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I SEE FIRE

🕊️ A Stranger Things AU Fanfic from Misha’s Masterlist Library. 📚 Full Fanfic Saga & Infodump File here 📕 Book One: all chapters here

BOOK ONE: Chapter 43 (extended chapter) 🕊️ The Games -> The Capitol -> Hawkins 🏹 Day 5 of the Games -> Read next part here [coming soon]

Steve Harrington x OC!fem!reader hometown strangers to friends to lovers. ultra dark, heavy angst and hurt/comfort. alternate universe -> upside down apocalypse.high suspense, dystopian game-of-survival plot with morbidly dry humor sprinkled along the way. eventual plot-driven angsty smut (...but with hella plot). 18+

A fever dream multi-crossover au inspired by The Hunger Games and The Purge universes, merged with Stranger Things. 🏹

🏹 SUMMARY: At long last, Steve Harrington finally emerges from the 2-day long fog that kept him under. He has no clue where he is or how he got here, only that all of his belongings are neatly stashed beside him, along with his bow and arrow...

And there's a message written for him in the ground.

🏹 AUTHOR’S NOTE: These are the chapters I dreaded most, yet couldn't help but fall in love with while writing. Dear Ro, you are the sweetest little lost boy in all of existence and Neverland... Katniss & Rue fans, this next stretch of alliance infused chapters are for you. And yes, I kept Ro alive a little longer because it was killing me imagining him being gone after only one day.

*sobs into cereal bowl*

p.s. this is a longer chapter, so the next part [Part II] will come tomorrow.

Xx, Misha

🏹 OVERALL SERIES WARNINGS: This is my darkest fanfic series. Strong language, mature themes all around. Explores PTSD and severe trauma, past s*xual and physical abuse, graphic descriptions of violence, dystopian setting. Heavy angst/hurt/comfort (yes, there will be a hard-earned happy ending). General THG series setting + angst, plus grim themes and gore in the vein of The Purge.

Chapter Forty-Three

DAY 5 -> The Games

The first thing Steve sees is U R SAFE.

It’s spelled out on the dirt in front of him in crooked little bursts of color — yellow leaves, red leaves, tiny purple flowers, a couple of white petals, one busted sprig of green that looks like it got shoved in there at the last second because whoever made it ran out of pretty things and said fuck it, this’ll do.

For a long second, he just stares at it.

Not because he doesn’t understand the words. Because he does.

Because right now… his brain is moving like something dragged up from the bottom of a cold lake. Slow. Groggy. Not stupid, exactly. Just… delayed. All hot syrup and static. He knows those words. Knows what they mean. Knows they’re meant for him.

He just can’t immediately make the rest of the world catch up around them.

You are safe.

The sentence sits there on the ground like a hand held out flat.

Steve blinks hard once.

Then again.

And only then does he start to feel the rest of himself.

His mouth… tastes foul. Bitter. Like he swallowed the world’s nastiest penny and let it rot on his tongue overnight. His body feels heavy in a weird way — not injured-heavy exactly, but slept-too-hard heavy. Like every muscle in him got left out in rain and dragged back in before dawn. His cheek is warm where it had been pressed into something lumpy. His neck feels tender. His forearm too. One knee throbs in this low, distant kind of way that tells him whatever happened there was bad enough to matter, but not bad enough to be all he can think about.

His back is warm.

There’s something draped over it.

He turns his head just enough to catch the black of his windbreaker over one shoulder, and that’s weird enough to make him frown a little.

Then he notices the leaves.

There are chewed-up green leaves plastered over his forearm.

More of them at his neck.

And when he shifts his leg carefully, dragging one knee up under himself to look, he sees his cargo pants have already been rolled above the sting there too, the leaf poultice mostly slipped off sometime in the night as he moved in his sleep.

He sits up slowly.

Very slowly…

The whole place around him comes into focus by miserable little degrees.

He’s under some kind of tree shelter. A shallow one. Barely two or three feet above his head even kneeling. Twigs woven into brush. Branches bent down and overlapped. Leaves shoved into every gap where light might’ve betrayed it. It’s not clean. Not fancy. Not even particularly symmetrical. It’s just… well, there. Effective. Tight and close and hidden as all hell. Like some little fairy hut out of one of Dustin’s rambling campaigns. Like a child built a fort in the woods and then got weirdly, terrifyingly good at it.

His backpack is under his chest.

Empty.

Used as a pillow.

That makes Steve’s eyes flick around more sharply now, and that’s when he sees all of his stuff lined up neatly along one curved side of the little hut.

Knife.

Iodine.

Jerky.

Crackers.

Rope.

Wire.

The little box of matches.

Toothbrush.

Toothpaste.

Water bottle.

His bow and quiver.

Everything is arranged in a line so respectful and careful it almost makes his chest pinch. And next to his stuff, in their own neat little gathered piles… are other things.

Tiny speckled eggs.

Berries. Roots. Tubers. Nuts. Wild herbs.

A whole little scavenger spread of arena breakfast.

Steve just kneels there for a second in complete, groggy disbelief. “What the hell,” he whispers hoarsely to nobody.

The sound of his own voice startles him a little. It comes out rough. And dry. Sandpapered by sleep and bug venom and whatever the fuck else his body’s been doing while he’s been dead to the world.

He reaches down and peels the leaf mash off his forearm first.

The skin underneath looks icky. Red, swollen, bruised around the edges. Still a trackerjacker sting, still nasty enough to make him hiss softly through his teeth at the sight of it.

But not nearly as bad as it should be.

Not even close.

That’s what makes his brows lift.

He rubs his thumb lightly around it without touching the center, feels the heat there. The raised welt, like a spider bite that’s still healing.

Better.

Way fucking better.

His fingers go to his neck next — feeling the damp, half-dried mash tucked against the skin there. He can’t see that one, but judging by the way it feels? Same thing. Angry, but healing. Then his knee. That one’s still throbbing, still ugly as hell, but even it looks more manageable than it has any right to after the amount of venom that got pumped into him.

Steve sits back on his heels a little, rubbing both hands over his face.

He remembers flashes.

The nest.

The screaming.

Glimmer.

Jesus Christ — Glimmer...

His stomach drops at the mental image of her body when it all comes back to him. Bloated. Ruined. Swarmed. Dead in a way that no seventeen-year-old girl should ever have to be dead.

He shuts that down fast.

Then comes another memory.

Yours.

Your face, splitting and doubling and tripling in front of him while he sat there out of his goddamn mind before you hauled him to his feet. Both your hands on his shoulders. Your voice, desperate and sharp and furious all at once.

Run, Steve. Run.

His eyes go distant. The whole little hut seems to shrink around that memory. You’d been there. Not with the Careers. Not helping them. Not leading him to slaughter.

You had been there trying to get him the hell out.

And now…? Kneeling in this tiny hidden hideout with his backpack under him and his wounds treated and his supplies all stacked in neat little rows and a whole message spelled out on the ground so he wouldn’t wake up and lose his shit—

Steve feels something twist hard and strange inside his chest.

Because whatever your angle was, it had never been what he thought.

Some sick, jaded, angry part of him wants to keep fighting that. Wants to just keep saying no, there’s another explanation, there has to be. Wants to stay cynical because cynicism’s far easier than feeling grateful to somebody who could still matter this much.

But the evidence is all around him.

And it’s hard to argue with mercy when it has physically kept his ass alive.

“Shit,” he breathes, his hand moving without him thinking.

Instinctive.

Reaching for his right wrist.

Not the left wrist, with Robin’s tattoo.

His right wrist, where—

…wait.

Steve glances down…

Only to find bare skin.

He stiffens instantly, looking around himself, looking for—

But then he sees it.

His olive branch.

It’s now tucked right into the quiver, nestled beside his arrows… like whoever found it understood exactly what it was and decided it should not be lost. That does something vulnerable to his face. Pulls one corner of his mouth up despite himself in this tired, crooked little almost-smile which vanishes just as quickly as it came.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath.

How many times does a guy have to come within breathing distance of death before the universe just commits? How many near-misses before somebody up there decides — alright, enough of this sad bastard — puts him out of his misery?

The dark thought lands exactly where it always lands now.

Easy. Familiar. Morbid as a shrug.

He doesn’t sit in it long, though, because his mouth tastes like actual roadkill and suddenly that’s the most pressing problem in the world.

So he grabs the toothbrush.

Squeezes out a little toothpaste.

Brushes around his mouth and gums and teeth with all the solemn misery of a man who’s trying not to gag on his own morning breath inside a woodland hobbit grave. Then he unscrews the water bottle and pauses.

It’s full.

Here it comes again.

That soft little quiet punch of being tended to by unknown guardians of fate.

Steve stares at the water bottle for half a second like it personally betrayed him by being decent, then tips some into his mouth and swishes hard, spits into a far corner of the hut, and does it again.

When he’s done, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and lets his gaze sweep the hideout again while he drinks from it.

It all feels… deliberate.

Safe in a way the arena has no business being.

…and that’s exactly when he hears something rustle above him.

Steve moves before he thinks.

Bow in hand.

Arrow notched.

Aimed straight upward at the shadow now shifting through the tiny gaps in an opening of brush overhead.

Everything in him goes cold and sharp all at once…

Then a familiar little face appears.

Little enough that Steve’s whole body changes in one staggered beat.

Ro!

The kid freezes halfway through climbing down, his eyes huge, all wiry little limbs and caution and immediate alarm at finding himself now being aimed at by a broadhead arrow before breakfast.

Steve lowers the bow at once. “Hey— hey, man.” His voice comes out rough but warm in a hurry. “S’alright. M’not gonna hurt you.”

He tosses the weapon aside and raises both hands, palms open.

Ro is still hanging there halfway down — one small foot on a jut of root, one hand gripping a branch — staring at Steve like he’s trying to figure out if this is some kind of test.

Steve softens even more.

“You’re all good,” he promises. “I swear.”

Ro blinks. Then he climbs down the rest of the way very carefully, like a cautious little animal approaching a fire it hopes is friendly. Steve watches him land inside the hut and has to fight the bizarre urge to laugh — because Jesus Christ, this kid really did build the place for himself. Standing there now, Ro almost fits it properly. He can hunch. Turn, and move around. Steve, meanwhile, looks like an overgrown golden retriever trying to hide in a rabbit hole.

Ro doesn’t say anything at first.

He just stands there with those giant dark eyes on Steve, little hands folded up near his chest, equal parts shy and wary and weirdly pleased all at once.

Steve clears his throat. “You did all this?”

Ro nods.

Steve looks around again. Then back at him. “The leaves too?”

Another nod.

“And the water bottle?”

Ro nods harder this time.

Something about that makes Steve smile for real. Small, but real. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Well. Thank you.”

Ro’s shoulders ease a tiny bit.

Steve watches him tenderly, then his brow pinches. “How long was I out?"

A beat lands.

Ro glances down at his fingers before shyly peeking up through his lashes… quietly murmuring, in the gentlest little voice, “two days.”

Steve’s brows shoot up, forehead creasing.

Two days?

“Days three and four,” Ro adds timidly. “It’s Day Five now.”

A soft, almost sheepish sigh slips past Steve’s nose. He watches Ro another moment, then glances down at his own lap. Then he glances at his forearm.

“This stuff worked,” he tells Ro. “Like… really worked.”

Ro lights up so suddenly it’s almost startling.

Not in a loud way.

Just the way little kids do when praise hits them square in the chest and they don’t know where to put it.

“I changed them,” he blurts before he can apparently stop himself, voice soft and quick and a little breathless from finally using it. “A couple times. And—I put more ointment on your burn too but only a little, I promise, and I didn’t eat any of your food or touch any of your stuff—except I had to use two of your matches but that’s just because it’s way faster to cook eggs with a match and I’m sorry about that and—”

“Hey, hey.” Steve’s brows pinch sadly, voice kind. “Slow down.”

Ro clamps his mouth shut at once.

Steve stares at him for a second before he very, very gently asks, “Why are you apologizing?”

Ro looks confused by the question itself. Then guilty. Then both.

“I just… didn’t want you to think I was stealing.”

That hits Steve so hard and stupidly that for a second he doesn’t even know what to do with his face. He looks over at the neat little piles of food. At the lined-up supplies. The full water bottle. The carefully rewrapped olive branch.

Then back at Ro.

“Buddy,” he says, and there’s something almost helpless in his voice now. “I would not have cared if you ate half of it.”

Ro still looks uncertain.

Steve reaches over for the jerky and crackers. “Seriously. C’mere.”

Ro shuffles a little closer on instinct but still stays cautious, cross-legged now on the dirt floor while Steve opens the packet and breaks off a piece.

He offers it.

It takes another moment before Ro slowly takes it with both his hands, like it might disappear if he’s not respectful enough.

Steve hands him a cracker too, then takes one for himself. “There.” He nods toward the little scavenged spread. “Now we’re sharing. No crime committed.”

That gets the tiniest little smile out of Ro.

Steve leans back one shoulder against the side of the hut, gesturing vaguely with his cracker. “So where were you just now?”

Ro’s chewing slows.

He swallows, then says shyly, “Making birdcalls.”

Steve tilts his head. “Birdcalls.”

Ro nods, then reaches for a few seeds from one of his little piles — bringing them between them like this is just part of breakfast now.

“There’re mockingjays,” he explains. “They copy back whatever you sing, like a parrot. So if I do the right four notes and they’re close enough, they’ll carry it to you. Then if you do your four notes back, they’ll carry them to me.”

Steve stills halfway through another bite.

There’s a tiny pause in the hut.

“Me?” he repeats carefully.

Ro blinks. “Well, yes but… no. Not you.”

Then, as if realizing that sounded dumb: “Ren.”

There it is again.

Your name.

But now it’s spoken out loud and now Steve’s whole body goes kind of eerily still around it… Because whatever he’d expected out of waking up in this tiny woodland bunker, it sure as hell wasn’t a nine-year-old very calmly dropping confirmation that you and he apparently have some kind of secret birdcall- communication alliance.

And you’re alive.

“…you and Ren have a signal,” Steve says slowly.

Ro nods.

“…you’re allied.”

Ro nods harder, then he seems to realize this is maybe important information and starts talking faster about how you teamed up with him.

It comes out in pieces at first, shy and a little tangled up.

But Steve is good with kids. That’s the thing. No matter how much this world has hollowed him out, no matter how much venom and violence and grief and trauma have turned everything else inside him into barbed wire, that part still works. So he doesn’t crowd. Doesn’t interrogate.

He just nudges the story along. “When’d that happen?”

“Back at the Capitol.”

“Before the Games?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Who all knew?”

“Me and Wendy Bird and Jack and Hannah. Oh!—and Hopper. Hopper went over the cave part again with Hannah and Jack after.”

Steve blinks. “Wendy Bird?”

Ro says it like it’s obvious. “That’s Ren.”

Oh, so you have another bird-assigned nickname?

That’s the first thing that runs through Steve’s mind until then, because Steve apparently has somehow woken up inside a fever dream run by emotionally intelligent children.

Ro proceeds to explain the whole damn thing, bit by bit, chewing seeds and taking tiny bites of jerky. Talking with his hands sometimes… when the words come easier that way.

You were Wendy Bird.

Steve was Pan the Man.

Ro was a lost boy.

Hannah was a lost girl.

Jack was a lost boy too, even if he acted tougher about it.

And the whole plan had been built around getting the lost ones hidden first. The cave for Hannah and Jack. The signals in the trees. The markings along the stream in case Ro had to go looking. The birdcall. The fallback birdcall. The trail marks. The rule about not panicking if nobody answered back because that probably meant you’d made it safe. The rule about waiting for the sky at night before assuming the worst.

The whole thing laid out in this innocent, devastating little-boy cadence that somehow makes every piece of it hit Steve harder than if Hopper himself had walked in and barked it at him.

Because Ro explains it all like he’s telling Steve how to play a game that he missed the rules to all this time…

And buried inside every part of it is the same awful truth:

You had planned for him.

You had worked all of this out after the interviews.

After he’d lashed out at you backstage. After you went on live television and said the thing he’d least wanted anyone to say. After he made it ugly, after he stormed off and left you standing there.

And somehow, after all of that, you’d still built a strategy that kept not only three kids alive…

…but him too.

Steve sits there, very quiet through most of it, only asking questions when he has to.

“So… Hopper knew all of this?”

Ro nods. “Some of it. Most of it.”

“Hannah and Jack knew the cave part already?”

“Ren told them in the morning. Hopper repeated it later.”

Something about that irks Steve.

The fact that Hopper planned all of this, without ever considering that maybe Steve was capable of planning something too…? Something about that just doesn’t quite sit right yet.

But still. Steve’s far too blown away, too grateful, to let that take precedence.

“And you…?” Steve has to stop and start over. “You knew I was supposed to end up with you?”

Ro shrugs one shoulder. “Not exactly with me. Just… if I found you first, then yeah. Because she didn’t want any of us near the Careers.”

Steve rubs a hand over his face again.

It is not helping.

Nothing about this is helping. Because Ro is so matter-of-fact about it all. So sweet. So trusting. So completely certain that of course this all makes sense because Wendy Bird said it would!

There’s something brutally unselfconscious in the admiration Ro has for you too. Every time that he says your name, it’s like he’s talking about someone brave and clever and magical and surreal. Someone who made a hard thing sound possible just by explaining it softly enough.

Steve smiles sometimes despite himself.

That’s the worst part.

He can’t even keep the smile off his face, because Ro is so damned earnest about all of it. And apparently? You’d explained the whole alliance through Peter Pan analogies and secret signals and lost boys and hidden places and prioritized how important it was to keep the little ones safe first.

Because apparently it worked.

Because apparently Steve Harrington, bitter bastard of the fucking woods… got kept alive by a plan made by a girl he hurt and a little boy who still looks at him like he hung the moon.

He hates what that does to his chest.

He hates that it isn’t simple.

Ro is talking about the cave now.

About how Hannah and Jack were supposed to stay put no matter what.

About how he’s gone out looking for your signal already.

About how he tried the mockingjay call.

Steve’s eyes go a little glossy around the edges at that. Not enough to show. Just enough to feel it everywhere inside of himself.

“You were out there this morning doing that?” he asks.

Ro nods. “I thought maybe if Wendy Bird— I mean if Ren—”

“If she answered back,” Steve finishes.

Ro nods again. “But she didn’t.”

Steve takes a slow breath, dread beginning to show in his features.

Ro rushes to add, “But that’s probably good. Ren said if I can’t hear her? It might mean she made it back where she needed to go and is staying quiet.”

There’s that faith again.

That calm little child-faith in your competence.

…and God help him, Steve feels himself borrowing from it.

Just for a second.

Just enough to feel relieved that you’re still alive.

He looks down at the half-eaten saltine cracker in his hand and thinks about your beautiful face again. Your voice. Run.

Then he looks back up… and he finds that Ro is now watching him now with all the patience in the world. Like he knows some grown-up silences are just things you have to let happen.

Steve laughs under his breath once, dry and small.

“What,” Ro asks curiously.

Steve shakes his head. “Nothing, man.”

But it isn’t nothing.

It’s the soul-crushing, inconvenient realization that your angle had been him all along. Not to betray. Not to manipulate. Not to trap. To keep him alive.

And he doesn’t know what the fuck to do with that.

So he doesn’t try to.

Not just yet.

Instead he takes another bite of jerky and helps Ro keep talking.

“So alright then,” Steve says, sly and warm. “What else’ve I missed?”

Ro has gotten less shy now. The words come easier. Quicker. He tells Steve how Hannah nearly cried the first day and didn’t want Jack seeing, so she’d turned away first. How Jack acts tougher than he is but he still gets a wrinkle between his eyebrows when he’s scared. How he himself can climb higher than anybody if he has to. How the cave’s on the opposite side of the arena, and if they go down the stream long enough, they should be able to reach it.

It’s a whole world in here… This tiny hidden ecosystem of children surviving because you gave them a language to survive in.

Steve listens to all of it.

And then, when it’s finally all on the ground between them, when the plan is laid out and the crumbs have been gathered and the children accounted for and the terrible, impossible mercy of it has had time to settle—

Ro goes sly.

It happens so suddenly Steve almost misses it.

One second the kid is earnest as church. The next, there’s this little cat-who-ate-the-canary glint in his eye.

“Is it true about you guys?”

Steve blinks. “What.”

Ro wriggles his eyebrows.

He actually wriggles them.

Then he makes this ridiculous lovey-dovey face and a little kissy shape with his mouth and says, “You and herrrrr?”

Steve chokes a little on absolutely nothing.

It is humiliating how his cheeks go hot immediately. That’s worse. So much worse. He has not blushed like this since puberty kicked down the front door and moved into his awkwardly growing bones. He looks down. Laughs once in this awkward, disbelieving way. Rubs the back of his neck.

Ro is grinning like a little menace now.

And on top of that, Steve knows the cameras are on him.

That’s the slimiest, stupidest part. Even now, even tucked away in this little root-hut, he can feel the awareness of being watched. Of the whole country maybe seeing his ears go pink while a child tries to get gossip out of him like some tiny woodland tabloid reporter.

He could deny it.

Should deny it, probably.

Should say no, kid, don’t be ridiculous.

Except…

Something about that feels wrong.

Maybe because it helped keep everybody alive.

Maybe because Ro believes it with his whole little chest and Steve just can’t bring himself to stomp on that.

Maybe because saying no to anything that has your name wrapped up in it suddenly feels like trying to spit a mouthful of blood onto a grave.

He still can’t bring himself to say yes.

That feels wrong too.

So Steve does what Steve Harrington does best whenever he’s cornered by something soft and dangerous and true: he sidesteps.

He tilts his head, looks back up at Ro through a half-smile that’s still flushed around the edges and drawls, “I think that Wendy Bird’s got enough going on without you running her business for her.”

Ro gasps.

Then he dissolves into the most delighted little snickering fit that Steve’s ever heard in his life — shoulders shaking, hand slapped over his own mouth like that answer was even better than confirmation.

“Oh my God,” Steve mutters, but he’s laughing too now despite himself.

Ro points at him triumphantly. “That means yes!”

“Oh, does it now.”

“It does in my language.”

Steve squints at him playfully. “That sounds like communism.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“It absolutely does.”

Ro’s still grinning ear to ear, looking like he’s about to explode from knowing a secret. “Jack has a crush on Hannah, too.”

The pivot is so sudden Steve almost gets emotional whiplash from it.

“What?”

Ro leans in. “He does.”

Steve stares — lips parted, already smirking. “No way.”

“Way.”

“Whaaaat?” Steve pretends to gasp, jutting his chin. “How do you know.”

“Because he told me.”

Steve lets out a long exaggerated breath. “Well. Sheeeeyit.”

That earns a little giggle from Ro as he snacks on another cracker.

Steve just shakes his head, smirking warmly. “Jack told you, huh?”

Ro nods very solemnly now, as if delivering battlefield intelligence even while he smiles. “He started liking her on picture day.”

“Picture day?”

“At the Capitol. In the pink dress.”

Steve actually grins at that. Full grin this time. “Damn. Kid’s got taste.”

Ro giggles.

“And Hannah likes him back?”

Ro lowers his voice like this is serious. “I think so.”

“You think so?”

“She looks at him kinda weird.”

Steve nods like a detective cracking the case. “Got it. Very damning.”

“And Hannah likes you,” Ro adds helpfully.

Steve adorably snorts. “Buddy, that is not the same thing.”

“No, I know. She likes you like Tigerlily likes Pan.”

“Oh good,” Steve chuckles.

“And Jack likes her like…” Ro trails off, then makes another kissy face.

Steve actually laughs out loud now.

It feels rusty. Strange. Good in a way that nearly makes him angry. Because all at once he’s sitting in a dirt hut in the arena swapping little kid gossip with a boy who should not be here at all… and every piece of this pure innocence makes him want to tear the whole goddamn sky down with his bare hands.

He cannot let that show.

Not now.

Not to Ro.

So he leans into it instead.

“Alright,” he drawls, nodding gravely. “Well. That is huge news. We’ll have to handle that very delicately.”

Ro brightens all over again. “Yeah.”

“Can’t have any heartbreak in the lost-kid division.”

“Nope.”

“Too much paperwork.”

Ro laughs so hard at that, he almost falls sideways.

Steve watches him with this secret, aching kind of fondness that hurts worse because of how easy it feels to let it completely take over.

Then his eyes drift.

To the little piles of gathered food.

The roots.

The eggshells.

The berries.

The signs that this child has been surviving in the wild on scavenged scraps while Steve lay on his stomach drooling into a backpack like Sleeping Beauty with a concussion.

The fondness in his face changes shape.

Gets sharper.

More resolved.

He looks at the bow. Then at Ro. Then back at the little scavenged breakfast and the shelter and the whole careful setup of it all.

“Tell you what,” Steve says.

Ro looks up.

Steve shifts, settling more squarely on his knees, and holds out his hand like this is a business deal being struck in a boardroom instead of a dirt den held together by sticks and divine intervention.

“You show me the ropes,” he says. “Teach me which plants won’t kill us while we go looking for the others. I’ll teach you how to hunt. Show you how to set snares. We’ll catch us something decent to eat.”

He lets the grin come back, crooked and warm and very himself.

“How’s that sound, ally?”

Ro’s whole face transforms.

It isn’t just happiness.

It’s this huge, glowing, can’t-believe-his-luck kind of joy that makes him look even younger than he is.

He reaches out at once and grabs Steve’s hand in a very serious shake.

“Deal,” he says.

And there they are.

One big, bruised, freshly reawakened golden boy. One tiny lost boy with dirt on his knees and night-watch courage in his bones and enough bravery for his entire alliance.

Shaking on it in the dark little heart of the arena, while danger still prowls just outside and the morning keeps climbing toward whatever horror comes next.

For now, though, the hut holds.

For now, the breath inside it is warm.

For now, Peter Pan and his shadow have found each other.

And when their hands part, they’re both still grinning.

By the time that the sun had properly hauled itself up over the arena, it still looked tired. No gold. No real warmth. Just a pale, overcast kind of morning that made the whole place feel bluer than it ought to be, as if even the sky had woken up sore. The woods wore it well. Everything looked damp without actually being wet. Bark darkened in broad streaks. Leaves held shadows in their veins.

The little hidden world that Ro had built beneath roots and woven branches stayed tucked in its own cool hush, safe from sight and softened by the kind of gloom that made daylight feel less exposing.

It had been barely an hour since Steve woke up.

Barely three hours since he’d found the colorful little message for him spelled out in leaves and flowers onto the earth — U R SAFE — and felt something deep in his chest go strange and quiet.

Now he and Ro were out in the woods together.

Not far enough from the little hut to lose their bearings. Not stupid-far. Steve would rather eat bark and die than wander off without a plan now after finally finding the one corner of this hellhole that didn’t feel like a loaded machine gun pointed at his mouth. But still far enough to work. Far enough to use the trees. Far enough that if he and Ro did what they were doing right, any game would have no clue they were there until it was too late.

And what they were doing right now was moving.

Quietly.

Ro led as often as Steve did… which was maybe the first thing that really got under Steve’s skin in the best possible way.

Not because the kid was bossy. He wasn’t.

Because he was good.

Little freakishly good.

There was no other word for it. Ro moved like the forest made him itself and forgot to tell anybody. He hardly bent a twig wrong. Hardly shifted a fern. Half the time Steve had to keep his eyes glued on him just to make sure he didn’t lose the kid completely to the shadows. One second he’d be there, small frame slipping between two trunks with that little knapsack over one shoulder and the water skin bouncing softly at his side, and the next he’d be three feet farther ahead with barely a sound to show for it.

On top of that, he’d made himself a slingshot.

A real one.

Not some half-assed kid toy either. It was a genuinely decent little makeshift slingshot… built from a sturdy forked branch and some elastic from his pack, tucked against his side like he’d been carrying it all his life. Every time Steve looked at it, something in him snagged.

Because it reminds him of back home.

Of the little boy whose name he unknowingly called Ro while hallucinating.

Lucas Sinclair.

The parallels hit him every goddamn time... Lucas with his bandana and his stubborn little face and his slingshot held like it was Excalibur. Lucas, who’d mouth off first and think about the consequences later. Lucas, who would absolutely call this whole setup “sick as hell” — before immediately asking a thousand questions and wanting a turn.

Steve swallowed hard and kept moving.

He didn’t say any of that out loud.

Didn’t need to.

A lot of whatever this was with Ro happened without much talking. A glance. A hand signal. Steve touching two fingers to his own chest then pointing left. Ro nodding and drifting that direction like smoke. Steve raising one hand flat whenever he heard something in the underbrush. Ro going instantly still. Not scared-still. Listening-still.

It should have felt ridiculous, being this locked in with a nine-year-old inside a death arena where the game makers would probably cream their pants at the sight of the two of them playing wilderness scout troop together.

Instead it felt…

Good.

That was the fucked-up part.

It felt so goddamn good.

Not normal. Nothing about this was normal. But lighter, somehow. Less like he was dragging his own carcass through the woods by the teeth and more like there was… actually another pulse beside him now. Another heartbeat. Another person who wasn’t trying to kill him or leave him or force him into the one-man-against-the-world mode, including himself… because that’s always been his default since surviving the Purge night.

Lone wolf, Harrington.

That had become the whole bit.

But now? Now there was this tiny ghost-boy beside him, floating through the trees with a slingshot and an earnest little face and all the patience in the world, and Steve couldn’t even pretend he didn’t feel fuller for it.

Every now and then he’d glance down and ask, quietly, “You good?”

And every single time Ro would just nod.

Not with bravado, not trying to prove anything. Just simple confirmation.

He was good.

Once, after maybe the fourth time Steve asked — Ro even looked up at him like he was very politely trying not to laugh.

Steve squinted at him. “What.”

Ro shrugged, mouth twitching. “You keep askin’.”

“Yeah,” Steve muttered. “Well. You’re little.”

Ro’s eyes widened in theatrical offense. “I know that.”

That got a soft snort out of Steve before he shook his head and kept moving.

A while later, when the forest floor got nastier underfoot — roots buckling up like old knuckles, bramble patches creeping too close, the earth uneven in that ankle-breaking way — it became easier to just lift Ro onto his back for longer stretches.

The first time Steve did it, he crouched a little and jerked his chin over one shoulder.

“C’mon.”

Ro blinked. “What?”

Steve gave him a look. “Don’t make this a whole thing.”

Ro did not, in fact, make it a whole thing.

He just climbed right up, all light little limbs and careful hands — settling on, piggyback, all while Steve hooked an arm under his knees and rose back up. Easy. Way easier than it should’ve been. Ro barely weighed anything, which wasn’t exactly comforting because it reminded Steve a little too hard that this kid was supposed to still be losing baby teeth somewhere safer, not crossing through a murder forest on another kid’s back.

But even so, they made due.

Ro fit there like he belonged.

And once he was up, he’d lean in close and point sometimes.

A tap on Steve’s shoulder. A finger to the right. A whisper barely shaped by breath.

“There.”

The squirrel had been Ro’s find.

Steve froze when the little finger tapped his shoulder, followed the direction of the point… then saw the flicker of gray-brown fur on a low branch ahead. Small thing. Twitchy. Alert. Head ducked forward while it gnawed something invisible between its paws.

Steve shifted slowly, careful as sin, and lowered Ro to the ground.

Ro stayed glued to his side. And he watched Steve set one hand lightly over the back of his neck — not holding him down, just keeping him close and still — then reached for the bow over his shoulder.

The woods seemed to take one long breath.

Steve notched the arrow.

Pulled.

Released.

The whir of it cut the hush clean in two.

The squirrel dropped like a stone.

Ro’s whole face changed.

Not with horror, although not with delight either. Just this solemn, awestruck kind of stillness as he looked from where the squirrel had fallen to Steve and back again.

Steve went to collect it without saying much.

When he came back with the limp little body in his hand, Ro looked at it and then up at him.

“That was really fast,” he whispered.

Steve’s mouth twitched. “That’s the idea.”

Ro nodded like he was filing that away under very important information.

Later, one of the snares paid off.

That feat took longer.

Steve had spent a chunk of the morning showing Ro how to set them right. Where the ground told on itself. How trails looked if you actually knew what you were seeing. The difference between random brush movement and a path used often enough to matter. How to find all of the narrow places where rabbits liked to cut through because it saved them time and made them feel hidden even when they weren’t.

He’d shown Ro how to bend a young branch without snapping it. How to tie the loop clean. How to make the wire look like nothing at all.

Ro watched every second of it like the lesson was scripture.

Then he’d tried one himself.

Hands small but steady. Brow pinched. Tongue barely tucked into one cheek with concentration so fierce Steve almost laughed. The kid’s first loop came out a little crooked. Steve adjusted it with two fingers and a quiet, “Here—like this,” and Ro immediately corrected the next one better.

By the time they’d circled back to check them, Ro spotted the caught rabbit before Steve did.

He froze, little hand snapping out to grip Steve’s windbreaker sleeve.

Steve looked down automatically at the tiny fist hooked into the fabric. Then followed Ro’s gaze and saw the rabbit hanging there… kicking weakly in the snare, the branch bent high with tension above it.

Ro didn’t say anything.

Neither did Steve for a moment.

Then he murmured, “Good eye.”

Ro swallowed and nodded once.

Together they approached it.

Together they made it quick.

After that, Steve made the call to prep and cook away from the hut.

No debate.

No risking the smell.

No risking the sightline.

No leaving a pretty little trail of smoke curling up anywhere near the place Ro had built for them.

So they carried the squirrel and rabbit farther out — still careful, still under cover — until Steve found a tucked-in little patch between three big boulders and a fallen trunk where they could work fast and kill any trace faster.

That was when he tried, as casually as possible… to spare Ro.

He set both of their kills down and reached for the knife at his belt. “You can stand lookout for me if you want.”

Ro looked up at him.

Steve kept his tone as even as he could. “I can handle this part.”

Ro’s gentle eyes dropped briefly to the rabbit, then the squirrel…then back to Steve’s face. “I know.”

Steve waited.

Ro shifted his feet once. “But… I should learn it.”

Steve’s brows drew together.

“If I’m gonna learn how to hunt proper,” Ro kept going, sweet and brave all at once, “then I gotta know this part too, right?”

That hit harder than it should have.

Steve looked at him for a long second. The easy out would’ve been to say no or to play rank. To tell the kid he was too young or too small or too whatever and leave it there.

But that would’ve been bullshit.

And worse…? Ro would know it.

So Steve crouched instead, knife in hand, letting out a somber sigh through his nose. “Alright,” he said finally. “But you stay right here by me—and if you feel weird about any of it? You say so. No proving shit to me, cool?”

Ro nodded immediately. “Cool.”

Steve pointed the knife at the dead game. “And this is gonna be ugly.”

Ro’s mouth went small. “Okay.”

“It’s gonna smell bad too.”

“Okay.”

Steve glanced at him again. “You don’t have to be tough about it.”

Ro blinked. “I’m not.”

That one got him.

Steve huffed a quiet laugh, shook his head, and got to work.

He didn’t pretty it up.

Didn’t use baby words, or act like it was anything but what it was.

He showed Ro where to cut first. How to hold the body steady. How the hide needed easing more than sawing. How to separate the flesh from fur without ruining the meat if you could help it. He explained what to save time on and what not to rush unless you wanted to make a big mess of the whole damn thing.

All the while Ro watched.

Not green. Not gagging. Not flinching like he was watching gore. But his kind eyes did go glossy once or twice. So did Steve’s, honestly… because killing and cleaning innocent things for food never actually stopped feeling ugly, no matter how used to it he got. But Ro never pretended he liked it, and Steve never pretended he did either.

That maybe made it easier.

By the time they were skinning the rabbit, Ro asked questions.

Quiet ones.

“Why do you pull it like that?”

“So it doesn’t tear weird,” Steve answered softly.

Ro pointed. “This part good?”

“Yeah,” Steve smirked. “Good eye.”

Another little point from his shadow. “What about that?”

“Don’t nick that unless you want a smell you’ll never forgive.”

Ro made a face.

Steve snorted. “Exactly.”

The squirrel went faster.

The rabbit took longer.

Then came the fire.

That part somehow felt worse than the skinning. Maybe because fire meant smell. Meat meant reality. Hunger meant there wasn’t even room left for guilt that stayed clean and theoretical.

Ro used one of the matches before Steve could stop him. He struck it fast, brought it down to the little nest of dry material they’d built, then winced at Steve like he’d just committed a federal crime.

“Sorry,” he whispered immediately. “I meant to ask.”

Steve stared at him.

Ro held the still-burning match in his fingers like he expected to be scolded.

“You apologized,” Steve said.

Ro blinked. “Uh-huh.”

“For using one match?”

Ro looked wary now. “Supplies matter.”

“They do.”

“I just—”

Steve held up a hand. “No, hang on... I’m still processing the fact that you apologized for one match while I was fully about to use one anyway.”

Ro’s face went pink.

And because this whole situation was apparently insane from every possible angle, Steve had to bite back a grin.

“Buddy,” he muttered warmly, “you can use a match.”

Ro seemed to deflate with relief.

“Okay.”

“Within reason,” Steve said mock-seriously.

Ro’s face went serious again too. “For sure.”

Steve fully grinned now. “I’m seriously messing with you.”

That finally earned a sheepish little sniff-laugh from Ro, who still stared up at Steve like he absolutely hung the entire galaxy.

They both cooked the meat carefully. Nothing fancy. Just enough. Turning it. Watching it. Letting the fire do its job, hating the smell less… once it changed from raw to cooked and edible.

Ro asked more questions there too.

How did you know it’s done? Would it make you sick if it wasn’t? Could you eat it burnt? Why did the rabbit smell different than the squirrel? How many squirrels would it take to make someone full?

…that last one made Steve pause.

He looked over.

Ro was asking it honestly.

Steve stared at the little strip of rabbit in his hand for a second, trying not to laugh at that inquiry, then back to the fire. “Depends who,” he finally answers with a sweetly amused glint in his eye.

Ro took that answer and sat with it.

When the meat was ready to go, Steve had them line the outer pouch of his backpack with broad leaves they gathered nearby — creating a makeshift buffer of sorts so that the meat wouldn’t just slime up the inside like a horror movie lunchbox.

His ally helped with that too.

Holding leaves. Passing them over. Packing the cooked cuts carefully. Watching Steve redistribute the rest of his supplies deeper into the bigger, main pouch of his backpack.

The whole thing felt absurdly domestic.

Well, arena domestic, which meant every two minutes Steve had to stop and listen. And twice? He heard enough to make his whole body change.

It happened fast.

One second he’d be tying off a leaf bundle or crouching over the little dead fire pit, the next he’d go still as a blade and turn, bow in hand, arrow notched low but ready.

Ro never questioned it.

He just moved closer.

The second time, he ended up almost pressed to Steve’s side… his little fist caught in the sleeve of the windbreaker again while Steve scanned the trees with his jaw set and eyes sharp as broken glass.

Nothing came of it.

Some rustle. Some branch complaint. Some small movement in the underbrush that turned out to be nothing worth killing over.

Even so, Steve didn’t lower the bow until he was sure.

Ro stayed close until he did.

Something about that — something about the total trust of it… felt almost too big to look at directly. So Steve didn’t. He just touched the back of Ro’s head once, brief as a blink, and murmured, “We’re good,” before returning to their journey back to basecamp.

Later they hit the stream.

Ro led, of course.

He knew the way. He didn’t hesitate once, slipping through the woods with the confidence of somebody who’d already mapped out half the arena in his head and then asked it politely to make room. Steve fondly followed with the backpack over one shoulder, quiver of arrows over the other, knife at his hip, and watched the kid work while he held the bow at his side.

At the stream, Ro knelt first and refilled the water skin while Steve filled his water bottle. They drank. Steve splashed his face once and pushed back his damp hair — blinking the grit from his lashes. Ro watched like this somehow counted as strategy too.

“We’ll wash up properly tomorrow,” he said quietly, washing off his arms. “In the morning. See if the sun comes back out, lets us wash and dry our clothes too. Out on some rocks or tree limbs.”

Ro nodded, shaking his shoes and socks free of dirt before beginning to slip them back over his newly cleaned feet. “Okay, yeah.”

Steve smirked warmly. “C’mere.”

He was gesturing for Ro’s foot.

He curiously gave it, tilting his head.

Then his eyes went round with shyness and gratitude alike as Steve tugged up the hem of his t-shirt and carefully dried off both Ro’s wet little feet with it.

Ro swallowed, peeking up at him through his lashes.

“Thanks,” he breathed.

Steve winked, slipping his sock back on. “Got you, brother.”

That made Ro adorably beam to himself.

Brother?

Did Steve really consider him a brother?

At last, the two of them stood back up after washing off enough.

Then they headed back.

And coming back to the hut with daylight still on it (even dim daylight, flat and overcast) made Steve appreciate all over again…just how batshit impressive the whole thing was.

Ro had to actually point it out.

“It’s there,” he gestured.

Steve stood there squinting at what looked like nothing but root cluster and brush pile and muttered, “Jesus Christ.”

Ro beamed a little. “Good, right?”

Steve gave him a look. “Good? Brilliant. And creepy. But in a useful way.”

That got the tiniest laugh out of Ro.

“Best kind, then.”

Steve snorted and ducked low to crawl inside.

Once they were in, the little place somehow already felt more like theirs than it had that morning. Not… safe exactly. That word still came with conditions. But lived in. Claimed. Shared. The arranged supplies. The scavenged food. The sleeping bag. The bow propped again. The little message on the ground now kicked just slightly out of its originally perfect shape from Steve moving around earlier…

U R SAFE

He tried not to look at it too long.

Tried and failed.

They ate there. Quietly, at first. For a few minutes, it was just the sound of chewing, little breaths in between, the occasional brush of fabric when one of them shifted. The cooked rabbit tasted like survival and not much else. The squirrel was gamier. Ro liked both, pretending not to be absolutely starving until Steve noticed the way he kept eyeing the pieces before taking them.

So Steve quietly made sure the better portions kept ending up closer to Ro’s side.

Ro started noticing that too, but he didn’t comment. He just looked at Steve once with those big dark eyes and then down again, like he was storing the moment somewhere private and enormous.

It was somewhere in the middle of eating that Steve finally asked, “Who’s still up.”

Ro licked a bit of grease from his thumb and answered immediately, because of course he knew. “Thresh,” he said first. “Tommy and Carol. Marvel. Jack and Hannah. Foxface. Syl.” Then he looked at Steve, adding with shy matter -of-factness, “You. Me. Wendy Bird.”

Steve’s mouth twitched.

“Wendy Bird.”

Ro nodded. “That’s Ren.”

“I gathered.”

“She’s the Wendy Bird,” Ro grinned. “Because you’re Pan.”

Steve smiled and shook his head like he was exhausted by the whole world and not secretly a little wrecked by it. “Cool.”

“She’s suuuuper pretty,” Ro quietly sang, all sly and cheeky.

That earned the cheekiest little eye roll in return from Steve, who didn’t even bother trying to wipe that smile off his face now. Maybe because it was real.

“Yeah,” he agreed softly, nodding down at his squirrel meat. “She really is.”

Ro gladly accepted that.

Then, while picking a tiny seed from a fold in his knapsack and popping it in his mouth, he got to mentioning the cornucopia.

At first it was just bits.

The Careers waking up. Syl getting caught trying to steal. Tommy and Marvel dragging her out… …not killing her.

Steve’s brows rose a little at that. “They didn’t kill her?”

Ro shook his head. “Nope. Made her stay.”

“…stay.”

“Guard.”

Steve sat back slightly, one knee drawn up, a strip of rabbit gone forgotten in his hand. “They made her their bodyguard?”

Ro shrugged. “Kinda.”

And then he explained it as only Ro could.

The pacing. The shouting. The spear at Syl’s throat. Tommy stalking around all mean and snarly like he owned the sun. Marvel standing there like some big dumb scary statue with eyebrows. Syl freaking out and then not freaking out and then definitely freaking out again. Them pointing at stuff around the cornucopia like they were giving her the world’s worst tour. Handing her an apple. Untying her wrists. Giving her the riot act.

Steve listened to all of it with this increasingly crooked expression of his that hovered somewhere between disbelief and dark amusement.

“So now she’s just…” He gestured vaguely. “What. Their unpaid employee?”

Ro chewed thoughtfully. “Basically. They pay her in apples.”

“That sucks.”

Ro nodded. “Yeah.” Then, after a second: “She’s kinda mean, though.”

Steve looked over at him.

Ro shrugged. “Only nice to the little kids.”

That made Steve pause.

“Huh.”

“Well… some. She wasn’t mean to Hannah,” Ro clarified. “Just…didn’t talk to her. She grew up with brothers, so she kinda brushed her off.” He glanced at the pieces of meat still free, sighing quietly. “And Jack hated that.”

Something about the seriousness with which he said that almost got Steve.

He bit the inside of his cheek instead. “Got it,” he said. “Jack held a grudge. And a good one at that.”

Ro nodded solemnly. “Mhm.”

Honestly? That was enough for Steve.

Not because he wanted to write Syl off as expendable or anything noble and clean. Mostly because he already had too many people lodged under his ribs in this arena and the thought of adding one more half-unhinged girl from Five to the list made him want to chew glass.

Ro kept going.

The landmines. The squirrel. The boom.

That part made Steve’s whole face change.

“They planted mines…?”

“All around,” Ro confirmed, eyes widening again just at the memory while he recounted it. “They made Syl memorize all of them.”

Steve blinked, processing all of that.

Then Ro slyly grinned around his next bite. “We should set them all off, make them all go ka-boom.”

That one got a bark of dark laughter out of Steve before he could stop it.

It startled them both a little.

Ro immediately smiled bigger.

Steve scrubbed a hand over his face and muttered, “Not a bad idea.”

They grinned around their food.

And then the mood shifted a little.

A sound came from outside — not super close, not huge, just enough. Some odd scrape or far-off animal call made both of them go still.

Ro edged closer without thinking.

Steve automatically opened one hand for him.

His shadow took it, shuffling closer as Steve held his small hand between both of his palms while listening, bow within reach — shoulders going hard and alert for one long stretch before the woods settled again.

That was when Ro brought up the monster.

“There was somethin’ out there last night…”

Steve turned fully toward him.

Ro swallowed.

“…what do you mean?” Steve asked, voice low, already dreading this.

Ro sighed through his nose, shuffling just a few inches closer.

And then he described it.

Not well at first, because how the hell do you describe something you never physically saw and just barely survived hearing? So he started with sounds. Wet sounds. Dragging sounds. The kind of noises that made all of the leaves shake when it circled the hut. The scream that had made him hide his face in Steve’s back. The way he’d stayed still. The way it had been right outside.

Steve listened without interrupting.

That was maybe the scariest part of all…how little he moved while Ro talked, how his stillness got sharper and sharper until it was practically a weapon of guilt towards himself.

Inside, something in him went cold. Because this kid had clung to his back in the dark while some unknown thing circled them all night…and Steve had been dead to the world. Useless. Out cold. No help at all.

He did his best to keep all that off his face by force.

And when Ro finished recounting everything, he just sat there staring at the dirt between them for one beat too long.

“Hey,” Steve said quietly.

Ro’s eyes flicked up to his.

“You don’t gotta worry about that alone anymore.”

Ro didn’t say anything.

Steve squeezed his little hand once between both his big palms. “Whatever bullshit they throw at us in here? Whatever monsters or mutts or freakshow nightmare fuel they cook up next—we deal with it together now. Alright?”

Ro’s whole face softened with something almost painful in how pure it was.

He nodded hard. “Alright.”

Steve smiled a little then. Realer than before.

“Cool.”

That seemed to settle something in both of them.

Not the danger. Not the fear. Just the shape of it.

They finished eating after that.

When there was only one rabbit leg left, Steve held it out.

Ro immediately shook his head. “It’s okay.”

Steve looked at him, brow furrowing.

“I’m not that hungry,” Ro lied.

Steve gave him a flat stare.

Ro tried to hold it… but failed in about half a second.

Steve pushed the rabbit leg closer. “Brother.”

Ro went rosy-cheeked at the nickname and being caught.

His handsome ally’s mouth softened at one corner. “Take it.”

At last, the shadow did. And the second it was in his hands, he devoured it like a tiny feral king who had absolutely, definitely, very much been that hungry all along.

Steve watched him for a second with this sad, helpless little fondness pulling at his face. Then he shook his head and slung an arm around the kid’s small shoulders.

Ro leaned right into him without hesitation, still chewing.

The hut went quiet around them.

Outside, the arena kept breathing. Leaves shifting. Wind rubbing itself along the brush. Far-off life making far-off sounds.

Inside, Steve sat with a little boy tucked under his arm and a whole ugly knot of worry twisting through him anyway — about you, somewhere out there in the woods. About Hannah and Jack, all alone in that cave unless you’d found them. About how many names were still up and how many wouldn’t stay that way for long.

He didn’t say any of it.

Just kept his arm where it was.

He kept Ro close while the kid finished the last of the rabbit.

And for one impossible little pocket of the day, beneath a crooked little dome of branches and camouflage and scavenged mercy… it almost felt like they had made a home out of something that was never meant to hold one.

-> continued in next post... [coming soon]

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