meet his gaze even when he pulls away his hands.
After a moment of hesitance you do take his suggestion, and find he’s right. With the sweetening of sugar and mixed with chilled cream it is much better, tasting more like a dessert than a drink you’d have with breakfast.
Keeping your mouth rinsed from vomit, bettering your coffee.
After you’ve downed your first sip, you have the thought that he might be trying to get you to ingest something. Maybe the hangover was not the only thing to blame for feeling lousy this morning. A poison, or even just something to make you sick before you get to the arena, mixed into the water and the cream.
You set the mug down on its saucer like you were handling an explosive.
While The Mountain is busy clearing his plate, you survey him. His eyes are still half-lidded and unreadable, body relaxed casually.
Maybe too casually.
“Morning,” Price says on his entrance, stealing your attention.
“You’re late,” Ruby says strictly.
“You’re loud,” Price cuts back, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.
You raise a brow.
At the very least, watching Price and Ruby bicker was entertaining. Something to distract you from your imminent death, drawing closer with each minute that ticks by.
Ruby’s face pinches, but she doesn’t respond, “We were talking about the opening ceremony tonight.”
Price grunts, loading a scoop of potatoes onto his plate with a large silver serving spoon.
“This will be the first time you get to show off to your sponsors so make sure you make a good impression!”
You and The Mountain have paused eating to give your stomachs a chance to stretch around your appetite. The sound of Price clinking dishware fills the silences in between Ruby’s excited words.
“Big smiles, head high, don’t forget to wave! Remember - you’re proud to be apart of such an important part of history!”
You slam your glass of orange juice down onto the table, the juice sloshing up the side of the crystal and launching droplets from the glass that splatter on the tablecloth. You command the table’s attention, but only meet Ruby’s eyes with a pointed, icy glare.
She looks back at you in bewilderment, as if you’ve not been provoked into your outburst. You don’t have words for her, just a stare full of daggers and flared nostrils. You’re not in the mood to play nice this morning.
“Well, you certainly have a lot to work on between now and the ceremony,” She says, taking a sip of her coffee as she holds her saucer underneath.
You roll your eyes, roughly smearing a glob of jam over a piece of toast. In your irritation you forget you didn’t want to acknowledge The Mountain yet, shooting him an annoyed glance. His brows lower, almost like he’s apologizing on her behalf.
You find it even more annoying that he’s not as bothered by the implication that the two of you should be proud you were chosen to be slaughtered. You look back down to your plate, tearing off a corner of your toast, too busy mulling over Ruby’s words to enjoy the sweet taste of jam coating your tongue.
A full stomach helps dull the rage and eases your hangover.
“She’s right, you know,” Price says, low and toward his meal after a long silence.
“That it’s an honor to be such an important part of history?” You ask, voice sharp with malice.
“No,” He starts, and Ruby’s mouth cocks back, “That you need to make a good impression on the sponsors.”
He slides a piece of ham off his fork, not bothering to swallow as he continues, “Play their game. Wear the corny costumes, be a beacon of positivity, act honored to be there.”
“Whatever,” You say, bumping your knee against The Mountain’s leg when you slide out of your chair to stand. You drop your cloth napkin over your plate, exiting the car without so much as a goodbye.
Back in your room, your pointed frustration boils down to reveal nothing but a heavy ache in your chest. An exhausted sob leaves you when you flop down on your bed, finally giving yourself the space to cry, to let out all of the overwhelming emotions you’ve been trying to heed off. The tears flow mercilessly, the droplets rolling off your nose before staining the silken sheets a shade darker. You don’t even try to stifle your cries, too occupied thinking about home, about your loved ones, about how you’ve only a few days left to live - and you can’t even live them how you want too. Forced to be a puppet to the Capitol, dolled up and pretending like you’re not the lowest you’ve even been, just to give them a good show. A desperate bid to have some rich schmuck buy you the difference between life and death in that arena.
When you awake for the second time, your eyes are puffy, mouth dry, and there’s a hearty knock flooding your room that only exacerbates the dehydration headache nestled just behind your eyebrows.
Ruby’s calling in a sing-song voice through the door, “We’re here!”
You give a small whine into the sheets, lifting your head to find your temples pulse with movement.
You rub your red eyes with a loose fist and stand to make a last minute attempt to look presentable. Walking around like you’ve just woken from a nap you cried yourself into surely doesn’t say, ‘I’m proud to be such an important part of history,’ does it?
You do what you can, fixing your hair and brushing your teeth, but there’s nothing you can do to hide puffy cheeks and swollen eyelids.
When you open the door, you flinch when you see The Mountain, not expecting to see his daunting figure standing in the hallway between your doors.
His eye twitches when he sees your swollen face, a stare you had to tilt your head back to meet.
You let out a long exhale as you regain composure, one hand slowly returning from your instinctual brace to the doorknob.
You give him a raise of a brow in question at his lingering presence while you creep the door shut.
For a moment those hooded eyes widen, his hands pulling up to the space in front of his chest. He fumbles the start of his sentence, looking to the floor before he spits it out.
“I thought we should go together.”
You give him a small, slow nod, not sure what to make of it.
Your first thought is that he wanted a look at you, to see if his poisoning had any worthwhile effect.
You’re surprised he’s doing it by letting his nerves show, being so open about leaning on you. You didn’t think he would allow himself to be vulnerable in front of an opponent - he’s been nothing but unreadable so far.
Maybe he’s comfortable letting his guard down after he saw you such a mess yesterday, not worried about showing weakness to someone who’s more than truly pathetic.
Maybe he’s relieved to have someone just as lost and just as unsure at his side, too. His fidgeting hands drop to his side as you walk past him, his heavy boots following in your wake.
Maybe he’s just trying to lure you in so that you’ll be an easy kill in the arena. Trick you into thinking he’s not a threat so that the knife impales smoothly through your back.
You lead him to the car with the velvet benches, where Ruby and Price sit. Your attention is immediately pulled to the windows, a perfect view of the twinkling Capitol approaching in the distance. A massive city with skyscrapers and lights that dot the sky like stars. An infrastructure unlike anything you’ve ever seen, thousands of vehicles flooding the grid-like streets - streets made of concrete, not of dirt.
As you near closer to the city, train beginning its smooth stop, you can see crowds of Capitol citizens flooding the space near the tracks.
“What are they doing?’ You can’t help but ask, face warped in confusion.
“They want an early glimpse at the tributes!” Ruby answers enthusiastically.
“They’re here for us?” You ask, a mixture of genuine confusion and patronization in your voice. They’re cheering, open mouth smiles, jumping up and down, waving handkerchiefs at the sight of you and The Mountain through the window.
You both stare dumbfounded at them, soaking in the rainbow of bright and busy outfits. They all looked like they were dressed up in costumes, dawning puffy gowns, huge wigs, and dramatic makeup. They’re gone in an instant as you pull into the train station.
The four of you are ushered quickly into the remake center, where you share one more panicked look with The Mountain before you’re lead down different halls.
——————
In the remake center, there is no stone left unturned. You are roughly scrubbed, plucked, and slathered in a hundred different creams and elixirs. Teeth whitened, nails picked clean of dirt, filed down and oiled. Hair washed, combed, and styled.
You can’t help but feel violated, all of these hands on you, transforming you against your will. In an attempt to soothe yourself you close your eyes, trying to take yourself somewhere you’re not. It’s difficult to do so when every few seconds there’s a rip of a hair from its follicle, a yank on your scalp, or the gritty scrape of a hard sponge along your skin.
Your thoughts drift to The Mountain.
You wonder if he’s having a similar experience, or if his prep team is taking it easier on him. Will they wax him? Or let him keep his body hair since he’s a boy? Are his nails getting filed? Is he being scrubbed head to toe with a rock that feels like it’s made of sandpaper?
Without his presence and to your dismay, you find yourself even more anxious without him by your side. You wish you could share another unsure glance with him, to remind yourself that you’re not alone in this.
Not yet anyway.
Once the prep team has measured every curve and inch of your much too exposed body, they decide you’re ready and haul you off to your stylist.
Your stylist is a tall, thin woman named Mauve that doesn’t seem to be too interested in you at all. She refuses to meet your eyes, attention glued to a tablet supported by her stomach and resting on her forearm. Her free arm pokes at the screen.
She lets out a sigh, and then speaks, not to you, but to the room, “District Nine. Grain. What am I supposed to do with that?”
It’s tradition for the opening ceremony outfits to reflect the main industry of the districts. In previous years, the District Nine tributes were usually dressed as farmers. Not particularly remarkable or fashionable.
“Farmers?” You ask.
She sighs again, this one drawn out, and then exits the room.
You are left in this room for hours, alone with your own thoughts. Your fingers tap on the bench you’re perched on, legs swaying anxiously a foot off the ground.
When Mauve returns, you have already managed to dive headfirst into a full spiral, nothing in the room to distract you from the impending games, and more pressingly, being put on display for thousands of Capitol citizens as if you’re cattle to be auctioned off.
She’s got a long, flowing beige dress in her hands. It’s covered in wheat, stems and wheat flowers arranged in intricate patterns along the upper half of the dress, swirling on the bust. The lower half of the dress is made up of what must be a thousand oversized wheat heads that fan out at the hem, giving the impression of feathers weightlessly bouncing at the bottom of the skirt. She fashions a matching crown on your head and pins it in place in a way that puts an unpleasant pull on your scalp.
In terms of opening ceremony costumes, it’s actually not the worst. It’s not particularly flashy or remarkable, but it’s certainly an improvement from overalls and straw hats.
“It’s pretty,” You say, running your fingers over the fabric.
“It’s the best I could do,” She scoffs again, “Grain. What a joke.”
If only the dress was as comfortable as it was pretty. You might as well be wearing a bale of hay, scratchy and poking you with each movement you make. You find yourself holding your arms up to avoid the prick of fake wheat on your inner bicep.
The shoes are the worst part. A beige high heel that squeezes your feet too tight and digs into the back of your ankles. You hope you won’t have to deal with fresh blisters in the arena.
She does your nails, a matching beige with a dotted design that give the appearance of wheat florettes. It lends your nails a glossy, bumpy texture that’s quite pleasant to run your fingers over.
Mauve applies your makeup in silence. After sitting in isolation for the last few hours, you’re happy to have her painting and poking your face, now able to focus on the smooth swipes of a brush or the smear of a heavy cream instead of… everything else.
When you look at yourself in the mirror, your breath is stolen, a gaped mouth and sprung eyes looking back at you.
You don’t look like yourself at all. The girl standing in front of you is a stranger. You’ve been completely rid of the evidence of your life in District Nine. You might as well be a Capitol citizen with your glowing skin, outlandish outfit, and hair silkier and fluffier than ever.
Mauve went heavy on the make-up, the flesh of your face already begging for the touch of fresh air, but you can’t help but admire the artistic nature of your eye shadow. A simple, classy even, light beige on your eyelids that transitions to a creamy rich brown on your eye sockets. The highs of your face shine with a radiant golden shimmer, the lows darkened to give your features a more striking appearance.
“Wow,” You say breathlessly, at a complete loss for words.
Mauve checks her nails, looking bored. She takes her time before she gives you one more gloss over and leaves without a word.
This time, instead of mulling over the games, the ceremony - you stare at yourself, mesmerized by your own appearance. You’re particularly interested in the way the wheat flowers on your hem dance and flutter when you sway.
You’re relieved to see Ruby when she comes to retrieve you with Mauve. You’re eased by her familiar face, even if she has a tendency to be incredibly ignorant.
“Oh!” She gasps, “Don’t you just look just marvelous!”
“Thank you, Ruby,” You say, genuinely appreciative of her compliment.
You have to cling to Ruby’s folded arm, making slow, shaky steps as you get accustomed to the shoes.
When you meet up with Price and The Mountain down in the stables, it confuses you when another wave of relief hits at his presence. You were relieved to see Ruby, but you actually let out an audible sigh at the sight of The Mountain.
You lock eyes almost immediately, and you find yourself smiling at him. Actually smiling, you think for the first time since Reaping Day. You catch yourself quickly, stifling your expression with a fold of your lips as you look him up and down. The only thing that makes you feel better about your readable emotions is watching him dull his smile, too.
He’s wearing a matching beige suit, but his are not covered in wheat flowers. Instead he is accented with them, the florettes blooming along his tie, the seams of his suit, his jacket pocket. There’s a bundle of long stems fastened between his shoulder blades, giving him a collar made of florettes around the back of his neck. It resembles peacock feathers, the wheat blossoms fanned and fluttering behind him with the slightest movements, much like the skirt of your dress. A crown similar to yours is fashioned to his head, but his is thicker, less daintier than yours.
“Well, don’t you two just look good enough to mill and grind,” Price says.
“How long did it take you to come up with that one?” You say, arms still raised awkwardly to avoid the stab of wheat stems.
Price just huffs, looking away. You follow his gaze, and your face immediately sinks in dread. This is the first time you’ve seen the other tributes, and even just standing in the same open room as them is enough to intimidate you. If it were not for the painted-on skin of your makeup, you’re sure everyone would be able to see the color drain from your face.
Price must have noticed, because he snaps his fingers with a quiet whistle to catch your attention. He points to the floor in between the group’s four pairs of shoes, wordlessly ordering you to focus on the task at hand.
You give him a weak nod, eyes still filled with unease. Any other time you would have been miffed by the disrespectful gesture, one that reminds you of how one would treat a dog that has a habit of running too far from his owner, but you understand Price has your best interests in mind. You’re thankful, even, that he is there to ground you, to keep the fear from bubbling up and boiling over.
Ruby unintentionally helps distract you with her last minute coaching. She gives a light but firm smack to your upper arm, “Don’t hold your arms up like that! You look like a chicken.”
“It’s itchy,” You object.
“Good! All the more incentive to wave at the crowd. Remember - happy faces, chin high, big smiles!”
After a light roll of your eyes, you feel the burn of The Mountain’s stare again. When you look to him, he flicks his gaze to his dress shoes.
You’re surprised by how much it stings.
Maybe you were already becoming too dependent on him. This will only be a weakness in the arena. You cannot afford to get accustomed to his presence, to lean on him for support, because it will soon be ripped away from you. You may be in this together now, but the moment that gong sounds in the arena all bets are off.
You swallow hard, mouth suddenly dry.
Shortly after they load you and The Mountain into a chariot rigged to two unattended, tan-colored horses. Ruby offers her hand for support as you pull yourself into the chariot.
Standing next to The Mountain this closely, you can’t help but soak in how he dwarfs you. How the several extra feet and limbs like tree trunks remind you of just how puny and weak you are.
You don’t want to think about The Mountain anymore. About his unmatched size, unquestionable strength, mutual reassurance. About his stupid matching suit and collar of wheat flowers that compliments the flecks of gold in his eyes.
You pinch off your vision and let out a long breath through your nose. When you open them, your attention is immediately taken by the tributes in their chariots in front of you.
The boy and girl from District Eight stand as far apart from each other as the chariot allows. They’re dressed in colorful, busy outfits made of weaved ribbons with contrasting designs. Textiles is their district industry, you think. The girl is tall, but has a thin build and little muscle. The boy is average in stature, but you can tell he’s lean. You can’t help but imagine how you’d fare against a fight with each of them. The girl you might stand a sliver of a chance against, the boy not so much.
Through the gap inbetween them, you can see District Seven’s tributes, chatting with each other. They’re actually smiling, going on like they’re not about to be paraded in front of thousands of people in a debut for their deaths. Lumber, you think. Your guess is confirmed by a look at their arms, toned and muscled by years of swinging an axe. You wouldn’t stand a chance against either of them.
The large metal doors open with a grind, and you can hear them - the Capitol citizens screaming in an anticipation. A thunderous roar made from thousands of whooping cheers and clapping hands. It’s loud enough to vibrate the floor of the chariot. Your heart skips when the music blares over the speakers and the first chariot pulls out. The crowd triples in volume at the sight of District One, in their outfits that reflect like the sun and will surely leave a lasting impression on the sponsors.
You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until it’s too late, having to take several deep, shaky breaths through your mouth. Your pulse has made its way to your ears, sweat working its way through layers of thick make-up. The dress is not helping, its pricks and jabs a constant reminder of its presence. It seems tighter, somehow, as the cut of the waistband digs into your ribs and constricts the air from your lungs. You’re hyperventilating, squeezing heels clicking anxiously under the shuffle of your weight on each foot.
You desperately fight the urge to look to your left, to share this moment of stomach-churning apprehension with The Mountain. The only way you manage this feat is by pinching your eyes shut.
You’ve think you managed to cut off the support The Mountain has been providing you so far, until the chariot lurches forward and rips the floor from your feet. With a gasp your eyes open, hands instinctively shooting out to steady your balance, already hindered by lifted shoes you’re not accustomed to.
Once steady on the floor that slipped from underneath you, you give something of a nervous laugh before you realize one hand is gripping the front of the chariot, and the other is firmly wrapped around The Mountain’s forearm. He has already braced in the space around you, primed to catch you if you fall.
Great, now you’re literally leaning on him for support.
You jerk your hands back to your sides as if you’d touched a blazing oven. Wheat stems stab into your inner arm as you meet the gaze you have been trying to avoid. You mumble out a sheepish apology to him, but he surely can’t hear it over the boom of the crowd, his hands retracting slowly to his sides.
You force your focus back to Ruby’s instructions, lifting your chin and plastering a big, toothy smile on your face. It feels too forced but you hope it doesn’t show. Your arms spring to wave quickly, having already being overextended to avoid the scratch of fake grain.
Once you catch sight of the packed stands, you black out. Your hands are still moving to follow orders, feet still planted unsteadily in your spot, but your nerves have pried your very soul from your core and dropped it right through the chariot and floor, sending it to a black void.
You return to your body and mind during the Capitol anthem, the muscles in your face burning from your forced, clenched teeth smile. You’d completely missed the president’s speech.
It’s not until all of the chariots have been lead to the training center when you realize that your arm is folded at the elbow to meet a hand that sits much higher than yours.
Your fingers are intertwined with The Mountain’s, squeezing him with a grip strong enough to choke the life from a man.
————————————————————
It’s all you can think about - the hand holding. You wish you could remember who initiated it.
The worst part was the look on his face when you had jerked your sweaty palms back to your side. He looked as if you had just spit in his face and accused him of violating you. The rejection that spread across his features gave you a pang in your chest that still lingers with a heavy weight on your heart.
You wish you hadn’t pulled away like that. It was so fast, though, the jarring realization that you had been relying on him to ground you - once again.
As you look to your glossy, too-tight shoes, the only thing you can see is his horrified expression flashing in front of your eyes.
Suddenly you’re brought back to the first encounter you had with him, that day in District Nine. A nauseating heat of shame and regret washes over you.
On the elevator ride to your district’s assigned suite, you try to give him a look through the wheat collar that partially obscures his face. One that would hopefully convey an apology, but his gaze is fixated on the bottom of the elevator doors. His brows are sloped, the space between his eyebrows scrunched, and he’s gnawing slightly at his lower lip.
When the elevator doors part, you suck in with sharp inhale.
Ruby gives an excited squeal, “Isn’t it so exquisite!”
Her voice takes on an air of superiority, “I bet you’ve never seen anything like this back in District Nine.”
You’re too distracted to be annoyed with her, proving her point by taking in the room with open mouth awe.
The ceilings must be fourty feet high, large beautifully crafted marble columns stretching from floor to ceiling. The furniture here puts the furniture on the train to shame.
It is a disgusting display of extravagance.
Ruby gives you a tour that ends at your quarters, where she instructs you both to get changed and unwind until dinner in an hour.
You’re happy to follow her instructions, eager to get out of the wheat dress. Your door has barely closed when you kick your shoes off hard enough for them to fling into the frame of the massive bed with a thud. The dress peels off and you’re quick to shower, eager to rinse the stuffy layers of makeup off your face.
It takes you too long to figure out how the closet works. There are so many fancy appliances in this room, and the closet is controlled by a screen that you have to select your outfit on. You figure it out, finally, and an outfit whizzes out from behind a curved, frosted glass panel. You grab the clothes as if the glass was about snap back into place and take your arm with it.
You don’t trust this closet.
For the first time since the morning of the Reaping, you are able to dress in clothes that remind you of home - that remind you of you. You’d opted for something on the more comfortable side, desperate for a breathable, light outfit after that uncomfortable dress.
At dinner, you find yourself thankful for Ruby’s chatter. The energy was definitely off, the air just as stale and constricting as the dress. She filled the silences you would surely choke on if it were just you, Price, and The Mountain.
“Oh, you two did better than I could have hoped! And those outfits,” she gasps for emphasis, “Well, I have to say it’s the best thing that’s come from your district in a long time. I wouldn’t be surprised if you both have sponsors already lining up!”
You know she’s just humoring you. Many of the other districts blew your outfits of the water. Yours were average, at best. Somehow it seems even worse than the awful outfits, which are at the very least rememberable.
“And your waving? Perfect!”
“The hand holding was,” Price pauses, as if chewing on his thoughts while he actually chews his food, “Interesting.”
There’s a harsh scrape of dishware followed by a stark silence as you and The Mountain come to a grinding halt. You don’t dare look up from your plate, but your peripheral reveals Price’s sly, half-lidded stare that pierces through your flesh and draws heat to your cheeks. His smirk is unmistakable.
Ruby - oh Ruby, you are so sorry for brushing her off before. She rescues you from the most painful three seconds of your life with her optimistic Capitol accent.
“It was perfect! It will surely play with the audience, and if they think you two may be in the works of forming an alliance in the arena, the sponsors will see that as an advantage!”
An alliance?
You hadn’t considered that before.
The Mountain doesn’t need an ally. Especially not one so useless and will offer little help in the arena. You had no doubt that you would only hold him back.
You don’t look at him. You want to look at him. You so badly want to see what he thinks of Ruby’s implied proposal. If it’s his turn to reject you, to wear a realized scowl at the very thought.
Maybe his eyebrows would be raised in interest. A glint of consideration in his eyes at an idea he hadn’t given thought to before.
No.
Surely he would not want you as a partner in a fight to the death. He will have his pick of the litter when it comes to allies, and you will be nothing but dead weight.
The rest of the meal goes as smoothly as you could hope. Ruby rambles on, you keep your gaze to your meal. Once plates are cleared and drinks are emptied, Price leads you to the sitting area where he strongholds you and The Mountain to share a couch so comfortable and soft you could melt into it.
“Alright,” Price says with a push in his voice, “I’ve let you two wallow long enough. Let’s get down to it.”
Your eyes flick to the floor, hand stroking the soothing fabric of the upholstered sofa. You didn’t want to think about the games, but Price had given you plenty of time to digest your circumstances. He didn’t deserve the attitude you instinctively wanted to give him. He’s just as much a victim to these games as you and The Mountain are.
Price lets out a grunt that suggests his bones were fighting his squat to his chair.
With your head still angled to the floor, hair curtaining your view, you can see Price mashing buttons on the remote.
It’s the replay of the reapings.
The careers are nothing short of cruel. Throwing themselves onto the stage to volunteer. All of the tributes from District One and Two are fit and muscular, wearing expressions that leak brutality and a disturbing amount of excitement.
By District Three’s contestants you’re already queasy, and can hardly focus on anything as your vision blurs. It’s like you’re already in the arena, imagining all the different ways the careers will end your life. The boy from District Two, Titan, who has canines that come to a point so sharp it makes his smile look twice as cruel, could easily knock you to the ground with one swing. The girl from District One, Sapphire, piercing you with weapons so sharp you can’t feel the punctures until it’s too late.
Without moving your head, you side-eye The Mountain, who the careers couldn’t hold a candle to. You can tell even over the television that he’s got them all beat in size, and surely strength if judged by pure muscle.
Maybe an alliance wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.
The other tributes are a blur. You tune back in around District Seven. The District Seven tributes expressions do not match the ones you saw on the chariot. They look much more solemn as they climb onto the stage, staring hollowly out into the crowd.
Next is eight, the tributes that had stood miles apart in their chariot.
To your surprise, the boy had volunteered.
He doesn’t look particularly equipped to fight, but there’s a look in his eyes you catch for a moment, a look of pure rage so powerful it radiates through the screen.
“Look out for this one,” Price says, “Something ain’t right with that boy.”
You quirk a brow, but you can’t help but agree. Even through the screen he’s tying your guts into a knot. The feeling is accompanied by an almost primal urge to run.
And then there’s you.
Frozen in shock, hauled up to the stage by peacekeepers. You look as weak and pathetic as you’d suspected. Clearly distraught, pale in the face, knees shaking. You know it’s bad when you feel Price’s pitied gaze out of the corner of your eyes, looking at you like a wounded fawn.
Surely the other tributes will see you as easy pickings.
And then you learn his name.
Konig.
The Mountain’s name is Konig.
When the camera’s find him in the crowd, there’s a brief moment of fear. That look of uncertainty welling over in his eyes before he wipes his expression clean and makes his way to stage.
Konig’s hand had waited outstretched for yours for an uncomfortable amount of time while you were staring blankly into the crowd.
It takes a lot for you not to look at him the moment your hands meet on screen.
You want to apologize for ripping away from him on the chariot so harshly.
The rest of the tributes aren’t particularly memorable. You’re too distracted and have already decided you had absolutely no chance of winning. Doesn’t matter who shows up on that screen, you are going to be slaughtered regardless. You didn’t think making note of the tributes would be particularly relevant.
You tune back in as you watch the replay of the opening ceremony. Ruby joins for this, letting out an excited squeal as she plops herself into an empty chair.
She makes commentary on the outfits, clearly downplaying the better costumes, and insulting the particularly worse ones for you and Konig’s benefit.
“There’s my tributes!” She announces proudly as you and Konig ride into frame.
He really does tower over you.
The camera has to take a wider angle than they did with the other chariots just to get you both into frame. Your smile is clearly forced, the corners of your lips barely perked up as you display your teeth unnervingly. Your eyes show your true emotions and your brows slope in worry.
There’s no mistaking your fear. You’re still waving to the crowd but you know that your soul was miles away in that moment.
Konig’s wheat collar flutters as he waves. He’s much more reserved, keeping his hand close to his body.
The camera zooms out so there’s four chariots in the frame, and the horses trot a few more yards. Still, you can very clearly see your hand reach up and frantically nudge the same forearm that you gripped onto when you lost your balance. You’re practically hitting him, the back of your open hand thwapping him in quick succession in a desperate blind plea for his comfort.
You watch as Konig, without even looking at you, slides his forearm back so that he can take your hand in his. For a moment he even lowers his waving hand so he could lay it on top of yours in a reassuring fashion.
Your fingers move to your temple in a futile attempt to rub out the sick feeling swirling in your gut.
It makes your heart sink twice as low, knowing that you had initiated the hand handholding. Used him for comfort that he was in no way obligated to give you, just so that you could thank him by ripping away from him with disgust.
You have to look to the floor for the rest of the opening ceremony replay, only Ruby’s gushing to distract yourself from the guilt.
Price switches off the TV when the anthem begins to play, and shifts in his seat to face you both with a grunt.
“You have a decision to make. You want to be mentored separately or together?”
There’s a beat, and you resist the urge to look at Konig.
“We’d have more mentorship time if we trained together,” Konig says, quickly but quietly from behind you.
You hesitate before giving a small nod in agreement.
“Alright then. The next few days you kids will be doing group training. So,” He clears his throat, shifting in his spot, “What’d’ya got?”
Price looks at you both expectantly, raising his eyebrows when he’s met with silence. The remote swirls in his hand.
“Nothin’?”
You shrug at him.
“She can fight,” Konig quietly offers on your behalf.
So he does remember.
You whip your head around to him, pulling a face. Your voice comes off more defensive and pointed than you intend, “No I can’t!”
For a moment he shrinks into himself, his eyes flicking between each of yours before he leans forward to find Price.
“I’ve seen it,” He says with a nod.
Price quirks a brow at you, “That so?”
“It wasn’t even a fight!” You blurt out, “He didn’t even-“ You cut yourself off with a growl, face burning.
“He?” Price perks up.
“It doesn’t matter! Because it doesn’t count!”
You cross your arms over your chest, and Price gives something of an amused huff at your outburst.
“If you say so, Plucky.”
Your brows furrow at the nickname.
Price nods his head at Konig, “You?”
Konig gives him a shrug.
“Oh, you’re kidding, right?” You say with an eye roll, your open palm pointing at Konig, “I mean look at him!”
Konig flinches, but Price pushes forward, “Any experience with weapons?”
The room goes silent again.
Price lets out an exhausted sigh, “Not giving me much to work with, kids.”
He leans forward in his chair, hands knitted loosely together, “Tomorrow they’ll start group training. You’ll be with the other tributes,” a finger shoots up, “ Don’t let them intimidate you.”
You look to the floor.
“Ignore them. They don’t even exist.”
He continues, “Maximize every minute you have in there. I want you to focus on food first . Purifying water. Snares, fishing, edible bugs and plants, starting fires. Dedicate the entire day to learning how to feed yourself in that arena. You understand? Food first.”
He waits until you both give confirmation before he moves forward.
“First aid next. Learn how to wrap and care for a wound with what natures gives ya’. Got it?”
He waits for another nod.
“Shelter next. Figure out how to keep warm. Learn to tie a good knot, camouflage techniques.”
“Defense last. Get used to handling some weapons. Throw some knives, learn hand-to-hand combat.”
Price takes a swig of his drink, and he takes a minute to survey you both. One of his eyes narrows slightly at you. He points at Konig, before flicking his finger in your direction.
“I want you to keep an eye on her.”
Your face warps into a wicked scowl, “What’s that supposed to mean? I need a chaperone?”
“It means,” Price starts, stare boring into you, “I don’t want you getting into trouble.“
Your head shakes, “Wha- Trouble? What trouble?”
“Don’t push it, Plucky.”
You’re not sure if that was an answer to your question or a warning to not get on his bad side. You don’t shoot back, but your face clearly displays your displeasure.
“Alright,” Price pats his knee before standing, “Training’s at ten tomorrow. Be ready.”
He shakes his fingers at you once more before disappearing down the hall.
Your frustration wins out over guilt, and you shoot Konig an annoyed glare in disbelief. You were hoping for him to back you up, or at least be equally irritated, but he offers another apologetic stare.
“Well!” Ruby claps her hand together, “How productive. You two make sure to get to bed early and get a goodnight’s rest!”
Unfortunately Ruby does not hear your silent plea to not leave you alone with Konig, her shoes clicking obnoxiously as she leaves the sitting area.
Once she disappears down the hall, the room immediately goes silent, your own breath deafening you.
What did Price mean about you getting into trouble? Did he mean that the other tributes would pose too much of a threat? Does he think you’re too weak to handle yourself? Or did he hear Konig’s interjection and now thinks of you as someone who likes to pick fights?
Any way you slice it, it doesn’t sit right with you.
It’s impossible not to feel his presence.
Konig is frozen, he doesn’t even dare fidget in his spot, staring forward with slightly widened eyes. You can tell he’s afraid of setting you off, as if the slightest movement would provoke you.
This irritates you even more, like he was proving Price’s point about you being trouble.
“What?” You ask with a sneer.
He fumbles for his words, looking terrified of your questioning.
“Ich - äh, ” He clears his throat, his voice a mumble, “I’m sorry. About Price.”
This is an effective technique on his part, because it successfully redirects your anger.
“It’s demeaning!” You exclaim, “Do you not feel that way - forced to play babysitter?”
“I don’t mind,” He blurts out, and then he stops to choose his next words very carefully, “Maybe we could help each other with training.”
You huff.
When you speak again, your voice has relaxed, confused over defensive, “I don’t understand why he said that.”
There’s a pause, and then one corner of his lip perks up, his tone dawning a playful hum.
“Didn’t you hear?” He says, “You’ll find trouble.”
You roll your eyes and blow air out your nose, but the ghost of a smile does creep onto your face.
“Not sure if I’m the trouble or if the trouble is waiting for me in the training center.”
“Probably a little of both,” He says, still wearing a remnant of a sly smile. His body has visibly untensed, posture a bit slouched and fingers returning to their soothing fidget.
Konig actually made you feel better.
Again.
“Hey, um,” You trail off for a moment, avoiding his gaze, “Thank you. For keeping me steady today.”
After a pause you awkwardly add, “On the chariot,” just in case he’s not sure what you’re referencing.
He shifts against the back of the sofa.
“Ach, äh,” He clears his throat again, “Of course.”
There. Now you can be relieved of your guilt for yanking away from him and looking at him in disgust.
“Sorry if I-“ he starts quietly.
“No,” you cut him off, “You didn’t do anything wrong. All those people, the noise, it just- it freaked me out.”
You omit the real reason you pulled away.
“Me too,” He says, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people at once, especially not with them all looking right at me.”
Another air of silence falls over you both. This air is less stale, easier to breathe. You’re feeling much better now that you’ve apologized for being so harsh about the handholding.
It is frustrating, though, how you find yourself leaning on him time and time again. Even now, you’re letting him make you feel better about the implications of Price’s request. About your own guilt of being harsh with him about the handholding.
You need to sever this tie, sooner rather than later. This is not a luxury you will be able to afford in the arena.
But you are so scared, and lost, and unsure, and angry about everything. Having Konig there, sharing in every emotion, his presence there to remind you that at the very least - you are not alone.
You don’t say it, but some part of you is actually relieved Price is making him your chaperone. Whatever the implication, it’s giving you an excuse to keep hanging around Konig, contrary to the brutal truth. You were not ready to let go of his reassurance, and you can’t shake the idea that the longer you lean in to him, the harder it will be to pull away.
As the cold world beckons for your attention, he is the warm blanket enveloping you, dangerously comfortable. His siren call pleads for you to stay wrapped up in him for just five more minutes. Ignore the cruel reality waiting for you. Forget about everything else. Slip back into the sweet embrace of sleep. With Price’s request that Konig keep an eye on you, he has just pulled that blanket to your neck, tucked you in, and gave you permission to put off the world just a little bit longer.
Does Konig even know what his presence is doing for you?
Does your presence do the same for him?
You don’t ask.
You both sit in silence, listening to the sound of chests rising and falling.
You can’t help but wonder if it’s all a ploy.
If Konig is purposefully drawing you in with the basis of his comfort. If this just another trick to make sure you end up on his kill list.
It is certainly possible, but the idea invokes such a gut-wrenching feeling you have to stifle it like an ember under your boot.
You take a deep breath, and the thought that’s waiting for you on the exhale is knowing you’ll have to see the tributes face-to-face for the first time. It ties your stomach in knots, heart pounding against your ribcage at the very thought.
“Are you nervous?” You ask under your breath.
“About tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” you say, absentmindedly swirling your fingernails across the fabric of the sofa.
He doesn’t say anything, but he gives a shaky nod.
“I don’t want to do it,” You admit at a whisper.
He nods again.
After a tense beat he says, “We’ll do it together.”
It terrifies you, knowing the other tributes will be there, watching you fail to accomplish skills they’ve been experts at for years. Sizing you up. Planning how they’re going to slaughter you in the arena.
But at least Konig will be by your side. You will go through it together, and maybe they will not be as focused on you with such a fierce competitor towering next to you.
“Thanks,” you say breathlessly.
“Of course,” His cadence matches yours.
Another cozy silence drapes over you both, sitting in each other’s company. You get lost in Konig’s fidgeting fingers, watching them mesmerizingly lace and unlace, swirling as the pads of his thumb runs over the side of his index finger.
When he notices you staring, he stops at once, setting his palms flat on the sofa.
You know you should try and get some rest, but there’s no way you’ll get sleep, and you don’t want to go to your room.
To be all by yourself.
“Have you gone out on the balcony?” You ask.
He looks to the crystal sliding doors off the dining area before finding your eyes, “Are we allowed to?”
You shrug, “They didn’t tell us not to.”
He looks at you with those unsure eyes.
“What are you afraid of?” You goad with a raise of a brow, “Afraid they’ll send you to your death?”
He’s clearly against the idea, but you can see he doesn’t have a defense. Flicking over your mischievous features with wide eyes and furrowed brows.
You grin as you stand from the couch, making a show of catching his stare as you slide the glass panel open, disappearing between the curtains that flutter now exposed to the wind.
The view is breathtaking.
You can see light pouring from windows in the neighboring skyscrapers. It reminds you of the night sky, stars dotting an industrial landscape. Shaky hands lay themselves on the guard rail, not daring to lean your weight on it as you peer down to the streets below.
You can hear them, the Capitol citizens, the honks of noisy cars and rowdy evening shouts below, their words lost to the unusually powerful wind. They look like ants from up here, walking the unnatural grid-like pattern of the streets.
The balcony is furnished, a huge wicker U-shaped couch with abstract patterned cushions. You nestle yourself into one of the corners, pulling your knees to your chest as you lean back into the cushion’s hold.
You hear Konig carefully sliding the glass door closed. He only makes it two steps into the air before he stops.
You watch him marvel at the sight, just as you did, but he doesn’t dare near the edge.
He silently sits on the other corner of the couch, both of you looking ahead at the twinkling lights of the opposing buildings, listening to the Capitol night life below.
You find yourself peering into windows, glimpses into the world of a Capitol citizen. Nothing is muted, elegant furnishings and big screens as people settle in for the evening.
It’s cold out here on the balcony, the muscles in your face stiffening at the harsh chill of high winds, but it’s welcome.
It’s grounding, refreshing even, something to keep you in the moment and out of the grueling whirlpool of your thoughts waiting to pull you under at any lull.
About fifteen minutes pass before Konig wordlessly slips back inside.
You thought he was turning in for the night, so you’re surprised when the glass doors part again, returning wearing a black jacket, another in his hand.
He leaves generous distance as he sets a jacket on the cushion next you.
“It’s from my closet,” He says, just loud enough to be heard over the wind, “Sorry if it’s too big.”
He carefully retracts his arm and nestles back into his spot.
You stare at his offering with squint eyes, examining it to figure out his motive.
You nod slow, hesitantly grabbing it and slipping your arms in.
You drowning in it. The sleeves hang well over your hands and the hem falls to your knees. You zip up and pull the hood up, having to position it on the crown of your head so the extra fabric doesn’t hang over your eyes.
It’s nice, the cozy warmth of the jacket to protect from the cold.
Unfortunately it’s also a reminder of how much bigger Konig is, how much stronger he is, how you would not fair well against him if the time comes in the arena.
You curl your legs in front of you and pull the jacket over your knees.
The steady white noise of the wind, the ambience of the city below, the night air, it has a soothing effect on you. You slink further and further into the couch, until you commit to laying on your side. Your socks worm their way into the crevice of the corner’s cushions as your body curls up on the middle of the couch. Your arm comes up to prop under your head, crown pointed in Konig’s direction.
You let the hood fall over your face, blocking out the wind and enjoying the sense of privacy it gives you.
You wake to the sound of Ruby yelling.
“How do you lose a pair of tributes?!”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Price shoots back.
You squint at the bright sun, raising your palm to block out harsh rays from sensitive eyes.
“Do you have any idea how much trouble we’ll be in if they don’t turn up?”
“They’ll turn up,” He says definitively.
Price gives a hum as if he thought on it a little more, a retraction of his statement, “Well, if she got a bug in her brain she could have convinced him.”
Your brow quirks at that. You rub the sleep from your eyes, turning your head towards the glass doors, shimmering in the sunlight.
Ruby lets out an exasperated inarticulate noise of disapproval.
Your attention is stolen, though, by Konig. He’s curled up on the patio sofa too, his head next to yours, a strong arm resting over his eyes. His long legs are stretched out on the other side of the couch, his top half sharing the same bench as you.
The glass door of the balcony slides open, and Ruby drops an arm dramatically.
“What are you two doing out here?!” She scolds frantically, “Were you out here all night?!”
You prop yourself up on your hands, a deep inhale of morning as you transition to wake.
Konig’s arm uncovers his eyes, raising his head and sitting up with stiff joints.
Price slips out to the patio, quirking his brow at the sight. He bites back a smug grin, and a scowl plasters on your face in response.
You look down and see yourself still wearing Konig’s jacket, and roll your eyes, averting your gaze when you’re finished. You’re hoping Price can’t see the faint glow that flushes your skin, because you know how this looks.
“It was freezing last night! And you don’t even have the heater on,” Ruby smacks her lips, “You two are going to catch a cold!”
“There’s a heater?” You ask, voice still low with sleep.
She squeaks out an annoyed noise as she gestures to a switch on the wall.
“It’s not going to be very fun participating in the games with a cold, you know!”
You stretch your arms and speak through a yawn, “I don’t think it’s going to be very fun participating in the games at all.”
She cocks her jaw and squints at you, “You’re late for training!” She turns to Price and adds with a swing of her arm, “Deal with them!”
She then stomps off, heels clicking as she disappears in the suite.
Price crosses his arms, standing straight and pushing out his chest as he inspects you both.
You and Konig don’t look up, staring at your laps as you soak in your scolding and mentally prepare for training.
Price lets out a heavy sigh before he speaks, “The stylists set out outfits for you both. Both of you - dressed and ready to go. You got five minutes.”
His voice is stern, and you can’t help but roll your eyes at his exertion of authority.
When Price steps inside, you and Konig share a look, and it’s clear you’re both anxious about today.
After a deep inhale in a failing attempt to steady yourself, you force an uninterested shrug.
It’s not convincing.
You avoiding Ruby or Price’s stare as you make your way back to your room to get changed. The outfit waiting for you consists of a pair of black athletic pants made of a silky, sweat-wicking material and a shirt to match. The shirt’s sleeves are generously trimmed and have the number ‘9’ stitched on the back.
You clean your teeth, fix your hair, and change before you meet Ruby and Konig, the latter dawning an identical outfit, by the elevators.
“Really, it’s just irresponsible!” She fumes with crossed arms as you wait for the elevator.
You would normally let out an amused huff, because it’s hard to take the Capitol accent seriously, but you’re too distracted by the churning in your stomach.
Konig seems genuinely regretful on the otherhand, clearly disappointed with himself for letting down Ruby.
“Sorry, Ruby,” He mumbles sheepishly, and her face relaxes, head tilting slightly.
She nods, pleased, and says softly but proudly, “That’s alright, dear. You both just had us worried.”
His apology seems to quell her, and she returns to her normal cheery self by the time you’re deposited by the elevator.
“Okay you two, make sure you follow Price’s instructions! Listen to the trainers and - Be. Good.”
Ruby smiles brightly before she saunters off.
You and Konig share a deep breath and an unsure glance before you enter the gymnasium, buried underground beneath the tower of district suites.
The trainer center is a massive gymnasium, uninviting concrete walls with training stations lining the room, each with their skill that contain anything from knot tying to sword fighting. Each station has an instructor, an expert in their craft, to teach the tributes last-minute survival skills. Obstacle courses fill the middle of the room, pull up bars, sparing rings, weightlifting.
On an open balcony high above you there’s a room of gamemakers, perched and observing like hawks in their nest. They’ll be watching you all train, and after an individual assessment you will be scored on a rating of one to twelve, the higher the score, the better the tribute’s potential.
With one look, you know you and Konig are the last ones to arrive. The entire room turns their attention to you as you both enter, and you have to stifle the urge to turn and run.
You don’t look up from your shoes as the head trainer gathers you all into a circle and gives the run down on the stations. She releases you all, and as the other tributes turn their backs you can’t help but size them up.
“What do you want to do first?” Konig asks.
You don’t answer, distracted by the career pack, quickly engaging the deadly weapons and handling them with ease.
You jump when Konig says your name.
“Huh? What?”
“What first?” He asks.
“Oh,” you do a quick scan of the room. “Edible plants?” You say with a slight crackle in your voice, mouth dry from nerves.
He nods, and you let him lead you to the station.
You follow Price’s instructions.
You pull your focus to the trainer, and try to ignore the ravenous grunts echoing from across the gymnasium as the careers skillfully drive weapons into dummies.
You also try to ignore how much taller Konig seems when you both stand right next to each other. He makes you feel like a child, having to crane your neck back to see his face.
Your thoughts are loud, stomach tossing, and limbs gelatinous. The fluorescent lights illuminating the gym are bright and harsh, the sounds of weapons tinging with each clash of metal makes your stomach turn, the overlapping voices of tributes and trainers are a grated ringing in your ears, and the observation by tributes and gamemakers that you will soon be at the mercy of - absolutely gut-wrenching.
It’s too much.
Your chest tightens and you give an involuntary gasp for air.
The trainer pauses her ongoing speech to quirk a brow at you, and Konig turns to look down at you.
“Oh-“ You give a nervous laugh that turns into a wheezing coughing fit, distorting your face as you try and choke it back.
You manage to wheeze out, “Excuse me,” before you rush off. You didn’t have a plan, but your brain was telling you to get away, to run and run far - away from prying, judgmental, predator eyes.
You duck behind the unused boxing ring, folding over once out of sight.
Your breathing is out of control, nearly hyperventilating as you slide against the ring and to the ground. You can feel the tears of anxiety welling at your eye line, the sore ache of a lump in your throat.
You don’t want to be here - you don’t want to do this!
You bury your face in your knees, trying to wish away the tears as you pray for the floor to swallow you whole. The last thing you need is for every last tribute to see you weak.
“Did you find trouble?”
You sit up with a flinch, shoulders relaxing when you find only Konig. He’s already seen you crying and unredeemably pathetic, so there’s not much concern for putting a show on for him.
“Because that was impressively fast,” He adds.
You give a scoff, and a hint of a smile breaks through.
You hate him for it.
“Yeah,” You say with heavy breath, a low vibration dragging your voice down. You use the inside of your wrist to wipe away any tears that threaten to spill.
He sits down next to you, letting his legs stretch out as he leans his back against the sparing ring. He lets out a sigh, his head lulling as he looks down his nose to a far wall in the gymnasium.
He doesn’t say anything more.
“You don’t have to wait for me,” You mumble at the floor, resting your chin on your knee.
“It’s okay,” He says.
A few minutes of silence pass before you speak again, your voice just a wisp.
“Do you ever just want to disappear?”
He answers without hesitation.
“All the time.”
Your eyes find the floor.
Once again, you find yourself benefiting from his comfort.
He waits, seemingly with patience, for you to get your bearings. He extends his hand in an offer to help you up, but you pretend you didn’t notice.
You spend the rest of the day moving from station to station, following Price’s instructions, listening intently to the expert’s instructions on survival.
You try to avoid making eye contact with Konig for the rest of the day. You want to prove to yourself that you can do this without his comfort. You keep the conversation strictly to the task at hand, and do your best to ignore the glares of the tributes and gamemakers from across the gym.
You hate to admit it, but having Konig by your side does make it easier. He seems to be a lightening rod for the attention of the other tributes. Even if a tribute wanted to look in your direction to get a scope on the girl from District Nine, it would be more than easy to get distracted by the behemoth standing next to her.
It’s hard to ignore the stares in your direction, but when you turn they’re usually fixated on Konig, not you, before they feel your stare and snap their heads away.
Konig doesn’t seemed fazed.
At first you assume it’s because he’s too powerful, too confident in his strength and ability to be intimidated by opponents clearly weaker than him.
But then you consider - maybe he’s just used to this? The boring stares that come with someone of his unusual stature, the taunting from your particularly rowdy peers in District Nine - maybe it gifted him the ability to be unaffected by others.
But that doesn’t quite make sense either, because last night he seemed genuinely influenced by your annoyance, by your goading, and this morning, by Ruby’s disappointment.
You itch to understand your competitor, to figure out his motives, his strategy, the mind games he’s playing with you.
The rest of the day brings mediocracy, and little else is uncovered about your fiercest adversary.
You actually learn a lot about plants and knot tying, but your snares and fire starting skills leave something to be desired. At dinner, Price grills you both about what you learned, filling in any gaps in your memory.
Avoiding Konig is harder on the second day.
At the first aid station, the instructor is happy to have a duo join her. Aside from the career pack, who are too focused on playing with weapons, the other tributes wonder around the gymnasium solitarily. It’s clear the attendant is tired of tributes touching her, so she has you practice on each other instead.
After fascinating you both with a type of moss that can be used as an antiseptic, she has you take turns using sticks to make splints on each other’s arms.
You both sit on the ground, and he holds his arm out for you so you can snap the twigs down to the appropriate size for his forearm. It’s hard to ignore how his massive bicep is bursting out of the pitiful, generously-trimmed sleeves of his shirt. Tanned and sculpted over countless days spent in the fields of District Nine, performing jobs only the biggest and strongest could handle.
The close proximity to him is making you nervous, and you can feel the burn of his stare as you work. You force yourself to keep your focus solely on wrapping strips of fabric scraps tightly around either end of the sticks, but you can’t stop thinking about how easy it would be for the arm you work around to hurt you. How quickly it could snap a bone, knock you unconscious, or choke the life from you, all with minimal effort. Your entire body would not measure up against this one arm, let alone the rest of him.
It’s hard to stop once you start on this train of thought, and now you’re trying to think your way out of an altercation that starts in this position, kneeling on the ground.
How far could you run before he managed to get hold of a scrambling limb? Could you kick him in the ribs hard enough to break away? If you landed a hit square to his nose, could you break it?
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding when you sit back on your legs upon completion, wiping a sheen of sweat off your forehead.
When it’s his turn, you hold out your arm and turn your head away, staring at anything other than Konig. You have to push the impulse to pull away from hands that could crush you to dust at any moment.
It’s hard to ignore the brush of his fingers against your skin, the gentle hold on the underside of your arm as he steadies you to secure the strips of fabric.
It’s even harder to ignore the warm feeling that blossoms in your chest at the human contact.
This is nothing new for you. It means nothing, simply explained by ravenous, seething hormones that don’t know their place.
Once the trainer is satisfied, she gives you the advanced task of making the splint on yourselves.
You repeat this process as the trainer teaches you how to make a tourniquet. She instructs you not to tighten it as you would in an actual emergency, because it can cause injury anywhere from muscle damage to complete limb paralysis if placed incorrectly or for too long.
You suck in a breath, swallowing at the idea of being at Konig’s mercy. You’re don’t trust him enough to not jump on the opportunity for sabotage.
How long would he be able to hold you down before a guard could rip him off you? He’s strong, you’re sure he could easily take out at least a few while also fending you off - long enough to do some hefty damage to your arm.
You’re extra careful as you tie the tourniquet around Konig’s forearm, hoping that if you use gentle hands, he might return the favor.
It’s ridiculous, his proportions. You hope neither Konig nor the trainer can see the heat on your cheeks as you work around his arm as carefully as you would a deadly weapon.
When it’s your turn, you can’t bring yourself to look away. You watch his large hands work and wait with bated breath for him to go in for the kill.
As he twists the tourniquet in practice, your arm tenses in anticipation, priming your other arm discreetly in case you need to push him away.
He stops long before the fabric indents your flesh, meeting your stare for a moment. His eyes that were narrowed in focus relax when he meets your eyes, and before you can avert your gaze he turns to look over his shoulder, waiting for the instructor’s approval.
She nods assent, and immediately you feel flushed with an embarrassed heat as he undoes the knot around your bicep. You’re almost ashamed at your paranoia for suspecting he’d try and hurt you before the games.
Of course he wouldn’t hurt you here.
He was nervous just to step out on the balcony, he’s not going to break the clearly stated rule to not combat with other tributes before the arena.
He’s waiting until it’s fair game. Drawing you in with the basis of his trust until he’s granted permission to tear you limb from limb.
The instructor has you both practice on yourselves, and then wraps out the lesson by teaching you about more plants with medicinal uses, from bug bites to burns to infections.
Konig and you move from the first aid station to knot tying, to shelter building, to camouflaging.
To your credit, you really are giving it a fair effort, brows furrowed and tongue pressed to your teeth as you focus on retaining as much information as possible. The anxiety is making it hard to focus though, thoughts buzzing like insects gnawing at you from the inside out. It’s like you’re already in the arena, flinching at any noise and fighting the instinct to flee when any eyes glance in your direction.
On the final day of group training, as per Price’s instructions, you focus on the physical aspect of the competition, handling weapons, avoiding injury, and learning offensive maneuvers.
Weapons are illegal in District Nine, so besides the sickles and scythes loaned out in the wheat fields, you’ve never seen one in person before - let alone held one.
The sight of them are intimidating. You do not instinctually imagine yourself at the handle of the weapons, but on the brunt of their sharp blades and serated edges. Your eye twitches at the thought of each of them tearing through you.
It does not help that the career pack doesn’t stray far from the weapons, and so far you’ve been doing the best you can to avoid them.
You turn to Konig and pull a face contorted with displeasure.
“I know,” he whispers. He glances around the room, “We could start small?”
Your face remains unchanged, so his hand comes up to rub the side of his jaw as he continues to search the room on your behalf, “Weightlifting?”
You actually let out a laugh at the suggestion, “Oh yeah?” Your chest still rattles with the aftermath of your own amusement, “Bet I can lift more than you.”
His eyebrows pinch for just a moment before he realizes you’re only kidding. A reserved smile creeps on his face.
“I’m sure.”
You flex your pathetic bicep at him and give it a hearty pat, “No, really.”
You swivel your wrist around for emphasis, a mischievous, cheeky grin on your face.
He gives you a warm smile, his shoulders lifting with each huff of a soft, inaudible laugh.
“Let’s see it, then.”
When you move toward the weights, you catch the stare of the careers, having paused their training to watch the two tributes who dared to near them.
You don’t have the forethought to hide your fear, and they don’t look away once you meet their gaze like the other tributes.
They look at you like a pack of hyenas salivating over their next meal, challenging your stare, deadly eyes and smug smiles plastered their faces.
You get the feeling it wasn’t because they were amused at your stupid joke.
Your stomach tightens, brows sloping as you shake them from your sight.
Konig glances over his shoulder to check on you and you make an awkward little jog to catch up to him.
“Thought you and your fearsome muscles chickened out,” he says as your footsteps catch up to his.
“Pfft, never,” You say, voice lacking confidence as you resist the urge to look back at the careers.
You’re not sure what you can stand to gain from weightlifting other than showing off how weak you are, but you don’t object. Not only is it an excuse to put off weapons training, it is an opportunity to see what Konig is actually capable of. Maybe you could even find some sort of weakness to use against him if the time comes, a bad knee or a tricky shoulder.
You sit down on one of the benches, a slight kick in your feet, planting your palms firmly into the bench’s padding.
It becomes clear almost immediately that the monstrous boy from your district has no weaknesses.
For his warmup, he prepares weights that are significantly heavier than your entire body, lifting them into the air without so much as a grunt of resistance.
The nausea hits like a crashing wave, consuming you in an uncomfortable heat that brings sweat to your skin and threatens to boil your stomach over. You pull on the collar of your shirt as you watch the muscles in his arm bulge and tighten with each curl.
You’re dumbfounded, face scrunched in mixture of confusion and horror, but you can’t look away. You swallow with a dry mouth as he moves to stack more weights onto the barbells, eyes flitting around the sight before you in a panic.
If Konig wanted to, he could pick you up like he was scruffing a kitten.
As you watch him deadlift what must be twice his body weight, you can’t stand to watch anymore, face drained of its color as you imagine him using that strength against you.
It’s as you’re turning away that you realize the gym has gone silent. Not a clash of a weapon, not an instructor teaching, not even the murmur of a gamemaker.
Your breathing cuts off entirely as you catch every eye in the room staring in your direction. More specifically, in the direction of the boy who seems to defy human nature. The tributes, the instructors, the gamemakers high in their post, all stare on in a spectrum ranging from amazement to fear. Some of the tributes look just as nauseous as you, pale in the face and fists clenched at their sides, surely imagining facing his strength in the arena.
The careers look less smug. Not afraid, but annoyed. Angry, even. Looking down their nose with snarls on their lips.
The boy from two, Titan, is the exception. His pointed canines are displayed proudly, his hands rubbing together in giddiness because the game is actually getting interesting. He laughs, his laughter the only noise harmonizing with the metal clunks of Konig’s weights.
Your head snaps back into place, staring at the floor, mouth parted and face burning.
Konig sets his barbell gently on the ground, faces you with his hands on his hips, and says, “Alright, your turn.”
His face sinks when he meets your eyes, as full as moons and pooled with dread.
He looks around the gym, sees all of his competitors, his evaluators leering at him. His face relaxes but reveals nothing to you. He nods before meeting your stare again.
He lifts one of his hands, pointing all of his fingers at you, “Just to be clear, you are chickening out, then?”
You blink a few times, and then you let out the ugliest snort, a string of guffaws following.
He gives you a dopey smile with that silent, breathy laugh that makes his shoulders bounce. It’s the most of a laugh you’ll be able to pull from him, you think.
“No way,” you say, standing up from your bench.
You approach the barbell he placed on the floor, and stick your shoe out to give one end of the weights a shove. It barely rolls a centimeter under the weight of your foot.
“Y’know, I would,” You say, rubbing your fingers together to suggest grubbiness, “But I got butter all over my hands at breakfast, so I probably won’t be able to get a good grip on it.”
“Mhm,” He says, his lips pressed into a smile, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Be pretty rude of me to dirty the weights for everyone else.”
“Very,” He says, “What next, then?”
When you glance around the room, most have resumed their activities, but the careers and a large percentage of the gamemakers seem to be lingering their stares on the District Nine tributes. You clear your throat and try to shake off their burning stares.
“What about that?” He offers after he sees you struggling to decide. He points over your shoulder to a large structure - two bars that stretch horizontal over a long fall to the mat below. Rings dangle from ropes in rows along the bars. It’s an exercise to see if a tribute can swing from ring to ring, using only their upper body strength to get from one end to the other without touching the ground.
“Nope,” You say definitely, “I’ll just fall and end up being thrown into the arena with a broken leg.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll stand underneath and catch you if you fall.”
“What?” You ask through a thrown off laugh.
“You’ll be okay,” Konig encourages, “Just see how far you can make it.”
For a minute you consider if this is a trick. If he would pretend as if he was going to catch you, but instead lets you plummet below, taking precaution to make it look like a genuine accident.
“Maybe later,” you say with a tent of your brow.
“Hand-to-hand?” He offers.
You nod at the suggestion. This is a skill you are certainly lacking and could stand to sharpen, and it doesn’t require using the intimidating weapons.
The instructor is not sure what to make of you both at first, eyeing you curiously before he digs into his lessons. He goes over the basics, encouraging you to avoid solely throwing punches and reminding you to use all the parts of the body that can do damage.
He does go over the proper way to land a blow with your fists, how to get out of a restraint, the vulnerable places to strike on an opponent.
You’re only listening halfheartedly. Four days of non-stop training is catching up with you, and you’ve still got one foot in the mentality that you don’t stand much of a chance anyway, so it’s hard to feel motivated to make an effort.
As soon as you wrap up the lesson, you catch the career pack huddled in a circle near the ring, far from their usual post at the weapons.
Immediately you know something’s up, keeping a careful watch on them from the corner of your eye as you and Konig exit the ring.
“Want to try the weapons again?” He asks you.
“I’m kind of over it,” You say quietly, still side-eyeing the careers, “I’ll just follow you around.”
“District Nine!” That laugh, Titan’s laugh, is truly sardonic. An almost squeaky, attention-grabbing cackle that somehow bears condescension, “You came to play this year, huh?”
Both you and Konig tense as the pack approaches. Konig’s arm shoots down in the air in front of you as he takes a few steps toward them, as if already holding you back from a confrontation.
You would normally be annoyed by this, but staring down a pack of trained killers is enough to keep you from arguing.
Konig says nothing, dawning those uninterested half-lidded eyes, chin raised as he stares down at the boy with fangs for canines.
Titan holds out his strong arms, that wicked smile spread thick as he meets Konig’s eyes, “How’d you like to play with the big boys?”
It takes you a moment to realize they’re asking Konig to ally with them.
To your surprise, your body immediately ignites with jealousy.
You can’t pin why.
Jealous that Konig is so superior he got the attention of the elite tributes, and you didn’t?
Jealous that the careers are worthy of Konig’s consideration, that they could benefit him in the arena in a way you could not?
Jealous that they were also trying to benefit from the comfort he provides with his presence?
A boy’s reassurance can only spread so thin, after all.
Maybe all the above.
“I’ll think about it,” Konig says evenly.
Your expression immediately twists.
He is considering it.
What a slap in the face, even entertaining the idea of allying with the careers. The tributes that, statistically speaking, are going to be the ones to end your life.
Your face is burning with betrayal, rage, and disgust.
You can’t believe this is the boy you find comfort in. They don’t take too kindly to those friendly with careers back in the districts. If he wins, he will be ridiculed twice as much back home.
The boy from two gives him a drawn-out full body once over, looking him up and down before he flits his eyes in your direction.
His eyebrow quirks and you swallow hard, but your face keeps your scowl.
Konig makes a casual sidestep to stand directly between you both, cutting off your view of Titan.
Maybe this was what Price was talking about. About you being trouble, and wanting Konig to keep you out of it. The boy from two was big, not as big as Konig, but enough to still tower over the majority of the tributes, physically superior in every way. This does nothing to relieve the urge to run your mouth and maybe even get a few good scratches in with your fingernails.
Your scowl thickens when you realize Price actually had reason to suspect you needed a chaperone.
You hear the boy huff, and without another word the careers leave you be.
Konig does a full turn, head tilted down to meet your stare. When he sees your clear displeasure his brows shoot up.
“I want to talk to Price before I turn them down,” he explains.
Anything but a harsh no is unacceptable to you.
Traitorous, even.
You can’t believe he’s considering it.
He sees that this does not qualm you, and adds, “Maybe he has a strategy to use against them.”
“Whatever, Konig,” You say with a roll of your eyes, a tone that clearly suggests you’re not buying what he’s selling.
This would be a good time to sever the tie between you. The comfort of him being by your side has been tainted by his conspiring with the careers. Clearly Konig has moved on, if he had even been reaping the benefits of whatever it is you two have.
Maybe you were naive to think he was ever your partner in this.
Of course he’s not. He is your opponent, always has been. Only one can come out of that arena. He knows it. You know it.
He was just smart enough to keep his distance, to not let his emotions get tangled up in someone who will be dead in a week, whereas you have been foolish enough to let your heart bleed without caution.
He doesn’t need your comfort like you need his. He will be self-sustainable in that arena. He actually has a chance, and a good one at that. You know it. The careers know it.
What could Konig have possibly gained from a partnership with you?
Your blood is boiling, body perspiring in the brutal heat of humiliation. You can’t believe you’ve let yourself get this attached to him, that you looked farther into worried glances then you should have, that you’ve allowed yourself to become so reliant on him that the thought of him not being even a little reliant on you makes you feel this inadequate, this jealous, this stupid!
You knew this was coming, you could see it from a mile away, but it doesn’t soothe the searing sting. It’s only frustrating you more knowing this is your own fault.
Konig doesn’t owe you anything, he’s just doing what’s best for himself, which is what you should be doing.
He opens his mouth to say something else, choking out the start of a syllable before he stops himself.
At least he looks a little hurt at your displeasure. That makes you feel a little better.
You huff, turning on your feet.
“Wha - where are you going?” He asks.
“Anywhere,” You say with wave a hand over your shoulder.
“But, Price-“
“I don’t care what Price said!” You blurt out, whipping around to face him, hands springing up aggressively.
Konig’s shoes squeak to a stop, and you catch a couple Capitol guard priming to intervene. You can feel the stare of a few tributes looking in your direction.
You sigh, forcing your voice to a quiet yet harsh grit, “It’s not like you can look after me in that arena, so what’s the point of looking after me now?”
He doesn’t have an answer for you as he dawns those hurt eyes, the same eyes he wore when you ripped your hand away from him in the chariot.
Even in your rage, it makes your heart throb with guilt and regret at your outburst. It’s confusing, so confusing, how you can be so angry with someone and still care about not hurting them.
You can’t stand to look at him anymore, both in your rage and guilt, so you turn on your heels and leave him in his spot.
Training is technically optional, even if most tributes aren’t stupid enough to skip out on the life-saving advice, or in the career’s case, an excuse to throw weapons around, so no one stops you when you march right out of the gym. You fume the entire elevator ride up to your suite. If fury was steam, you’re sure you would have released a cloud of it when the elevator doors part.
Price is sitting at the raised table in the dining room, leaning back in his chair at your arrival.
“What’d’ya doing here kid?”
You don’t even answer him, marching down the hall without so much of a glance in his direction.
“What’s wrong?” His voice calls.
“Ask your victor,” You spit, slamming the door to your room behind you.
· THE TRIBUTES I · THE TRIBUTES II · THE GAMES · THE VICTOR I· THE VICTOR II · THE AFTERMATH
Dividers for this series courtesy of the very talented and generous @saradika-graphics who makes lovely dividers and masterlist headers for FREE! Huge thank you for your contributions to the writing community and helping make our fics stand out and look pretty!
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