rk1k hunger games au ficlet
Connor’s resolve hardens the tighter he pulls Markus’s bandages. The thought of doing this to Markus, the absolute despair that would wreck his face—god, it kills Connor. But Connor has to do it. Connor has to do what’s best for the both of them.
“I’m sorry, Markus,” he says, kissing his forehead, wiping away the tears that drops on Markus’s head. “I’m so sorry. God, I love you so much. I wish I could’ve met your dad, and your friends, and your cat. I wish I could know more about you. I’m so, so sorry. We’ve run out of time.”
Connor’s hand travels to the his hips where his dagger is strapped on. He should save Markus a painful death, and slit his throat. It’s what he should do. It’s what everyone expects him to do. He’s a Career, trained for the Games for as long as he could remember.
But his hands travel past his dagger and lands on the pocket where Connor keeps a handful of Nightlock for poison.
“I’m sorry, Markus,” Connor says, one last time. He presses his lips on Markus’s skin, one last time. “I’m sorry I’m doing this to you. But you have to live. Promise you’ll live for me, okay? I love you. Please promise me, Markus. ”
Then he empties the pocket into his mouth and chews down. Sweet, sticky juice bursts into his mouth, tinging his mouth dark blue.
He doesn’t have long, he knows, possibly only seconds left. So he tucks himself beside Markus’s body, wrapping his arms around Markus’s waist and resting his head on Markus’s chest.
Markus’s heart beats under his ear, and the warmth of his body trickles into Connor’s skin. A burst of happening shudders through him. The thought that Markus is going to make it, of his heart still beating long after Connor’s had stopped. It’s enough for Connor to die happily.
The forest is soothing in its silence. Connor would even dare say that it’s peaceful.
Nobody ever told him that dying is peaceful.
Markus hadn’t expected to wake after falling asleep.
Zlatko had wounded him beyond repair. No amount of healing gel left could help his legs, and he and Connor—they knew that he was holding on to his last threads. If the mutts and the cold hadn’t gotten to him, then the infection surely will. But dying didn’t seems so bad at that point.
Connor was holding him, stroking his head, whispering sweet things about what could have been into his ear. That’s the way Markus wanted to go. Connor’s voice in his ear. His nose buried in Connor’s shirt surrounded his smell, underneath the dirt, the sweat, and the acrid stench of blood. Lying in Connor’s arms.
Connor, his protector. Connor, his partner.
So, Markus is surprised when opens his eyes and finds the cold tiles of a hospital ceiling staring back instead the wide, blue expanse of the sky above him.
Carl rolls down the sterile hallway, parking beside a haggard figure peeking into the glass wall. “How are you doing, my friend?” Carl asks. “Everything going well on your end?”
Hank scratches his chin. “If you mean if it’s everything’s going to plan, then yeah. It is. How’s yours doing? Handling it well, I hope?”
“As well as you could hope him to be, I suppose, after going through the things he did.” Carl says. “Alternating between grief, anger, hate and loss. Working himself down to the bone. Cursing everyone and everything within the vicinity before going through long periods of apathy. He snuck some alcohol into his room last night; it’s probably why he hasn’t notice my absence all day.”
Hank huffs. “Don’t blame him. Hell of a thing to go through. Finding the love of your life in the Games, only to lose him straight after.”
“Yes,” Carl mutters. “Quite unexpected too; they’re a regular pair of star-crossed lovers, aren’t they? Not a single eye was dry during their highlight reel. Although, let’s not get hasty. They’re still quite young after all.”
“They didn’t seem like it in the Games.”
Markus and Connor, hailed as the greatest love story to come out of the Hunger Games. Hank feels sorry for the poor boy. At the end, was delirious with his fever and infection, and he still fought to grab onto Connor’s body.
Then, to watch it all unfold for the first time on stage, in front of a large audience.
Hell, Hank doesn’t know how Markus is still standing.
“Except for Perkins, of course,” Hank says. “That heartless fucking bastard.”
“When can he know, Hank?” Carl asks. “Markus… I’ve never seen him so distraught or so angry.”
“Just a little while longer.”
“But when?” Carl swivels his wheelchair at him. “When, Hank? Give me a concrete date, so at least I know when to start sending him to rehab. Or anger management class. Or hell even both.”
“If you want to do it now, just do it,” Hank says. “We’ll tell Markus when we can safely extract him and his crew out to District 13. Until now, we’ll just have to wait.”
On the other side of the glass, Connor suspends in a tube of fluorescent blue liquid. Sensors are patched down his chest, and the machine beside him beeps a solid, constant tune.
Two days ago, Connor started breathing on his own, without the help of a machine. In three more days, he’ll be conscious enough to open his eyes.
If there’s one good thing about Kamski to redeem himself for being an absolute creep, is that the rumours are reliable, and they’re also very true, when it comes to the human body, there’s almost nothing Kamski can’t fix.
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