Dean knows what he did the arena, what it cost him. No one else does because no one else was there, no one else had to make those choices. There are things he’ll never forgive himself, not ever. He endured what came after- being the Capitol’s darling, their favourite show pIece and party favour- and found it comforting to not have to make choices. To not have to hurt or kill or survive. All he had to do was let it happen, and that was easier to live with than fighting for- and winning- his own life.
When he began to mentor other Tributes, though, he started drinking. Never while they were preparing for the Games; never while they had a shot at survival. He did the best he could by them, gave them the best chance he could manage. But as their chances started to fade, he started drinking. tHere were a couple tributes who’s deaths he doesn’t remember, and he’s grateful. Mentoring is a terrible, deadly joke on Victors. It makes you complicit in murder. He doesn’t know a single victor who wouldn’t destroy the Games if they could; he doesn’t know a single one who doesn’t hate sending kids to their deaths.
Blaine hadn’t looked likely. Pretty and soft; the child of a wealthy family but still Reaped because everyone in the Districts were equally disposable. Dean didn’t try to lie to his Tributes about their chances; everybody knows only one Victor emerges. But he tries to give them confidence in themselves, a reason to fight. He told Blaine to find something and hold on to it, something the Capitol couldn’t see him take into the arena with him (Dean had taken Sammy’s laugh with him. He must have left it behind when he came out, though; his brother hadn’t laughed in years). He’d thought Blaine might last a while; he might be pretty and soft, but he wanted to live. Never underestimate someone’s will to live; Dean, of all people, knew that, too.
It was the first time in a few years Dean had actively campaigned for his Tribute. He could be charming, personable, and he knew the knids of things people liked to hear about Tributes. He sold Blaine to sponsors, deciding that the kid’s life was worth more than his own dignity. People already liked Blaine; he helped them come to adore him with anecdotes and character sketches. He doesn’t remember, now, everything he said then. and Blaine did a lot of it himself; singing at night or when he was lonely was brilliant. Blaine’s voice was sweet and rich and the Capitol swooned over it.
There was a point, though, that he wished Blaine’s death. As the Games went on, Dean’s smile flashed less often; he said Blaine’s name less often. It wasn’t because he didnt like the kid, either. It was because he liked him. He liked how Blaine smiled sometimes during training, big and bright and hopeful. He liked how Blaine touched his hair, pushing it out of his face with an annoyed huff, or carefully combing it back. He liked Blaine’s sweet voice that made the Games fade into nothing, made Dean believe in goodness and life. If that boy came out of the arena, if he survived, he wouldn’t be the same. He’d lose his smile. He might lose his songs. He’d rather see Blaine dead than the Victor.
That is, until it was down to Blaine and two others. Then Dean redoubled his efforts, a hurting, hot hope blooming inside of him. when the first of the three died and it wasn’t Blaine, Dean cheered. People clapped him on the shoulder, patted his back, but he was only looking at Blaine. And finally, when he faced off with his oppenent, Dean’s heart was in his throat, fists clenched. He didn’t care if the other Tribute had family to go home to, if someone else was waiting and hoping. He didn’t say a word and didn’t move, but he willed Blaine to live. He willed Blaine to do what he had to, silently told him that it would never be his fault; Dean would carry that for him if he had to. Just live, kid. Just come home. Even if you never sing again. Even if you’re not the same: just live.
And when the other Tribute fell, when the look on Blaine’s face said he couldn’t believe it, that he didn’t want to feel his hands and didn’t want to hear the cannon, Dean sighed and slumped back in his chair. His vision blurred as the music played, as everyone around him cheered and screamed and cried. He had to get moving; he had to be there when Blaine came out of the arena. but for a moment he just let himself be grateful the kid was alive.
and when they were home, while Blaine was sleeping the sleep of the near-dead, Dean kept watch. He brushed dark curls off a damp forehead and waited for the nightmares. They didn’t come, not then, and he was grateful for that, too. He got hungry anddecided to start cooking, telling himself to stop worrying aobut Blaine. The kid had survived the Games, he could endure Victory. But he couldn’t leave Blaine’s house. He couldn’t lett e kid wake up alone. So he cooked, and waited, and when Blaine finally woke up, he offered food. He didn’t insist on talking; he wanted Blaine to come to it in his own time. You couldn’t rush this.
It hurts to see Blaine sit at the piano, stroking the keys but not playing. It hurts that there’s no music in this house. The look in Blaine’s eyes accuse Dean of being complicit, of letting this happen to a boy who deserved better (but didn’t they all, the children of the districts? Shouldn’t they be allowed to live without this kind of fear, to have to carry this burden?). he doesn’t push, though; he just makes small talk, pattering banter, to cover all the things Blaine can’t say yet. to chase away all the songs Blaine’s not singing.
it hurts, but Dean can take it.
They’re close in a way that no one else could ever be to them. They talk, and Blaine is affectionate. Dean doesn’t understand how or why, but Blaine lays his head in his lap, crawl into his bed, sits with him, and it makes Dean’s heart ache. He’s been alone for so long. Even though Sam visits and stays for days or weeks; even though he has friends. None of them know how you go into the Arena alone and you come out alone and you’re alone for the rest of your life.
One day Blaine talks about music, and Dean asks him to play. He says no, and Dean leaves it. He wants to hear Blaine’s voice, almost needs it now to believe Blaine will start living again instead of surviving. But he can’t push, he can’t insist. But he hopes.
Blaine doesn’t talk about his family. Only once he mentions that they haven’t come to see him. Helpless rage fills Dean at the thought and he thinks if he had five minutes alone with Cooper he could beat an appreciation of Blaine’s troubles into him. But he doesn’t say anything about that either, just lets Blaine say it because he needs to. He does pull Blaine to him, though, arms around him and stubbe-rough cheek resting on curly hair. it’s easy to be this intimate with Blaine; the kid sleeps in his bed because of the nightmares. Every time Blaine wakes in a cold sweat, or screaming, or crying, Dean is there. He remembers what it was like alone with that, waking in the dark with blood pounding in your ears and your heart racing, trying to remember if you’re here and now or then. He always puts his hands on the other when the nightmares are hard, he always says his name in a soothing whisper. He’s always gentle then, even though his own heart is pounding becausehe also remebers Blaine in the arena. He pulls Blaine to him and talks until they’re both calm and they both fall asleep. After those nights, it’s easier to touch him during the day; it’s easier to let him know he’s not alone, not ever alone, as long as Dean’s here.
The Games are approaching and Dean is extra careful with both Blaine and himself. He’s touchy; he knows he’ll have to witness two more deaths. He feels like he’ll come out of skin or turn to ash if you touch him wrong. Somehow having Blaine here makes it easier, though. Just knowing someone else understands. Having Blaine’s warmth at night beside him makes it easier, too. He wanted Blaine to know that he’s not alone, but he’s starting to believe he’s not, either.
And then Blaine sits down at the piano. Dean doesn’t expect him to play, but he likes to see him there. the way his hands run over the keys like they contain the secrets of the universe. The peaceful look on his face just being near music. He lifts his hands, he touches the keys.
And suddenly the house is full of music. Blaine is playing. Dean’s breath catches in his throat at the sound, something in his chest breaking open. And then Blaine’s voice starts, husky and slightly out of tune, but still beautiful. Still there. His voice rises and rises, following the music, filling the world. Dean’s heart shatters and he turns away, tears in his eyes. It’s been almost a year since Blaine survived, but today is the day he starts living again. It’s a gift Blaine’s giving to himself, not some shiny token bestowed by sponsors. It’s life after so much death; it’s the sun in spring.
